Chapter III: Mythological (2)

Lake Ivan had two sons, Shat and Don. Shat, contrary to his father's wishes, wanted to roam abroad, so he set out on his travels, but go whither he would, he could get received nowhere. So, after fruitless wanderings, he returned home.

But Don, in return for his constant quietness (the river is known as "the quiet Don"), obtained his father's blessing, and he boldly set out on a long journey. On the way, he met a raven, and asked it where it was flying.

"To the blue sea," answered the raven.

"Let's go together!"

Well, they reached the sea. Don thought to himself, "If I dive right through the sea, I shall carry it away with me."

"Raven!" he said, "do me a service. I am going to plunge into the sea, but do you fly over to the other side and as soon as you reach the opposite shore, give a croak."

Don plunged into the sea. The raven flew and croaked--but too soon. Don remained just as he appears at the present day.[269]

In White-Russia there is a legend about two rivers, the beginning of which has evidently been taken from the story of Jacob and Esau:--

SOZH AND DNIEPER.

There was once a blind old man called Dvina. He had
two sons--the elder called Sozh, and the younger Dnieper.
Sozh was of a boisterous turn, and went roving about the forests,
the hills, and the plains; but Dnieper was remarkably
sweet-tempered, and he spent all his time at home, and was his
mother's favorite. Once, when Sozh was away from home, the
old father was deceived by his wife into giving the elder son's
blessing to the younger son. Thus spake Dvina while blessing
him:--

"Dissolve, my son, into a wide and deep river. Flow past
towns, and bathe villages without number as far as the blue sea.
Thy brother shall be thy servant. Be rich and prosperous to
the end of time!"

Dnieper turned into a river, and flowed through fertile meadows
and dreamy woods. But after three days, Sozh returned
home and began to complain.

"If thou dost desire to become superior to thy brother,"
said his father, "speed swiftly by hidden ways, through dark
untrodden forests, and if thou canst outstrip thy brother, he will
have to be thy servant!"

Away sped Sozh on the chase, through untrodden places,
washing away swamps, cutting out gullies, tearing up oaks by
the roots. The Vulture[270] told Dnieper of this, and he put on
extra speed, tearing his way through high hills rather than turn
on one side. Meanwhile Sozh persuaded the Raven to fly
straight to Dnieper, and, as soon as it had come up with him
to croak three times; he himself was to burrow under the earth,
intending to leap to the surface at the cry of the Raven, and by
that means to get before his brother. But the Vulture fell on
the Raven; the Raven began to croak before it had caught up
the river Dnieper. Up burst Sozh from underground, and fell
straight into the waves of the Dnieper.[271]

Here is an account of--

THE METAMORPHOSIS OF THE DNIEPER, THE VOLGA, AND THE DVINA.[272]

The Dnieper, Volga, and Dvina used once to be living people.
The Dnieper was a boy, and the Volga and Dvina his sisters.
While they were still in childhood they were left complete orphans,
and, as they hadn't a crust to eat, they were obliged to
get their living by daily labor beyond their strength. "When
was that?" Very long ago, say the old folks; beyond the
memory even of our great-grandfathers.

Well, the children grew up, but they never had even the
slightest bit of good luck. Every day, from morn till eve, it was
always toil and toil, and all merely for the day's subsistence. As
for their clothing, it was just what God sent them! They sometimes
found rags on the dust-heaps, and with these they managed
to cover their bodies. The poor things had to endure cold and
hunger. Life became a burden to them.[273]

One day, after toiling hard afield, they sat down under a bush
to eat their last morsel of bread. And when they had eaten it,
they cried and sorrowed for a while, and considered and held
counsel together as to how they might manage to live, and to
have food and clothing, and, without toiling, to supply others
with meat and drink. Well, this is what they resolved: to set
out wandering about the wide world in search of good luck and
a kindly welcome, and to look for and find out the best places
in which they could turn into great rivers--for that was a possible
thing then.

Well, they walked and walked; not one year only, nor two
years, but all but three; and they chose the places they wanted,
and came to an agreement as to where the flowing of each one
should begin. And all three of them stopped to spend the night
in a swamp. But the sisters were more cunning than their
brother. No sooner was Dnieper asleep than they rose up
quietly, chose the best and most sloping places, and began to
flow away.

When the brother awoke in the morning, not a trace of his
sisters was to be seen. Then he became wroth, and made
haste to pursue them. But on the way he bethought himself,
and decided that no man can run faster than a river. So he
smote the ground, and flowed in pursuit as a stream. Through
gullies and ravines he rushed, and the further he went the
fiercer did he become. But when he came within a few versts
of the sea-shore, his anger calmed down and he disappeared in
the sea. And his two sisters, who had continued running from
him during his pursuit, separated in different directions and fled
to the bottom of the sea. But while the Dnieper was rushing
along in anger, he drove his way between steep banks. Therefore
is it that his flow is swifter than that of the Volga and the
Dvina; therefore also is it that he has many rapids and many
mouths.

