Chapter X: Part 10

But still she went on and on, reached the summit, and there she found a well and the Talking-Bird. She took it and asked it: “Tell me how to get the Singing-Tree and the Water of Life.”

The Bird replied: “Go straight by this path.”

She did, and came upon the Singing-Tree, and in it all sorts of birds were singing. She broke off a sprig, pulled up a water-lily, and put some of the Water of Life into the cup of the flower, and turned back homewards.

As she clomb downhill, she saw boulders standing upright, and sprinkled them with the Water of Life; and her brothers jumped up alive and said: “Oh, what a long sleep we have had!”

“Yes, my brothers, but for me you would have slept on for ever. And look here; I have got you the Talking-Bird, the Singing-Tree, and the Water of Life!”

The brothers were overjoyed, went home and planted the Singing-Tree in the garden; it overspread the whole garden, and all kinds of birds began singing.

One day they were out hunting and the King met them by chance. He fell in love with the gay huntsmen, and invited them home. They said they would ask their sister, and come at once if she consented.

So they went back home. The sister met them and greeted them, and the brothers said: “Please, sister, may we go and dine with the King? He has asked us in.”

She said “Yes,” and they went. At the banquet, the King gave them the place of honour, and they begged he would honour them with a visit. Some days later the King went. They gave him a rich spread, and showed him the Singing-Tree and the Talking-Bird.

He was amazed and said: “I am the King, and have nothing as good!”

Then the King looked at them and said: “Who is your father?”

They said: “We do not know.” But the Talking-Bird broke in and said: “They are your children.”

Then the King looked at the maiden and wanted to marry her. Again the Talking-Bird said: “You may not; she is your daughter.”

The King then saw how matters stood; was overjoyed; took them to live with him for ever. As to the two evil sisters, he had them shot; but his wife he released from the chapel, and took her to himself again, and they lived merrily on for many years of happiness.

AT THE BEHEST OF THE PIKE

Once there lived a poor peasant; and, however much he might toil and moil, he got nothing out of it. “Oh,” he thought to himself, “mine is a sorry lot; I spend all my days on my fields; and then, when I look, I am starving, whilst my neighbour is lying all day long on his back, and then he has a big estate and all the profits swim into his pockets. Evidently I have not pleased God. I will get up in the morning and pray until evening, and perhaps the Lord may have mercy on me.”

So he began to pray to God, and went hungry for days on days; and he still went on praying.

At last Easter Day came, and the bells rang for Mass. So the poor peasant thought, “All good folks are getting ready to break the fast, and I have not a crust of bread. Well, if I bring water, I can sip it like soup.” So he took a small can, went to the well, and as soon as he dipped it into the water a big pike fell into it. Then the peasant was very glad. “Here is something for supper; I will cook it and make fish soup of it, and shall have a fine supper.”

Then the pike said to him in a human voice: “Let me go free, good man, go free. I will make you happy; whatever your soul may desire you shall possess. You need only say:

At the pike’s good pleasure,
By God’s good measure—

let this or that appear! and you will get it at once.”

So the peasant put the pike back into the water, went to his hut, sat down at the table and said:

“At the pike’s good pleasure,
By God’s good measure—

let the table be covered and my dinner ready.”

Then from somewhere or other all sorts of dishes and drinks appeared on the table, enough to please a Tsar, and a Tsar would not have been ashamed of it. So the poor man crossed himself, said “Glory be to Thee, O Lord! now I can break the fast.” So he went to the church, attended Matins and Mass, turned back and again broke his fast, ate and drank as well, went outside the door and sat at the counter.

Just about then the Princess had an idea that she would go abroad in the streets, and she went with her attendants and maids of honour, and for the sake of the holy festival went to give alms to the poor; she gave to them all but forgot the poor peasant. Then he said to himself:

“At the pike’s good pleasure,
Of God’s good treasure—

let the Tsarévna bear a child.” And at the word that very instant the Tsarévna became pregnant, and in ten months she bore a son.

Then the Tsar began to ask her, “Do acknowledge with whom you have been guilty.”

Then the Tsarévna wept and swore in every way that she had been guilty with nobody. “I do not know myself,” she said, “why the Lord has chastised me.”

The Tsar asked, but found nothing out.

Soon a boy was born who grew not by days but by hours; and at the end of a week he could already talk. So the Tsar summoned all the _boyárs_ and the senators from every part of the kingdom to show them the youth, but none of them acknowledged that he was the father.

“No,” the boy answered, “none of them is my father.”

Then the Tsar bade the maids of honour and attendants take him up to every courtyard, through all the streets, and to show him to all manner of people. So the attendants and maids of honour took the youth through all the courtyards, through all the streets they went. But the boy said nothing.

At last they came to the poor peasant’s hut. As soon as the boy saw that peasant, he at once stretched out his little hands and said “_Tyátya, Tyátya!_” Then they told the Emperor of this, and they summoned the poor man into the palace, and the Tsar began to inquire of him, “Acknowledge on oath, is this your boy?”

