Chapter III: Bukowina-Gypsy Stories (2)

There was an emperor with an only son; and he put him to school, to learn to read. And he said to his father, ‘Father, find me a comrade, for I’m tired of going to school.’ The emperor summoned his servants, and sent them out into the world to find a boy, and gave them a carriageful of ducats, and described what he was to be like, and how old. So they traversed all the world, and found a boy, and gave a carriageful of ducats for him, and brought him to the emperor. The emperor clothed him, and put him to the school; and he was the better scholar of the two.

There was an empress, the lovely Nastasa. [75] A virgin she, who commanded her army. And she had a horse, which twelve men led forth from the stable; and she had a sword, which twelve more men hung on its peg. And princes came to seek her, and she said, ‘He who shall mount my horse, him will I marry, and he who shall brandish my sword.’ And when they led forth the steed, and the suitors beheld it, they feared, and departed home.

The emperor’s son said, ‘Father, I will go to Nastasa the Fair, to woo her’; and he said, ‘Come with me, brother.’ Their father gave them two horses, and gave them plenty of ducats; and they set out to Nastasa the Fair. And night came upon them, and they rested and made a fire.

And the emperor’s son said, ‘If I had Nastasa the Fair here, I would stretch myself by her side; and if her horse were here, what a rattling I’d give him; and if her sword were here, I would brandish it.’

And his brother said, ‘All the same, you’ve got to feed swine.’

And in the morning they journey till night, and at night they rested again. Again he said, ‘If I had Nastasa the Fair here, I would stretch myself by her side; and if her horse were here, I would rattle him; and if her sword were here, I would brandish it.’

‘Brother, you’ve got to feed swine.’

He cut off his head with his sword, and went onward. And two Huculs [76] came, and put his head on again, and sprinkled the water of life. And he arose, and mounted his horse, and gave each of the Huculs a handful of ducats. And he went after his brother, and caught him up on the road. And they journeyed till night, and he said to his brother, ‘Brother, if you will hearken to me, it will go well with you.’

‘I will, brother.’ He came to Nastasa the Fair.

‘What have you come for?’

‘We have come to demand your hand.’

And she said, ‘Good, but will you mount my steed?’

‘I will.’

She cried to her servants, ‘Bring forth the steed.’

Twelve men brought him forth; the comrade mounted him. The horse flew up aloft with him, to cast him down. And he took his club, and kept knocking him over the head.

The horse said, ‘Don’t kill me.’

‘Let yourself gently down with me, and fall beneath me, and I will take you by the tail and drag you along the ground, that she may see how I treat you.’

He cried aloud, ‘What a poor, wretched horse you have given me. [77] Bring the sword, that I brandish it.’

Twelve men brought the sword; he brandished it, and flung it to the Ninth Region. There was Paul the Wild; he was nailed to the roof by the palms of his hands. And thither he flung the sword; it cut off his hands, and he fled away.

They summoned the prince to table to eat, and set him at table, and twelve servants ate with him. They kept squeezing him, and he said, ‘I’ll step outside into the fresh air.’ He went out, and said to his brother, ‘Come, do you sit here, for I’m off.’

So he sat there in their midst, and they kept squeezing him. And he took his club, and began to lay about with it. And he said, ‘This is your way of showing one honour.’ They fled and departed.

At nightfall now it grew dark, and Nastasa the Fair called the prince to her. He went to her. She set her foot on him, and picked him up, and he was like to die.

And he said, ‘Let me go into the fresh air.’

She said, ‘Go.’

He went out, and said to his brother, ‘Stay you here, for I’m off.’

And he went and lay down beside her. She set her foot on him. He took his club and thrashed her with it, so that he left in her only the strength of a mere woman.

He went out, went to his brother. ‘Well, brother, now you can go, and don’t be frightened; but, when you come to her, give her a slap.’

He went to her, gave her a slap, and slept beside her. In the morning they went out for a walk, and she said to him, ‘My lord, what a thrashing you gave me! yet when you came back you kissed me.’ [78]

And he said to her, ‘I didn’t kiss you, I gave you a slap.’

‘Who then was it thrashed me?’

‘My brother.’

She said not a word.

The brother slept by himself in another room. And she took the sword and cut off his feet. He made himself a winged cart; it ran a mile when he gave it a shove. And he found Paul the Wild, and said, ‘Where are you going to, brother?’

‘I am going into the world to get my living, for I have no hands.’

‘Ha! let’s become Brothers of the Cross, [79] and do you yoke yourself to the cart, and draw it gently, for you have feet.’

They went a-begging, and went into the woods and found a house, and took up their abode in it. And they went into a city and begged. A girl came to give him an alms; and he caught her, and threw her into the cart, and fled with her into the forest, there where their house was. And they swore they would not commit sin with her. The devil came, and lay with her. And they heard, and arose in the morning.

And Dorohýj Kúpec [80] asked, ‘You swore. Why then did you go in to her and commit sin?’

‘It wasn’t me, brother, for I too heard, and I thought it was you.’

‘He’ll come this night, and do you take me in the stumps of your hands, and fling me on to them; I’ll seize him, whoever he is.’

At night he came to her, and lay with her. They heard, and Paul took him and flung him on to them. He seized the devil, and they lit the candle, and began to beat him. And he prayed them not to, ‘for I will restore you your feet, and likewise him his hands.’ In the morning they bound him by the neck, and led him to a spring.

‘Put your feet in the spring.’

