Chapter II: Part 2

Danílo the Unfortunate bade farewell to her and went to matins. All the people wondered. “Look what a fine man Danílo the Unfortunate has become: he has made the _shúba_ and he has brought it with him for the feast.”

After the Mass, he went up to the Prince and Princess, and he gave them the Easter greeting, but carelessly took out the golden egg. Alyósha Popóvich saw this, the Mocker of Women. As they went out of the church, Danílo the Unfortunate struck himself on the breast with the silver staff, and the birds sang and the lions roared; and all the folk were amazed and gazed at Danílo. But Alyósha Popóvich, the Mocker of Women, dressed himself as a sorry beggar and asked for holy alms. They all gave to him; only Danílo the Unfortunate alone said and thought, “What shall I give him? I have nothing to give.” So, as it was Easter Day, he gave him the golden egg. Alyósha Popóvich took that golden egg and changed into his former garb.

Prince Vladímir summoned them all to him, all to his palace to dessert: so they ate and drank and were refreshed, and they exalted themselves. Danílo drank until he was drunk; and, when he was drunk, made boast of his wife. Alyósha Popóvich bragged at the feast that he knew Danílo’s wife. But Danílo said, “If you know my wife you may cut off my head; and, if you do not know her, you shall forfeit your own.”

So Alyósha Popóvich, the Mocker of Women, went whither his eyes might go, and he went and wept.

Then the old woman met him on his way and asked, “Why are you weeping, Alyósha Popóvich?”

“Go away, old woman with the swollen belly; I have naught to do with you.”

“Yet I shall be of service to you.”

Then he began to ask her, “O my own grandmother, what did you wish to tell me?”

“Ha! am I now your own grandmother?”

“O, I was boasting I knew Danílo’s wife!”

“O _bátyushka_,[10] how do you know her: was there any little bird that told you? Do you go up to a certain house and invite her to feast with the Prince. She will wash herself, busk herself, and put a little chain out of the window. You take that chain and show it to Danílo the Unfortunate.”

So Alyósha Popóvich, the Mocker of Women, went to the window jamb, and called the Swan-bird, the fair maiden, to dine with the Prince. She was starting to wash herself, busk herself, and make ready for the feast, and that moment Alyósha Popóvich seized her little chain, ran up into the palace, and showed it to Danílo the Unfortunate.

So Prince Vladímir said to Danílo the Unfortunate, “I see now that you must forfeit your head.”

“Let me go home and bid farewell to my wife.” So he went home and said, “O fair Swan-maiden, what have I done? I became drunk and I bragged of you and have lost my life.”

“I know it all, Danílo the Unfortunate. Go, summon the Prince and Princess here as your guests, and all the burghers and generals and field-marshals and _boyárs_.”

“But the Prince will not come out in the mud and the mire!” (For the roads were bad, and the blue sea became stormy; the marshes surged and opened.)

“You are to tell him: ‘Have no fear, Prince Vladímir: across the rivers have been built hazel-tree bridges, the transoms are of oak covered with cloth of purple and with nails of tin. The shoes of the doughty warrior will not be soiled, nor will the hoofs of his horse be smeared.’”

So Danílo the Unfortunate invited them as guests; and the Swan-bird, the fair maiden, stepped out to her window, flapped her wings, shook her little head, and there was a bridge laid from her house to the palace of Prince Vladímir. It was covered with cloth of purple, tacked in with tacks of tin; and on one side flowers grew, nightingales sang, and on the other side apple trees and fruits bloomed and ripened.

The Prince and Princess made ready to be guests, and they set out on their journey with all their noble host with them, crossed the first river, which ran with splendid beer. And very many soldiers fell down by that beer. Then they advanced to the second river, which ran with wonderful mead, and more than half of the brave host bent down to drink the mead and rolled on their sides. So they came to the third river, which ran with glorious wine. Here all the officers bent down and drank till they were drunk. At the fourth river powerful _vódka_ flowed. And the Prince looked backwards: all of his generals were lying on their backs. Only the Prince was left with three companions—with the Princess, Alyósha Popóvich, the Mocker of Women, and Danílo the Unfortunate.