There is a small stream which falls into Lake Ilmen on its western side, and which is called Chorny Ruchei, the Black Brook. On the banks of this brook, a long time ago, a certain man set up a mill, and the fish came and implored the stream to grant them its aid, saying, "We used to have room enough and be at our ease, but now an evil man is taking away the water from us." And the result was this. One of the inhabitants of Novgorod was angling in the brook Chorny. Up came a stranger to him, dressed all in black, who greeted him, and said:--

"Do me a service, and I will show thee a place where the fish swarm."

"What is the service?"

"When thou art in Novgorod, thou wilt meet a tall, big moujik in a plaited blue caftan, wide blue trowsers, and a high blue hat. Say to him, 'Uncle Ilmen! the Chorny has sent thee a petition, and has told me to say that a mill has been set in his way. As thou may'st think fit to order, so shall it be!'"

The Novgorod man promised to fulfil this request, and the black stranger showed him a place where the fish swarmed by thousands. With rich booty did the fisherman return to Novgorod, where he met the moujik with the blue caftan, and gave him the petition. The Ilmen answered:--

"Give my compliments to the brook Chorny, and say to him about the mill: there used not to be one, and so there shall not be one!"

This commission also the Novgorod man fulfilled, and behold! during the night the brook Chorny ran riotous, Lake Ilmen waxed boisterous, a tempest arose, and the raging waters swept away the mill.[274]

In old times sacrifices were regularly paid to lakes and streams in Russia, just as they were in Germany[275] and in other lands. And even at the present day the common people are in the habit of expressing, by some kind of offering, their thanks to a river on which they have made a prosperous voyage. It is said that Stenka Razin, the insurgent chief of the Don Cossacks in the seventeenth century, once offered a human sacrifice to the Volga. Among his captives was a Persian princess, to whom he was warmly attached. But one day "when he was fevered with wine, as he sat at the ship's side and musingly regarded the waves, he said: 'Oh, Mother Volga, thou great river! much hast thou given me of gold and of silver, and of all good things; thou hast nursed me, and nourished me, and covered me with glory and honor. But I have in no way shown thee my gratitude. Here is somewhat for thee; take it!' And with these words he caught up the princess and flung her into the water."[276]

Just as rivers might be conciliated by honor and sacrifice, so they could be irritated by disrespect. One of the old songs tells how a youth comes riding to the Smorodina, and beseeches that stream to show him a ford. His prayer is granted, and he crosses to the other side. Then he takes to boasting, and says, "People talk about the Smorodina, saying that no one can cross it whether on foot or on horseback--but it is no better than a pool of rain-water!" But when the time comes for him to cross back again, the river takes its revenge, and drowns him in its depths, saying the while: "It is not I, but thy own boasting that drowns thee."

From these vocal rivers we will now turn to that elementary force by which in winter they are often rendered mute. In the story which is now about to be quoted will be found a striking personification of Frost. As a general rule, Winter plays by no means so important a part as might have been expected in Northern tales. As in other European countries, so in Russia, the romantic stories of the people are full of pictures bathed in warm sunlight, but they do not often represent the aspect of the land when the sky is grey, and the earth is a sheet of white, and outdoor life is sombre and still. Here and there, it is true, glimpses of snowy landscapes are offered by the skazkas. But it is seldom that a wintry effect is so deliberately produced in them as is the case in the following remarkable version of a well-known tale.

FROST.[277]

There was once an old man who had a wife and three daughters.
The wife had no love for the eldest of the three, who
was her stepdaughter, but was always scolding her. Moreover,
she used to make her get up ever so early in the morning, and
gave her all the work of the house to do. Before daybreak the
girl would feed the cattle and give them to drink, fetch wood
and water indoors, light the fire in the stove, give the room a
wash, mend the dresses, and set everything in order. Even
then her stepmother was never satisfied, but would grumble
away at Marfa, exclaiming:--

"What a lazybones! what a slut! Why here's a brush not
in its place, and there's something put wrong, and she's left the
muck inside the house!"

The girl held her peace, and wept; she tried in every way to
accommodate herself to her stepmother, and to be of service to
her stepsisters. But they, taking pattern by their mother, were
always insulting Marfa, quarrelling with her, and making her
cry: that was even a pleasure to them! As for them, they lay
in bed late, washed themselves in water got ready for them,
dried themselves with a clean towel, and didn't sit down to
work till after dinner.

Well, our girls grew and grew, until they grew up and were
old enough to be married. The old man felt sorry for his eldest
daughter, whom he loved because she was industrious and
obedient, never was obstinate, always did as she was bid, and
never uttered a word of contradiction. But he didn't know how
he was to help her in her trouble. He was feeble, his wife was
a scold, and her daughters were as obstinate as they were
indolent.

Well, the old folks set to work to consider--the husband
how he could get his daughters settled, the wife how she could
get rid of the eldest one. One day she says to him:--

"I say, old man! let's get Marfa married."