“No, he is God’s son.”

Then the Tsar was angry and married the poor man to the Princess, and after the wedding he set them both with the child in a big tub, smeared it with tar, and sent it out into the open sea. So the tub sailed on the open sea, and the boisterous winds carried and bore it to a distant shore. When the poor man heard that the water no longer moved under them, he said:

“At the pike’s good pleasure,
At God’s good measure—

let the barrel rest on a dry spot.”

So the barrel turned round and got on to a dry spot, and they went on, following their eyes. And they went on and on, on and on, and they had nothing to eat or drink. The Princess was utterly exhausted and had pined away to a shadow, and she could hardly stand on her legs.

“Now,” said the poor man, “do you know what hunger and thirst are?”

“Yes, I do,” said the Princess.

“Well, this is what the poor have to endure. Yet you would not give me alms on Easter Day.” Then the poor man said:

“At the pike’s good pleasure,
Of God’s good treasure—

let there be here a rich palace, the finest in all the world, with gardens and ponds and all sorts of pavilions.”

As soon as he had spoken a rich palace appeared; faithful henchmen ran out of it and carried them in their hands, led them into the white stone rooms, and they sat down at the oaken tables with chequered linen on them. It was marvellously decorated, was this palace. On the table everything was ready, wine and sweets and made dishes. The poor man and the Tsarévna ate and drank at their will, rested them, and went for a walk into the garden.

“Everything is beautiful here,” said the Princess; “the only thing still lacking is to see the birds upon our ponds.”

“Wait, you shall have birds as well,” answered the poor man, and he said at once:

“At the pike’s good pleasure,
At God’s good measure—

let twelve ducks and one drake swim on the pond, and let them have one feather of gold and another of silver, and let the drake have a diamond tuft on his forehead!” And lo and behold, on the water there were twelve ducks and one drake swimming; one feather was of gold and one feather was of silver, and the drake had a diamond tuft on his forehead.

So there the Princess and her husband lived without grief or moil, and their son grew up a big lad and began to feel in himself a giant’s strength. And he asked leave of his father and mother to go out into the white world and to seek himself a bride. They gave him leave to go, and said, “Go, my son.”

So he saddled his knightly horse and set out on his road and way. And as he journeyed on he met an old woman who said, “Hail, Russian prince, where do you wish to go?”

“I am going, _bábushka_,[49] to seek a bride, but I do not know where I am to find her.”

“Stay, I will tell you, my child. Do you go beyond the ocean into the thrice-tenth kingdom; there there is a king’s daughter so fair, that, if you go through all the world, you will never find any one more beautiful.”

So the good youth thanked the woman, went to the seashore, hired a boat, and sailed to the thrice-tenth land. He sailed, maybe far, maybe near, maybe long, maybe short—the tale is soon told but the deed is not soon done—and he at last arrived at that kingdom, and appeared before the king of it, and asked for his daughter’s hand in marriage.

Then the King said to him, “You are not the only suitor for my daughter; there is another suitor, a mighty knight. If I refuse him he will destroy all of my kingdom.”

“But, if you decline my offer, I will ravage your kingdom.”

“What will you?—you had better measure your strength with him: to whichever of you conquers I will give my daughter.”

“Very well; summon all the Tsars and Tsarévichi, all the Kings and Korolévichi, to see us wage an honourable holmgang to win your daughter.”

So then hunters were sent out to all cities, and one year had not gone by before from all the neighbouring parts all the Tsars and Tsarévichi, all the Kings and Korolévichi came together, as also the Tsar who had put his own daughter into the barrel and sent her out into the sea.

On the day appointed all the knights made ready for a bloody holmgang. They fought and fought, and the earth groaned at their blows, the forests bowed down and the rivers rose in waves. The Tsarévna’s son first overcame his opponent and cut off his turbulent head.

Then all the royal _boyárs_ ran up, took the doughty youth into their hands and led him into the palace. Next day he was married to the Korolévna. And after they had feasted at the wedding he set about inviting all the Tsars and Tsarévichi, the Kings and the Korolévichi as his guests to his father and mother. So they all came together, and they got their ships ready and sailed on the sea. The Tsarévna with her husband received her guests with honour, and they began to celebrate banquets and to be joyous. The Tsars and the Tsarévichi, the Kings and the Korolévichi, gazed at the palace and the gardens and wondered. They had never seen such wealth. Then some of them wondered when they saw the ducks and drakes, every one of them worth half a kingdom.

So the guests were fed and bethought themselves of going home, but before ever they had got to the haven, swift hunters precursed them, saying, “Our master bids you turn back again; he wishes to hold secret counsel with you.”

So the Tsars and Tsarévichi, the Kings and Korolévichi, were turning back, when the master came to meet them and said: “Oh ye good folk, one of my ducks has gone: has any one of you taken it?”