He put his feet in the spring, and his feet became as they were before. And Paul put his hands in, and his hands were likewise restored. And Dorohýj Kúpec put some of the water of life in one pail, and some of the water of death in another. And he came back to their house; and they made a fire, put a fagot of wood on the fire, and burnt the devil, and flung his ashes to the wind. And Dorohýj Kúpec said, ‘Now, brother, do you take that girl to yourself, and live with her, for I will go to my brother.’

He set out, and went to his brother, and found his brother by the roadside feeding swine.

‘Well, do you mind my telling you, brother, you’d come to feed swine? Do you put on my clothes, and give me yours, for I’ll turn swineherd, and do you stay behind.’

He took and drove the swine home, and she cried, ‘Why have you driven the swine home so soon?’

The swine went into the sty, and one wouldn’t go; and he took a cudgel and beat it so that it died. And when Nastasa the Fair saw that, she fled into the palace, ‘for this is Dorohýj Kúpec.’

He followed her into the palace, and said to her, ‘Good day to you, sister-in-law.’

‘Thanks,’ said she.

He caught her by the hand and dragged her out, and cut her all in pieces, and made three heaps of them; and two heaps he gave to the dogs, and they devoured them. And the rest of her he gathered into a single heap, and made a woman, and sprinkled her with the water of death, and she joined together; and sprinkled her with the water of life, and she arose.

‘Take her, brother; now you may live with her, for now she has no great strength. I will go home,’ said Dorohýj Kúpec.

And home he went.

This Gypsy story is absolutely identical with the widespread
Russian one of ‘The Blind Man and the Cripple’ (Ralston, pp.
240–256). The Russian version as a whole is fuller and more
perfect; yet neither from it, nor, seemingly, from any of its
variants, can the Gypsy tale be derived. The opening of the latter
comes much closer to that of Hahn’s story from Syra (ii. 267), a
variant of the Turkish-Gypsy story of ‘The Dead Man’s Gratitude’
(No. 1), and surely itself of Gypsy origin. Here a king has an only
son, and puts him to school; and the vizier, sent in quest of
another lad, buys a beautiful Gypsy boy with a voice like a
nightingale’s. He, too, is put to school, and proves the better
scholar of the two.

In Ralston, as in Hahn, ii. 268, the prince falls in love through a
portrait (cf. supra, p. 4). In Ralston Princess Anna the Fair
propounds a riddle, as in the Turkish-Gypsy story of ‘The Riddle’
(No. 3), where, too, she consults her book (cf. Ralston, p. 242).
In Ralston there is no quarrel, and no cutting off of head; nothing
also of the heroic sword. The squeezing by the servants is wanting
in the Russian tale, but the sleeping with the bride occurs in a
variant, and Ralston cites a striking parallel from the
Nibelungenlied. The comrade in Ralston, after his feet are cut off,
falls in with a blind hero; the devil—a late survival of the
mediæval incubus—is represented by a Baba Yaga; and the prince is
made a cowherd (but a swineherd in two of the variants). The finale
in Ralston is extremely poor—best in the Ryazan variant, where the
comrade beats the enchantress-queen with red-hot bars until he has
driven out of her all her magic strength, ‘leaving her only one
woman’s strength, and that a very poor one.’ In the winged cart we
seem to get a forecast of the tricycle.

NO. 25.—THE HEN THAT LAID DIAMONDS

There was a poor man, and he had three sons. And the youngest found six kreutzers, and said, ‘Take, father, these six kreutzers, and go into the town and buy something.’ And the old man went into the town and bought a hen, and brought it home; and the hen laid a diamond egg. And he put it in the window, and it shone like a candle. And in the morning the old man arose and said, ‘Wife, I will go into the town with this egg.’ And he went into the town, and went to a merchant. ‘Buy this egg.’

‘What do you want for it?’

‘Give me a hundred florins.’

He gave him a hundred florins. The old man went home and bought himself food, and put the boys to school. And the hen laid another egg, and he brought it again to that merchant, and he gave him a hundred more florins. He went home. Again the hen laid an egg; he brought it again to that merchant. And on the egg there was written: ‘Whoso eats the hen’s head shall be emperor; and whoso eats the heart, every night he shall find a thousand gold pieces under his head; and whoso eats the claws shall become a seer.’

The merchant came to that village and hired the old man: ‘What shall I give you to convey my merchandise?’

‘Give me a hundred florins.’

And he hired the man with the hen for half a year. The merchant came to the man’s wife and said, ‘Your man is dead, and my money is gone with him, but I’m willing to wed you: I’m rich.’

‘Wedded let us be.’

‘Good, we will, and kill me the hen for the wedding-feast. We shall do without fiddlers.’ [81]

And they hired a cook. ‘Have the hen ready against our return from church.’

The boys came home from school. ‘Give us something to eat.’

‘I’ve nothing to give you, for he told me not to give any of the hen.’

And the boys begged her, ‘Do let us have a bit too, for it was we looked after the hen; do let us have a bit too, if it’s ever so little.’

She gave the eldest the head, and the middle one the heart, and to the youngest she gave the claws. And they went off to school.

And they came from the wedding, and sat down to table; and he said to the cook, ‘Give us to eat.’

And she served up the hen to them. And he asked for the head and the heart, and he asked for the claws. There were none!

And he asked the cook, ‘Where is the head?’

She said, ‘The boys ate it.’

And he, that merchant, said, ‘I don’t want any of this hen. Give me the head and the heart and the claws; I will eat only them.’

The cook said, ‘The boys ate them.’

And he said, ‘Wife, make them bitter coffee to make them vomit.’

