Chapter I: Introductory (2)

"Fair or foul!" says he, "if I bid her, Anastasia the Beautiful will kiss the crown of my head."

"Don't go bragging like that!" says a rich merchant--"why she wouldn't even so much as look at you," and offers to stake all that he is worth on the truth of his assertion. Ivan accepts the wager. The Princess appears, takes him by the hand, kisses him on the crown of his head, wipes the dirt off him, and leads him home, still inebriated but no longer impecunious.[40]

Sometimes even greater people than the peasants get drunk. The story of "Semiletka"[41]--a variant of the well known tale of how a woman's wit enables her to guess all riddles, to detect all deceits, and to conquer all difficulties--relates how the heroine was chosen by a Voyvode[42] as his wife, with the stipulation that if she meddled in the affairs of his Voyvodeship she was to be sent back to her father, but allowed to take with her whatever thing belonging to her she prized most. The marriage takes place, but one day the well known case comes before him for decision, of the foal of the borrowed mare--does it belong to the owner of the mare, or to the borrower in whose possession it was at the time of foaling? The Voyvode adjudges it to the borrower, and this is how the story ends:--

"Semiletka heard of this and could not restrain herself, but said that he had decided unfairly. The Voyvode waxed wroth, and demanded a divorce. After dinner Semiletka was obliged to go back to her father's house. But during the dinner she made the Voyvode drink till he was intoxicated. He drank his fill and went to sleep. While he was sleeping she had him placed in a carriage, and then she drove away with him to her father's. When they had arrived there the Voyvode awoke and said--

"'Who brought me here?'

"'I brought you,' said Semiletka; 'there was an agreement between us that I might take away with me whatever I prized most. And so I have taken you!'

"The Voyvode marvelled at her wisdom, and made peace with her. He and she then returned home and went on living prosperously."

But although drunkenness is very tenderly treated in the Skazkas, as well as in the folk-songs, it forms the subject of many a moral lesson, couched in terms of the utmost severity, in the _stikhi_ (or poems of a religious character, sung by the blind beggars and other wandering minstrels who sing in front of churches), and also in the "Legends," which are tales of a semi-religious (or rather demi-semi-religious) nature. No better specimen of the stories of this class referring to drunkenness can be offered than the history of--

THE AWFUL DRUNKARD.[43]

Once there was an old man who was such an awful drunkard
as passes all description. Well, one day he went to a kabak,
intoxicated himself with liquor, and then went staggering home
blind drunk. Now his way happened to lie across a river.
When he came to the river, he didn't stop long to consider, but
kicked off his boots, hung them round his neck, and walked
into the water. Scarcely had he got half-way across when he
tripped over a stone, tumbled into the water--and there was an
end of him.

Now, he left a son called Petrusha.[44] When Peter saw that
his father had disappeared and left no trace behind, he took the
matter greatly to heart for a time, he wept for awhile, he had a
service performed for the repose of his father's soul, and he
began to act as head of the family. One Sunday he went to
church to pray to God. As he passed along the road a woman
was pounding away in front of him. She walked and walked,
stumbled over a stone, and began swearing at it, saying, "What
devil shoved you under my feet?"

Hearing these words, Petrusha said:

"Good day, aunt! whither away?"

"To church, my dear, to pray to God."

"But isn't this sinful conduct of yours? You're going to
church, to pray to God, and yet you think about the Evil One;
your foot stumbles and you throw the fault on the Devil!"

Well, he went to church and then returned home. He
walked and walked, and suddenly, goodness knows whence,
there appeared before him a fine-looking man, who saluted him
and said:

"Thanks, Petrusha, for your good word!"

"Who are you, and why do you thank me?" asks Petrusha.

"I am the Devil.[45] I thank you because, when that woman
stumbled, and scolded me without a cause, you said a good
word for me." Then he began to entreat him, saying, "Come
and pay me a visit, Petrusha. How I will reward you to be
sure! With silver and with gold, with everything will I endow
you."

"Very good," says Petrusha, "I'll come."

Having told him all about the road he was to take, the Devil
straightway disappeared, and Petrusha returned home.

Next day Petrusha set off on his visit to the Devil. He
walked and walked, for three whole days did he walk, and then he
reached a great forest, dark and dense--impossible even to see
the sky from within it! And in that forest there stood a rich
palace. Well, he entered the palace, and a fair maiden caught
sight of him. She had been stolen from a certain village by the
evil spirit. And when she caught sight of him she cried:

"Whatever have you come here for, good youth? here
devils abide, they will tear you to pieces."

Petrusha told her how and why he had made his appearance
in that palace.

"Well now, mind this," says the fair maiden; "the Devil will
begin giving you silver and gold. Don't take any of it, but ask
him to give you the very wretched horse which the evil spirits
use for fetching wood and water. That horse is your father.
When he came out of the kabak drunk, and fell into the water,
the devils immediately seized him and made him their hack, and
now they use him for fetching wood and water."

Presently there appeared the gallant who had invited
Petrusha, and began to regale him with all kinds of meat and
drink. And when the time came for Petrusha to be going homewards,
"Come," said the Devil, "I will provide you with
money and with a capital horse, so that you will speedily get
home."

"I don't want anything," replied Petrusha. "Only, if you
wish to make me a present, give me that sorry jade which you
use for carrying wood and water."