“Why are you making a vain quest?” the Tsars and Tsarévichi, the Kings and Korolévichi answered; “this would be an unguestly act. Search us all over. If you find the duck on any one of us do with him what you will; if you do not, let your own head pay for it.”

“I will,” said the master. And he placed them all in a row and searched them; and, as soon as he had come to the father of the Tsarévna, he said quietly:

“At the pike’s good pleasure,
At God’s good measure—

under the lappet of the kaftan of this Tsar, let the duck be found.” So he went and lifted his kaftan and found the duck tied to the lappet; one feather was of gold, one was of silver.

Then all the Tsars and Tsarévichi, Kings and Korolévichi cried out fiercely, “Ho! ho! ho! what a deed! are Tsars turning into thieves?”

Then the Tsarévna’s father swore by everything holy that as to thieving there had never been such an idea in his head. And he had no idea how the duck had come to him.

“That is a fine tale; it was found on you; you must be guilty.”

Then the Tsarévna came out, burst upon her father, and acknowledged that she was his daughter whom he had given away to the poor peasant in marriage and had put into a barrel. “_Bátyushka_,”[50] she said, “you would not then believe my words, and now you have acknowledged yourself that it is possible to be guilty without guilt.”

And she told him how it had all arisen. And after that they began to live, and lived all together and lived all for good and forgot bygones.

THE JOURNEY TO JERUSALEM

An archimandrite one day got up for matins; and, whilst laving his hands, saw an unclean spirit in the Holy Water, seized him and crossed him.

The devil besought him: “Let me go, Father, I will do you any service I can; I will, I will!”

So the Archimandrite said: “Will you take me to Jerusalem between High Mass and matins?”

The Archimandrite released him, and after matins was transported to Jerusalem, and was back in time for High Mass. Then inquiries were set going how this might be, and every one was astonished how he could get to Jerusalem and back so fast. They asked him about it, and he told them the story.

VAZÚZA AND VÓLGA

The Vólga and the Vazúza had a long argument whether who was the wiser and the stronger and the more honourable of the two. They contended and quarrelled, and could not decide it. So they resolved at last: “Let us both go to sleep at the same time, and the one which wakes up earlier and first reaches the Khvalýnsk Sea is wiser and stronger and the more honourable.”

So the Vólga went to sleep, and so did the Vazúza.

But at night the Vazúza got up quietly and ran away from the Vólga; she took the next nearest way and flowed off.

When the Vólga woke up she went neither hurriedly nor lagging, but in an ordinary fashion. At Zubtsov she overtook the Vazúza, and looked so threatening that the Vazúza was frightened, and owned she was the younger daughter, and begged the Vólga to take her in her arms into the Sea of Khvalýnsk.

And, to this day, the Vazúza wakes up in the spring before the Vólga, and wakes the Vólga up out of her winter sleep.

THE ENCHANTED TSARÉVICH

Once upon a time there was a merchant who had three daughters: it so happened he had one day to go to strange countries to buy wares, and so he asked his daughters, “What shall I bring you from beyond the seas?”

The eldest asked for a new coat, and the next one also asked for a new coat; but the youngest one only took a sheet of paper and sketched a flower on it: “Bring me, _bátyushka_,[51] a flower like this!”

So the merchant went and made a long journey to foreign kingdoms, but he could never see such a flower. So he came back home, and he saw on his way a splendid lofty palace with watch-towers, turrets, and a garden. He went a walk in the garden, and you cannot imagine how many trees he saw and flowers, every flower fairer than the other flowers. And then he looked and he saw a single one like the one which his daughter had sketched. “Oh,” he said, “I will tear off and bring this to my beloved daughter: evidently there is nobody here to watch me.” So he ran up and broke it off, and as soon as he had done it, in that very instant a boisterous wind arose and thunder thundered, and a fearful monster stood in front of him, a formless, winged snake with three heads.

“How dared you play the master in my garden!” cried the snake to the merchant. “Why have you broken off a blossom?”

The merchant was frightened, fell on his knees and besought pardon.

“Very well,” said the snake, “I will forgive you, but on condition that whoever meets you first, when you reach home, you must give me for all eternity; and, if you deceive me, do not forget, nobody can ever hide himself from me: I shall find you wherever you are.”

The merchant agreed to the condition and came back home.

And the youngest daughter saw him from the window and ran out to meet him. Then the merchant hung his head, looked at his beloved daughter, and began to shed bitter tears.

“What is the matter with you? why are you weeping, _bátyushka_?”

He gave her the blossom and told what had befallen him.

“Do not grieve, _bátyushka_,” said the youngest daughter, “it is God’s gift: perhaps I shall fare well. Take me to the snake.”

So the father took her away, set her in the palace, bade farewell, and set out home.

Then the fair maiden, the daughter of the merchant, went in the different rooms, and beheld everywhere gold and velvet; but no one was there to be seen, not a single human soul.

Time went by and went by, and the fair damsel became hungry and thought, “Oh, if I could only have something to eat!” But before ever she had thought, in front of her stood a table, and on the table were dishes and drinks and refreshments: the only thing that was not there was birds’ milk. Then she sat down to the table, drank and ate, got up, and it had all vanished.

