Chapter II: Roumanian-Gypsy Stories (3)

And he went and lay down in the palace. And he put his head on the pillow, and remained with his head on the pillow till towards dawn. And a warm sleepy breeze came and lulled him to slumber. And his little sister arose. And she turned a somersault, and her nails became like an axe and her teeth like a shovel. And she opened the cupboard and ate up everything. Then she became a child again and returned to her place in the cradle, for she was a babe at the breast. The lad arose and told his father that he had seen nothing. His father looked in the press, found the platters bare—no victuals, no anything. His father said, ‘It would take a better man than you, and even he might do nothing.’

His middle son also said, ‘Father, all hail. I am going to watch to-night.’

‘Go, dear, only play the man.’

‘Be it unto me according to God’s will.’

And he went into the palace and put his head on a pillow. And at ten o’clock came a warm breeze and sleep seized him. Up rose his sister and unwound herself from her swaddling-bands and turned a somersault, and her teeth became like a shovel and her nails like an axe. And she went to the press and opened it, and ate off the platters what she found. She ate it all, and turned a somersault again and went back to her place in the cradle. Day broke and the lad arose, and his father asked him and said, ‘It would take a better man than you, and even he might do nought for me if he were as poor a creature as you.’

The youngest son arose. ‘Father, all hail. Give me also leave to watch the cupboard by night.’

‘Go, dear, only don’t be frightened with what you see.’

‘Be it unto me according to God’s will,’ said the lad.

And he went and took four needles and lay down with his head on the pillow; and he stuck the four needles in four places. When sleep seized him he knocked his head against a needle, so he stayed awake until ten o’clock. And his sister arose from her cradle, and he saw. And she turned a somersault, and he was watching her. And her teeth became like a shovel and her nails like an axe. And she went to the press and ate up everything. She left the platters bare. And she turned a somersault, and became tiny again as she was; went to her cradle. The lad, when he saw that, trembled with fear; it seemed to him ten years till daybreak. And he arose and went to his father. ‘Father, all hail.’

Then his father asked him, ‘Didst see anything, Peterkin?’

‘What did I see? what did I not see? Give me money and a horse, a horse fit to carry the money, for I am away to marry me.’

His father gave him a couple of sacks of ducats, and he put them on his horse. The lad went and made a hole on the border of the city. He made a chest of stone, and put all the money there and buried it. He placed a stone cross above and departed. And he journeyed eight years and came to the queen of all the birds that fly.

And the queen of the birds asked him, ‘Whither away, Peterkin?’

‘Thither, where there is neither death nor old age, to marry me.’

The queen said to him, ‘Here is neither death nor old age.’

Then Peterkin said to her, ‘How comes it that here is neither death nor old age?’

Then she said to him, ‘When I whittle away the wood of all this forest, then death will come and take me and old age.’

Then Peterkin said, ‘One day and one morning death will come and old age, and take me.’

And he departed further, and journeyed on eight years and arrived at a palace of copper. And a maiden came forth from that palace and took him and kissed him. She said, ‘I have waited long for thee.’

She took the horse and put him in the stable, and the lad spent the night there. He arose in the morning and placed his saddle on the horse.

Then the maiden began to weep, and asked him, ‘Whither away, Peterkin?’

‘Thither, where there is neither death nor old age.’

Then the maiden said to him, ‘Here is neither death nor old age.’

Then he asked her, ‘How comes it that here is neither death nor old age?’

‘Why, when these mountains are levelled, and these forests, then death will come.’

‘This is no place for me,’ said the lad to her. And he departed further.

Then what said his horse to him? ‘Master, whip me four times, and twice yourself, for you are come to the Plain of Regret. And Regret will seize you and cast you down, horse and all. So spur your horse, escape, and tarry not.’

He came to a hut. In that hut he beholds a lad, as it were ten years old, who asked him, ‘What seekest thou, Peterkin, here?’

‘I seek the place where there is neither death nor old age.’

The lad said, ‘Here is neither death nor old age. I am the Wind.’

Then Peterkin said, ‘Never, never will I go from here.’ And he dwelt there a hundred years and grew no older.

There the lad dwelt, and he went out to hunt in the Mountains of Gold and Silver, and he could scarce carry home the game.

Then what said the Wind to him? ‘Peterkin, go unto all the Mountains of Gold and unto the Mountains of Silver; but go not to the Mountain of Regret or to the Valley of Grief.’

He heeded not, but went to the Mountain of Regret and the Valley of Grief. And Grief cast him down; he wept till his eyes were full.

And he went to the Wind. ‘I am going home to my father, I will not stay longer.’

‘Go not, for your father is dead, and brothers you have no more left at home. A million years have come and gone since then. The spot is not known where your father’s palace stood. They have planted melons on it; it is but an hour since I passed that way.’

But the lad departed thence, and arrived at the maiden’s whose was the palace of copper. Only one stick remained, and she cut it and grew old. As he knocked at the door, the stick fell and she died. He buried her, and departed thence. And he came to the queen of the birds in the great forest. Only one branch remained, and that was all but through.

When she saw him she said, ‘Peterkin, thou art quite young.’