"What good will that be to you? If you ride it home
quickly, I expect it will die!"

"No matter, let me have it. I won't take any other."

So the Devil gave him that sorry jade. Petrusha took it by
the bridle and led it away. As soon as he reached the gates
there appeared the fair maiden, and asked:

"Have you got the horse?"

"I have."

"Well then, good youth, when you get nigh to your village,
take off your cross, trace a circle three times about this horse,
and hang the cross round its neck."

Petrusha took leave of her and went his way. When he
came nigh to his village he did everything exactly as the maiden
had instructed him. He took off his copper cross, traced a
circle three times about the horse, and hung the cross round its
neck. And immediately the horse was no longer there, but in
its place there stood before Petrusha his own father. The son
looked upon the father, burst into tears, and led him to his cottage;
and for three days the old man remained without speaking,
unable to make use of his tongue. And after that they
lived happily and in all prosperity. The old man entirely gave
up drinking, and to his very last day never took so much as a
single drop of spirits.[46]

The Russian peasant is by no means deficient in humor, a fact of which the Skazkas offer abundant evidence. But it is not easy to find stories which can be quoted at full length as illustrations of that humor. The jokes which form the themes of the Russian facetious tales are for the most part common to all Europe. And a similar assertion may be made with regard to the stories of most lands. An unfamiliar joke is but rarely to be discovered in the lower strata of fiction. He who has read the folk-tales of one country only, is apt to attribute to its inhabitants a comic originality to which they can lay no claim. And so a Russian who knows the stories of his own land, but has not studied those of other countries, is very liable to credit the Skazkas with the undivided possession of a number of "merry jests" in which they can claim but a very small share--jests which in reality form the stock-in-trade of rustic wags among the vineyards of France or Germany, or on the hills of Greece, or beside the fiords of Norway, or along the coasts of Brittany or Argyleshire--which for centuries have set beards wagging in Cairo and Ispahan, and in the cool of the evening hour have cheered the heart of the villager weary with his day's toil under the burning sun of India.

It is only when the joke hinges upon something which is peculiar to a people that it is likely to be found among that people only. But most of the Russian jests turn upon pivots which are familiar to all the world, and have for their themes such common-place topics as the incorrigible folly of man, the inflexible obstinacy of woman. And in their treatments of these subjects they offer very few novel features. It is strange how far a story of this kind may travel, and yet how little alteration it may undergo. Take, for instance, the skits against women which are so universally popular. Far away in outlying districts of Russia we find the same time-honored quips which have so long figured in collections of English facetiae. There is the good old story, for instance, of the dispute between a husband and wife as to whether a certain rope has been cut with a knife or with scissors, resulting in the murder of the scissors-upholding wife, who is pitched into the river by her knife-advocating husband; but not before she has, in her very death agony, testified to her belief in the scissors hypothesis by a movement of her fingers above the surface of the stream.[47] In a Russian form of the story, told in the government of Astrakhan, the quarrel is about the husband's beard. He says he has shaved it, his wife declares he has only cut it off. He flings her into a deep pool, and calls to her to say "shaved." Utterance is impossible to her, but "she lifts one hand above the water and by means of two fingers makes signs to show that it was cut."[48] The story has even settled into a proverb. Of a contradictory woman the Russian peasants affirm that, "If you say 'shaved' she'll say 'cut.'"

In the same way another story shows us in Russian garb our old friend the widower who, when looking for his drowned wife--a woman of a very antagonistic disposition--went up the river instead of down, saying to his astonished companions, "She always did everything contrary-wise, so now, no doubt, she's gone against the stream."[49] A common story again is that of the husband who, having confided a secret to his wife which he justly fears she will reveal, throws discredit on her evidence about things in general by making her believe various absurd stories which she hastens to repeat.[49] The final paragraph of one of the variants of this time-honored jest is quaint, concluding as it does, by way of sting, with a highly popular Russian saw. The wife has gone to the seigneur of the village and accused her husband of having found a treasure and kept it for his own use. The charge is true, but the wife is induced to talk such nonsense, and the husband complains so bitterly of her, that "the seigneur pitied the moujik for being so unfortunate, so he set him at liberty; and he had him divorced from his wife and married to another, a young and good-looking one. Then the moujik immediately dug up his treasure and began living in the best manner possible." Sure enough the proverb doesn't say without reason: "Women have long hair and short wits."[50]

There is another story of this class which is worthy of being mentioned, as it illustrates a custom in which the Russians differ from some other peoples.

A certain man had married a wife who was so capricious that there was no living with her. After trying all sorts of devices her dejected husband at last asked her how she had been brought up, and learnt that she had received an education almost entirely German and French, with scarcely any Russian in it; she had not even been wrapped in swaddling-clothes when a baby, nor swung in a _liulka_.[51] Thereupon her husband determined to remedy the short-comings of her early education, and "whenever she showed herself capricious, or took to squalling, he immediately had her swaddled and placed in a _liulka_, and began swinging her to and fro." By the end of a half year she became "quite silky"--all her caprices had been swung out of her.