Darkness now came on, and the merchant’s daughter went into the bedroom, wishing to lie down and sleep. Then a boisterous wind rustled round and the three-headed snake appeared in front of her.

“Hail, fair maiden! put my bed outside this door!”

So the fair maiden put the bed outside the door and herself lay on the bedstead.

She awoke in the morning, and again in the entire house there was not a single soul to be seen. And it all went well with her: whatever she wished for appeared on the spot.

In the evening the snake flew to her and ordered, “Now, fair maiden, put my bed next to your bedstead.”

She then laid it next to her bedstead, and the night went by, and the maiden awoke, and again there was never a soul in the palace.

And for the third time the snake came in the evening and said, “Now, fair maiden, I am going to lie with you in the bedstead.”

The merchant’s daughter was fearfully afraid of lying on a single bed with such a formless monster. But she could not help herself, so she strengthened her heart and lay down with him.

In the morning the serpent said to her, “If you are now weary, fair maiden, go to your father and your sisters: spend a day with them, and in the evening come back to me. But see to it that you are not late. If you are one single minute late I shall die of grief.”

“No, I shall not be late,” said the maiden, the merchant’s daughter, and descended the steps; there was a barouche ready for her, and she sat down. That very instant she arrived at her father’s courtyard.

Then the father saw, welcomed, kissed her, and asked her, “How has God been dealing with you, my beloved daughter? Has it been well with you?”

“Very well, father!” And she started telling of all the wealth there was in the palace, how the snake loved her, how whatever she only thought of was in that instant fulfilled.

The sisters heard, and did not know what to do out of sheer envy.

Now the day was ebbing away, and the fair maiden made ready to go back, and was bidding farewell to her father and her sisters, saying, “This is the time I must go back: I was bidden keep to my term.”

But the envious sisters rubbed onions on their eyes and made as though they were weeping: “Do not go away, sister; stay until to-morrow.”

She was very sorry for her sisters, and stayed one day more.

In the morning she bade farewell to them all and went to the palace. When she arrived it was as empty as before. She went into the garden, and she saw the serpent lying dead in the pond! He had thrown himself for sheer grief into the water.

“Oh, my God, what have I done!” cried out the fair maiden, and she wept bitter tears, ran up to the pond, hauled the snake out of the water, embraced one head and kissed it with all her might. And the snake trembled, and in a minute turned into a good youth.

“I thank you, fair maiden,” he said. “You have saved me from the greatest misfortune. I am no snake, but an enchanted Prince.”

Then they went back to the merchant’s house, were betrothed, lived long, and lived for good and happy things.

THE SNAKE PRINCESS

A Cossack was going on his road and way, and he arrived in the sleepy forest, and in that forest, in a glade, stood a hayrick. So the Cossack stood in front just to have a little rest, lay down in front of the hayrick and smoked his pipe, went on smoking, smoking, and never saw that a spark had fallen into the hay. After his rest he again mounted his horse and went on his road.

But he had gone only some dozen paces, when a flame blazed out and lit up the wood. Then the Cossack looked back steadily, and saw the hayrick burning, and in the middle of the flame a fair maiden standing, saying in a threatening voice, “Cossack, good man, save me from death!”

“How shall I save you? I see flames all around and cannot get up to you.”

“Thrust your pike into the flame: I will jump out on to it.”

So the Cossack thrust his pike into the flame and leapt to avoid the great heat. Then the fair maiden turned into a snake, crept on to the pike, crawled round the Cossack’s neck, coiled herself round his neck three times and put her tail between her mouth. The Cossack was frightened and had no notion what he should do or what should come to him.

Then the snake spoke to him in a human voice: “Do not be frightened, good youth; bear me on your neck for seven years, and go to seek the Kingdom of Tin: when you arrive in that kingdom stay there and live there seven years more, and do not ever leave it: if you serve this service you shall be happy.”

So the Cossack went to look for the Kingdom of Tin; much time went by, much water flowed in the river, and at the end of the seventh year he at last reached a steep mountain, and on that mountain stood a castle of tin, and around the castle was a lofty white stone wall. So he climbed up the mountain, and the wall opened in front of him, and he arrived at a broad courtyard. At that same instant the snake disentangled herself from his neck, struck the grey earth, and turned into the maiden of his soul, vanished from his eyes as though she had never been there.

The Cossack stabled his horse, went into the palace, and began looking at the rooms: there were looking-glasses all about, silver and velvet, but never a soul of a man to be seen. “Ah!” thought the Cossack, “Wherever have I got to? Who will give me food and drink? I must here die of thirst and hunger.” And whilst he was thinking this, lo and behold! in front of him stood a covered table, and on the table was food and drink, enough for all. So he tasted what he would, drank what he would, strengthened his body, and thought of mounting on his horse to survey. He went into the stable, and the horse was standing in the stall and was eagerly devouring oats.