Then he said to her, ‘Dost thou remember telling me to tarry here?’

As she pressed and broke through the branch, she, too, fell and died.

He came where his father’s palace stood and looked about him. There was no palace, no anything. And he fell to marvelling: ‘God, Thou art mighty!’ He only recognised his father’s well, and went to it. His sister, the witch, when she saw him, said to him, ‘I have waited long for you, dog.’ She rushed at him to devour him, but he made the sign of the cross and she perished.

And he departed thence, and came on an old man with his beard down to his belt. ‘Father, where is the palace of the Red King? I am his son.’

‘What is this,’ said the old man, ‘thou tellest me, that thou art his son? My father’s father has told me of the Red King. His very city is no more. Dost thou not see it is vanished? And dost thou tell me that thou art the Red King’s son?’

‘It is not twenty years, old man, since I departed from my father, and dost thou tell me that thou knowest not my father?’ (It was a million years since he had left his home.) ‘Follow me if thou dost not believe me.’

And he went to the cross of stone; only a palm’s breadth was out of the ground. And it took him two days to get at the chest of money. When he had lifted the chest out and opened it, Death sat in one corner groaning, and Old Age groaning in another corner.

Then what said Old Age? ‘Lay hold of him, Death.’

‘Lay hold of him yourself.’

Old Age laid hold of him in front, and Death laid hold of him behind.

The old man took and buried him decently, and planted the cross near him. And the old man took the money and also the horse.

In these days, when one is called upon to admire Maeterlinck and
not for the world to admire Scott’s Marmion, it is hard to know
what is really good and what bad. Else this story of ‘The Red King
and the Witch’ to me seems the finest folk-tale that we have. It is
like Albert Dürer’s ‘Knight,’ it is like the csárdás of some great
Gypsy maestro. But is it original? Well, that’s the question. There
are several non-Gypsy stories that offer most striking analogies.
There is Ralston’s ‘The Witch and the Sun’s Sister’ (pp. 170–175,
from the Ukraine), and there is Ralston’s ‘The Norka’ (pp. 73–80
from the Chernigof government). Then there is Wratislaw’s
‘Transmigration of the Soul’ (pp. 161–162, Little Russian), of a
baby that gobbles up victuals. And there are Grimm’s No. 57 and
Hahn’s No. 65. From these it would not be difficult to patch
together a story that should almost exactly parallel our Gypsy one;
but not one of them, I feel certain, can rightly be deemed its
original.

NO. 15.—THE PRINCE AND THE WIZARD

There was a king, and he had an only son. Now, that lad was heroic, nought-heeding. And he set out in quest of heroic achievements. And he went a long time nought-heeding. And he came to a forest, and lay down to sleep in the shadow of a tree, and slept. Then he saw a dream, that he arises and goes to the hill where the dragon’s horses are, and that if you [62] keep straight on you will come to the man with no kidneys, screaming and roaring. So he arose and departed, and came to the man with no kidneys. And when he came there, he asked him, ‘Mercy! what are you screaming for?’

He said, ‘Why, a wizard has taken my kidneys, and has left me here in the road as you see me.’

Then the lad said to him, ‘Wait a bit longer till I return from somewhere.’

And he left him, and journeyed three more days and three nights. And he came to that hill, and sat down, and ate, and rested. And he arose and went to the hill. And the horses, when they saw him, ran to eat him. And the lad said, ‘Do not eat me, for I will give you pearly hay [63] and fresh water.’

Then the horses said, ‘Be our master. But see you do as you’ve promised.’

The lad said, ‘Horses, if I don’t, why, eat me and slay me.’

So he took them and departed with them home. And he put them in the stable, and gave them fresh water and pearly hay. And he mounted the smallest horse, and set out for the man with no kidneys, and found him there. And he asked him what was the name of the wizard who had taken his kidneys.

‘What his name is I know not, but I do know where he is gone to. He is gone to the other world.’

Then the lad took and went a long time nought-heeding, and came to the edge of the earth, and let himself down, and came to the other world. And he went to the wizard’s there, and said, ‘Come forth, O wizard, that I may see the sort of man you are.’

So when the wizard heard, he came forth to eat him and slay him. Then the lad took his heroic club and his sabre; and the instant he hurled his club, the wizard’s hands were bound behind his back. And the lad said to him, ‘Here, you wizard, tell quick, my brother’s kidneys, or I slay thee this very hour.’

And the wizard said, ‘They are there in a jar. Go and get them.’

And the lad said, ‘And when I’ve got them, what am I to do with them?’

The wizard said, ‘Why, when you’ve got them, put them in water and give him them to drink.’

Then the lad went and took them, and departed to him. And he put the kidneys in water, and gave him to drink, and he drank. And when he had drunk he was whole. And he took the lad, and kissed him, and said, ‘Be my brother till my death or thine, and so too in the world to come.’

