Chapter XI: Part 11

And the rich man became envious and thought: “I will go into the field and will lift the stone up. Sorrow will rend my brother’s body asunder, so that he cannot then brag of his riches in front of me.”

So he left his wife behind and drove into the field, to the big stone. He whirled it off to the side and bowed down to see what was under the stone. And he had hardly bowed down, when Sorrow sprang up and sat on his shoulders.

“O!” Sorrow cried. “You wanted to leave me here under the earth. Now I shall never depart from you.”

“Listen, Sorrow: I was not the person who locked you up here!”

“Who was it, then, if it was not you?”

“My brother. I came in order to set you free.”

“No, you are lying and deceiving me again. This time it shall not come off.”

So Sorrow sat fast on the wretched merchant’s shoulders. He brought Sorrow with him home, and his household went from bad to worse. Sorrow began early in the morning enticing the merchant into the beerhouse day after day, and much property was drunk away.

“This life is absolutely unbearable!” thought the merchant. “I have done Sorrow too good a service. I must now set myself free from him. How shall I?” So he thought and he thought it out. He went into his courtyard, cut two oak wedges, took a new wheel, and knocked one wedge from one end into the axle. He went up to Sorrow. “Now, Sorrow, must you lie about like that?”

“What should I be doing? What else is there to do?”

“Come into the courtyard; let us play hide-and-seek.”

This suited Sorrow down to the ground, and at first the merchant hid and Sorrow found him at once.

Then Sorrow had to hide. “You will not find me so easily: I can hide myself in any crack.”

“What!” said the merchant. “Why, you could never get into this wheel, much less into a crack!”

“What! I could not get into the wheel? Just look how I manage to hide myself in it!”

So Sorrow crept into the wheel, and the merchant took the other oak wedge and drove it into the hub from the other side, and threw the wheel, with Sorrow inside, into the river. Sorrow was drowned, and the merchant lived as before.

IVÁSHKO AND THE WISE WOMAN

Once there lived an old man and an old dame, and they only had one little son, and you can’t imagine how they loved him.

One day Iváshechko asked his mother and father, “Please may I go and catch fish?”

“What nonsense! you’re much too little yet: you might get drowned, and that would be a fine story.”

“Oh, no, I won’t get drowned. I’ll go and catch you a fish: let me go!”

So grandfather gave him a little white shirt to wear, with a big red sash, and off he went. Soon he was sitting in a boat and singing:

Little boat, little boat, sail far away,
O’er the blue water away and away.

The little skiff sailed far and far away and Iváshechko started fishing. Soon, how long I don’t know, up came the mother to the shore and said:

Iváshechko, Iváshechko, my little son,
Up to the shore let your little boat run:
Here is some drink and here is a bun!

And Iváshechko said:

Little boat, little boat, sail to the shore:
My mother’s calling me.

The little skiff sailed up to the shore; the woman took the fish and fed her little boy, changed his shirt and sash and sent him out again to catch fish. And there he sat on the boat and sang:

Little boat, little boat, sail far away,
O’er the blue water away and away.

The little boat sailed out so far away, and Iváshechko started fishing. Soon the grandfather came to the shore and called his son:

Iváshechko, Iváshechko, my little son,
Up to the shore let your little boat run:
Here is some drink and here is a bun!

And Iváshechko said:

Little boat, little boat, sail to the shore:
For father’s calling me!

The little skiff sailed up to the shore; the grandfather took the fish and fed his little boy, changed his shirt and sash and sent him out again to catch fish. And there he sat on the boat and sang:

Little boat, little boat, sail far away,
O’er the blue water away and away.

Now the wise woman saw how his grandparents called Iváshechko, and wanted to get hold of the boy. So she came to the shore and called out:

Iváshechko, Iváshechko, my little son,
Up to the shore let your little boat run:
Here is some drink and here is a bun!

But Iváshechko knew the voice, and whose voice it was. So he sang:

Little boat, little boat, sail far away,
O’er the blue water away and away.
The Evil Woman’s calling me

So the wise woman saw she must act the mother’s voice, so she ran to the smith and asked him, “Smith, just forge me a thin little voice like the one Iváshechko’s mother has, or I’ll eat you up!” So the smith forged the voice just like the mother’s. So up she went to the shore and sang:

Iváshechko, Iváshechko, my little son,
Up to the shore let your little boat run:
Here is some drink and here is a bun!

Iváshechko sailed up; she took the fish and seized and took Iváshechko himself away. When she reached home, she told her daughter Alyónka: “Just make my stove nice and hot and cook Iváshechko all through. I’ll go assemble my guests.”

And Alyónka heated the stove very hot and told Iváshechko: “Come and sit on the shovel.”[55]

“I’m too young and stupid,” Iváshechko answered; “show me how to sit on the shovel.”

“Oh, that’s easy enough!” said Alyónka; and as soon as she was on Iváshechko shoved her into the stove, slammed the door to and went out of the hut, and climbed a great big tall oak-tree.

The wise woman came with her guests and knocked at the hut; there was no reply, no one to open the door. “Oh, confound Alyónka; she must have gone out to play.” The wise woman climbed up into the window, opened the door and admitted her guests, opened the oven door, took out Alyónka, who was well cooked, and they all sat down to table and ate and ate and drank, and at last went out to take a turn on the grass:

“I am dancing, I am prancing, I have eaten Iváshechko’s flesh.”