"Gladly," says he, slinking off (to the sleeping-place) above
the stove. But his wife called after him:--

"Get up early to-morrow, old man, harness the mare to the
sledge, and drive away with Marfa. And, Marfa, get your
things together in a basket, and put on a clean shift; you're
going away to-morrow on a visit."

Poor Marfa was delighted to hear of such a piece of good
luck as being invited on a visit, and she slept comfortably all
night. Early next morning she got up, washed herself, prayed
to God, got all her things together, packed them away in proper
order, dressed herself (in her best things), and looked something
like a lass!--a bride fit for any place whatsoever!

Now it was winter time, and out of doors was a rattling
frost. Early in the morning, between daybreak and sunrise,
the old man harnessed the mare to the sledge, and led it up to
the steps. Then he went indoors, sat down on the window-sill,
and said:--

"Now then! I've got everything ready."

"Sit down to table and swallow your victuals!" replied the
old woman.

The old man sat down to table, and made his daughter sit
by his side. On the table stood a pannier; he took out a loaf,[278]
and cut bread for himself and his daughter. Meantime his
wife served up a dish of old cabbage soup, and said:--

"There, my pigeon, eat and be off; I've looked at you quite
enough! Drive Marfa to her bridegroom, old man. And look
here, old greybeard! drive straight along the road at first, and
then turn off from the road to the right, you know, into the
forest--right up to the big pine that stands on the hill, and there
hand Marfa over to Morozko (Frost)."

The old man opened his eyes wide, also his mouth, and
stopped eating, and the girl began lamenting.

"Now then, what are you hanging your chaps and squealing
about?" said her stepmother. "Surely your bridegroom is a
beauty, and he's that rich! Why, just see what a lot of things
belong to him, the firs, the pine-tops, and the birches, all in
their robes of down--ways and means that any one might envy;
and he himself a _bogatir_!"[279]

The old man silently placed the things on the sledge, made
his daughter put on a warm pelisse, and set off on the journey.
After a time, he reached the forest, turned off from the road;
and drove across the frozen snow.[280] When he got into the
depths of the forest, he stopped, made his daughter get out,
laid her basket under the tall pine, and said:--

"Sit here, and await the bridegroom. And mind you receive
him as pleasantly as you can."

Then he turned his horse round and drove off homewards.

The girl sat and shivered. The cold had pierced her through.
She would fain have cried aloud, but she had not strength
enough; only her teeth chattered. Suddenly she heard a
sound. Not far off, Frost was cracking away on a fir. From
fir to fir was he leaping, and snapping his fingers. Presently he
appeared on that very pine under which the maiden was sitting
and from above her head he cried:--

"Art thou warm, maiden?"

"Warm, warm am I, dear Father Frost," she replied.

Frost began to descend lower, all the more cracking and
snapping his fingers. To the maiden said Frost:--

"Art thou warm, maiden? Art thou warm, fair one?"

The girl could scarcely draw her breath, but still she replied:

"Warm am I, Frost dear: warm am I, father dear!"

Frost began cracking more than ever, and more loudly did
he snap his fingers, and to the maiden he said:--

"Art thou warm, maiden? Art thou warm, pretty one?
Art thou warm, my darling?"

The girl was by this time numb with cold, and she could
scarcely make herself heard as she replied:--

"Oh! quite warm, Frost dearest!"

Then Frost took pity on the girl, wrapped her up in furs,
and warmed her with blankets.

Next morning the old woman said to her husband:--

"Drive out, old greybeard, and wake the young couple!"

The old man harnessed his horse and drove off. When he
came to where his daughter was, he found she was alive and had
got a good pelisse, a costly bridal veil, and a pannier with rich
gifts. He stowed everything away on the sledge without saying
a word, took his seat on it with his daughter, and drove back.
They reached home, and the daughter fell at her stepmother's
feet. The old woman was thunderstruck when she saw the girl
alive, and the new pelisse and the basket of linen.

"Ah, you wretch!" she cries. "But you shan't trick me!"

Well, a little later the old woman says to her husband:--

"Take my daughters, too, to their bridegroom. The presents
he's made are nothing to what he'll give them."

Well, early next morning the old woman gave her girls their
breakfast, dressed them as befitted brides, and sent them off on
their journey. In the same way as before the old man left the
girls under the pine.

There the girls sat, and kept laughing and saying:

"Whatever is mother thinking of! All of a sudden to marry
both of us off! As if there were no lads in our village, forsooth!
Some rubbishy fellow may come, and goodness knows who he
may be!"

The girls were wrapped up in pelisses, but for all that they
felt the cold.

"I say, Prascovia! the frost's skinning me alive. Well, if
our bridegroom[281] doesn't come quick, we shall be frozen to
death here!"

"Don't go talking nonsense, Mashka; as if suitors[282] generally
turned up in the forenoon. Why it's hardly dinner-time
yet!"

"But I say, Prascovia! if only one comes, which of us will
he take?"

"Not you, you stupid goose!"

"Then it will be you, I suppose!"