Then the invited guests arrived, and they entered into the lofty palace: there were tables standing, and the table-cloths were of silk, and the chairs painted with many colours. They sat down at the tables: there were all sorts of dishes and of foreign drinks. There were no bottles, no mere pints—entire rivers flowed! Prince Vladímir and the Princess drank nothing, tasted nothing, only looked on. When would the Swan, the fair maiden, come out? And they sat long at the table, waited for her long, until it was time to go home. Danílo the Unfortunate called her once, and twice, and a third time, but she would not come and see her guests.

Alyósha Popóvich, the Mocker of Women, then said, “If this had been my wife I should have taught her to obey!”

Then the Swan-bird, the fair maiden, came out and stood at the window, and she said these words: “This is how we teach our husbands!” And so she flapped her wings, moved her little head, and flew about: and there the guests sat on mounds in the bog.

One way the waters tossed,
On the other lay woe,
On the third side naught but moss,
On the fourth side—Oh!

“Get up, Prince, and avaunt! Let Danílo sit at the head of the table.”

So they went back all the way to their palace, and they were covered with mud from head to foot.

* * * * *

I myself then should have liked to see the Prince and Princess; and they were just poking their heads out of the door, but, whilst it was opening, I slipped and fell down flat.

THE SORRY DRUNKARD

Once there lived an old man, and he was such a sorry drunkard as words cannot describe. He used to go to the drinking-booth, drink green wine, and crawl away home through the hops. And his road lay across a river.

When he came to the river, he did not dally to think; but slipped off his boots, hung them on his head, and wandered at ease till he came into the middle, stumbled and fell into the water, and was heard of no more.

But he had a son, Ugly Peter, Petrúsha. When Petrúsha saw that his father had vanished utterly, he became melancholy, and wept, had a Requiem Mass sung for his soul, and began to administer the property.

One day, on a Sunday, he went to church to pray to God. As he was going on his way, in front of him there was a woman crawling along, going slowly, slowly, stumbling on the reeds, and scolding hard: “What the devil knocks you against me!”

Petrúsha heard her ugly language, and said: “Good-day, Auntie; where are you going?”

“I am off to church, Gossip, to pray to God.”

“But is not it very sinful of you, going to church to pray to God, and then invoking the Unholy Spirit? You stumbled, and then invoked the devil!”

Well, he went on, and he heard Mass, and went on and on; and suddenly, from somewhere or other, there stood in front of him a fine youth who bowed down to him and said: “Thank you, Petrúsha, for your good word.”

“What are you? Why do you thank me?” Petrúsha asked.

“Oh, I am the Devil, and I am thanking you because when the old woman was stumbling along and barking at me uselessly, you put in a good word for me.” And he began to beseech him: “Do come, Petrúsha, and be my guest, and I will give you a reward—gold and silver—all you wish.”

“All right!” said Petrúsha; “I will come.”

And the Devil gave him his directions, and instantly vanished, and Petrúsha went back home.

Next day Petrúsha went to pay a visit to the Devil—went on and went on for three whole days; and he got into a deep wood—into the dreary and darksome forest where he could not see the sky. And in that forest there stood a rich palace; and when he came to the palace, a fair maiden saw him. She had been stolen from a village by the Unholy Spirit. She saw him and asked: “Why have you come here, doughty youth? Here the devils live, and they will tear you to tatters.”

Petrúsha told her how and why he had come to this palace.

“Well, look you to it,” the fair maiden said; “the devils are going to give you gold and silver—do not take any of it. Only ask them to give you the sorry horse on which the unholy spirits load their fuel and water. This horse is your father. When he got drunk and fell into the water, the devils instantly got hold of him, turned him into a horse, and now he serves as the beast of burden to carry their wood and water for them.”

Then that same youth came forward who had invited Petrúsha to pay him a visit, and he began to entertain him with all sorts of sweetmeats and drinks. Then the time came for Petrúsha’s departure home.

“As a parting gift,” the Devil said to him, “I will give you money, and a splendid horse, and you shall ride home royally.”

“This is of no use to me,” Petrúsha answered. “But if you will give me anything, give me that sorry jade—that battered jade which carries your wood and water.”

“Whatever use is that sorry nag to you? Why, you will hardly get home on it! Why, it tumbles down if you look at it!”

“I don’t mind about that; give it to me; it is the only thing I will take.”

So the devils gave him the sorry jade. Petrúsha took it and led it out to the entrance. As soon as he was at the outside, he met the fair maiden, who asked: “Have you got the horse?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Then, fair youth, when you arrive at your village, take the cross off from your neck and pass it round the horse three times, and then hang the cross on its head.”