Then Iváshechko interrupted from the top of the tree: “Dance and prance! you have eaten Alyónka’s flesh.”

“Did I hear anything?” said the wise woman; “it must have been the leaves rustling.” Again the wise woman said, “I am dancing, I am prancing, I have eaten Iváshechko’s flesh!”

Iváshechko repeated: “Dance and prance! you have eaten Alyónka’s flesh!”

So at last she looked up and saw Iváshechko, and began to gnaw at the oak-tree on which he was sitting, and gnawed and gnawed, broke two of her front teeth, and went to the smithy. She called the smith. “Smith, smith, make me some iron teeth, or I’ll eat you up.”

The smith made her two iron teeth.

So back she went and gnawed away at the tree, and as soon as she had gnawed it through Iváshechko just jumped on to the next oak-tree, whilst the one the witch had gnawed through fell down.

Then the wise woman gnawed and gnawed at this tree, and gnawed and gnawed, broke the two front teeth, and went to the smithy. She called the smith: “Smith, smith, make me two more iron teeth, or I’ll eat you up.”

The smith made her two more iron teeth.

So she went back and gnawed away at the tree.

So Iváshechko did not know what to do. He looked up and saw geese and swans flying; he asked them:

Geese and swans, geese and swans,
Waft me away on your pinions:
Take me home to my mother and father;
With my mother and my father
There is plenty to eat
And life is sweet!

“The next covey may take you,” said the birds.

So he waited. And another flock came, and he repeated:

Geese and swans, geese and swans,
Waft me away on your pinions:
Take me home to my mother and father;
With my mother and my father
There is plenty to eat
And life is sweet!

“Perhaps the last may take you.”

So he waited on, and as the third flock appeared he said:

Geese and swans, geese and swans,
Waft me away on your pinions:
Take me home to my mother and father;
With my mother and my father
There is plenty to eat
And life is sweet!

They took him home on their wings up to the hut and placed Iváshechko in the loft.

Early next day the woman cooked a pancake on the stove, and whilst cooking it thought of her poor little boy Iván, and said: “Where is my Iváshechko? I dreamed of him last night!”

And gaffer said: “I dreamed last night the geese and swans were wafting our little Iván home.”

She had finished the pancake by now, and said: “Now, gaffer, we’ll share it, this bit for you, this bit for me!”

“And none for me!” Iváshechko chimed in.

“This is for you, and this is for me!”

“And none for me!”

“What’s that noise, gaffer?” the woman asked.

The grandfather clattered up into the loft and found Iváshechko. They were overjoyed, asked him all about everything, and lived a jolly life.

NEVER-WASH

Once upon a time there was a soldier who had served through three campaigns, but had never earned as much as an addled egg, and was then put on the retired list. Then, as he went on the road marching on and on, he became tired and sat down by a lake. And, as he rested, he began thinking things out: “Where shall I now betake myself, and how shall I feed myself, and how the devil shall I enter into any service?”

As soon as he had spoken these words a little devil rose up at once in front of him and said, “Hail, soldier, what do you wish? Did you just now not say that you wished to become one of our servants? Why, soldier, come up and be hired: we will pay you well.”

“What is the work?”

“Oh, the work is easy enough: for fifteen years you must not shave, you must not have your hair cut, you must not blow your nose, and you must not change your garb. If you serve this service, then we will go to the king, who has three daughters. Two of them are mine, but the third shall be yours.”

“Very well,” said the soldier, “I will undertake the contract; but I require in return to get anything my soul hankers after.”

“It shall be so; be at peace; we shall not be in default.”

“Well, let it befall at once. Carry me at once into the capital and give me a pile of money; you know yourself how little of these goods a soldier ever gets.”

So the little devil dashed into the lake, got out a pile of gold, and instantaneously carried the soldier into the great city, and all at once he was there!

“What a fool I have been!” said the soldier: “I have not done any service, no work, and I now have the money!” So he took a room, never cut his hair, never shaved, never wiped his nose, never changed his garb, and he lived on and grew wealthy, so wealthy he did not know what to do with his money. What was he to do with his silver and gold? “Oh, very well, I will start helping the poor: possibly they may pray for my soul.” So the soldier began distributing alms to the needy, to the right and to the left, and he still had money over, however much he gave away! His fame spread over the whole kingdom, came to the ears of all.

So the soldier lived for fourteen years, and on the fifteenth year the Tsar’s exchequer gave out. So he summoned the soldier. So the soldier came to him unwashed, unshaved, uncombed, with his nose unwiped and his dress unchanged.

“Health, your Majesty!”

“Listen, soldier. You, they say, are good to all folks: will you lend me some money? I have not enough to pay my troops. If you will I will make you a general at once.”

“No, your Majesty, I do not wish to be a general; but if you will do me a favour, give me one of your daughters as my wife, and you shall have as much money as you wish for the Treasury.”

So the king began to think: he was very fond of his daughters, but still he could not do anything whatsoever without money. “Well,” he said, “I agree. Have a portrait taken of yourself; I will show it to my daughters and ask which of them will take you.”