And they came home from school, and the youngest boy said, ‘Don’t drink this coffee, it will kill you.’ [82]

They went home, and their mother gave them the coffee; and they poured it on the ground and went back to school.

The merchant came and asked, ‘Were they sick?’

She answered, ‘No.’

‘I will go to the town and buy apples; and do you entice them into the cellar, and I will cut their throats, and take out head, heart, and claws, and eat them.’

The youngest brother said, ‘Let us go out into the world.’

‘Go! what for?’

‘Our father is meaning to kill us.’

They departed, and went into another kingdom. The emperor there was dead; and they took his crown and put it in the church; whosever head the crown falls on he shall be emperor. And men of all ranks came into the church; and the three boys came. And the eldest went before, and slipped into the church; and the crown floated on to his head.

‘We have a new emperor.’

They raised him shoulder-high, [83] and clad him in royal robes. A mandate is issued: There is a new emperor. The army came and bowed before the new emperor.

And the middle brother said, ‘I’m off. I shan’t stay here. I want to be emperor too.’

And the youngest said, ‘I shall stay.’

So the middle one departed, and went to another emperor; that emperor had a daughter. And thus said the emperor, ‘Whoever surpasses her in money, he shall marry her.’

He went to her. ‘Come, let us play for money.’

They started playing; he beat her. One day they played, and two not. And he surpassed her in money, and wedded her. And the emperor joined them in marriage, and made him king.

And she had a lover. And that lover sent her a letter: ‘Ask him where he gets all his money from.’

And she asked him: ‘My lord, where do you get all your money from, that you managed to beat me?’

‘Every night I find a thousand gold pieces under my head.’

‘How so?’

‘I ate a hen’s heart.’

She wrote a letter and sent it to her lover: ‘He ate a hen’s heart, and every night he finds a thousand gold pieces under his head.’

And he sent her another letter: ‘Make him coffee, that he vomit—vomit that heart up. And do you take it and eat it; then I’ll marry you.’

She made him coffee, and he drank it, and vomited up the heart; and she took it and ate it. And she went to her father. ‘Come, father, see how he vomits. He’s not the man for me.’

The emperor saw how he vomited. ‘Here, off you go. I don’t want your sort.’ And he took all his clothes off him, and gave him common clothes. And he departed.

He went into the forest, and he hungered, and he came to an apple-tree. He took an apple and ate it, and became an ass. He goes weeping, goes onward, and found a crab-apple, and ate one of its apples, and became a man again. He turned back and took two apples, and took two also of the crab-apples, and went to the city where his wife was. And he stood by the roadside, and his wife went out to walk.

‘Are your apples for sale, my man?’

‘They are.’

He sold her an apple. She took a bite of it, and became a she-ass. He took her by the mane, and put a bridle on her head, and got on her, and galloped with her into the town, and went with her to an inn, and ordered bitter coffee, and poured it into her mouth; and she vomited, and vomited, and vomited up the heart. And he took it and ate it, and said, ‘Now, I’m master.’ And he went to his father-in-law: ‘I demand justice; this is your daughter.’

The emperor summoned his ministers, but he said, ‘I don’t want you to pass judgment; come with me to the new emperor.’

So they went to the new emperor. And the emperor drives in his carriage, and he goes riding on his wife.

And the youngest brother said, ‘My brother will appeal to you for judgment; deliver a good one.’

The emperors met, and bowed themselves; and the father-in-law said, ‘Deliver judgment for this man.’

‘I will. You have made her a she-ass; make her a woman again.’

‘But she’ll have to behave herself in the future.’

‘She shall,’ said her father, ‘only do restore her.’

He gave her a crab-apple, and she ate it, and became a woman again. The emperor took off his crown and set it on his head. ‘Do you take my crown, do you be emperor.’

‘Das goldene Hahn,’ a Greek story from Ziza (Hahn, No. 36, i. 227),
presents a very close parallel:—The Jew knows that whoever eats the
head will be king, whoever eats the heart will be able to read
men’s hearts, and whoever eats the liver will every morning find a
thousand piastres under his pillow.... The three boys, coming from
school, eat them.... Their mother tries to poison them.... By
advice of the middle boy they do not eat.... Finally they go out
into the world.

The episode of the crown, suggestive of the Arthurian legend, is
wanting in Hahn. The notion of a contest in money occurs, to the
best of my knowledge, in no other folk-tale; but we meet with it in
the second fytt of the English ballad of ‘The Blind Beggar of
Bethnal Green.’ And at Peterborough Fair, in September 1872, a
Gypsy told me, as a matter of history, of a similar contest between
two Gypsies: each had to show a guinea for the other’s.

Grimm’s ‘Two Brothers’ (No. 60, i. 244, 418), with its variants,
should be carefully compared, also his ‘Donkey Cabbages’ (No. 122,
ii. 139, 419), which is a recast of the latter portion of our
Bukowina-Gypsy story, for we get bird’s heart ... gold pieces under
pillow ... emetic ... donkey cabbage ... recovery through different
kind of cabbage ... punishment ... restoration ... emetic proposed.
It is noteworthy also that the conclusion of Grimm’s ‘Two Brothers’
can be matched by the conclusion of a Hungarian-Gypsy story
(Friedrich Müller’s No. 5), whose first half I have summarised on
p. 34. Its hero next comes to a city deprived of its water by
twelve dragons, who are also going to eat the king’s daughter. He
undertakes to rescue her, but falls asleep with his head on her
knee. The twelve white dragons roar under the earth, and then
emerge one by one from out of the fountain, to be torn in pieces by
the hero’s twelve wild animals. The water becomes plentiful, and
the hero marries the princess. But a former lover of hers poisons
him. The twelve animals find his grave, and dig him up. They go in
quest of the healing herb; and the hare, ‘whose eyes are always
open, sees a snake with it in his mouth, robs the snake of it, and
runs off, but at the snake’s request restores a portion.’ They then
resuscitate their master. (Cf. Grimm’s ‘The Two Snake-leaves,’ No.
16, i. 70; Hahn, ii. 204, 260, 274; and our Bukowina-Gypsy story,
‘Pretty-face,’ No. 29, p. 111). The hero sends a challenge by the
lion to the former lover, who is just about to wed the princess.
She reads, weeps, and breaks off the match. In comes the hero, and
they are married again. ‘If they are not dead, they are still
alive.’