But instead of giving mere extracts from any more of the numerous stories to which the fruitful subject of woman's caprice has given rise, we will quote a couple of such tales at length. The first is the Russian variant of a story which has a long family tree, with ramifications extending over a great part of the world. Dr. Benfey has devoted to it no less than sixteen pages of his introduction to the Panchatantra,[52] tracing it from its original Indian home, and its subsequent abode in Persia, into almost every European land.

THE BAD WIFE.[53]

A bad wife lived on the worst of terms with her husband, and
never paid any attention to what he said. If her husband told
her to get up early, she would lie in bed three days at a stretch;
if he wanted her to go to sleep, she couldn't think of sleeping.
When her husband asked her to make pancakes, she would say:
"You thief, you don't deserve a pancake!"

If he said:

"Don't make any pancakes, wife, if I don't deserve them,"
she would cook a two-gallon pot full, and say,

"Eat away, you thief, till they're all gone!"

"Now then, wife," perhaps he would say, "I feel quite sorry
for you; don't go toiling and moiling, and don't go out to the
hay cutting."

"No, no, you thief!" she would reply, "I shall go, and do
you follow after me!"

One day, after having had his trouble and bother with her
he went into the forest to look for berries and distract his grief,
and he came to where there was a currant bush, and in the middle
of that bush he saw a bottomless pit. He looked at it for
some time and considered, "Why should I live in torment with
a bad wife? can't I put her into that pit? can't I teach her a
good lesson?"

So when he came home, he said:

"Wife, don't go into the woods for berries."

"Yes, you bugbear, I shall go!"

"I've found a currant bush; don't pick it."

"Yes I will; I shall go and pick it clean; but I won't give
you a single currant!"

The husband went out, his wife with him. He came to the
currant bush, and his wife jumped into it, crying out at the top
her voice:

"Don't you come into the bush, you thief, or I'll kill you!"

And so she got into the middle of the bush, and went flop
into the bottomless pit.

The husband returned home joyfully, and remained there
three days; on the fourth day he went to see how things were
going on. Taking a long cord, he let it down into the pit, and
out from thence he pulled a little demon. Frightened out of his
wits, he was going to throw the imp back again into the pit,
but it shrieked aloud, and earnestly entreated him, saying:

"Don't send me back again, O peasant! let me go out into
the world! A bad wife has come, and absolutely devoured us
all, pinching us, and biting us--we're utterly worn out with it.
I'll do you a good turn, if you will."

So the peasant let him go free--at large in Holy Russia.
Then the imp said:

"Now then, peasant, come along with me to the town of
Vologda. I'll take to tormenting people, and you shall cure
them."

Well, the imp went to where there were merchant's wives
and merchant's daughters; and when they were possessed by
him, they fell ill and went crazy. Then the peasant would go to
a house where there was illness of this kind, and, as soon as he
entered, out would go the enemy; then there would be blessing
in the house, and everyone would suppose that the peasant was
a doctor indeed, and would give him money, and treat him to
pies. And so the peasant gained an incalculable sum of money.
At last the demon said:

"You've plenty now, peasant; arn't you content? I'm going
now to enter into the Boyar's daughter. Mind you don't go
curing her. If you do, I shall eat you."

The Boyar's daughter fell ill, and went so crazy that she
wanted to eat people. The Boyar ordered his people to find out
the peasant--(that is to say) to look for such and such a physician.
The peasant came, entered the house, and told Boyar to
make all the townspeople, and the carriages with coachmen, stand
in the street outside. Moreover, he gave orders that all the
coachmen should crack their whips and cry at the top of their
voices: "The Bad Wife has come! the Bad Wife has come!"
and then he went into the inner room. As soon as he entered
it, the demon rushed at him crying, "What do you mean, Russian?
what have you come here for? I'll eat you!"

"What do _you_ mean?" said the peasant, "why I didn't
come here to turn you out. I came, out of pity to you, to say
that the Bad Wife has come here."

The Demon rushed to the window, stared with all his eyes,
and heard everyone shouting at the top of his voice the words,
"The Bad Wife!"

"Peasant," cries the Demon, "wherever can I take refuge?"

"Run back into the pit. She won't go there any more."

The Demon went back to the pit--and to the Bad Wife too.

In return for his services, the Boyar conferred a rich guerdon
on the peasant, giving him his daughter to wife, and presenting
him with half his property.

But the Bad Wife sits to this day in the pit--in Tartarus.[54]

Our final illustration of the Skazkas which satirize women is the story of the _Golovikha_. It is all the more valuable, inasmuch as it is one of the few folk-tales which throw any light on the working of Russian communal institutions. The word _Golovikha_ means, in its strict sense, the wife of a _Golova_, or elected chief [_Golova_ = head] of a _Volost_, or association of village communities; but here it is used for a "female _Golova_," a species of "mayoress."

THE GOLOVIKHA.[55]

A certain woman was very bumptious. Her husband came
from a village council one day, and she asked him:

"What have you been deciding over there?"

"What have we been deciding? why choosing a Golova."

"Whom have you chosen?"

"No one as yet."

"Choose me," says the woman.

So as soon as her husband went back to the council (she was
a bad sort; he wanted to give her a lesson) he told the elders
what she had said. They immediately chose her as Golova.