So the soldier returned, had the portrait painted, which was feature for feature, unshaved, unwashed, uncombed, his nose unwiped, and in his old garb, and sent it to the Tsar.

Now, the Tsar had three daughters, and the father summoned them and showed them the soldier’s portrait. He said to the eldest, “Will you go and marry him? He will redeem me from very great embarrassment.”

The Tsarévna saw what a monstrous animal had been painted, with tangled hair, uncut nails and unwiped nose. “I certainly won’t!” she said, “I would sooner go to the Devil.” And from somewhere or other the Devil appeared, stood behind her with pen and paper, heard what she said, and entered her soul on his register.

Then the father asked the next daughter, “Will you go and marry the soldier?”

“What! I would rather remain a maiden; I would rather tie myself up with the Devil than go with him.” So the Devil went and inscribed her soul as well.

Then the father asked his youngest daughter, and she answered, “Evidently this must be my lot: I will go and marry him and see what God shall give.”

Then the Tsar was very blithe at this, and he went and told the soldier to make ready for the betrothal, and he sent him twelve carts to carry the money away.

Then the soldier made use of his devil: “There are twelve carts; pile them all high at once with gold.” So the devil ran into the lake and the unholy ones set to work. Some of them brought up one sack, some two, and they soon filled the carts and sent them to the Tsar, into his palace.

Then the Tsar looked, and now summoned the soldier to him every day, sat with him at one table, and ate and drank with him. When they got ready for the marriage the term of fifteen years was over. So he called the little devil and said, “Now my service is over: turn me into a youth.”

So the devil cut him up into little bits, threw them into a cauldron, and began to brew him—brewed him, washed him and collected all his bones, one by one, in the proper way, every bone with every bone, every joint with every joint, every nerve with every nerve: then he sprinkled them with the water of life, and the soldier arose, such a fine young man as no tale can tell and no pen can write. He then married the youngest Tsarévna, and they began to live a merry life of good.

* * * * *

I was at the wedding: I drank mead and beer. They also had wine, and I drank it to the very dregs.

* * * * *

But the little devil ran back into the lake, for his elder hauled him over the coals to answer for what he had done with the soldier. “He has served out his period faithfully and honourably: he has never once shaved himself, nor cut his hair, nor wiped his nose, nor changed his clothes.”

Then the elder was very angry. He said, “In fifteen years you were not able to corrupt the soldier! Was all the money given in vain? What sort of a devil will you be after this?” And he had him thrown into the burning pitch.

“Oh no, please, grandfather,” said the grandson, “I have lost the soldier’s soul, but I have gained two others.”

“What?”

“Look: the soldier thought of marrying a Tsarévna; the two elder daughters both declined and said they would rather marry a devil than the soldier. So there they are, and they belong to us.”

So the grandfather-devil approved what the grandson-imp had done, and set him free. “Yes,” he said, “you know your business very well indeed.”

CHRIST AND THE GEESE

One day St. Peter and Christ were out walking together. St. Peter was deep in thought and suddenly said: “How fine it must be to be God! If for half a day I might be God, then let me be Peter all the rest of my days!”

The Lord smiled. “Your will shall be granted. Be God until nightfall.”

They were approaching a village, and saw a peasant girl driving a flock of geese. She drove them to the meadow, left them there, and hurried back home.

“Are you going to leave the geese by themselves?” St. Peter asked.

“Well, what?—guard them to-day! It’s a feast-day.”

“But who will look after the geese?”

“God Almighty, maybe,” she said, and ran away.

“Peter, you have heard her,” said the Saviour. “I should have been delighted to go with you to the village feast, but then the geese might come to some harm. You are God until nightfall, and must stay and watch them.”

Poor Peter! He was angry; but had to stay and guard the geese. He never again wished to be God.

CHRIST AND FOLK-SONGS

One day Christ and St. Peter were walking about the earth and came to a village. In one house folks were singing so finely that Christ stayed to listen, whilst St. Peter went on. He turned back and found Christ still at His post. St. Peter went on again, and looked back: Christ was still listening. St. Peter went on again and then glanced back a third time—and Christ was still listening. Then he went back and heard a splendid folk-song in the house, stayed a while, and went on to another house where there also was singing. There St. Peter stayed, but Christ passed on. St. Peter hurried up and looked astounded.

“What’s the matter?” asked Christ.

“I could not make out why you stopped to listen to folk-songs and passed by the house where hymns were being sung.”

“Oh, my dear son,” said Christ, “there was a good scent there in the one house where folk-songs were being sung; but there was no reverence about the house where they were chanting hymns.”

THE DEVIL IN THE DOUGH-PAN

Once a woman was kneading bread, but had forgotten to say the blessing. So the demon, Potánka,[56] ran up and sat down in it. Then she recollected she had kneaded the dough without saying the blessing, went up to it and crossed herself; and Potánka wanted to escape, but could not anyhow, because of the blessing. So she put the leavened dough through a strainer and threw it out into the street, with Potánka inside. The pigs turned him over and over, and he could not escape for three whole days. At last he tore his way out through a crack in the dough and scampered off without looking behind him.

He ran up to his comrades, who asked him: “Where have you been, Potánka?”

“May that woman be accursed!” he said.

“Who?”