Clouston epitomises Roman and Indian versions of our story (i.
93–99), but omits ‘The Two Brothers’ in F. A. Steel’s Wide-awake
Stories, pp. 138–152, and ‘Saiyid and Said’ in Knowles’s Folk-tales
of Kashmir, pp. 74–97. The last offers wonderfully close analogies
to the Gypsy story. Cf. also Krauss, i. 187; and Vuk’s Servian
story, No. 26.

NO. 26.—THE WINGED HERO

There was a certain great craftsman, and he was rich. He took to drinking and gambling, and drank away all his wealth, and grew poor, so that he had nothing to eat. He saw a dream, that he should make himself wings; and he made himself wings, and screwed them on, and flew to the Ninth Region, to the emperor’s castle, and lighted down. And the emperor’s son went forth to meet him, and asked him, ‘Where do you come from, my man?’

‘I come from afar.’

‘Sell me your wings.’

‘I will.’

‘What do you want for them?’

‘A thousand gold pieces.’

And he gave him them, and said to him, ‘Go home with the wings, and come back in a month’s time.’

He flew home, and came back in a month; and the prince said to him, ‘Screw the wings on to me.’

And he screwed them on, and wrote down for the prince which peg he was to turn to fly, and which peg he was to turn to alight. The prince flew a little, and let himself down on the ground, and gave him another thousand florins more, and gave him also a horse, that he might ride home. The prince screwed on the wings, and flew to the south. A wind arose from the south, and tossed the trees, and drove him to the north. In the north dwelt the wind, drove him to the Ninth Region. And a fire was shining in the city. And he lighted down on the earth, and unscrewed his wings, and folded them by his side, and came into the house. There was an old woman, and he asked for food. She gave him a dry crust, and he ate it not. He lay down and slept. And in the morning he wrote a letter for her, and gave her money, and sent her to a cookshop with a letter to the cookshop to give him good food. And the old woman came home, and gave him to eat, and he also gave to the old woman. He went outside, and saw the emperor’s palace with three stories of stone and the fourth of glass. And he asked the old woman, ‘Who lives in the palace? and who lives in the fourth story?’

‘The emperor’s daughter lives there. He won’t let her go out. He gives her her food there by a rope.’

And the maid-servant lowered the rope, and they fastened the victuals to it, and she drew them up by the rope. And the maid-servant had a bedchamber apart, where she slept only of a night, and the day she passed with the princess.

And that emperor’s son screwed on his wings and flew up, flew to the glass house, and he looked to see how the bars opened, and opened them, and let himself in. And she was lying lifeless on the bed. And he shakes her, and she never speaks. And he took the candle from her head; and she arose, and embraced him, and said to him, ‘Since you are come to me, you are mine, and I am yours.’ They loved one another till daybreak; then he went out, placed the candle at her head, and she was dead. And he closed the bars again, and flew back to the old woman.

Half a year he visited the princess. She fell with child. The maid-servant noticed that she was growing big, and her clothes did not fit her. She wrote a letter to the emperor: ‘What will this be, that your daughter is big?’ The emperor wrote back a letter to her: ‘Smear the floor at night with dough, and whoever comes will leave his mark on the floor.’ She placed the candle at her head, and the girl lay dead. And she smeared the floor with dough, and went to her chamber. The emperor’s son came again to her, and let himself in to her, and never noticed they had smeared the floor, and made footprints with his shoes, and the dough stuck to his shoes, but he never noticed it, and went home to the old woman, and lay down and slept. The servant-maid went to the emperor’s daughter, and saw the footprints, and wrote a letter to the emperor, and took the measure of the footprints, and sent it to the emperor. The emperor summoned two servants, and gave them a letter, and gave them the measure of the footprints. ‘Whose shoes the measure shall fit, bring him to me.’ They traversed the whole city, and found nothing.

And one said, ‘Let’s try the old woman’s.’

And another said, ‘No, there’s nobody there.’

‘Stay here. I’ll go.’

And he saw him sleeping, and applied the measure to his shoes. They summoned him. ‘Come to the emperor.’

‘All right.’

He bought himself a great cloak, and put it on, so that his wings might not be noticed, and went to the emperor. The emperor asked him, ‘Have you been going to my daughter?’

‘I have.’

‘With what purpose have you done so?’

‘I want to marry her.’

The emperor said, ‘Bah! you’ll not marry her, for I’ll burn you both with thorns.’

The emperor commanded his servants, and they gathered three loads of thorns, and set them on fire, and lowered her down, to put them both on the fire. The emperor’s son asked, ‘Allow us to say a pater noster.’ He said to the girl, ‘When I fall on my knees, do you creep under the cloak and clasp me round the neck, for I’ll fly upwards with you.’

She clasped him round the neck, and quickly he screwed the wings, and flew upwards. The cloak flew off, the soldiers fired their guns at it; on he flew. She cried, ‘Let yourself down, for I shall bear a child.’