Petrúsha bowed down to her, and set on his way; and he arrived at his village, and did all the maiden had commanded: took his copper cross from his neck, passed it three times round the horse, and hung the cross on its head. And all at once it was the horse no longer; but, instead, became his own father.

The son looked at the father, shed hot tears, and took him into his own _izbá_.[11] The old man lived for three days without speaking, and could not unseal his tongue. After that, they lived on in all good luck and happiness.

The old man altogether forsook being drunk; and to his last day not a drop of wine passed his lips.

THE WOLF AND THE TAILOR

This story is a story of the past—of the days when Christ and the Twelve Apostles still walked on earth.[12]

* * * * *

One day they were still on their road, going on a long, long road, and a wolf met them and said: “Lord, I am feeling hungry.”

“Go,” Christ said to him, “and eat a mare.”

So the wolf went to look for a mare.

And he saw her going up and down, and said: “Mare, the Lord has bidden me eat you!”

So she answered: “Well, please do not eat me—it is not the proper thing. But I have a passport on me; only it is driven in very hard.”

“Well, show it me.”

“Just come near my hind feet!”

So the wolf went up, and she kicked him with her hoofs, and knocked out his front teeth, so that the wolf was thrown, at a blow, three _sazhéns_[13] away, and the mare ran off.

Back the wolf came with a petition, met Christ, and said: “Lord, the mare almost killed me!”

“Well, go on and eat the ram.”

So the wolf ran up to the ram—ran up and said: “Ram, I am going to eat you—it is the command of the Lord.”

“Well, come and eat me up if you will. I will stand on the hill, and will jump up into your mouth all ready.”

So the wolf stood on the hill, and the ram told him to open his mouth. So the wolf went and stood on the hill and opened his mouth for the food, and the ram ran down and hit him hard with the horns on his forehead—_whack_! The wolf was knocked off his feet, and the ram went away. And the wolf got up, looked all round, and there was never a sign of the ram.

So he went up with another complaint. And he found Christ and said: “Lord, even the ram has deceived me. Why, it almost knocked me to bits.”

“All right!” said Christ, “go and eat the tailor.”

So the wolf ran up, and he met a tailor on the way. “Tailor,” he said, “I am going to eat you, by command of the Lord.”

“All right. Let me say good-bye—I should like to greet my kin.”

“No, I cannot let you say good-bye with your kin.”

“Well, I cannot help it—it must be so. Come and eat me up. Only at least let me take your measurements. I only want to see whether I shall slip in easily.”

“All right!—measure away,” said the wolf.

So the tailor went back, took hold of the wolf by his tail, twined his tail round in his hand, and began to whip the wolf. And the wolf struggled and tussled, roared and shrieked, and tore until he tore his tail loose, and he then took to his feet. So he ran away with all of his might, and he met seven other wolves. They said: “Why are you, grey wolf, tailless?”

“Oh, the tailor tore it out.”

“Where is the tailor?”

“You see him there, on the road.”

“All right—we will hunt after him.” And they started after the tailor.

When the tailor heard the chase coming after him, and saw that it was a disagreeable business, he scaled up a tree as fast as he could. So the wolves arrived there and said: “We will stop here, brothers, and wait until the tailor comes down. Do you, manx-wolf, stop below, and we will each of us climb on the other’s shoulders.” So the manx-wolf lay at the bottom, and all the seven wolves went after the others and climbed up.

When the tailor saw his ill-fate coming so near him, for they were nearer and nearer, he cried out to the top one: “It is nobody’s fault, only the manx-wolf’s!” So the manx-wolf was frightened, and jumped out from below and ran off. All the seven wolves tumbled down and chased after him, caught him up, and tore him to bits. But the tailor slid down the tree and went back home.

THE TALE OF THE SILVER SAUCER AND THE CRYSTAL APPLE

Once a peasant lived with his wife, and they had three daughters: two were finely dressed and clever, but the third was a simple girl; the sisters and the father and mother as well called her the Little Fool. They hustled the Little Fool, thrust her about this way and that and forced her to work. She never said a word and was always ready to weed the grass, break off lamp-splinters, feed the cows and ducks, and whatever anybody asked for the Little Fool would bring. They had only to say, “Fool, go and fetch this!” or “Fool, come and look here!”