“The one who was kneading her dough and had made it without saying the proper blessing; so I ran up and squatted in it. Then she laid hold of me and crossed herself, and after three livelong days I got out, the pigs poking me about and I unable to escape! Never again will I get into a woman’s dough.”

THE SUN, THE MOON, AND CROW CROWSON

Once upon a time there was an old man and an old woman who had three daughters. The old man went into the loft for some groats, and took them home, but there was a hole in the sack, and the groats were running and running out of the sack.

The old man went home, and the old woman asked, “Where are the groats?” But all the groats had dripped out.

So the old man went to collect them, and said, “If only the Sun would warm the grain, and the moon show its light on it, and Crow Crowson help me to get the groats, I would give my eldest daughter to the little Sun, and my middle daughter to the Moon, and my youngest to Crow Crowson.” So the old man set to collecting the grain, and the Sun warmed it, and the Moon shone on it, and Vóron Vóronovich helped to collect the grain.

The old man came back home and said to the eldest daughter: “You must dress nicely and go out on the steps.” So she dressed and went out on the steps. And the Sun laid hold of her. And he commanded the next daughter in the same way to dress herself finely and to stand on the steps. So she dressed herself up and went out, and the Moon seized and took away the second daughter. And he said to the third daughter, “Dress yourself prettily and stand on the steps.” So she dressed herself prettily and stood on the steps, and Crow Crowson seized her and carried her away.

Then the old man said, “I think I might go and visit my sons-in-law.” So he went to the Sun, and at last he arrived there.

The Sun asked him, “With what shall I regale you?”

“Oh, I don’t wish for anything!”

So the Sun bade his wife make a custard ready. So the daughter prepared the custard; the Sun sat down in the middle of the floor, and his wife put the pan on him and the custard was soon cooked. So they gave the old father refreshment.

Then the old father went back home and bade his wife make him a custard; and he sat down on the floor and commanded her to put the pan with the custard on to him.

“What are you talking about? Bake it on you!” said the old wife.

“Go on!” he replied. “Put it there; it will be baked!”

So she put the pan on him, and the custard stood there for ages and was not ever cooked, only turned sour. It was no good. So in the end the wife put the pan into the stove, and this time the custard was baked and the old man got something to eat.

Next day the old man went to stay as a guest with his second son-in-law, the Moon, and he arrived.

And the Moon said, “With what shall I regale you?”

“I do not wish for anything,” said the old man.

So the Moon got the bath heated ready for him.

The old man said, “Won’t it be very dark in the bath?”

“No,” said the Moon to him, “quite light; only step in.”

So the old man went into the bath, and the Moon twisted his little finger into a chink, and it was quite light in the bathroom. So the old man steamed himself thoroughly, went back home and told his wife to heat the bath at night. So the old woman heated it, and he sent her there to steam herself.

“But,” she said, “it will be much too dark to steam myself!”

“Go along! it will be light enough.”

So the old woman went. And the old man saw how the Moon had lit the place up for him, and he went and bored a tiny hole in the bathroom and thrust his finger through it.

But there was still no light in the bath, and the old woman shrieked out to him, “Dark! much too dark!” It was not any good. So she went out, brought a lamp, and enjoyed her steam bath.

On the third day the old man went to Vóron Vóronovich. He got there.

“How shall I regale you?” asked Vóron Vóronovich.

“Oh,” said the old man, “I don’t want anything!”

“Well, let us come and sleep on the perch.”

So the Crow put a ladder up and climbed up there with his father-in-law. Crow Crowson settled himself comfortably with his head under his wing. But as soon as ever the old man dropped off to sleep both of them fell down and were killed.

THE LEGLESS KNIGHT AND THE BLIND KNIGHT

In a certain kingdom in a certain land a Tsar and his Tsarítsa lived. They had a son called Iván Tsarévich, and the son had an attendant who was called Katomá Dyádka[57] of the oaken-cap. When the Tsar and the Tsarítsa had reached a great age both of them became ill, and they felt that they would never become hale again. So they called Iván Tsarévich, and said to him: “If we die, always follow Katomá’s advice, and do well by him, then you will live happily; but if you do not, you will falter and fail like a fly.”

Next day the Tsar and the Tsarítsa died. Iván Tsarévich buried his parents, heeded their advice, and always took counsel with Katomá before undertaking any enterprise.

Very soon, maybe a long time, maybe short, he grew up, and he wanted to marry. He said to Katomá: “Katomá, Oaken-cap, it is so melancholy living by oneself; I want to marry.”

“Tsarévich,” Katomá replied, “you are of the age at which you ought to look for a bride: go into the great hall, where you will see pictures of all the Korolévny[58] and Tsarévny in the world. Gaze on them carefully, and select for yourself a bride, one who pleases you, and you shall marry her.”

Iván Tsarévich went into the great hall, looked at the pictures, and he was most delighted with Anna the Fair. She was so fair that she was fairer than any princess in the world. But under her portrait there was a legend: “_He who can set her a riddle she cannot solve is to marry her. Anyone whose riddle she solves dies._”

Iván Tsarévich read the legend, and was very sad. He went up to Katomá and said: “I was in the great hall, and I selected as my bride Anna the Fair: but I do not know whether I can woo her.”