Well the woman got along, settled all questions, took bribes,
and drank spirits at the peasant's expense. But the time came
to collect the poll-tax. The Golova couldn't do it, wasn't able
to collect it in time. There came a Cossack, and asked for the
Golova; but the woman had hidden herself. As soon as she
learnt that the Cossack had come, off she ran home.

"Where, oh where can I hide myself?" she cries to her
husband. "Husband dear! tie me up in a bag, and put me out
there where the corn-sacks are."

Now there were five sacks of seed-corn outside, so her husband
tied up the Golova, and set her in the midst of them. Up
came the Cossack and said:

"Ho! so the Golova's in hiding."

Then he took to slashing at the sacks one after another with
his whip, and the woman to howling at the pitch of her voice:

"Oh, my father! I won't be a Golova, I won't be a Golova."

At last the Cossack left off beating the sacks, and rode away.
But the woman had had enough of Golova-ing; from that time
forward she took to obeying her husband.

Before passing on to another subject, it may be advisable to quote one of the stories in which the value of a good and wise wife is fully acknowledged. I have chosen for that purpose one of the variants of a tale from which, in all probability, our own story of "Whittington and his Cat" has been derived. With respect to its origin, there can be very little doubt, such a feature as that of the incense-burning pointing directly to a Buddhist source. It is called--

THE THREE COPECKS.[56]

There once was a poor little orphan-lad who had nothing at all
to live on; so he went to a rich moujik and hired himself out to
him, agreeing to work for one copeck a year. And when he had
worked for a whole year, and had received his copeck, he went to
a well and threw it into the water, saying, "If it don't sink, I'll
keep it. It will be plain enough I've served my master faithfully."

But the copeck sank. Well, he remained in service a second
year, and received a second copeck. Again he flung it into the
well, and again it sank to the bottom. He remained a third year;
worked and worked, till the time came for payment. Then his
master gave him a rouble. "No," says the orphan, "I don't
want your money; give me my copeck." He got his copeck and
flung it into the well. Lo and behold! there were all three copecks
floating on the surface of the water. So he took them and
went into the town.

Now as he went along the street, it happened that some small
boys had got hold of a kitten and were tormenting it. And he
felt sorry for it, and said:

"Let me have that kitten, my boys?"

"Yes, we'll sell it you."

"What do you want for it?"

"Three copecks."

Well the orphan bought the kitten, and afterwards hired
himself to a merchant, to sit in his shop.

That merchant's business began to prosper wonderfully. He
couldn't supply goods fast enough; purchasers carried off everything
in a twinkling. The merchant got ready to go to sea,
freighted a ship, and said to the orphan:

"Give me your cat; maybe it will catch mice on board, and
amuse me."

"Pray take it, master! only if you lose it, I shan't let you off
cheap."

The merchant arrived in a far off land, and put up at an inn.
The landlord saw that he had a great deal of money, so he gave
him a bedroom which was infested by countless swarms of rats
and mice, saying to himself, "If they should happen to eat him
up, his money will belong to me." For in that country they knew
nothing about cats, and the rats and mice had completely got the
upper hand. Well the merchant took the cat with him to his
room and went to bed. Next morning the landlord came into
the room. There was the merchant alive and well, holding the
cat in his arms, and stroking its fur; the cat was purring away,
singing its song, and on the floor lay a perfect heap of dead rats
and mice!

"Master merchant, sell me that beastie," says the landlord.

"Certainly."

"What do you want for it?"

"A mere trifle. I'll make the beastie stand on his hind legs
while I hold him up by his forelegs, and you shall pile gold
pieces around him, so as just to hide him--I shall be content
with that!"

The landlord agreed to the bargain. The merchant gave him
the cat, received a sackful of gold, and as soon as he had settled
his affairs, started on his way back. As he sailed across the
seas, he thought:

"Why should I give the gold to that orphan? Such a lot of
money in return for a mere cat! that would be too much of a
good thing. No, much better keep it myself."

The moment he had made up his mind to the sin, all of a sudden
there arose a storm--such a tremendous one! the ship was
on the point of sinking.

"Ah, accursed one that I am! I've been longing for what
doesn't belong to me; O Lord, forgive me a sinner! I won't
keep back a single copeck."

The moment the merchant began praying the winds were
stilled, the sea became calm, and the ship went sailing on prosperously
to the quay.

"Hail, master!" says the orphan. "But where's my cat?"

"I've sold it," answers the merchant; "There's your money,
take it in full."

The orphan received the sack of gold, took leave of the
merchant, and went to the strand, where the shipmen were.
From them he obtained a shipload of incense in exchange for
his gold, and he strewed the incense along the strand, and burnt
it in honor of God. The sweet savor spread through all that
land, and suddenly an old man appeared, and he said to the
orphan:

"Which desirest thou--riches, or a good wife?"

"I know not, old man."

"Well then, go afield. Three brothers are ploughing over
there. Ask them to tell thee."

The orphan went afield. He looked, and saw peasants tilling
the soil.

"God lend you aid!" says he.

"Thanks, good man!" say they. "What dost thou want?"

"An old man has sent me here, and told me to ask you which
of the two I shall wish for--riches or a good wife?"

"Ask our elder brother; he's sitting in that cart there."

The orphan went to the cart and saw a little boy--one that
seemed about three years old.

"Can this be their elder brother?" thought he--however he
asked him:

"Which dost thou tell me to choose--riches, or a good wife?"