"Of course it will be me!"

"You, indeed! there now, have done talking stuff and
treating people like fools!"

Meanwhile, Frost had numbed the girl's hands, so our
damsels folded them under their dress, and then went on
quarrelling as before.

"What, you fright! you sleepy-face! you abominable shrew!
why, you don't know so much as how to begin weaving: and as
to going on with it, you haven't an idea!"

"Aha, boaster! and what is it you know? Why, nothing at
all except to go out to merry-makings and lick your lips there.
We'll soon see which he'll take first!"

While the girls went on scolding like that, they began to
freeze in downright earnest. Suddenly they both cried out at
once:

"Whyever is he so long coming. Do you know, you've turned
quite blue!"

Now, a good way off, Frost had begun cracking, snapping
his fingers, and leaping from fir to fir. To the girls it sounded
as if some one was coming.

"Listen, Prascovia! He's coming at last, and with bells,
too!"

"Get along with you! I won't listen; my skin is peeling
with cold."

"And yet you're still expecting to get married!"

Then they began blowing on their fingers.

Nearer and nearer came Frost. At length he appeared on
the pine, above the heads of the girls, and said to them:

"Are ye warm, maidens? Are ye warm, pretty ones? Are
ye warm, my darlings?"

"Oh, Frost, it's awfully cold! we're utterly perished!
We're expecting a bridegroom, but the confounded fellow has
disappeared."

Frost slid lower down the tree, cracked away more, snapped
his fingers oftener than before.

"Are ye warm, maidens? Are ye warm, pretty ones?"

"Get along with you! Are you blind that you can't see our
hands and feet are quite dead?"

Still lower descended Frost, still more put forth his might,[283]
and said:

"Are ye warm, maidens?"

"Into the bottomless pit with you! Out of sight, accursed
one!" cried the girls--and became lifeless forms.[284]

Next morning the old woman said to her husband:

"Old man, go and get the sledge harnessed; put an armful
of hay in it, and take some sheep-skin wraps. I daresay the
girls are half-dead with cold. There's a terrible frost outside!
And, mind you, old greybeard, do it quickly!"

Before the old man could manage to get a bite he was out of
doors and on his way. When he came to where his daughters
were, he found them dead. So he lifted the girls on to the
sledge, wrapped a blanket round them, and covered them up
with a bark mat. The old woman saw him from afar, ran out
to meet him, and called out ever so loud:

"Where are the girls?"

"In the sledge."

The old woman lifted the mat, undid the blanket, and found
the girls both dead.

Then, like a thunderstorm, she broke out against her husband,
abusing him saying:

"What have you done, you old wretch? You have destroyed
my daughters, the children of my own flesh and blood, my
never-enough-to-be-gazed-on seedlings, my beautiful berries! I
will thrash you with the tongs; I will give it you with the stove-rake."

"That's enough, you old goose! You flattered yourself
you were going to get riches, but your daughters were too stiff-necked.
How was I to blame? it was you yourself would
have it."

The old woman was in a rage at first, and used bad language;
but afterwards she made it up with her stepdaughter,
and they all lived together peaceably, and thrived, and bore no
malice. A neighbor made an offer of marriage, the wedding
was celebrated, and Marfa is now living happily. The old man
frightens his grandchildren with (stories about) Frost, and
doesn't let them have their own way.

In a variant from the Kursk Government (Afanasief IV. No. 42. _b_), the stepdaughter is left by her father "in the open plain." There she sits, "trembling and silently offering up a prayer." Frost draws near, intending "to smite her and to freeze her to death." But when he says to her, "Maiden, maiden, I am Frost the Red-Nosed," she replies "Welcome, Frost; doubtless God has sent you for my sinful soul." Pleased by her "wise words," Frost throws a warm cloak over her, and afterwards presents her with "robes embroidered with silver and gold, and a chest containing rich dowry." The girl puts on the robes, and appears "such a beauty!" Then she sits on the chest and sings songs. Meantime her stepmother is baking cakes and preparing for her funeral. After a time her father sets out in search of her dead body. But the dog beneath the table barks--"Taff! Taff! The master's daughter in silver and gold by the wedding party is borne along, but the mistress's daughter is wooed by none!" In vain does its mistress throw it a cake, and order it to modify its remarks. It eats the cake, but it repeats its offensive observations, until the stepdaughter appears in all her glory. Then the old woman's own daughter is sent afield. Frost comes to have a look at his new guest, expecting "wise words" from her too. But as none are forthcoming, he waxes wroth, and kills her. When the old man goes to fetch her, the dog barks--"Taff! Taff! The master's daughter will be borne along by the bridal train, but the bones of the mistress's daughter are being carried in a bag," and continues to bark in the same strain until the yard-gates open. The old woman runs out to greet her daughter, and "instead of her embraces a cold corpse."