He said, ‘Hold out.’

He flew further, and alighted on a rock on a mountain, and she brought forth a child there. She said, ‘Make a fire.’ He saw a fire in a field afar off. He screwed his wings, and flew to the fire, and took a brand of it, and returned. And a spark fell on one wing, and the wing caught fire. Just as he was under the mountain the wing fell off, and he flung away the other one as well. And he walked round the mountain, and could not ascend it.

And God came to him and said, ‘Why weepest thou?’

‘Ah! how should I not weep? for I cannot ascend the mountain, and my wife has brought forth a child.’

‘What will you give me if I carry you up to the top?’

‘I will give you whatever you want.’

‘Will you give me what is dearest to you?’

‘I will.’

‘Let us make an agreement.’

They made one. God cast him into a deep sleep, and her as well, and God bore them home to his father’s, to his own bed, and left them there, and departed. And the child cried. The warders heard a child crying in the bedchamber. They went and opened the door, and recognised him, the emperor’s son. And they went to the emperor and told him, ‘Your son has come, O emperor.’

‘Call him to me.’

They came to the emperor; they bowed themselves before him; they tarried there a year. The boy grew big, and was playing one day. The emperor and the empress went to church, and his nurse too went to the church. God came, disguised like a beggar. The emperor’s son said to the little lad, ‘Take a handful of money, and give it to the beggar.’

The beggar said, ‘I don’t want this money; it’s bad. Tell your father to give me what he vowed he would.’

The emperor’s son was angry, and he took his sword in his hand, and went to the old man to kill him. The old man took the sword into his own hand and said, ‘Give me what you swore to me—the child, you know—when you were weeping under the mountain.’

‘I will give you money, I will not give you the child.’

God took the child by the head, and the father took him by the feet, and they tugged, and God cut the child in half.

‘One half for you, and one half for me.’

‘Now you’ve killed him, I don’t want him. Take him and be hanged to you.’

God took him, and went outside, and put him together; and he was healed, and lived again.

‘Do you take him now.’

For God cut off his sins.

Of this story, widely familiar through H. C. Andersen’s ‘Flying
Trunk,’ Wlislocki furnishes a Transylvanian-Gypsy variant, ‘The
Wooden Bird,’ in his ‘Beiträge zu Benfey’s Pantschatantra’
(Zeitschrift der deutschen morgenl. Gesellschaft, vol. xxxii. 1888,
part i. p. 119). For that variant and many others—Persian, Hindu,
Modern Greek, etc., including ‘Der Weber als Wischnu’ from Benfey,
i. 159–163, ii. 48–56, see W. A. Clouston’s Notes on the Magical
Elements in Chaucer’s ‘Squire’s Tale,’ and Analogues (Chaucer Soc.
1890, pp. 413–471). Cf. also Grimm’s ‘Blue Light,’ No. 116; Hahn,
No. 15, and ii. 269, for tower of glass or crystal; Cosquin, No.
31; and Hahn, ii. 186, for a king who governs nine kingdoms. With
the princess lying lifeless on the bed compare the lady sleeping on
a golden bedstead in Lal Behari Day’s Folk-tales of Bengal, p. 251.
In ‘The Demon and the King’s Son’ (Maive Stokes’s Indian Fairy
Tales, p. 186), the demon every day makes his daughter lie on her
bed, and covers her with a sheet, and places a thick stick at her
head, and another at her feet. Then she dies till he comes home in
the evening and changes the sticks. This brings her to life again.
Cf. also notes to our Welsh-Gypsy story of ‘An Old King and his
three Sons’ (No. 55).

NO. 27.—TROPSYN

There was a poor man, and he had four sons. And they went out to service, and went to a gentleman to thrash wheat. And they received so much wheat for a wage, and brought it to their father. ‘Here, father, eat; we will go out to service again.’ And they went again to a gentleman, who was to give them each a horse at the year’s end. And the youngest was called Tropsyn; and the gentleman made him his groom. And a mare brought forth a colt; and that colt said, ‘Tropsyn, take me. The year is up now.’

The gentleman said, ‘Choose your horses.’

So the three elder brothers chose good horses; but Tropsyn said, ‘Give me this horse, master.’

‘What will you do with it? it’s so little.’

‘So it may be.’

Tropsyn took it and departed; and the colt said, ‘Let me go, Tropsyn, to my dam to suck.’

And he let it go, and it went to its dam, and came back a horse to terrify the world.

‘Now mount me.’

He mounted, and the horse flew. He caught up his brothers, and his brothers asked him, ‘Where did you get that horse from?’

‘I killed a gentleman, and took his horse.’

‘Let’s push on, and escape.’

Night fell upon them as they were passing a meadow, and in that meadow they saw the light of a fire. They made for the light. It was an old woman’s, and she was a witch, and had four daughters. And they went there, and went into the house; and Tropsyn said, ‘Good-night.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Can you give us a night’s lodging?’

‘I’m not sure; my mother is not at home. When she comes you had better ask her.’

The mother came home. ‘What are you wanting, young fellows?’

‘We’ve come to demand your daughters in marriage.’

‘Good.’

She made them a bed on the ground with its head to the threshold, and her daughters’ with its head to the wall. And the old woman sharpened her sword to cut off their heads. And Tropsyn took his brothers’ caps, and put them on the girls’ heads. And the old woman arose, and kept feeling the caps, and keeps cutting off the heads, and killed her daughters.