"Choose the good wife."

So the orphan returned to the old man.

"I'm told to ask for the wife," says he.

"That's all right!" said the old man, and disappeared from
sight. The orphan looked round; by his side stood a beautiful
woman.

"Hail, good youth!" says she. "I am thy wife; let us go
and seek a place where we may live."[57]

One of the sins to which the Popular Tale shows itself most hostile is that of avarice. The folk-tales of all lands delight to gird at misers and skinflints, to place them in unpleasant positions, and to gloat over the sufferings which attend their death and embitter their ghostly existence. As a specimen of the manner in which the humor of the Russian peasant has manipulated the stories of this class, most of which probably reached him from the East, we may take the following tale of--

THE MISER.[58]

There once was a rich merchant named Marko--a stingier fellow
never lived! One day he went out for a stroll. As he went
along the road he saw a beggar--an old man, who sat there asking
for alms--"Please to give, O ye Orthodox, for Christ's
sake!"

Marko the Rich passed by. Just at that time there came up
behind him a poor moujik, who felt sorry for the beggar, and gave
him a copeck. The rich man seemed to feel ashamed, for he
stopped and said to the moujik:

"Harkye, neighbor, lend me a copeck. I want to give that
poor man something, but I've no small change."

The moujik gave him one, and asked when he should come
for his money. "Come to-morrow," was the reply. Well next
day the poor man went to the rich man's to get his copeck. He
entered his spacious courtyard and asked:

"Is Marko the Rich at home?"

"Yes. What do you want?" replied Marko.

"I've come for my copeck."

"Ah, brother! come again. Really I've no change just now."

The poor man made his bow and went away.

"I'll come to-morrow," said he.

On the morrow he came again, but it was just the same story
as before.

"I haven't a single copper. If you like to change me a note
for a hundred--No? well then come again in a fortnight."

At the end of the fortnight the poor man came again, but
Marko the Rich saw him from the window, and said to his wife:

"Harkye, wife! I'll strip myself naked and lie down under
the holy pictures. Cover me up with a cloth, and sit down and
cry, just as you would over a corpse. When the moujik comes
for his money, tell him I died this morning."

Well the wife did everything exactly as her husband directed
her. While she was sitting there drowned in bitter tears, the
moujik came into the room.

"What do you want?" says she.

"The money Marko the Rich owes me," answers the poor
man.

"Ah, moujik, Marko the Rich has wished us farewell;[59] he's
only just dead."

"The kingdom of heaven be his! If you'll allow me, mistress,
in return for my copeck I'll do him a last service--just
give his mortal remains a wash."

So saying he laid hold of a pot full of boiling water and began
pouring its scalding contents over Marko the Rich. Marko, his
brows knit, his legs contorted, was scarcely able to hold out.[60]

"Writhe away or not as you please," thought the poor man,
"but pay me my copeck!"

When he had washed the body, and laid it out properly, he
said:

"Now then, mistress, buy a coffin and have it taken into the
church; I'll go and read psalms over it."

So Marko the Rich was put in a coffin and taken into the
church, and the moujik began reading psalms over him. The
darkness of night came on. All of a sudden a window opened,
and a party of robbers crept through it into the church. The
moujik hid himself behind the altar. As soon as the robbers had
come in they began dividing their booty, and after everything
else was shared there remained over and above a golden sabre--each
one laid hold of it for himself, no one would give up his
claim to it. Out jumped the poor man, crying:

"What's the good of disputing that way? Let the sabre
belong to him who will cut this corpse's head off!"

Up jumped Marko the Rich like a madman. The robbers
were frightened out of their wits, flung away their spoil and
scampered off.

"Here, Moujik," says Marko, "let's divide the money."

They divided it equally between them: each of the shares
was a large one.

"But how about the copeck?" asks the poor man.

"Ah, brother!" replies Marko, "surely you can see I've got
no change!"

And so Marko the Rich never paid the copeck after all.

We may take next the large class of stories about simpletons, so dear to the public in all parts of the world. In the Skazkas a simpleton is known as a _durak_, a word which admits of a variety of explanations. Sometimes it means an idiot, sometimes a fool in the sense of a jester. In the stories of village life its signification is generally that of a "ninny;" in the "fairy stories" it is frequently applied to the youngest of the well-known "Three Brothers," the "Boots" of the family as Dr. Dasent has called him. In the latter case, of course, the hero's _durachestvo_, or foolishness, is purely subjective. It exists only in the false conceptions of his character which his family or his neighbors have formed.[61] But the _durak_ of the following tale is represented as being really "daft." The story begins with one of the conventional openings of the Skazka--"In a certain _tsarstvo_, in a certain _gosudarstvo_,"--but the two synonyms for "kingdom" or "state" are used only because they rhyme.

THE FOOL AND THE BIRCH-TREE.[62]

In a certain country there once lived an old man who had three
sons. Two of them had their wits about them, but the third was
a fool. The old man died and his sons divided his property
among themselves by lot. The sharp-witted ones got plenty of
all sorts of good things, but nothing fell to the share of the Simpleton
but one ox--and that such a skinny one!

Well, fair-time came round, and the clever brothers got ready
to go and transact business. The Simpleton saw this, and said:

"I'll go, too, brothers, and take my ox for sale."