Well, this affair had turned out very well after all; possibly he might go on living without any suffering. So the Cossack stayed for a very, very long time in the tin castle, until he became wearied unto death: it might be a joke, but he was always alone and could never exchange as much as a whisper with anybody. So, from sheer grief, he drank himself drunk and thought he would go out into the free world. But wherever he ventured forth there were lofty walls, with neither an entrance nor an exit. So he grew very angry, and the doughty youth took his cudgel, went into the palace and began knocking about the looking-glasses and mirrors, tearing up the velvet, breaking the chairs, shattering the silver. Possibly, he thought, the owner might come and let him free. But no, never a soul appeared!

Then the Cossack lay down to sleep. Next day he woke up, went for a walk and a saunter, and he thought he would like to have some food, and he looked around: there was nothing to be had. “Ah!” he thought, “The slave rains on herself the blows if unfaithfully she mows. I smoked to death yesterday, and to-day I must starve.” He had despaired. And that very instant food and drink stood ready for him.

Three days went by: the Cossack slept in the morning, and then looked out of the window, and his good horse stood saddled at the steps. What did that mean? So he washed and dressed, prayed to God, took his long pike and went into the open courtyard.

Suddenly, from somewhere or other, the fair maiden appeared and said, “Health to you, good youth: the seven years are over. You saved me from my perdition and my end. Now, listen to me: I am a king’s daughter; Koshchéy the Deathless fell in love with me, took me away from my father and from my mother, wished to marry me, but I always laughed at him. Then he grew angry, and he turned me into a wild snake: I thank you for your long service. We will fare forth to my father’s court; he will wish to reward you with gold from his treasury and with precious stones: but do you take nothing of them. Simply ask for the keg which is lying in his cellar.”

“But what is the use of that?”

“If you turn that keg to the right a palace appears forthwith, if you turn it to the left, it vanishes.”

“Very well,” said the Cossack.

So he mounted his steed, set himself and the fair princess on it, and the lofty walls moved away from before him, and they set out on their road and way. May be long, may be short, at last they arrived at the kingdom named: the king saw his daughter and was overjoyed, began expressing his thanks and gave the Cossack sacks full of gold and pearls: but the doughty youth answered him, “I desire neither gold nor pearls, give me as a remembrance of you simply the keg which is lying in your cellar.”

“You ask for a great gift, brother; but I must do what you say, for my daughter is dearer to me than all else that I have here. I do not regret the barrel; take it and go with God.”

So the Cossack took the royal gift and set out to roam through the white world. He went on and on, and he met an ancient old man on the way: the old man answered him, “Give me food and drink, good youth!”

So the Cossack leapt from his horse, undid the keg, turned it to the right, and a miraculous palace appeared on the spot: both of them went into the painted rooms and sat on covered chairs. “Ho, ye my faithful servants!” cried out the Cossack, “give food and drink to this guest.” Before ever the words were uttered, the servants brought an entire ox and three casks of beer.

The old man set to and gourmandised, making the best of it. He ate the entire ox, and he drank the three casks of beer, croaked and said, “That was a small gift: still I cannot help it. I thank you for the bread and salt.” Then they went out of the palace, and the Cossack turned his keg to the left, and there was no sign of the palace.

“Let us exchange,” said the old man to the Cossack. “I will give you a sword, and you give me the keg: what is the use of the keg to you? This is a sword which slays of itself: you need only wave it, and however incalculable the force may be it will slay them all in front of it. You see that forest? Shall I show you what it can do?” Then the old man drew his sword and said to it, “Set to work, self-slaying sword, and despoil all the dreamy forest.” So the sword flew out of his hands, cut down the trees, and laid them all down in regular boards. Then, after it had cut them down, it came back to its master.

So the Cossack did not long bethink him, but gave the old man his keg and took the self-slaying sword, waved the sword, and killed the old man. Then he tied the keg to his saddle, mounted his horse, and thought he would go back to the King. But just then a terrible enemy was besieging the capital city of that King, and the Cossack saw an incalculable host and array, waved his sword and said, “Self-slaying sword, serve me a service and spill the hostile host.” And then there was a fine sight—heads flying about, blood flowing freely—and within one hour all the field was covered with corpses.

Then the King came out, kissed him, and decided to give him the fair princess to wife.

It was a gorgeous wedding. I was there at the wedding. I drank mead and wine: it flowed up to my whiskers, but it never entered my mouth.

BEER AND BREAD

In a certain kingdom, in a certain State, there once lived a rich peasant, and he had much money and bread; he used to lend money on interest to the poor husbandmen of his village. And, if he gave corn, then it had to be returned in full in the summer; and in addition to that, for every three pecks the debtor had to work two days on the lord’s field.