One day the peasant went with his hay to the fair, and he asked his daughters, “What shall I bring you as your fairing?”

One daughter asked, “Buy me some red cloth for a sarafan.” The other asked, “Buy me some scarlet nankin.” But the Fool sat still and said nothing.

Well, after all, the Fool was his daughter, and her father felt sorry for her, so he asked her, “What would you like to have, Fool?”

So the Fool smiled and said, “Buy me, my own father, a silver saucer and a crystal apple.”

“What do you mean?” asked the sisters.

“I should then roll the apple on the saucer, and should speak words which an old woman taught me in return for my giving her a loaf of white bread.” So the peasant promised, and went away.

Whether he went far or near, whether he took long or short, anyhow he went to the fair, sold his hay, bought the fairings, gave his one daughter the scarlet nankin, the other the red cloth for a sarafan and the Fool a silver saucer and a crystal apple. He came back home and he showed them. Both sisters were overjoyed, sewed sarafans, and mocked the Fool, and waited to see what she would do with her silver saucer and crystal apple. But the Fool did not eat the apple, but sat in a corner and whispered, “Roll, roll, roll, little apple, on the silver saucer, and show me all the cities and the fields, all the woods and the seas, and the heights of the hills and the fairness of heaven.”

Then the apple rolled about on the saucer; a transparency came over the silver; and, on the saucer, all the cities, one after the other, became visible, all the ships on the seas, and the regiments in the fields, and the heights of the mountains, and the beauties of the sky. Sunset appeared after sunset and the stars gathered in their nocturnal dances: it was all so beautiful and so lovely as no tale can tell and no pen can write.

Then the sisters looked on and they became envious and wanted to take the saucer away from their sister, but she would not exchange her saucer for anything else in the world. So the evil sisters walked about, called out and began to talk. “Oh, my darling sisters, let us go into the wood and pick berries and look for wild strawberries!” So the Fool gave her saucer to her father and herself went into the wood. She wandered about with her sisters, plucked the strawberries, and saw a spade lying on the grass; then the other sisters took the spade and began beating the Fool with it, slew the Fool, buried her under a silver birch, and came back to their father late at night, saying, “The Little Fool ran away from us, we could not find her, we went all over the wood searching for her. We suppose the wolves must have eaten her up.” But the father was sorry. She was a Fool, but she was his daughter after all, and so the peasant wept for his daughter, took the silver saucer and the apple, put them into a coffer and locked them up. And the sisters also wept for her.

Soon a herd came by and the trumpet sounded at dawn. But the shepherd was taking his flock, and at dawn he sounded his trumpet and went into the wood to look for a little lamb. He saw a little hummock beside a silver birch, and on it all around ruby-red and azure flowers, and bulrushes standing above the flowers. So the young shepherd broke a bulrush, made a pipe of it, and a wonderful wonder happened, a marvellous marvel: the pipe began of itself to sing and to speak. “Play on, play on, my little pipe. Console my father, console my guiding light, my father, and tell my mother of me, and my sisters, the little doves. For they killed me, the poor one, and for a silver saucer have severed me from light, all for my enchanted apple.”

People heard and ran together, the entire village thronged round the shepherd, asked him who had been slain. There was no end to the question. “Good folks all,” said the shepherd, “I do not know anything about it. I was looking for a little sheep in the wood, and I saw a knoll, on the knoll flowers, and a bulrush over the knoll. I broke off a bulrush, carved myself a pipe out of it, and the pipe began singing and speaking of itself.”

Now it so happened that the father of the Little Fool was there, heard the words of the shepherd, wanted to lay hold of the pipe, when the pipe began singing, “Play on, play on, little pipe: this is my father; console him with my mother. My poor little self they slew, they withdrew from the white world, all for the sake of my silver vessel and crystal apple.”

“Lead us, shepherd,” said the father, “where you broke off the bulrush.” So they followed the shepherd into the wood and to the knoll, and they were amazed at the beautiful flowers, ruby-red, sky-blue, that grew there.

Then they began to dig up the knoll and discovered the dead body. The father clasped his hands, groaned as he recognised his unfortunate daughter, saw her lying there slain, not knowing by whom she had been buried. And all the good folks asked who had been the slayers, who had been the murderers. Then the pipe began playing and speaking of itself. “O my light, my father, my sisters called me to the wood: they killed me here to get my saucer, my silver saucer, and my crystal apple. You cannot raise me from my heavy sleep till you get water from the Tsar’s well.”