So he fastened a cord to the horn of the ox and drove it to
the town. On his way he happened to pass through a forest, and
in the forest there stood an old withered Birch-tree. Whenever
the wind blew the Birch-tree creaked.

"What is the Birch creaking about?" thinks the Simpleton.
"Surely it must be bargaining for my ox? Well," says he, "if
you want to buy it, why buy it. I'm not against selling it. The
price of the ox is twenty roubles. I can't take less. Out with
the money!"

The Birch made no reply, only went on creaking. But the
Simpleton fancied that it was asking for the ox on credit. "Very
good," says he, "I'll wait till to-morrow!" He tied the ox to the
Birch, took leave of the tree, and went home. Presently in came
the clever brothers, and began questioning him:

"Well, Simpleton! sold your ox?"

"I've sold it."

"For how much?"

"For twenty roubles."

"Where's the money?"

"I haven't received the money yet. It was settled I should
go for it to-morrow."

"There's simplicity for you!" say they.

Early next morning the Simpleton got up, dressed himself,
and went to the Birch-tree for his money. He reached the wood;
there stood the Birch, waving in the wind, but the ox was not to
be seen. During the night the wolves had eaten it.

"Now, then, neighbor!" he exclaimed, "pay me my money.
You promised you'd pay me to-day."

The wind blew, the Birch creaked, and the Simpleton cried:

"What a liar you are! Yesterday you kept saying, 'I'll pay
you to-morrow,' and now you make just the same promise.
Well, so be it, I'll wait one day more, but not a bit longer. I want
the money myself."

When he returned home, his brothers again questioned him
closely:

"Have you got your money?"

"No, brothers; I've got to wait for my money again."

"Whom have you sold it to?"

"To the withered Birch-tree in the forest."

"Oh, what an idiot!"

On the third day the Simpleton took his hatchet and went to
the forest. Arriving there, he demanded his money; but the
Birch-tree only creaked and creaked. "No, no, neighbor!"
says he. "If you're always going to treat me to promises,[63]
there'll be no getting anything out of you. I don't like such
joking; I'll pay you out well for it!"

With that he pitched into it with his hatchet, so that its chips
flew about in all directions. Now, in that Birch-tree there was
a hollow, and in that hollow some robbers had hidden a pot full
of gold. The tree split asunder, and the Simpleton caught sight
of the gold. He took as much of it as the skirts of his caftan
would hold, and toiled home with it. There he showed his
brothers what he had brought.

"Where did you get such a lot, Simpleton?" said they.

"A neighbor gave it me for my ox. But this isn't anything
like the whole of it; a good half of it I didn't bring home with
me! Come along, brothers, let's get the rest!"

Well, they went into the forest, secured the money, and carried
it home.

"Now mind, Simpleton," say the sensible brothers, "don't
tell anyone that we've such a lot of gold."

"Never fear, I won't tell a soul!"

All of a sudden they run up against a Diachok,[64] and says
he:--

"What's that, brothers, you're bringing from the forest?"

The sharp ones replied, "Mushrooms." But the Simpleton
contradicted them, saying:

"They're telling lies! we're carrying money; here, just take
a look at it."

The Diachok uttered such an "Oh!"--then he flung himself
on the gold, and began seizing handfuls of it and stuffing them
into his pocket. The Simpleton grew angry, dealt him a blow
with his hatchet, and struck him dead.

"Heigh, Simpleton! what have you been and done!" cried
his brothers. "You're a lost man, and you'll be the cause of our
destruction, too! Wherever shall we put the dead body?"

They thought and thought, and at last they dragged it to an
empty cellar and flung it in there. But later on in the evening
the eldest brother said to the second one:--

"This piece of work is sure to turn out badly. When they
begin looking for the Diachok, you'll see that Simpleton will tell
them everything. Let's kill a goat and bury it in the cellar, and
hide the body of the dead man in some other place."

Well, they waited till the dead of night; then they killed a
goat and flung it into the cellar, but they carried the Diachok to
another place and there hid him in the ground. Several days
passed, and then people began looking everywhere for the Diachok,
asking everyone about him.

"What do you want him for?" said the Simpleton, when he
was asked. "I killed him some time ago with my hatchet, and
my brothers carried him into the cellar."

Straightway they laid hands on the Simpleton, crying, "Take
us there and show him to us."

The Simpleton went down into the cellar, got hold of the
goat's head, and asked:--

"Was your Diachok dark-haired?"

"He was."

"And had he a beard?"

"Yes, he'd a beard."

"And horns?"

"What horns are you talking about, Simpleton?"

"Well, see for yourselves," said he, tossing up the head to
them. They looked, saw it was a goat's, spat in the Simpleton's
face, and went their ways home.