To the Russian peasants, it should be observed, Moroz, our own Jack Frost, is a living personage. On Christmas Eve it is customary for the oldest man in each family to take a spoonful of kissel, a sort of pudding, and then, having put his head through the window, to cry:

"Frost, Frost, come and eat kissel! Frost, Frost, do not kill our oats! drive our flax and hemp deep into the ground."

The Tcheremisses have similar ideas, and are afraid of knocking the icicles off their houses, thinking that, if they do so, Frost will wax wroth and freeze them to death. In one of the Skazkas, a peasant goes out one day to a field of buckwheat, and finds it all broken down. He goes home, and tells the bad news to his wife, who says, "It is Frost who has done this. Go and find him, and make him pay for the damage!" So the peasant goes into the forest and, after wandering about for some time, lights upon a path which leads him to a cottage made of ice, covered with snow, and hung with icicles. He knocks at the door, and out comes an old man--"all white." This is Frost, who presents him with the magic cudgel and table-cloth which work wonders in so many of the tales.[285] In another story, a peasant meets the Sun, the Wind, and the Frost. He bows to all three, but adds an extra salutation to the Wind. This enrages the two others, and the Sun cries out that he will burn up the peasant. But the Wind says, "I will blow cold, and temper the heat." Then the Frost threatens to freeze the peasant to death, but the Wind comforts him, saying, "I will blow warm, and will not let you be hurt."[286]

Sometimes the Frost is described by the people as a mighty smith who forges strong chains with which to bind the earth and the waters--as in the saying "The Old One has built a bridge without axe and without knife," _i.e._, the river is frozen over. Sometimes Moroz-Treskun, the Crackling Frost, is spoken of without disguise as the preserver of the hero who is ordered to enter a bath which has been heated red-hot. Frost goes into the bath, and breathes with so icy a breath that the heat of the building turns at once to cold.[287]

The story in which Frost so singularly figures is one which is known in many lands, and of which many variants are current in Russia. The jealous hatred of a stepmother, who exposes her stepdaughter to some great peril, has been made the theme of countless tales. What gives its special importance, as well as its poetical charm, to the skazka which has been quoted, is the introduction of Frost as the power to which the stepmother has recourse for the furtherance of her murderous plans, and by which she, in the persons of her own daughters, is ultimately punished. We have already dealt with one specimen of the skazkas of this class, the story of Vasilissa, who is sent to the Baba Yaga's for a light. Another, still more closely connected with that of "Frost," occurs in Khudyakof's collection.[288]

A certain woman ordered her husband (says the story) to make away with his daughter by a previous marriage. So he took the girl into the forest, and left her in a kind of hut, telling her to prepare some soup while he was cutting wood. "At that time there was a gale blowing. The old man tied a log to a tree; when the wind blew, the log rattled. She thought the old man was going on cutting wood, but in reality he had gone away home."

When the soup was ready, she called out to her father to come to dinner. No reply came from him, "but there was a human head in the forest, and it replied, 'I'm coming immediately!' And when the Head arrived, it cried, 'Maiden, open the door!' She opened it. 'Maiden, Maiden! lift me over the threshold!' She lifted it over. 'Maiden, Maiden! put the dinner on the table!' She did so, and she and the Head sat down to dinner. When they had dined, 'Maiden, Maiden!' said the Head, 'take me off the bench!' She took it off the bench, and cleared the table. It lay down to sleep on the bare floor; she lay on the bench. She fell asleep, but it went into the forest after its servants. The house became bigger; servants, horses, everything one could think of suddenly appeared. The servants came to the maiden, and said, 'Get up! it's time to go for a drive!' So she got into a carriage with the Head, but she took a cock along with her. She told the cock to crow; it crowed. Again she told it to crow; it crowed again. And a third time she told it to crow. When it had crowed for the third time, the Head fell to pieces, and became a heap of golden coins."[289]

Then the stepmother sent her own daughter into the forest. Everything occurred as before, until the Head arrived. Then she was so frightened that she tried to hide herself, and she would do nothing for the Head, which had to dish up its own dinner, and eat it by itself. And so "when she lay down to sleep, it ate her up."

In a story in Chudinsky's collection, the stepdaughter is sent by night to watch the rye in an _ovin_,[290] or corn-kiln. Presently a stranger appears and asks her to marry him. She replies that she has no wedding-clothes, upon which he brings her everything she asks for. But she is very careful not to ask for more than one thing at a time, and so the cock crows before her list of indispensable necessaries is exhausted. The stranger immediately disappears, and she carries off her presents in triumph.

The next night her stepsister is sent to the _ovin_, and the stranger appears as before, and asks her to marry him. She, also, replies that she has no wedding-clothes, and he offers to supply her with what she wants. Whereupon, instead of asking for a number of things one after the other, she demands them all at once--"Stockings, garters, a petticoat, a dress, a comb, earrings, a mirror, soap, white paint and rouge, and everything which her stepsister had got." Then follows the catastrophe.

The stranger brought her everything, all at once.

"Now then," says he, "will you marry me now?"