And one day it happened that there was a festival in the Church, and the peasants began brewing beer for the feast. But in this village there was a peasant who was so poor that there was no poorer to be found. And there he sat in the evening with his wife on the eve of the festival in his little hut. He was thinking: “What shall I do? All the good folk are now gadding about making merry, and we have not a crust of bread in our house. I might have gone to the rich man and asked him for a loan; but he would not trust me. Now what shall I do, I am so woebegone!” And he thought and thought, and he left the bench and stood in front of the icon, and sighed a heavy sigh. “Lord,” he said, “have forgiveness on my sins, for I cannot buy any oil with which to fill the lamp in front of Thy icon for Thy feast.”

And after a little while, an old man came into the hut.

“Hail, master,” he said. “Hail, old man! Can I stay the night here?”

“If you will. Stay the night if you like. But, Gossip, I have not a crust of bread in my house, and I cannot feed you.”

“Never mind, master, I have three crusts of bread, and meat: give me a ladle of water. I will take a taste of the loaf and a sup of the water, and we shall be satisfied.”

So the old man sat down on the bench, and spoke.

“Why are you so sad, master? What has made you melancholy?”

“Old man,” the master answered, “why should I not be heavy?—it is God’s gift. We were so looking forward to the feast. All the good folk are making merry and rejoicing, but we are clean swept out. All around me and within there is emptiness.”

“Well, be of good cheer,” said the old man; “go to the rich peasant and ask whatever you require of him as a debt.”

“No, I cannot go, for he will not give it.”

“Go,” the old man insisted. “Fear nothing. Ask him for three pecks of malt, and we will brew the beer together.”

“But it is so late. How shall we brew beer?—the feast is to be to-morrow.”

“Do what I say. Go to the rich peasant and ask for the three pecks of malt. He will give it you at once. No, he cannot refuse it. And to-morrow you shall have beer so good at the feast—better than any you shall find throughout the village.”

What could the poor man say? He got up, took his sack under his arm, and went up to the rich peasant.

He went into the rich man’s _izbá_,[52] bowed down, besought him by his name and his father’s name, and asked him for the loan of three pecks of malt, as he wanted to brew beer for the festival.

“Why did you not think of it sooner?” the rich man replied. “How can you do it now, for this is the eve of the festival?”

“Never mind, Gossip,” the poor man replied; “if you will be so good, I and my wife will still brew something together, and can drink together and celebrate the festival.”

The rich man gave him three pecks of malt and poured them into his sack. The poor man lifted the sack on to his shoulders and went home and recounted how things had gone.

“Now, master,” his old guest said, “you shall have a feast. Is there a well at your door?”

“There is,” said the peasant.

“Well, we will go to your well and brew the beer. Bring your sack and follow me.”

So they went out to the courtyard up to the well.

“Pour it all in there,” the old man said.

“Why should we hurl all this good stuff into the well?” the master replied, “for there are only three pecks, and it will all be thrown away for nothing.”

“It is the best thing you can do.”

“We shall not do any good—we shall only sully the water.”

“Listen to me, and do what I say: there is nothing to fear.”

So what could he do? He simply had to pour all his malt into the well.

“Now,” the old man said, “formerly there was water in the well, and to-morrow it will be beer. Now, master, we will go into the _izbá_[53] and lie down to sleep, for the morning is wiser than the evening, and to-morrow you will have such good beer for dinner that one glass will make you drunk.”

So they waited until the morning, and then when dinner-time came round the old man said: “Well, master, get as many tubs as you can, and stand them round the well and fill them all full of beer, and then call every one in to drink, and you shall have a really riotous feast.”

And the peasant went and called all his neighbours and asked for tubs.

“What do you want all these tubs and pails for?” they asked him.

“Oh, I really want them at once, as I have not vessels enough to hold my beer.”

And the neighbours whispered: “What on earth does he mean? Is the good fellow gone mad? There is not a crust of bread in his house, and he is still chattering about beer.”

Well, somehow or other, he got twenty pails and tubs together, put them all round the well, and began to haul them up. And the beer turned out so fine, finer than ever anybody could think or guess, or any tale could tell. And he filled all the tubs to the very brim, and the well was as full as ever. And he began to cry out aloud and to call guests to his door.

“Come to me, good Christians, and drink strong beer here, such beer as you never saw in your life!”

And the people looked round. “What on earth was he up to? Surely you take water out of a well, and he calls it beer? Anyhow, let’s go and see, whatever knavery it may be.” So they all rushed up to the tubs, and they began to ladle it out and to look at it. Evidently, after all, it must be beer. And they said: “Such beer we have never drunk before!” His courtyard was full of the village folk. And the master was not at a loss to ladle beer out of the well for himself, and treated all of his guests right royally.

When the rich peasant heard of this, he came to the poor man’s courtyard, tasted the beer, and began to ask the poor man: “Please to tell me how ever you managed to make such magnificent beer?”

“Oh, there was not any cleverness about it,” the poor man answered. “It is the simplest thing in the world. When I took your three pecks from you I simply went and threw them into the well. Formerly it was water, and in a single night it all became beer.”

“Well,” the rich man thought, “I will go home and I will do the same.”