The two envious sisters trembled, paled, and their soul was in flames. They acknowledged their guilt. They were seized, bound, locked up in a dark vault at the Tsar’s pleasure. But the father set out on his way to the capital city. The road was long or short. At last he reached the town and came up to the palace. The Tsar, the little sun, was coming down the golden staircase. The old man bowed down to the earth and asked for the Tsar’s mercy. Then the Tsar, the hope, said, “Take the water of life from the Tsar’s well. When your daughter revives, bring her here with the saucer, the apple, and the evil-doing sisters.”

The old man was overjoyed, bowed down to earth and took the phial with the living water, ran into the wood to the flowery knoll, and took up the body. As soon as ever he sprinkled it with the water his daughter sprang up in front of him alive, and hung like a dove upon her father’s neck. All the people gathered together and wept. The old man went to the capital city. He was taken into the Tsar’s rooms. The Tsar, the little sun, appeared, saw the old man with his three daughters, two tied by the hands, and the third daughter like a spring flower, the light of Paradise in her eyes, with the dawn on her face, tears flowing in her eyes, falling like pearls.

The Tsar looked and was amazed, and was wroth with the wicked sisters. He asked the fair maiden, “Where are your saucer and the crystal apple?”

Then she took the little coffer out of her father’s hands, took out the apple and the saucer, and herself asked the Tsar, “What do you want to see, O Tsar my Emperor? Would you like to see your powerful cities, your valorous hosts, your ships on the sea, or the wonderful stars of the sky?” And she let the crystal apple roll about on the silver saucer, and on the saucer one after the other all the towns appeared in their shape; all the regiments with their banners and their arquebuses standing in warlike array, the leaders in front of the lines and the colonels in front of the platoons and the sergeants in front of their companies. And the guns fired and the shots flew, and the smoke wreathed and writhed: it was all visible to the eye. Then again the apple rolled about on the saucer, the crystal on the silver, and the sea could be seen billowing on the shore, and the ships swimming like swans, flags flying, issuing from the stern, and the noise of guns and cannon-smoke arriving like wreaths, all visible to the eye. Then again the apple rolled on the saucer, the crystal on the silver, and the sky was red on the saucer, and little sun after little sun made its round, and the stars gathered on their dance. The Tsar was amazed at this wonder.

But the fair maiden was lost in tears and fell down at the Tsar’s feet and begged for mercy, saying, “Tsar, your Majesty,” she said, “take my silver saucer and crystal apple if you will only forgive my sisters, and do not destroy them for my sake.”

And the Tsar was melted by her tears and pardoned them at her request. She for sheer joy shouted out and fell upon her sisters. The Tsar looked round, was amazed, took the fair maiden by the hand, said to her in a kindly voice, “I must for your goodness love your beauty: will you be my wife and the Tsarítsa of my fair realm?”

“Tsar, your Majesty,” answered the fair maiden, “it is your imperial will, but it is the father’s will which is law amongst the daughters, and the blessing of their mother. If my father will, if my mother will bless me, I will.”

Then the father bowed down to earth, and he sent for the mother, and the mother blessed her.

“Yet I have one word more for you,” said the fair maiden to the Tsar: “Do not separate my kin from me, let my mother and my father and my sisters remain with me.”

Then the sisters bowed down to her feet, and said, “We are not worthy!”

“It has all been forgotten, my beloved sisters,” she said to them; “ye are my kin, ye are not strangers. He who bears in mind an ill bygone has lost his sight.” And as she said this, she smiled and raised her sisters up.

And her sisters wept from sheer emotion, as the rivers flow, and would not rise from the ground.

Then the Tsar bade them rise and looked on them kindly, bidding them remain in the city.

There was a feast in the palace: the front steps glittered and glowed as though with flame, like the sun enwreathed in his beams. The Tsar and the Tsarítsa sat on a chariot, and the earth trembled, and the people ran up crying out, “Long live the Tsar and Tsarítsa!”