“Yes, Tsarévich, it will be hard for you; if you had to go there by yourself, you would never win her. Take me. Do what I say, and all will go well.”

Then Iván Tsarévich begged Katomá Oaken-cap to fare there with him, and pledged him his word of honour he would obey him in joy and sorrow.

So they set out on the way to seek Anna the Fair Tsarévna. They journeyed for one year, the second year, and the third year, and they traversed many lands. Iván Tsarévich said, “We have been so long on the journey and are at last approaching the realms of Anna the Fair, and still we have not thought out any riddles for her!”

“Time enough yet,” Katomá replied.

So they rode on, and Katomá saw a purse lying on the road and said: “Iván Tsarévich, there is your riddle for the Tsarévna; give her this riddle to solve: ‘Good lies on the road: we took the good with good, and set it down to our good.’ That she will never solve all her life long, for every riddle she has solved at once, for she had only to look in her magical book; and she would then have your head cut off.”

At last the Tsarévich and Katomá came to a lofty castle, where the fair Tsarévna lived. She was just standing at her balcony, and sent her messengers to meet them, to know whence they came and what was their will.

Iván Tsarévich answered: “I have come from my distant realm in order to woo Anna Tsarévna the Fair.”

This she was told, and she bade the Tsarévich be introduced into her castle: he was to set her a riddle in front of all her councillors and her princes and _boyárs_.[59] “For I have sworn,” she said, “to marry him who sets me a riddle I cannot solve: but if I guess it, then he must die.” The fair Tsarévna listened to the riddle: “Good lies on the road; we took the good with good, and set it down to our good.”

Anna the Fair took her conjuring book and searched it through for the riddle—looked the whole book through in vain. So the princes and _boyárs_ decided that she must marry the Tsarévich. But she was very gloomy over it, yet still had to make ready. But in her heart of hearts she kept thinking: “How could I postpone the date and get rid of my bridegroom?” So she decided to tire him out through severe tasks. One day she called Iván Tsarévich to her and said: “Dear Iván Tsarévich, my chosen mate, we must get ready for the marriage. Do me a small service. In my realm there stands in a certain village a great iron column: bring it to the great kitchen and split it up into little logs as firewood for the cook.”

“What do you want, Tsarévna? Have I come to cut down fuel for you? Is that my duty? Oh, my servant can see to that!” So he called Katomá, and he told him to bring the iron column into the kitchen and to hew it into small logs as fuel for the cook.

Katomá at once went, took the pillar in his two hands, brought it into the kitchen and split it up. But he kept back four iron shafts and put them into his pocket, for he thought: “Later I may make use of them!”

Next day the Tsarévna said, “Dear Tsarévich, my chosen husband, to-morrow we shall marry. I shall go in a carriage to church, and you will have a fine prancing steed given you. You must get him ready yourself.”

“I must get the horse ready! Oh, my servant can do that!”

So Iván Tsarévich called Katomá, and said: “Come into the stable and command the grooms to bring the horse out; ride it, and to-morrow I will go to church on it.”

But Katomá could see the guile in the Tsarévna’s heart, and instantly went into the stable and ordered them to bring the horse out. Twelve grooms opened the twelve locks, undid twelve doors, and led the magical horse out by twelve chains. Katomá went up to him, and as soon as ever he had swung himself on to the horse’s back the steed rose high into the air, higher than the tree-tops in the forest, lower than the clouds in heaven. But Katomá had a firm seat, and with one hand he held the mane, and with the other he fetched an iron sheet out of his pocket and struck the palfrey between the ears.

One sheet broke, then he took a second and a third; and after the third broke he was taking the fourth. The horse was so tired that it could not resist him any more, but spoke in a human voice: “Father Katomá, leave me some life, and I will come down to earth and whatever you will I will do.”

“Listen then, wretched animal!” Katomá answered. “To-morrow Iván Tsarévich will ride you to his wedding. Listen! When the servants take you into the broad courtyard, and he comes up to you and lays his hand on you, stand still: do not prick your ear. When he mounts, kneel down with your hoofs on the ground, and step under him with a heavy tread as if you were bearing a burdensome load.” So the horse sank half-dead on to the earth. Katomá, seated by the tail, hailed the grooms and said, “Ho, you there! grooms and coachmen, take this carrion into the stable.”

Next day came, and the hour for going to church. The Tsarévna had a carriage ready, and the Tsarévich was given the magical horse. And from all parts of the country the people had assembled in multitudes, countless multitudes, to see the bride and bridegroom leave the white stone palace. And the Tsarévna went into the carriage and was waiting to see what would happen to Iván Tsarévich. She thought to herself that the horse would prance him up against the winds, and that she could already see his bones scattered in the open fields.

Iván Tsarévich went up to the horse, laid his hand on its back, put his foot into the stirrup, and the magical horse stood there as though he were made of stone, and never pricked an ear. The Tsarévich mounted it, and the horse bowed deep to the earth. Then his twelve chains were taken off. And he stood with a heavy even tread, whilst the sweat ran down his back in streams.

“What a hero he is! What enormous strength!” all the people said as Iván Tsarévich paced by.

So the bride and the bridegroom were betrothed, and went hand-in-hand out of the church.