"Wait a bit," said the stepmother's daughter, "I'll wash
and dress, and whiten myself and rouge myself, and then I'll
marry you." And straightway she set to work washing and
dressing--and she hastened and hurried to get all that done--she
wanted so awfully to see herself decked out as a bride.
By-and-by she was quite dressed--but the cock had not yet
crowed.

"Well, maiden!" says he, "will you marry me now?"

"I'm quite ready," says she.

Thereupon he tore her to pieces.[291]

There is one other of those personifications of natural forces which play an active part in the Russian tales, about which a few words may be said. It often happens that the heroine-stealer whom the hero of the story has to overcome is called, not Koshchei nor the Snake, but Vikhor,[292] the whirlwind. Here is a brief analysis of part of one of the tales in which this elementary abducer figures. There was a certain king, whose wife went out one day to walk in the garden. "Suddenly a gale (_vyeter_) sprang up. In the gale was the Vikhor-bird. Vikhor seized the Queen, and carried her off." She left three sons, and they, when they came to man's estate, said to their father--"Where is our mother? If she be dead, show us her grave; if she be living, tell us where to find her."

"I myself know not where your mother is," replied the King. "Vikhor carried her off."

"Well then," they said, "since Vikhor carried her off, and she is alive, give us your blessing. We will go in search of our mother."

All three set out, but only the youngest, Prince Vasily, succeeded in climbing the steep hill, whereon stood the palace in which his mother and Vikhor lived. Entering it during Vikhor's absence, the Prince made himself known to his mother, "who straightway gave him to eat, and concealed him in a distant apartment, hiding him behind a number of cushions, so that Vikhor might not easily discover him." And she gave him these instructions. "If Vikhor comes, and begins quarrelling, don't come forth, but if he takes to chatting, come forth and say, 'Hail father!' and seize hold of the little finger of his right hand, and wherever he flies do you go with him."

Presently Vikhor came flying in, and addressed the Queen angrily. Prince Vasily remained concealed until his mother gave him a hint to come forth. This he did, and then greeted Vikhor, and caught hold of his right little finger. Vikhor tried to shake him off, flying first about the house and then out of it, but all in vain. At last Vikhor, after soaring on high, struck the ground, and fell to pieces, becoming a fine yellow sand. "But the little finger remained in the possession of Prince Vasily, who scraped together the sand and burnt it in the stove."[293]

* * * * *

With a mention of two other singular beings who occur in the Skazkas, the present chapter may be brought to a close. The first is a certain Morfei (Morpheus?) who figures in the following variant of a well-known tale.

There was a king, and he had a daughter with whom a general who lived over the way fell in love. But the king would not let him marry her unless he went where none had been, and brought back thence what none had seen. After much consideration the general set out and travelled "over swamps, hill, and rivers." At last he reached a wood in which was a hut, and inside the hut was an old crone. To her he told his story, after hearing which, she cried out, "Ho, there! Morfei, dish up the meal!" and immediately a dinner appeared of which the old crone made the general partake. And next day "she presented that cook to the general, ordering him to serve the general honorably, as he had served her. The general took the cook and departed." By-and-by he came to a river and was appealed to for food by a shipwrecked crew. "Morfei, give them to eat!" he cried, and immediately excellent viands appeared, with which the mariners were so pleased that they gave the general a magic volume in exchange for his cook--who, however, did not stay with them but secretly followed his master. A little later the general found another shipwrecked crew, who gave him, in exchange for his cook, a sabre and a towel, each of magic power. Then the general returned to his own city, and his magic properties enabled him to convince the king that he was an eligible suitor for the hand of the Princess.[294]

The other is a mysterious personage whose name is "Oh!" The story in which he appears is one with which many countries are familiar, and of which numerous versions are to be found in Russia. A father sets out with his boy for "the bazaar," hoping to find a teacher there who will instruct the child in such science as enables people "to work little, and feed delicately, and dress well." After walking a long way the man becomes weary and exclaims, "Oh! I'm so tired!" Immediately there appears "an old magician," who says--

"Why do you call me?"

"I didn't call you," replies the old man. "I don't even know who you are."

"My name is Oh," says the magician, "and you cried 'Oh!' Where are you taking that boy?"

The father explains what it is he wants, and the magician undertakes to give the boy the requisite education, charging "one assignat rouble" for a year's tuition.[295]

The teacher, in this story, is merely called a magician; but as in other Russian versions of it his counterpart is always described as being demoniacal, and is often openly styled a devil, it may be assumed that Oh belongs to the supernatural order of beings. It is often very difficult, however, to distinguish magicians from fiends in storyland, the same powers being generally wielded, and that for the same purposes, by the one set of beings as by the other. Of those powers, and of the end to which the stories represent them as being turned, some mention will be made in the next chapter.