THE FOUNDLING PRINCE

Once upon a time there was a Tsar and Tsarítsa who had only one son. The Tsar one day had to leave home, and in his absence a disaster befell them; the Tsarévich disappeared. They searched and searched for the Tsarévich, dragging the ponds. Not a breath nor a sound could be heard of him. So fifteen years went by, until at last the Tsar received news that in a certain village a peasant had found a child who was a wonder for his beauty and his cleverness.

So the Tsar ordered the peasant to be brought to him as soon as possible: he was brought, and the Tsar began asking him where he had found the boy. The peasant explained that he had found him fifteen years ago in a corn-kiln, with strange and rich clothing on him; and by every sign he was the Tsar’s own son.

So the Tsar told the peasant, “Tell your foundling that he is to come to me neither naked nor dressed, nor on foot nor on horseback, neither by day nor by night, neither in the courtyard nor in the street.”

So the peasant went back home, wept and told the boy. How on earth was it to be done!

But the boy replied, “That is easy enough: I can guess this riddle.”

So he took and undressed himself from head to foot, put a net on himself, came on a goat, came up to the Tsar at twilight, and mounted the goat at the gate, leaving the fore-feet of the goat on the courtyard and the hind feet in the street.

When the Tsar saw this, he became convinced and said, “This must be my son!”

THE SUN AND HOW IT WAS MADE BY DIVINE WILL

The Sun is thirty times the size it appears: looks very small because it is very high up from the earth.

The Sun has an apparel and a crown which would befit a Tsar, and fifteen thousands of angels of the Lord accompany him and deck him every day. And when the Sun wanes to the West, then the angels strip off from him that garb and crown which would befit a Tsar, and lay it on the throne of the Lord.

Three angels remain with the Sun and make him ready, and God has consigned one hundred angels to enrobe the Sun in an apparel and a crown meet for a Tsar.

And when the Sun arises from the East crossing to the West, then fiery phœnixes and the _Ksálavy_ of paradise fly in front of the Sun, but first wet their wings in the waters of the ocean and asperse with their wings the Sun that he may not sear them with his golden rays.

But from the fire of the Sun the feathers even of these birds are consumed, because they are scorched away. And they again bathe in the ocean and are renewed.

For this reason the cock is a prophet, and it has under its wings a white feather belonging to the other birds.

And when the Sun wanes to the West, then the cock’s feathers warp.

But when the Lord’s angels take the dress and the crown from the throne of the Lord, the cock awakens, lifts up his voice, flutters with his wings, the first time to announce the resurrection to the world and to tell the angels of the law; then to say: “O Christ, Giver of Light, look down on us and bestow on the world Thy light”; and the third time to sing: “Christ is the Life and accomplishes all things.” And thus the cock sings to the light, magnifies its Creator, and announces joy to the just. Amen.

THE LANGUAGE OF THE BIRDS

In a certain city there was a merchant and his wife and their son, who was wise beyond his years; he was called Vasíli. Once all three were lunching together, and in a cage there was a Nightingale singing over the table, singing so woefully that the merchant could not bear it, and he said, “If there ever were a man who could really tell me what that Nightingale is saying and the doom he is foreboding, I should like to meet him: I would give him in my life half of my possessions, and after my death I would bequeath him many goods.”

Then the little boy, who was only six years old, looked his father and mother fixedly in the eyes and said, “I know what the Nightingale is singing, only I am frightened of saying it.”

“Speak out openly,” said the mother and father.

And then Vasíli said with tears, “The Nightingale is foretelling that a time and season is coming when you will be my servants, when father will draw me water and mother will give me the towel to wipe my face and hands.”

These words made the merchant and his wife very angry, so they decided to get rid of their child; they built a little boat, and in the dark of night, put the sleeping boy into it and let it sail into the open sea.

Just then the prophetic Nightingale flew out of its cage into the boat and sat on the boy’s shoulder. Then the boat came to the seashore, and a ship came to meet it with all its sails spread. The master of the ship saw the boy, pitied him, adopted him, asked him questions, promised to keep and love him as if he were his own son.

Next day the boy said to his new father, “The Nightingale foretells that a storm is brewing which will break the masts and shatter the sails. You must go back to the haven.”

But the master of the ship would not go. And a storm arose at once, and the masts were shattered, and the sails torn down. It was no good, what is ended cannot be mended, so new masts were built and new sails were rigged. And they sailed on further.

Again Vásya said, “The Nightingale sings that there are twelve ships coming to meet us, all pirate ships, and they will take us prisoner.”