One of the most popular simpleton-tales in the world is that of the fond parents who harrow their feelings by conjuring up the misfortunes which may possibly await their as yet unborn grandchildren. In Scotland it is told, in a slightly different form, of two old maids who were once found bathed in tears, and who were obliged to confess that they had been day-dreaming and supposing--if they had been married, and one had had a boy and the other a girl; and if the children, when they grew up, had married, and had had a little child; and if it had tumbled out of the window and been killed--what a dreadful thing it would have been. At which terrible idea they both gave way to not unnatural tears. In one of its Russian forms, it is told of the old parents of a boy named Lutonya, who weep over the hypothetical death of an imaginary grandchild, thinking how sad it would have been if a log which the old woman has dropped had killed that as yet merely potential infant. The parent's grief appears to Lutonya so uncalled for that he leaves home, declaring that he will not return until he has found people more foolish than they. He travels long and far, and witnesses several foolish doings, most of which are familiar to us. In one place, a cow is being hoisted on to a roof in order that it may eat the grass growing thereon; in another a horse is being inserted into its collar by sheer force; in a third, a woman is fetching milk from the cellar, a spoonful at a time. But the story comes to an end before its hero has discovered the surpassing stupidity of which he is in quest. In another Russian story of a similar nature Lutonya goes from home in search of some one more foolish than his mother, who has been tricked by a cunning sharper. First he finds carpenters attempting to stretch a beam which is not long enough, and earns their gratitude by showing them how to add a piece to it. Then he comes to a place where sickles are unknown, and harvesters are in the habit of biting off the ears of corn, so he makes a sickle for them, thrusts it into a sheaf and leaves it there. They take it for a monstrous worm, tie a cord to it, and drag it away to the bank of the river. There they fasten one of their number to a log and set him afloat, giving him the end of the cord, in order that he may drag the "worm" after him into the water. The log turns over, and the moujik with it, so that his head is under water while his legs appear above it. "Why, brother!" they call to him from the bank, "why are you so particular about your leggings? If they do get wet, you can dry them at the fire." But he makes no reply, only drowns. Finally Lutonya meets the counterpart of the well-known Irishman who, when counting the party to which he belongs, always forgets to count himself, and so gets into numerical difficulties. After which he returns home.[65]

It would be easy to multiply examples of this style of humor--to find in the folk-tales current all over Russia the equivalents of our own facetious narratives about the wise men of Gotham, the old woman whose petticoats were cut short by the pedlar whose name was Stout, and a number of other inhabitants of Fool-land, to whom the heart of childhood is still closely attached, and also of the exaggeration-stories, the German _Luegenmaehrchen_, on which was founded the narrative of Baron Munchausen's surprising adventures. But instead of doing this, before passing on to the more important groups of the Skazkas, I will quote, as this chapter's final illustrations of the Russian story-teller's art, an "animal story" and a "legend." Here is the former:--

THE MIZGIR.[66]

In the olden years, long long ago, with the spring-tide fair and
the summer's heat there came on the world distress and shame.
For gnats and flies began to swarm, biting folks and letting
their warm blood flow.

Then the Spider[67] appeared, the hero bold, who, with waving
arms, weaved webs around the highways and byways in
which the gnats and flies were most to be found.

A ghastly Gadfly, coming that way, stumbled straight into
the Spider's snare. The Spider, tightly squeezing her throat,
prepared to put her out of the world. From the Spider the
Gadfly mercy sought.

"Good father Spider! please not to kill me. I've ever so
many little ones. Without me they'll be orphans left, and from
door to door have to beg their bread and squabble with dogs."

Well, the Spider released her. Away she flew, and everywhere
humming and buzzing about, told the flies and gnats of
what had occurred.

"Ho, ye gnats and flies! Meet here beneath this ash-tree's
roots. A spider has come, and, with waving of arms and weaving
of nets, has set his snares in all the ways to which the flies
and gnats resort. He'll catch them, every single one!"

They flew to the spot; beneath the ash-tree's roots they hid,
and lay there as though they were dead. The Spider came,
and there he found a cricket, a beetle, and a bug.

"O Cricket!" he cried, "upon this mound sit and take
snuff! Beetle, do thou beat a drum. And do thou crawl, O
Bug, the bun-like, beneath the ash, and spread abroad this news
of me, the Spider, the wrestler, the hero bold--that the Spider,
the wrestler, the hero bold, no longer in the world exists; that
they have sent him to Kazan; that in Kazan, upon a block,
they've chopped his head off, and the block destroyed."

On the mound sat the Cricket and took snuff. The Beetle
smote upon the drum. The Bug crawled in among the ash-tree's
roots, and cried:--

"Why have ye fallen? Wherefore as in death do ye lie
here? Truly no longer lives the Spider, the wrestler, the hero
bold. They've sent him to Kazan and in Kazan they've chopped
his head off on a block, and afterwards destroyed the block."

The gnats and flies grew blithe and merry. Thrice they
crossed themselves, then out they flew--and straight into the
Spider's snares. Said he:--

"But seldom do ye come! I would that ye would far more
often come to visit me! to quaff my wine and beer, and pay me
tribute!"[68]

This story is specially interesting in the original, inasmuch as it is rhymed throughout, although printed as prose. A kind of lilt is perceptible in many of the Skazkas, and traces of rhyme are often to be detected in them, but "The Mizgir's" mould is different from theirs. Many stories also exist in an artificially versified form, but their movement differs entirely from that of the naturally cadenced periods of the ordinary Skazka, or of such rhymed prose as that of "The Mizgir."

The following legend is not altogether new in "motive," but a certain freshness is lent to it by its simple style, its unstrained humor, and its genial tone.