Tropsyn arose, and led his brothers outside. ‘Come, be off.’ And he arose, Tropsyn; and the old woman had a golden bird in a cage; and Tropsyn said to the horse, ‘I will take a feather of the bird.’

And the horse said, ‘Don’t.’

‘Bah! I will.’ And he took a feather, and put it in his pocket.

And they mounted their horses and rode away, and went to a city. There was a great lord, a count; and he asked them, ‘Where are you going?’

‘We are going to service.’

‘Take service with me, then.’

And that lord was still unmarried. And they went to him, and he gave them each a place. One he set over the horses, and one he set over the oxen, and one he set over the swine; and Tropsyn he made coachman. Of a night Tropsyn stuck the feather in the wall, and it shone like a candle. And his brothers were angry, and went to their master. ‘Master, Tropsyn has a feather, such that one needs no candle—of gold.’

The master called: ‘Tropsyn, come here, bring me the feather.’

Tropsyn brought it, and gave it to his master. The master liked him better than ever, and the brothers went to the master, and said to him, ‘Master, Tropsyn has said that he’ll bring the bird alive.’

The master called Tropsyn. ‘Tropsyn, bring me the bird. If you don’t, I shall cut off your head.’

He went to his horse. ‘What am I to do, horse, for the master has told me to bring the bird?’

‘Fear not, Tropsyn; jump on my back.’

So he mounted the horse, and rode to the old woman’s. And the horse said to him, ‘Turn a somersault, [84] and you’ll become a flea, and creep into her breast and bite her. And she’ll fling off her smock, and do you go and take the bird.’

And he took the bird, and departed to his master; the master made him a lackey.

And there was in the Danube a lady, a virgin; and of a Sunday she would go out on the water in a boat. And his brothers came to their master and said, ‘Master, Tropsyn boasts that he’ll bring the lady from the bottom of the Danube.’

‘Tropsyn, come here. What is this you’ve been boasting, that you’ll bring me the lady?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘You’ve got to, else I shall cut off your head.’

He went to his horse. ‘What am I to do, horse, for how shall I bring her?’

And the horse said, ‘Fear not, let him give you twelve hides and a jar of pitch, [85] and put them on me, and let him make you a small ship, not big, and let him put various drinks in the ship. And do you hide yourself behind the door. And she will come, and drink brandy, and get drunk, and sleep. And do you seize her, and jump on my back with her, and I will run off home.’

The horse ran home to the master, and Tropsyn gave her to his master in the castle. The count shut the doors, and set a watch at the window to prevent her escape, for she was wild. The count wanted to marry her; she will not.

‘Let them bring my herd of horses, then I will marry you. He who brought me, let him bring also my horses.’

The count said, ‘Tropsyn, bring the horses.’

Tropsyn went to his horse. ‘What am I to do, horse? How shall I bring the horses from the Danube?’

‘Come with me, fear not.’

When he came to the Danube, the horse leapt into the Danube, and caught the mother of the horses by the mane, and led her out. And Tropsyn caught her, and mounted her, and galloped off. And the whole herd came forth, and ran after their dam home to the count’s palace. The lady cried ‘Halt!’ to the horses.

The count wants to marry her. She says, ‘Let him milk my mares, and when you have bathed in their milk, then I will marry you.’

The count cried, ‘Tropsyn, milk the mares.’

And Tropsyn went to his horse. ‘What shall I do, horse? How shall I milk the mares?’

‘Fear not, for I will catch her by the mane, and do you milk, and fear not.’

And he milked a whole caldron full.

And the lady said, ‘Make a fire, and boil the milk.’

And they made a fire, and the milk boils.

‘Now,’ said the lady, ‘let him who milked the mares bathe in the milk.’

And the count said, ‘Tropsyn, go and bathe in the milk.’

He went to the horse. ‘What shall I do, horse? for if I bathe, then I shall die.’

The horse said, ‘Fear not, lead me to the caldron; I will snort through my nostrils, and breathe out frost.’

He led the horse; the horse snorted through his nostrils; then the milk became lukewarm. Then he leapt into the caldron, and fair as he was before, he came out fairer still. When he came out, the horse snorted through his nostrils, and breathed fire into the caldron, and the milk boiled again.

And the lady said to the count, ‘Go thou too and bathe in the milk, then will I live with thee.’

The count went to the caldron and said, ‘Tropsyn, bring me my horse.’

Tropsyn brought him his horse; the horse trembled from afar. The count leapt into the caldron; only bones were to be seen at the bottom of the caldron.

Then cried the lady, ‘Come hither, Tropsyn; thou art my lord, and I am thy lady.’

Of this Bukowina-Gypsy story we have a very interesting Welsh-Gypsy
version, taken down in Rómani from Matthew Wood’s recitation by Mr.
Sampson, and thus epitomised by him in English:—