The Tsarévna still wanted to test her husband’s strength, and squeezed his hand, but she squeezed so hard that he could not stand it, and his blood mounted to his head, and his eyes almost fell out of their sockets. “That’s the manner of hero _you_ are!” she thought. “Your man, Katomá Oaken-cap, has deceived me finely. But I shall soon be even with him.”

Anna Tsarévna the Fair lived with her God-sent husband as a good wife should, and always listened to his words. But she was ever thinking how she might destroy Katomá. If she knew that, she could very easily dispose of the Tsarévich. But, however many slanders she might think of to tell him, Iván Tsarévich never believed her, but held Katomá fast.

One year later he said to his wife: “Dear wife, beautiful Tsarévna, I should like to go home with you.”

“Yes, we will go together. I have long wished to see your kingdom.”

So they set out, and Katomá sat behind the coachman. As they drove out Iván Tsarévich dozed off.

Then Anna the Fair suddenly roused him from his sleep and complained. “Listen, Iván Tsarévich: you are always asleep and notice nothing. Katomá will not obey me, but is purposely taking the horses over all the cobbles and into all the ditches, as if he wanted to destroy us. I spoke to him very gently, but he only laughs at me. I will not go on living if you do not punish him!”

Iván Tsarévich was drowsy, and very angry with Katomá, and said to the king’s daughter: “Do with him as you will.”

So the king’s daughter at once made her servants cut off Katomá’s legs. He submitted to his torturers and thought: “If I must suffer, still the Tsarévich will soon learn something of what trouble is.”

His two legs were cut off: the Tsarévna looked round and noticed a lofty stump at the edge of the road. She bade her servants set Katomá on it. And as to the Tsarévich, she tied him to a rope behind the carriage, and so returned to her own kingdom. Katomá sat on his tree stem and wept bitter tears.

“Farewell, Iván Tsarévich: forget me not!”

Iván Tsarévich had to leap behind the carriage, and knew very well that he had made a mistake, but it could not be cured.

When Anna the Fair had again reached her kingdom the Tsarévich had to mind the cows. Every morning he drove them into the open field, and every evening drove them back into the royal courtyard; and the Tsarévna sat on the balcony and saw that none of the cows was missing. Iván Tsarévich had to count the cows and to stable them all, and to give the last one a kiss under its tail. The cow knew what was expected of her, and remained standing at the door and lifted her tail up.

Katomá all day long sat on his tree-stump without meat or drink, but could not descend, and he thought: “I must die of hunger.” But near by there was a thick forest, and there a knight lived who was blind but very strong. This knight used to scent the animals which ran by, run after them and catch them, not minding whether it were a rabbit, or fox, or a bear. He could roast them for lunch. And he could run so fast, faster than any animal that leaps. One day a fox came by, and the knight heard him and ran after him. The fox ran up to the tree on which Katomá sat, and turned round there. In his haste the blind man struck the tree so hard with his forehead that it fell out with its roots. Katomá tumbled down and asked: “Who are you?”

“I am the blind knight, and for three years I have lived in the wood, feeding myself on the animals I can catch and bake on my fire; otherwise I should have died of hunger.”

“Were you blind from birth?”

“No; Anna the Fair put my eyes out.”

“Brother!” said Katomá, “she also cut off my legs, both of them.”

So the two knights decided they would live together and aid each other.

The blind man said to Katomá, “Sit on my back and show me the way: I will serve you with my feet and you me with your eyes.” The blind man lifted Katomá up, and the legless man cried out, “Left; right; straight on!” So for a long while they lived in the wood and used to catch rabbits, foxes and bears for their food.

One day Katomá said: “Why should we live alone here? I am told that there is in the town a rich merchant and his daughter. She, they say, is indescribably kind towards the poor men and cripples, and gives them alms with her own hands. Brother, we must carry her off. She shall live with us as the mistress of the house.”

So the blind man took a barrow, put the legless knight into it, and ran him into the town, up to the merchant’s house. When the daughter looked out of the window she instantly rushed out in order to give them alms. She came to Katomá and said, “Take this as God’s blessing!”

He accepted her gift and laid hold of her hand, dragged her into the barrow, and cried out to the blind man, who ran away so fast, faster than any horses could overtake him. It was all in vain for the merchant to try to overtake the two knights. The knights brought the merchant’s daughter to their _izbá_[60] in the wood and said: “Stay with us as our sister, and become the mistress of the house. We poor folk have no one to cook our food or to do the washing. God will not desert you therefor.”

So the merchant’s daughter remained with them, and the two knights honoured and loved her as though she were their own sister. Sometimes they went a-hunting, and then the sister remained alone in the house looking after the domestic service, cooking the food and doing the washing. But one day Bába Yagá with the bony legs came into the hut and sucked the blood out of the fair maiden’s breast. And whenever the two knights went away on the chase, Bába Yagá came back, so that very soon the merchant’s fair daughter became thin and feeble. But the blind man did not notice: only Katomá noticed that something had gone wrong, so he told his companion, and both asked their sister what was the cause.

Bába Yagá had forbidden her to tell them anything about it; she was therefore much too frightened for a long time to tell them what was her trouble. But at last they persuaded her, and she told them: “Every time when you go out on the chase an ancient hag comes into the hut. She has an evil face and long grey hairs. She hangs her head down over me and sucks my white breast.”