FOOTNOTES:

[224] The adjective _likhoi_ has two opposite meanings, sometimes signifying what is evil, hurtful, malicious, &c., sometimes what is bold, vigorous, and therefore to be admired. As a substantive, _likho_ conveys the idea of something malevolent or unfortunate. The Polish _licho_ properly signifies _uneven_. But odd numbers are sometimes considered unlucky. Polish housewives, for instance, think it imprudent to allow their hens to sit on an uneven number of eggs. But the peasantry also describe by _Licho_ an evil spirit, a sort of devil. (Wojcicki in the "Encyklopedyja Powszechna," xvii. p. 17.) "When Likho sleeps, awake it not," says a proverb common to Poland and South Russia.

[225] Afanasief, iii. No. 14. From the Voroneje Government.

[226] From an article by Borovikovsky in the "Otech. Zap." 1840, No. 2.

[227] "Les Avadanas," vol. i. No. 9, p. 51.

[228] In the "Philogische und historische Abhandlungen," of the Berlin Academy of Sciences for 1857, pp. 1-30. See also Buslaef, "Ist. Och.," i. 327-331.; Campbell's "West Highland Tales," i. p. 132, &c.

[229] _Ednookie_ (_edno_ or _odno_ = one; _oko_ = eye). A Slavonic equivalent of the name "Arimaspians," from the Scythic _arima_ = one and _spu_ = eye. Mr. Rawlinson associates _arima_, through _farima_, with Goth. _fruma_, Lat. _primus_, &c., and _spu_ with Lat. root _spic_ or _spec_--in _specio_, _specto_, &c., and with our "spy," &c.

[230] Grimm, No. 130, &c.

[231] Afanasief, vi. No. 55.

[232] See the "Songs of the Russian People," p. 30.

[233] Afanasief, v. No. 34. From the Novgorod Government.

[234] _Opokhmyelit'sya_: "to drink off the effects of his debauch."

[235] Erlenvein, No. 21.

[236] Our "Sunday gown."

[237] Afanasief, viii. p. 408.

[238] Properly speaking "grief," that which morally _krushit_ or crushes a man.

[239] _Kruchina_, as an abstract idea, is of the feminine gender. But it is here personified as a male being.

[240] Afanasief, v. p. 237.

[241] _Spasibo_ is the word in popular use as an expression of thanks, and it now means nothing more than "thank you!" But it is really a contraction of _spasi Bog!_ "God save (you)!" as our "Good-bye!" is of "God be with you!"

[242] Maksimovich, "Tri Skazki" (quoted by Afanasief, viii. p. 406).

[243] Vuk Karajich, No. 13.

[244] Afanasief, viii. No. 21.

[245] _Schastie_ and _Neschastie_--Luck and Bad-luck--the exact counterparts of the Indian Lakshmi and Alakshmi.

[246] Afanasief, iii. No. 9.

[247] Afanasief viii. pp. 32-4.

[248] _Bezdolny_ (_bez_ = without; _dolya_ = lot, share, etc.).

[249] Everyone knows how frequent are the allusions to good and bad fortune in Oriental fiction, so that there is no occasion to do more than allude to the stories in which they occur--one of the most interesting of which is that of Vira-vara in the "Hitopadesa" (chap. iii. Fable 9), who finds one night a young and beautiful woman, richly decked with jewels, weeping outside the city in which dwells his royal master Sudraka, and asks her who she is, and why she weeps. To which (in Mr. Johnson's translation) she replies "I am the Fortune of this King Sudraka, beneath the shadow of whose arm I have long reposed very happily. Through the fault of the queen the king will die on the third day. I shall be without a protector, and shall stay no longer; therefore do I weep." On the variants of this story, see Benfey's "Panchatantra," i. pp. 415-16.

[250] From _pyat_ = five, Friday being the fifth working day. Similarly Tuesday is called _Vtornik_, from _vtoroi_ = second; Wednesday is _Sereda_, "the middle;" Thursday _Chetverg_, from _chetverty_ = fourth. But Saturday is _Subbota_.

[251] _P.V.S._, i. 230. See also Buslaef, "Ist. Och." pp. 323, 503-4.

[252] A tradition of our own relates that the Lords of the Admiralty, wishing to prove the absurdity of the English sailor's horror of Friday, commenced a ship on a Friday, launched her on a Friday, named her "The Friday," procured a Captain Friday to command her, and sent her to sea on a Friday, and--she was never heard of again.

[253] Afanasief, "Legendui," No. 13. From the Tambof Government.

[254] For an account of various similar superstitions connected with Wednesday and Thursday, see Mannhardt's "Germanische Mythen," p. 15, 16, and W. Schmidt's "Das Jahr und seine Tage," p. 19.

[255] Khudyakof, No. 166. From the Orel Government.

[256] Doubtful. The Russian word is "Svarit," properly "to cook."

[257] Compare the English nursery rhyme addressed to the lady-bird:

"Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home,
Your house is a-fire, your children at home."