NO. 28.—THE BEAUTIFUL MOUNTAIN

Somewhere far off were a quarryman and his wife. They had a son in their old age. They died. An old man comes to beg, and asks boy will he come with him to seek fortune. They go. ‘Wish me into a horse.’ Boy does so. ‘Jump on my back.’ He does so. They take the road. Horse warns boy to help anything in distress. Boy finds a little fish cast up by the tide, and puts it back in the water. Fish promises gratitude. They cross the Beautiful Mountain. Horse warns boy to touch nothing. A feather blows in his mouth. He spits it out again and again, but it returns. He looks at it, thinks it pretty, puts it in his pocket. They descend other side of the mountain. Boy hears noise of bellowing in a castle. Finds sick giant in bed, without servant-maid. Boy gets him food. Giant promises gratitude. Horse asks boy if he touched anything on mountain. ‘Nothing but this feather.’ ‘That feather will bring you sorrow, but keep it now you have it.’ They come to a castle. Boy asks for work. Master tests his handwriting. Engages him. Wants him to sleep indoors; he prefers stable beside his old horse (cf. Grimm, No. 126, ii. 155, also for pen). They marvel at his penmanship, done with this feather. One day the master’s man steals the pen by a ruse, and brings it to master: ‘Master, the man that got the feather can get the bird.’ Boy tells horse what they want him to do. Horse tells him to ask for three days’ leave and three sacks of gold. Horse and boy go off. They go and get the bird, choosing the dirtiest and ugliest bird (cf. Polish-Gypsy story, No. 49, for choosing bird in common cage). The master’s man says, ‘Master, the bird is fair, but fairer still the lady’ (that owned it). Boy told to fetch lady; he tells horse. Horse reminds him that he said the feather would bring him trouble. Three more days and three purses of gold. Horse says, ‘Wish me into a boat on the sea.’ The boat is full of the finest silk. They sail under the castle. Lure lady on board to see silk. She goes into cabin. Boy weighs anchor and off. Lady comes up, and drops her keys into sea. They return. Man says to master, ‘Master, the man that got the lady can get the castle.’ Boy tells horse. Horse reminds him of unlucky feather. Three more days and bags of gold. They go. Horse reminds boy of giant’s promise. Giant puts chain round castle and drags it along. The castle is walled round and locked. Lady demands her keys. Boy and horse go off, call the little fish. He fails to find keys. Tries again and brings them up. Keys given to lady. Lady says, ‘Which would you prefer, Jack, to have your head cut off or your master’s head cut off?’ Boy says, ‘Cut off mine, not his.’ Lady says, ‘You have spoken well. Had you not spoken thus, your own head would have been cut off. Now the master’s head will fall, not yours.’ Boy and lady wed, and live in the castle still. ‘Now you’ve got it.’

It must at least be nearly five hundred years since the ancestors
of our Welsh Gypsies parted from those of their kinsfolk in
Bukowina; yet the resemblance between these two versions still is
marvellous. The talking horse, the entering into service at the
castle, the feather, the fetching the bird, the fetching a lady (in
the Bukowina version not the lady), the cabin even, the fetching
the lady’s belongings, and the doom of the master—these eight
details are common to both: the very order of them is identical.
Non-Gypsy variants are Grimm’s ‘Ferdinand the Faithful’ (No. 126;
ii. 153, 425), Cosquin’s ‘Le Roi d’Angleterre et son Filleul’ (No.
3, i. 32), his ‘La Belle aux Cheveux d’Or’ (No. 72, ii. 290), the
Donegal story of ‘The Red Pony’ in W. Larmenie’s West Irish
Folk-tales (1893, pp. 211–218), a Russian story summarised by
Ralston (p. 287), and Laura Gonzenbach’s long Sicilian story, ‘Die
Geschichte von Caruseddu’ (No. 83, ii. 143–155, 257–9). All six
deserve careful study, but specially the last, which links these
stories to the heroic version of ‘The Master Thief’ (supra, p. 51).
For its plot, told briefly, is this:—Caruseddu and his two elder
brothers go as gardeners to a dragu (rendered ‘Menschenfresser’ or
‘ogre,’ but query rather ‘dragon’). By the Hop-o’-my-thumb device
of changing caps, as in ‘Tropsyn’ (cf. also Hahn, ii. 179–180),
Caruseddu deludes him into devouring his own three daughters. The
brothers then take service with a king—Caruseddu as trusted
servant, the others as gardeners. They are jealous of Caruseddu,
and get the king to send him to steal first the dragu’s talking
horse, next his bed-cover with golden balls, and lastly the dragu
himself. This last task he achieves by the trick of getting the
dragu to try if a new coffin for (the supposed dead) Caruseddu is
big enough. [86] Still at his brothers’ suggestion, Caruseddu is
now sent to fetch the daughter of the queen with the seven veils;
he achieves this, like his former feats, with the help of the
talking horse. The princess refuses to wed the king unless he
recovers for her the veil and the ring she had lost on the way to
him; Caruseddu recovers them by the aid of a grateful bird and a
grateful fish (cf. the Welsh version). He also sifts a barnful of
wheat, oats, and barley with the aid of grateful ants. Lastly, he
has to plunge into a fiery furnace, but, smeared with foam snorted
by the talking horse, he emerges uninjured, far fairer than before.
The old and ugly king has to essay the same ordeal, and asks
Caruseddu what he smeared himself with. Who, sickened at last by
his master’s ingratitude, answers, ‘With fat.’ So the king is burnt
to ashes, and Caruseddu marries the princess. Reinhold Köhler, the
learned annotator of Gonzenbach, compares Straparola, iii. 2
(Grimm, ii. 478) and a Wallachian story, where the hero bathes in
boiling milk, which his magic horse blows cold, but in which the
king himself perishes. Wratislaw gives a curious Servian story from
Bosnia, ‘The Bird-catcher’ (No. 42, pp. 239–245). Here the hero, a
bird-catcher, is advised by a grateful crow, but the horse comes in
very mal-à-propos at the finish. Cf. also Hahn, ii. 180, 186; and
Clouston’s Eastern Romances, p. 499, 570.

NO. 29.—PRETTY-FACE

There was a widow lady, and she had an only son. And he stuck his ring in the wall, and said, ‘Mother, when blood flows from the ring, then I am dead.’

And he was called Peter Pretty-face.