So he went home, and he ordered all of his servants to take all of the best malt out of his granaries, and throw it into the well. And his husbandmen threw ten sacks of malt into the well.

“Now,” the rich man said, and rubbed his hands, “I shall have finer beer than the poor man.”

So the next time he went out to his courtyard and up to the well, sampled it, and looked. It was water before, and it was still water; only it was rather dirtier. “I don’t quite understand this: I put too little malt into it, so I will add some more,” the rich man thought, and he ordered his workmen to put five more sacks into the well. They were all thrown in, and it was all no good: he had simply wasted all of his malt.

And when the feast had passed by the water in the poor peasant’s well was as pure as ever, just as if nothing had happened.

Once again the old man came to the poor peasant and said: “Listen, master, have you sown your corn this year?”

“No, grandfather, I have not sown a single grain.”

“Well, now go to the rich man and ask him for three pecks of every kind of corn. We will eat with you in the fields, and we will then sow the corn.”

“How shall we sow it now?” the poor man answered. “It is now the very midst of winter and the frost is crackling.”

“Never mind about that. Go and do as I say. I brewed you beer, and I will sow you corn.”

So the poor man went once more to the rich peasant and asked him as a debt for three pecks of every kind of corn. When he came back he told his aged guest:

“Here it all is, grandfather.”

So they went outside to the fields, scattered it according to its nature on the peasant’s lots; and lo and behold! they went and threw all the grains on the white snow—every single grain.

The old man said to the peasant: “Go home and wait until the summer; you will have bread enough.”

So the poor man went to his hut and became the laughing-stock of the village for sowing his corn in the winter. “Look at him! What a fool he is! He has forgotten when he ought to sow: he didn’t think of sowing in the autumn.” He never minded, but waited for the spring, and the warm days came, and the snow melted, and the grain sprouts appeared.

“Come now,” the poor man said, “I will go and see what my stretch of land looks like.” So he went to his stretch of land and saw such splendid blades of corn, at which any soul might rejoice. And on all the acres of the others it was not half as fine. “Glory be to God!” the peasant cried; “I am now looking up!”

Soon the time of harvest came by, and all good folk began to gather their corn, and the old man also went and busied himself, and called his wife to help him. And he could not get through, but had to summon for the harvesting all the husbandmen, and to give half of his corn away; and all the peasants were astonished at the poor man, for he had not sown his land, but had scattered the seeds in the winter and his corn had been splendid. The poor peasant had put his affairs straight and had managed to live without any trouble; and whatever he required for his household, he went into the town, sold quarters and quarters of corn, and bought whatever he required, and repaid the rich peasant his debt in full.

Then the rich peasant began to think: “Heigh-ho! I shall also begin sowing in the winter; possibly I shall have corn as fine.” So he waited to the very day on which the poor peasant in the previous year had sown his corn, went and took from his bins quarters of different sorts of corn, went out into the fields and scattered it all on the snow. He covered the fields entirely, but a storm arose at night, and mighty winds blew, and wafted all the corn from his land away on to the other fields.

Then there came a fine spring, and the rich man went to his fields and saw them bare, and saw that his own land was naked and waste; there was not a single blade that appeared, and on all the other strips where there had been no ploughing and no sowing, you never saw such a fine green crop! Then the rich man began to think: “Lord, I have spent much on corn, and it has all been in vain, and my debtors have all neither ploughed nor sown, and their corn grows of itself. Needs I must be a great sinner!”

SORROW

Once upon a time, in a wretched village, there lived two peasants, who were own brothers. One was poor, however, and the other rich. The rich man settled in the town, built himself a fine house, and became a merchant. Sometimes the poor brother had not a crumb of bread and the children (each of whom was smaller than the others) cried and begged for something to eat. From morning to evening the peasant trudged away like a fish on ice, but it was all of no good.

One day he said to his wife: “I am going into the town, in order to beg my brother to help me.”

So he came to the rich man and asked him: “Brother, help me in my sorrow, for my wife and children sit at home without any bread and are starving.”

“If you will work for me this week I will help you.”

What was the poor fellow to do? He set to work, cleaned out the courtyard, groomed the horses, carried the water, hewed the wood. When the week had gone by the rich man gave him a loaf of bread. “There, you have a reward for your pains.”

“I thank you for it,” said the poor man, and bowed down, and was going home.

“Stay,” the rich brother said to him: “Come with your wife to-morrow and be my guests. To-morrow is my name-day.”

“Oh, brother, how can I? As you know, merchants who wear boots and furs come to see you, whilst I have only bast shoes, and I only have my grey coat.”

“Never mind! Come to-morrow; I shall still have room for you.”

“Good brother! I will come.”

So the poor man went home, gave his wife the loaf of bread, and said: “Listen, wife. To-morrow you and I are to be guests.”

“Who has asked us?”

“My brother. To-morrow is his name-day.”

“All right, let’s go.”