“Oh,” said the blind man, “that is the Bába Yagá! Wait a little bit. We must deal with her in her own fashion. To-morrow we must not go hunting: we will try to catch her in the house and to capture her.”

Next morning both of them went out. “Creep under the bench,” said the blind man to Katomá, and sit still. “I will go into the courtyard, and wait under the window. And you, Sister, sit down. If Bába Yagá comes, whilst you are combing her hair weave a part of her hair and hang the knot on to the window. I will then seize her by her grey tresses,” It was said and done. The blind man seized Bába Yagá by her grey tresses, and cried out, “Ho, Katomá! come out and hold the evil hag till I get into the hut.”

Bába Yagá heard it, and she wanted to lift her head and leap away, but she was unable. She tore and grumbled, but it was no good. Katomá crept out from the bank and turned round on her, threw himself on her life a mountain of iron. He strangled her until the heavens appeared to her as small as a sheepskin.

The blind man sprang out of the hut and said: “We must build a big faggot-heap and burn the old hag and scatter her ashes to the four winds.”

Bába Yagá besought them: “Father, doveling, forgive me. Whatever you will I will do!”

“Very well, ancient witch,” said the knights, “show us the well with the waters of Life and Death.”

“If you will only not lay me low, I will show it you.”

Then Katomá mounted the blind man’s back and he took Bába Yagá by her hair. So they fared into the deepest part of the slumberous forest, and she there showed them a well and said: “This is the healing water that renders life.”

“Take care, Katomá, do not make a mistake. If she deceives us this time we may not be able to repair it all our life long.”

So Katomá broke off a twig. It had hardly fallen into the water before it flamed up.

“Ah! that was a further deceit of yours!”

So the two knights made ready to throw Bába Yagá into the fiery brook. But she still prayed for mercy as before, and swore a great oath she would not deceive any more.

“Really and truly I will show you the right water!”

So the two knights were ready once more to adventure it, and Bába Yagá took them to another well. Katomá broke off a dry twig from the tree and threw it into the well. The twig had hardly fallen into the water before it sprouted up and became green and blue. “This water is right,” said Katomá, so the blind man washed his eyes and could at once see. And he put the cripple into the water, and his legs grew on to him.

Then they were both very glad, and said, “Now we are healthy, we will again talk of our own rights; but we must first settle our account with Bába Yagá. If we now forgive her, we shall get no good thereby, for she will strive ever against us all her life.” So they took her back to the fiery brook and threw her into it, and she was burned to death.

Katomá then married the merchant’s daughter, and all three went back into the kingdom of Anna Tsarévna the Fair to free Iván Tsarévich. They went into the capital, and there he met them with his herd of cows.

“Stay, herd,” said Katomá, “whither are you driving the cattle?”

“Into the Queen’s courtyard; the Tsarévna counts them every day to see whether all the cows have come home.”

“Herd, put on my clothes; I will put on yours and will drive the cows home.”

“No, brother, that will never do. Should the Tsarévna notice it, I should suffer.”

“Fear nothing; nothing will happen, you will come by no harm; Katomá is your surety.”

Iván sighed: “O good man! if only he were here I should not be herding cows.”

Then Katomá showed himself who he was, and the Tsarévich embraced him tenderly and wept bitterly. “I never expected I should see you any more!”

So they changed clothes, and Katomá drove the cows into the royal courtyard. Anna Tsarévna came out on to her balcony and counted the cattle. Then she commanded to take them all into the stable. All the cows went into the stable: only the last stayed behind and raised her tail. Katomá sprang up at her and cried out, “Wretched animal! why are you stopping here?” So he gripped and snatched the tail so mightily that the entire skin remained in his hand.

When Anna Tsarévna saw this she cried out aloud, “What is that wretched herdsman doing? Lay hold of him and bring him to me.”

So the attendants laid hold on Katomá and dragged him into the castle. Katomá suffered it without resistence and relied on his strength.

He was taken up to the Tsarévna, who looked at him and said, “Who are you?”

“I am Katomá, whose legs you once cut off and then set on a tree trunk.”

Then the Tsarévna thought, “If he can get his legs back, I can do no more against him.” And she asked for forgiveness from him and the Tsarévich. She repented of her sins and swore an oath that she would ever love Iván Tsarévich and obey him in all things.

Iván Tsarévich forgave her, and forthwith they lived in peace and unison. The knight who was once blind stayed by them. But Katomá went away with his wife to the rich merchant and abode in his house.

A CURE FOR STORY-TELLING

There was once a porter in the world: he had a wife who was passionately fond of stories, and she would only let people come and visit her who could tell stories. Well, as you may understand, this was rather costly to the husband. So he began to think, “How can I cure her of this undesirable habit?”

Well, one day in the winter, late at night, an old man came in frozen to atoms, and he asked to be allowed to stop the night. So the husband ran out to him and said, “Can you tell tales?”

Then the peasant saw that there was no help for it, as he was simply freezing with cold, and said, “I have an idea: will you tell stories for a long time?”

“Yes, all night long.”

“Capital: come in!”

So he led the guest in.

Then the husband said, “Now, my wife, here is a peasant who has promised to tell stories all night long, on the condition that you are not to make any remarks or interruptions.”

“Yes,” said the guest; “no remarks, or else I shall not open my mouth.”