THE SMITH AND THE DEMON.[69]

Once upon a time there was a Smith, and he had one son, a
sharp, smart, six-year-old boy. One day the old man went to
church, and as he stood before a picture of the Last Judgment
he saw a Demon painted there--such a terrible one!--black, with
horns and a tail.

"O my!" says he to himself. "Suppose I get just such
another painted for the smithy." So he hired an artist, and
ordered him to paint on the door of the smithy exactly such
another demon as he had seen in the church. The artist painted
it. Thenceforward the old man, every time he entered the
smithy, always looked at the Demon and said, "Good morning,
fellow-countryman!" And then he would lay the fire in the
furnace and begin his work.

Well, the Smith lived in good accord with the Demon for
some ten years. Then he fell ill and died. His son succeeded
to his place as head of the household, and took the smithy into
his own hands. But he was not disposed to show attention to
the Demon as the old man had done. When he went into the
smithy in the morning, he never said "Good morrow" to him;
instead of offering him a kindly word, he took the biggest hammer
he had handy, and thumped the Demon with it three times
right on the forehead, and then he would go to his work. And
when one of God's holy days came round, he would go to church
and offer each saint a taper; but he would go up to the Demon
and spit in his face. Thus three years went by, he all the
while favoring the Evil One every morning either with a spitting
or with a hammering. The Demon endured it and endured it,
and at last found it past all endurance. It was too much for
him.

"I've had quite enough of this insolence from him!" thinks
he. "Suppose I make use of a little diplomacy, and play him
some sort of a trick!"

So the Demon took the form of a youth, and went to the
smithy.

"Good day, uncle!" says he.

"Good day!"

"What should you say, uncle, to taking me as an apprentice?
At all events, I could carry fuel for you, and blow the
bellows."

The Smith liked the idea. "Why shouldn't I?" he replied.
"Two are better than one."

The Demon began to learn his trade; at the end of a month
he knew more about smith's work than his master did himself,
was able to do everything that his master couldn't do. It was
a real pleasure to look at him! There's no describing how
satisfied his master was with him, how fond he got of him.
Sometimes the master didn't go into the smithy at all himself,
but trusted entirely to his journeyman, who had complete charge
of everything.

Well, it happened one day that the master was not at home,
and the journeyman was left all by himself in the smithy.
Presently he saw an old lady[70] driving along the street in her
carriage, whereupon he popped his head out of doors and began
shouting:--

"Heigh, sirs! Be so good as to step in here! We've
opened a new business here; we turn old folks into young
ones."

Out of her carriage jumped the lady in a trice, and ran into
the smithy.

"What's that you're bragging about? Do you mean to say
it's true? Can you really do it?" she asked the youth.

"We haven't got to learn our business!" answered the
Demon. "If I hadn't been able to do it, I wouldn't have invited
people to try."

"And how much does it cost?" asked the lady.

"Five hundred roubles altogether."

"Well, then, there's your money; make a young woman of
me."

The Demon took the money; then he sent the lady's coachman
into the village.

"Go," says he, "and bring me here two buckets full of
milk."

After that he took a pair of tongs, caught hold of the lady
by the feet, flung her into the furnace, and burnt her up; nothing
was left of her but her bare bones.

When the buckets of milk were brought, he emptied them
into a large tub, then he collected all the bones and flung them
into the milk. Just fancy! at the end of about three minutes
the lady emerged from the milk--alive, and young, and beautiful!

Well, she got into her carriage and drove home. There she
went straight to her husband, and he stared hard at her, but
didn't know she was his wife.

"What are you staring at?" says the lady. "I'm young and
elegant, you see, and I don't want to have an old husband! Be
off at once to the smithy, and get them to make you young; if
you don't, I won't so much as acknowledge you!"

There was no help for it; off set the seigneur. But by that
time the Smith had returned home, and had gone into the
smithy. He looked about; the journeyman wasn't to be seen.
He searched and searched, he enquired and enquired, never a
thing came of it; not even a trace of the youth could be found.
He took to his work by himself, and was hammering away,
when at that moment up drove the seigneur, and walked straight
into the smithy.

"Make a young man of me," says he.

"Are you in your right mind, Barin? How can one make a
young man of you?"

"Come, now! you know all about that."

"I know nothing of the kind."

"You lie, you scoundrel! Since you made my old woman
young, make me young too; otherwise, there will be no living
with her for me."

"Why I haven't so much as seen your good lady."

"Your journeyman saw her, and that's just the same thing.
If he knew how to do the job, surely you, an old hand, must
have learnt how to do it long ago. Come, now, set to work at
once. If you don't, it will be the worse for you. I'll have you
rubbed down with a birch-tree towel."

The Smith was compelled to try his hand at transforming
the seigneur. He held a private conversation with the coachman
as to how his journeyman had set to work with the lady,
and what he had done to her, and then he thought:--

"So be it! I'll do the same. If I fall on my feet, good; if
I don't, well, I must suffer all the same!"

So he set to work at once, stripped the seigneur naked, laid
hold of him by the legs with the tongs, popped him into the
furnace, and began blowing the bellows. After he had burnt
him to a cinder, he collected his remains, flung them into the
milk, and then waited to see how soon a youthful seigneur
would jump out of it. He waited one hour, two hours. But
nothing came of it. He made a search in the tub. There was
nothing in it but bones, and those charred ones.