[258] Wednesday in this, and Friday in the preceding story, are the exact counterparts of Lithuanian Laumes. According to Schleicher ("Lituanica," p. 109), Thursday evening is called in Lithuania _Laumiu vakars_, the Laume's Eve. No work ought to be done on a Thursday evening, and it is especially imprudent to spin then. For at night, when the Laumes come, as they are accustomed to do between Thursday evening and Friday morning, they seize any spinning which has been begun, work away at it till cock-crow, and then carry it off. In modern Greece the women attribute all nightly meddling with their spinning to the _Neraides_ (the representatives of the Hellenic Nereids. See Bernhard Schmidt's "Volksleben der Neugriechen," p. 111). In some respects the _Neraida_ closely resemble the _Lamia_, and both of them have many features in common with the _Laume_. The latter name (which in Lettish is written Lauma) has never been satisfactorily explained. Can it be connected with the Greek _Lamia_ which is now written also as +Lamnia+, +Lamna+ and +Lamnissa+?

[259] The word _Nedyelya_ now means "a week." But it originally meant Sunday, the non-working day (_ne_ = not, _dyelat'_ = to do or work.) After a time, the name for the first day of the week became transferred to the week itself.

[260] That of "Wilisch Witiasu," Schott, No. 11.

[261] That of "Trandafiru," Schott, No. 23.

[262] J. Wenzig's "Westslawischer Maerchenschatz," pp. 144-155. According to Wenzig Ned[)e]lka is "the personified first Sunday after the new moon." The part here attributed to St. Ned[)e]lka is played by a Vila in one of the Songs of Montenegro. According to an ancient Indian tradition, the Aswattha-tree "is to be touched only on a Sunday, for on every other day Poverty or Misfortune abides in it: on Sunday it is the residence of Lakshmi" (Good Fortune). H. H. Wilson "Works," iii. 70.

[263] "Songs of the Russian People," pp. 120-153.

[264] Afanasief, vii. No. 33. The name Leshy or Lyeshy is derived from _lyes_, a forest.

[265] Literally "as a _lun_," a kind of hawk (_falco rusticolus_). _Lun_ also means a greyish light.

[266] _Ottogo ya i cyed chto chortof dyed._

[267] Afanasief, _P.V.S._, ii. 226.

[268] Afanasief, iv. No. 40. From the Tver Government.

[269] Translated literally from Afanasief, _P.V.S._ ii. 227.

[270] Yastreb = vulture or goshawk

[271] Quoted from Borichefsky (pp. 183-5) by Afanasief.

[272] Tereshchenko, v. 43, 44.

[273] Literally "Life disgusted them worse than a bitter radish."

[274] Translated literally from Afanasief, _P.V.S._ ii. 230.

[275] "Deutsche Mythologie," 462.

[276] Afanasief, _loc. cit._ p. 231.

[277] Afanasief, iv. No. 42. From the Vologda Government.

[278] _Chelpan_, a sort of dough cake, or pie without stuffing.

[279] _Bogatir_ is the regular term for a Russian "hero of romance." Its origin is disputed, but it appears to be of Tartar extraction.

[280] _Nast_, snow that has thawed and frozen again.

[281] _Suzhenoi-ryazhenoi._

[282] _Zhenikhi._

[283] _Sil'no priudaril_, mightily smote harder.

[284] _Okostenyeli_, were petrified.

[285] Afanasief, _P.V.S._ i. 318-19.

[286] Ibid. i. 312.

[287] As with Der Frostige in the German story of "Die sechs Diener," _KM._, No. 134, p. 519, and "The Man with the White Hat," in that of "Sechse kommen durch die ganze Welt," No. 71, p. 295, and their variants in different lands. See Grimm, iii. p. 122.

[288] No. 13, "The Stepmother's Daughter and the Stepdaughter," written down in Kazan.

[289] This is a thoroughly Buddhistic idea. According to Buddhist belief, the treasure which has belonged to anyone in a former existence may come to him in the shape of a man who, when killed, turns to gold. The first story of the fifth book of the "Panchatantra," is based upon an idea of this kind. A man is told in a vision to kill a monk. He does so, and the monk becomes a heap of gold. A barber, seeing this, kills several monks, but to no purpose. See Benfey's Introduction, pp. 477-8.

[290] For an account of the _ovin_, and the respect paid to it or to the demons supposed to haunt it see "The Songs of the Russian People," p. 257.

[291] Chudinsky, No. 13. "The Daughter and the Stepdaughter." From the Nijegorod Government.

[292] _Vikhr'_ or _Vikhor'_ from _vit'_, to whirl or twist.

[293] Khudyakof, No. 82. The story ends in the same way as that of Norka. See supra, p. 73.

[294] Khudyakof, No. 86. Morfei the Cook is merely a development of the magic cudgel which in so many stories (_e.g._ the sixth of the Calmuck tales) is often exchanged for other treasures by its master, to whom it soon returns--it being itself a degraded form of the hammer of Thor, the lance of Indra, which always came back to the divine hand that had hurled it.

[295] Khudyakof, No. 19. The rest of the story is that of "Der Gaudief un sin Meester," Grimm's _KM._ No. 68. (See also vol. iii. p. 118 of that work, where a long list is given of similar stories in various languages.)