This time the master of the ship believed him, and returned to the island, and he saw the twelve bold pirates go sailing by. So the master of the ship waited as long as need be, and then sailed further.

Some time went by, not too much, not too little, and the ship arrived at the city of Khvalynsk; and, for very many years, in front of the palace of the King of Khvalynsk, a Crow, with his wife and child, had been flying and screeching, giving no rest either by day or night. Whatever they did, whatever gins they might set, they could not drive them off from the window. Small shot was not any good. And so that King ordained that at every cross-road and at all the harbours this notice should be exhibited:

“IF ANY MAN CAN DRIVE AWAY THE CROW, WITH HIS WIFE AND CHILD,
FROM THE ROYAL WINDOWS, THE KING WILL GRANT HIM AS A REWARD HALF
OF HIS KINGDOM, AND HIS YOUNGEST DAUGHTER AS WIFE—BUT IF ANY
SHALL UNDERTAKE THE WORK AND SHALL NOT FULFIL IT HE SHALL
FORFEIT HIS HEAD.”

Very many were the hunters eager to become kinsmen of the King, and all of their heads had been hewn off and hung on stakes.

Now Vasíli heard of this, went up and asked the master of the ship, “Let me go to the King; possibly I can chase away the Crow and his wife.”

They endeavoured to deter him, but failed. “Very well, go. And if you come by any harm, put the blame on yourself!”

So Vasíli came into the palace, told the King, and ordered the windows to be opened in front of which the Crows were flying. He then listened to what the birds were saying, and told the King, “Your Majesty, you see that there are three flying here, the Crow, Madam Crow, and Master Crow: the Crow is disputing with his wife as to which of them the son belongs, whether to the father or to the mother; and they are asking for a decision. Your Majesty, decide to whom it is the son belongs.”

The King answered, “To the father.”

As soon as the King had said this, the Crow with Master Crow sailed to the right, but Madam Crow to the left.

After this the King took the youth unto himself, and he lived at the royal court and received the greatest kindness and honour, grew up and became a youth of youths, married the Princess, and received half of the kingdom as a dowry.

One day he thought he would like to journey to foreign parts and see strange lands, view the folks of the world, and show himself. So he set out to roam through the world. In one city he stayed for a night, passed the night there, got up in the morning and said he wished to wash. So the master brought him water and the mistress brought him the towel. The King’s son spoke with them, and then saw that they were his father and mother, wept for joy, and fell at the feet of his parents. Afterwards he took them with him to his own city of Khvalynsk, and they lived together long, and lived to enjoy good.

BÁBA YAGÁ AND ZAMORÝSHEK

Once upon a time there lived an old man and his old wife, and they had no children, and what on earth did they not do to get them! How did not they beseech God! But for all that the wife bore no children. One day the old man went into the forest to look for mushrooms, and an old gaffer met him.

“I know your thoughts. You are thinking of children,” he said. “Go to the village and collect one little egg from every house and put a brood hen over them, and, what will ensue, you will yourself see.”

Now there were forty-one houses in the village. The old man went and collected the eggs and put a brood hen over them. Two weeks later he and his wife went to see, and they found that there were children born of the eggs, and they looked again and they found that forty of the children were fine, strong and healthy, and there was one who was a weakling.

So the old man gave them names. But he had no name left for the last, so he called him Zamorýshek.[14] And these children grew up not by days, but by hours, and they shot up fast and began to work and to help the mother and father. The forty of them used to go into the fields whilst Zamorýshek stayed at home. When the harvesting season came on the forty began making the hayricks, and in a single week all the ricks were put up. So they came back home to the village, lay down, slept, and ate of the fare God provided.

The old man looked at them and said, “Young and green, goes far, sleeps sound, and leaves the work undone!”

“You go and see, _bátyushka_,”[15] said Zamorýshek.

So the old man went into the fields and saw forty ricks standing. “Ah, these are fine boys of mine! Look at all they have harvested in one week!” Next day he went out again to gloat on his possessions, and found one rick was a-missing. He came home and said, “One rick has vanished.”

“Never mind, _bátyushka_,” said Zamorýshek, “we will catch the thief: give me a hundred roubles, and I will do the deed.”

Then Zamorýshek went to the smith and asked for a chain big enough to cover a man from head to foot.

And the smith said, “Certainly.”