So they had supper and lay down to sleep, and the peasant began—

“There was an owl flying across a garden, and it sat over a well and
sipped the water.
“There was an owl flying across a garden, and it sat over a well and
sipped the water.

“There was an owl flying across a garden, and it sat over a well and
sipped the water.
“There was an owl flying across a garden, and it sat over a well and
sipped the water.”

And he went on telling the same thing over and over again—

“There was an owl flying across a garden, and it sat over a well and
sipped the water.”

So the mistress went on listening, and at last interrupted: “What sort of a tale is this? Why, it is a mere repetition.”

“Why do you interrupt me? I told you you must not make any exclamations: this is the preface of the tale, and there comes another after it.”

Then the man, after hearing this, could not help leaping up from the bench and whipping his wife.

“You were told not to make any interruptions, and you will not let him end his story.”

So he set on beating, beating, whipping, slippering, basting her, until the wife at the end hated stories, and was in despair ever afterwards at the sound of them.

NOTES

_Alyósha Popóvich._ One of the great knights at the court of Prince Vladímir. He was an effeminate kind of person and perhaps one who rather incited others to effort by his jibes than by his prowess. He is always given the uncomplimentary _soubriquet_ of the ‘Mocker of Women.’ His principal heroic episode is told in the prose ballad in this book entitled ‘Alyósha Popóvich.’

_Angey_, Tsar. Filuyán is a fabulous city found in the cantations and mystical rites of the Russian peasants. It is, however, probably derived from the Greek Θύλη.

_Bába Yagá._ In Professor Sypherd’s studies on Chaucer’s _House of Fame_, Chaucer Society, 1904, a most valuable note will be found on revolving houses. It will be seen that the legend is cognate with magic wheels that revolve at great speed, or turn on wheels emitting flame and poison. The nearest analogy quoted is the whirling rampart in the _Mael Duinn_, but the Russian legend is evidently related and not derived.

_Bogatýr._ The _bogatýr_ is the Russian Knight, but is absolutely unlike any Western romantic notion. He is a person of magical power and gigantic stature and prowess. Some of the _bogatyrí_ are decidedly demi-gods; others more decisively human; but they all have some superhuman, it may be said inhuman, touch. The derivation of the word has been very much in dispute. The characteristic thing to note is that the word is only found in Russian, and in no other Slavonic language, and is almost certainly of Tatar origin, the original form being something like _Bagadur_. The Sanskrit derivation which is attempted of _Baghadhara_ seems scarcely probable. Goryáyev’s dictionary states that the original meaning was a company-commander of the Tatars. If so, _bogatýr_ is probably a corruption (through _bog_ God and _bogat_ rich) of the form _buĭtur_, found in the Slóvo, which is certainly cognate with the Turanian root _buĭ_, to command. _v._ notes in my edition of Igor.

_Bryánsk._ Bryánsk in the Province of Orél contains wonderful woods which were in ancient times impenetrable, and became the legendary home of magic, and of weird happenings. The Aspen tree is always associated in Russian folk-lore with magic and wizardry; it is also said that Judas hanged himself on this tree.

_Chernígov._ An ancient city of Russia on the Dniepr, a little higher up than Kíev.

_Christ._ As, in German folk-lore, the legends of Christ walking the earth with His disciples are very frequent and characteristic. There is a touch of friendly familiarity in this presentation which does not involve the least irreverence, but adds a touch of sarcastic humour which the Germans lack.

_The Brother of Christ._ For the punishment of the old man who grumbled at the good things of earth there is a surprisingly close analogy in Dante’s _Inferno_, canto vii.

“Fitti nel limo dicon; Tristi fummo
Nell’ aer dolce che dal sol s’allegra,
Portando dentro accidioso fummo:
Or c’ attristiam nella belletta negra.”

“Sunk in the slime they utter: ‘Loth were we,
In sweet air sullen, which the sun makes glad,
Our souls besmirched with dull reluctancy:
Now in this black morass, our hearts are sad.’”

_Chufil-Filyushka._ Both these names are adaptations of the Greek Θεόφιλος.

THE CRYSTAL APPLE AND THE SILVER SAUCER

There is a strong Celtic flavour about this episode. Cf. The Twa Sisters o’ Binnorie.

Ho’s ta’en three locks o’ her yellow hair
(Binnorie, oh Binnorie),
And wi’ them strung his harp sae rare
By the bonny mill-dams of Binnorie.

And sune the harp sang loud and clear
(Binnorie, oh Binnorie),
Fareweel my father, and mother dear!
By the bonny mill-dams of Binnorie.

And then, as plain as plain could be,
(Binnorie, oh Binnorie),
There sits my sister wha drowned me!
By the bonny mill-dams o’ Binnorie.

In this story the Russian of the words sung by the piper is also in Russian ballad metre.

_Danílo the Unfortunate._ This is a prose version of a ballad and contains a very full account of this legend. The old hag whom Danílo meets on the way is elsewhere called the Wise Woman of Kíev, an old witch with the ugly qualities generally assigned.

_Death._ Death is feminine in Russian and occurs all through the folk-lore as the visible figure of a skeleton whom they met by the way on the roadsides, and who may be cheated of her prey or dealt with like any other demon.