So they became brothers. And having done so, they took and journeyed in quest of heroic achievements. So they set out and slew every man that they found in their road. Then the man who had had no kidneys said he was going after the wizard, and would pass to the other world. Then they took and went there to the edge of the earth, and let themselves in. And they came there, and went to the wizard. And when they got there, how they set themselves to fight, and fought with him two whole days. Then when the lad, his brother, took and hurled his club, the wizard’s hands were bound behind his back. And he cut his throat, and took his houses, made them two apples. [64]

And they went further, and came on a certain house, and there were three maidens. And the lad hurled his club, and carried away half their house. And when the maidens saw that, they came out, and saw them coming. And they flung a comb on their path, and it became a forest—no needle could thread it. So when the lad saw that, he flung his club and his sabre. And the sabre cut and the club battered. And it cut all the forest till nothing was left.

And when the maidens saw that they had felled the forest, they flung a whetstone, and it became a fortress of stone, so that there was no getting further. And he flung the club, and demolished the stone, and made dust of it. And when the maidens saw that they had demolished the stone, they flung a mirror before them, and it became a lake, and there was no getting over. And the lad flung his sabre, and it cleft the water, and they passed through, and went there to the maidens. When they came there they said, ‘And what were you playing your cantrips on us for, maidens?’

Then the maidens said, ‘Why, lad, we thought that you were coming to kill us.’

Then the lad shook hands with them, the three sisters, and said to them, ‘There, maidens, and will you have us?’

And they took them to wife—one for himself, and one for him who had lost his kidneys, and one they gave to another lad. And he went with them home. And they made a marriage.

And I came away, and I have told the story.

And a very quaint story it is; to the best of my knowledge, that
rarest of all things, a new one. ‘God’s Godson,’ No. 6, also offers
an instance of an heroic hero, nought-heeding, who sets out in
quest of heroic achievements; and we find the same notion in a good
many folk-tales of South-east Europe, e.g. in the Croatian story of
‘Kraljevitch Marko’ (Wratislaw, No. 52, p. 266). For the comb,
whetstone, and mirror, cf. Ralston, p. 142, and the Bukowina-Gypsy
story, ‘Made over to the Devil’ (No. 34), where it is a whetstone,
a comb, and a towel.

NO. 16.—THE APPLES OF PREGNANCY

There were where there were a king and a queen. Now for sixteen years that king and that queen had had no sons or daughters. So he thought they would never have any. And he was always weeping and lamenting, for what would become of them without any children? Then the king said to the queen, ‘O queen, I will go away and leave you, and if I do not find a son born of you by my return, know that either I will kill you with my own hands, or I will send you away, and live no longer with you.’

Then another king sent a challenge to him to go and fight, for, if he goes not, he will come and slay him on his throne. Then the king said to his queen, ‘Here, O queen, is a challenge come for me to go and fight. If I had had a son, would he not have gone, and I have remained at home?’

She said, ‘How can I help it, O king, if God has not chosen to give us any sons? What can I do?’

He said, ‘Prate not to me of God. If I come and don’t find a son born of you, I shall kill you.’

And the king departed.

Then the holy God and St. Peter fell to discussing what they should do for the queen. So God said to Peter, ‘Here, you Peter, go down with this apple, and pass before her window, and cry, “I have an apple, and whoso eats of it will conceive.” She will hear you. For it were a pity, Peter, for the king to come and kill her.’

So St. Peter took the apple, and came down, and did as God had told him. He cried in front of the queen’s window. She heard him, and came out, and called him to her, and asked, ‘How much do you want for that apple, my man?’

He said, ‘I want much; give me a purse of money.’

And the queen took the purse of money, and gave it him, and took the apple and ate it. And when she had eaten it, she conceived. And St. Peter left her the purse of money there. So the time drew near for her to bear a child. And the very day that she brought forth her son, his father came from the war, and he had won the fight. So when he came home and heard that the queen had borne him a son, he went to the wine-shop and drank till he was drunk. And as he was coming home from the wine-shop, he reached the door, and fell down, and died. Then the boy heard it, and rose up out of his mother’s arms, and went to the vintner, and killed him with a blow. And he came home. And the people, the nobles, beheld him, what a hero he was, and wondered at him. But an evil eye fell on him, and for three days he took to his bed. And he died of the evil eye.

Two other Roumanian-Gypsy stories may be compared with this one—No.
10 and ‘The Prince who ate Men,’ where, likewise, a king has no
son, threatens the queen with death, and goes off to the war. The
queen goes out driving, and meets a little bit of a man who follows
her home, gives her a glass of medicine, and vanishes. She
conceives, and bears a son, ‘half dog, half bear, and half man.’
The father returns victorious, and is going to slay this monster,
till he learns who he is. Afterwards the monster takes to eating
sentinels, until he himself is slain by a hero. Fruits of pregnancy
are very common in Indian folk-tales, and God plays much the same
part there. For instance, in ‘Chandra’s Vengeance’ (Mary Frere’s
Old Deccan Days, pp. 253–4), Mahadeo gives a mango-fruit to a
sterile woman, and she bears a child. Cf. also Maive Stokes’s
Indian Fairy Tales, pp. 42, 91; Knowles’s Folk-tales of Kashmir, p.
416 note; Hahn, Nos. 4, 6, etc.; and the English-Gypsy story, ‘De
Little Fox,’ No. 52.