Next day they got up and went into the town. They came to the rich man’s door, greeted him, and sat down on a bench. And at table there were many guests, and the master of the house entertained them all magnificently. Only he forgot the poor brother and his wife, and he gave them nothing. They sat there, and could only look at the others eating and drinking. When the meal was over the guests rose from table and bowed their thanks to the master and mistress, and the poor man also stood up from his bench and bowed down deep before his brother; and the guests went home drunken and merry, noisily singing songs.

But the poor man went home with an empty stomach. “We too must sing a song!” he said to his wife.

“Oh, you fool, the others sing, for they have had a good dinner and have drunk well. Why should we sing?”

“Well, after all, I was a guest at my brother’s name-day, and I am ashamed of going back so silently. If I sing they will all think, anyhow, that I have been served as well.”

“Sing if you will! I shall not!”

So the peasant sang and sang, and he heard two voices. So he stopped and asked his wife: “Are you helping me; to sing with a thin voice?”

“What are you thinking of? I was doing nothing of the sort.”

“What was it, then?”

“I don’t know,” said the wife. “Sing. I will listen.” So he went on singing by himself, and again the two voices were heard. So he stayed still, and said, “Sorrow, are you aiding me to sing?”

And Sorrow answered: “Yes, I am aiding you.”

“Now, Sorrow, we will go on together.”

“Yes, I will ever remain with you.”

So the peasant went home. But Sorrow called him into the inn.

He said: “I have no money.”

“Never mind, Hodge; what do you want money for? Why, you still have half of a fur; what is the use of it? It will soon be summer, and you will be no longer requiring it. We will go into the inn and drink it up.”

So the peasant and Sorrow went into the inn, and they drank up the half-fur. Next day Sorrow groaned and said he had a headache, a fearful headache, owing to last night’s treat. And he enticed the peasant once more to bib wine.

“But I have no money!”

“There is no need of money. Take your sleigh and your carriage; that will be sufficient for us!”

It was not any good. The peasant could not escape Sorrow. So he took his sleigh and his carriage, drove them to the inn, and drank them with Sorrow. And in the morning Sorrow groaned yet further, and reduced the master to further drinking; and the peasant drank away his ploughshare and his plough.

One month had gone by, and he had drunk all his property away, pledged his _izbá_[54] to a neighbour, and spent all the money in the inn. Then Sorrow came to him once more. “Let us go to the inn!”

“No, Sorrow, I have no more.”

“Why, your wife has two sarafáns, one will be sufficient for her.”

So the peasant took the sarafán, drank it up; and he thought: “Now I have not anything left, neither house, nor clothes, nor anything else for myself or my wife!”

Next morning Sorrow woke up and saw that there was nothing more he could take. So he said: “Master, what is your wish? Go to your neighbour and borrow a pair of oxen and a carriage.”

So the peasant went to his neighbour and said, “Can you lend me a car and a pair of oxen for a short time, and I will do a week’s work for them?”

“What do you want with them?”

“To fetch wood out of the forest.”

“Well, then, take them, but don’t overload them.”

“Oh, of course not, uncle!”

So the peasant took the oxen, went with Sorrow into the carriage, and drove into the field.

“Do you know the big stone in this field?” Sorrow asked.

“Oh, yes!”

“Well, then, drive up to it.”

So they arrived at the stone and dismounted. Sorrow bade the peasant lift up the stone, and he aided him in the work. Under the stone there was a hollow filled with gold.

“Now, what do you see?” said Sorrow. “Load it all up quickly on to the coach.”

So the peasant set to work sharply, loaded all the gold up, to the very last ducats. And when he noticed there was not anything left, he said, “Sorrow, is there no more gold there?”

“I don’t see any.”

“Down there in the corner I see something glittering.”

“No; I cannot see anything.”

“Get down into the pit, and you will see it.”

So Sorrow went into the pit, and as soon as he was in the peasant cast the stone in. “Things will now go better,” said the peasant, “for if I were to take you back with me, Sorrow, you would drink up all of this money!”

So the peasant went home, and he poured out the gold in the cellar. He took the oxen back to his neighbour, and he began to set up house again, bought a wood, built a big house, and became twice as rich as his brother. Soon he rode to the town, in order to invite his brother and his sister-in-law to his own name-day.

“Whatever do you mean?” said the rich brother, “why, you have nothing to eat, and you are giving festivals!”

“I had nothing to eat before, but I am now as well off as you are.”

“All right; I will come.”

So next day the rich man, with his wife, went to the name-day; and they saw that the poor starveling had a big new house, much finer than many merchants’ houses. And the peasant gave them a rich dinner, with all kinds of meat and drink.

So the rich man asked his brother: “Tell me, how did you become so rich?”

Then the peasant told him the bare truth—how Sorrow had followed on his heels and how he and his Sorrow had gone into the inn, and he had drunk away all his goods and chattels to the last shred, until he had only his soul left in his body; and then how Sorrow had showed him the treasure-trove in the field, and he had thus freed himself from the thraldom of Sorrow.