He took the road, and the dragon with six heads came, and he drew his sword and killed him, and made three heaps of him, and planted a red flag, and went further. And a dragon with twelve heads came, and he drew his sword, and killed him also, and made twelve heaps, and planted a black flag, and went further. And there came one with twenty-four heads, and he killed him also, and made twenty-four heaps, and planted a white flag.

Behold! the dragons carried off an emperor’s daughter—there were twelve dragons—and shut her up in their castle. And they went and fought from morning even till noon; he who shall prove himself strongest, he shall marry the maiden.

And his mother had said to him, ‘If you will go, your death will not be by a hero, but your death will be by a cripple.’

So he went to that castle, and saw the maiden at the window, and he asked her, ‘What are you doing there?’

‘The dragons carried me off, and shut me up here.’

‘And where are they gone to?’

‘They are gone to fight for me.’

‘And when will they come home?’

‘They will come at noon to dine. And they will hurl their club, and it will strike the door, that I may have the food ready.’

He opened the door and went in to her. The dragons hurled the club, and struck the door; and he took the club, and hurled it back, and killed them all.

‘Now have no fear; they are dead.’

He married the emperor’s daughter.

And the emperor heard that the dragons had carried off his daughter; and the emperor said, ‘He who shall free her from the dragons, he shall marry her.’ The emperor knew not that Peter Pretty-face had married her. He thought that the dragons had carried her off.

And there was one Chutilla the Handless, and he went to the emperor. ‘I, O emperor, will rescue your daughter from the dragons.’

‘Well, if you do, she shall be yours.’

So he, Chutilla, went to Peter Pretty-face. And night came upon him, and he had nowhere to sleep, and he crept into the hen-house. In the morning Peter Pretty-face arose, and washed his face, and looked out of the window, and Chutilla came forth from the hen-house.

And Peter Pretty-face saw him. ‘By him is my death.’

Chutilla came indoors and said, ‘Good-morning, Peter Pretty-face.’

‘Thanks, Chutilla.’

‘Come, Peter Pretty-face, give me the emperor’s daughter.’

He said, ‘I will not.’

Chutilla caught him by the throat, and placed his head on the threshold. [87] ‘Give me, Peter Pretty-face, the maiden, else I will cut off your head.’

‘Cut it off; I will not give her.’

Chutilla cut off his head, and took the girl and departed.

Blood began to flow from the ring. His mother saw it. ‘Now my son is dead.’ She went after him, to seek for him, and came to the red flag. His mother said, ‘My son went this way.’ She went further, and came to the black flag. ‘My son went this way.’ She went further, and came to the white flag. ‘My son went this way.’ She came to the castle, found her son dead; and two serpents were licking the blood. And she struck one serpent, and it died. And the other serpent brought a leaf in its mouth, and went to the first serpent, and it also arose. And the lady saw, and killed it also, and took the leaf, and placed her son’s head again on the trunk, and touched it with the leaf, and he arose.

‘Mother, I was sleeping soundly.’

‘You would have slept for ever if I had not come.’

‘Mother, I will go to my lady.’

‘Go not, mother’s darling.’

‘Bah! I will go, mother.’

‘If go you will, God aid you.’

He went, and went straight to Chutilla, and seized Chutilla, and cut him all in little pieces, till he had cut him up, and cast him to the dogs, and they devoured him. And he took the emperor’s daughter, and went with her to the emperor.

And the maiden said, ‘Father, this is he that saved me from the dragons.’

The emperor joined them in marriage, and made him king. And they lived, perhaps they are living even now.

I know no variant, Gypsy or Gentile, of this story, though Chutilla
recalls the ‘Halber Mensch’ of Hahn, ii. 274. The three flags, red,
black, and white, are seemingly unique. For casting the club to
announce one’s coming, cf. supra, pp. 37, 40; and Denton’s Serbian
Folklore, p. 124. For snake-leaf in Hungarian-Gypsy tale, cf.
supra, p. 99. And for ‘Mother, I was sleeping soundly,’ cf. supra,
p. 33. If the story of ‘Peter Pretty-face’ is complete, his easy
victory at the end may be due to God’s help, invoked by the mother.

NO. 30.—THE RICH AND THE POOR BROTHER

There were two brothers, one poor and one rich. And the rich one said to him, ‘Come with me, brother, to our father.’ And the rich one took bread for himself, and the poor one had none.

And the rich one kept eating bread, and the poor one said, ‘Give me, too, a bit of bread.’

‘If you will give me an eye, I will give you a bit of bread.’

‘I will give it you, brother.’

And he took out an eye, and gave him a bit of bread.

And he went further, and he hungered. ‘Give me a bit more bread.’

‘Give me one more eye.’

‘I will give it you, brother.’

Behold, he was blind now, and his brother took him by the hand and led him under the gallows, and left him there; and his brother departed. At nightfall came the devils, and perched on the gallows.

And the biggest devil asked, ‘What hast done in the world? where wert walking?’

‘I did—I stopped the water.’

‘And thou, what hast thou done?’

‘The emperor’s daughter neither dies nor lives; she is just in torment.’

‘And thou, what hast thou done?’

‘I did—that a brother dug out a brother’s eyes.’

‘If he knew, there’s a brook here, and if he washed himself, he would see.’

‘If the townsfolk knew to go to the mountain and remove the stone, the water would flow again.’

And the third said, ‘But if the emperor’s daughter knew, under her bed there is a toad, and if she takes it out, and gets ready a bath, and puts the toad in the bath, and if they wash her, she would grow strong.’

Then the cocks crowed, and the devils departed.