“Very well, then: if the chain hold, I will give you one hundred roubles; if it break, your labour’s lost.”

The smith forged the chain; Zamorýshek put it round him, stretched it, and it broke. So the smith made a second iron chain, Zamorýshek put it round his body, and it again broke. Then the smith made a third chain, three times as strong, and Zamorýshek could not break it.

Zamorýshek then went and sat under the hayrick and waited. At midnight a sudden storm rose and the sea raged, and a strange nag rose out of the sea, ran up to the rick and began to eat it. Zamorýshek bound the neck round with chains and mounted her. The mare began to gallop over the valleys and over the hills, and she reared, but she could not dislodge the rider; and at last she stopped and said in a human voice: “Now, good youth, now you can mount me, you may become master of my foals.” Then she ran under the sea and neighed, and the sea opened and up ran forty-one foals; and they were such fine foals, every single horse was better than every other horse. You might go round the entire earth and never see any horses as good.

Next morning the old man heard neighing outside his door, and wondered what the noise was, and there was his son Zamorýshek with the entire drove. “Good!” he said. “Now, my sons, ye had better go and hunt for brides.” So off they went. The mother and father blessed them, and the brothers set forth on their distant way and road.

They rode far in the white world in order to seek their brides. For they would not marry separately, and what mother could they find who should boast of having forty-one daughters?

And they went across thirteen countries, and they then saw a steep mountain which they ascended, and there there stood a white stone palace with high walls round and iron columns and gates where they counted forty-one columns. So they tied their knightly horses to each of the stakes, and they entered.

Then the Bába Yagá met them and said: “O ye unlooked-for, uninvited guests, how did you dare without leave to tie your horses to my stakes?”

“Come, old lady, what are you complaining of? First of all give us food and drink, take us into the bath, and thereafter ask us for our news, and question us.”

So the Bába Yagá served them with food and drink, conducted them to the bath, and then afterwards she asked them: “Have ye come to do deeds, doughty youths, or to flee from deeds?”

“We have come to do deeds, grandmother,” they said.

“What have ye come to seek?”

“We are seeking brides.”

Then she replied, “I have daughters.” And she burst into the lofty rooms and brought out her forty-one daughters.

They were then betrothed, and began to feast together and celebrate the marriage.

When the evening came Zamorýshek went to look at his horse, and the good horse saw him and spoke with a human voice. “See to this, my master: when you lie down with your young wives, dress them in your clothes, and put on your wives’ clothes, otherwise you will all be killed.”

Then they all went and lay down, and they all went to sleep, only Zamorýshek took care to keep his eyes open.

And at midnight Bába Yagá cried out in a loud voice: “Ho, ye my faithful servants! Will ye cut off the heads of my insolent and uninvited guests?” And so the servants ran and cut off the daughters’ heads.

Zamorýshek roused his brothers and told them what had happened. So they took the heads with them, put them on the forty-one stakes, armed themselves and galloped off.

In the morning the Bába Yagá got up, looked through her little window, and saw the heads on the stakes. She was very angry, and she called for her fiery shield, and leapt out on the chase, and set to waving her fiery shield in all directions to the four winds.

Whither should the youths betake themselves for concealment? In front of them there was the blue sea and behind them the Bába Yagá. And she burned everything in front of her with her fiery shield. They might have had to die, but Zamorýshek was an inventive youth, and had not forgotten to take Bába Yagá’s handkerchief, and he shook the handkerchief in front, and so built a bridge across all the width of the blue sea, and the doughty youths crossed the sea safely. Then Zamorýshek shook the handkerchief on the left-hand side and the bridge vanished. The Bába Yagá had to turn back, but the brothers went home safely.

THE MIRACULOUS HEN

Beyond thrice-nine lands, in the thrice-tenth realm—it was not in our kingdom—once an old man and an old woman lived in great need and poverty. They had two sons, who were very young and as yet of no use for field work. So the old man got up himself, and himself did all the work; he went out and looked after the labourers, and for all that he could only earn a few pence.

As he was going home one day he met a sorry drunkard, who had a hen in his hands. “Will you, old man, buy my hen?”

“What do you want for it?”

“Give me fifty kopeks for it.”

“No, brother; take these few pence—that will be enough for you; you will get a pint and can drink it out on your way home and go to sleep.”

So the drunkard took the pence and gave the old man the hen.

Then the old man returned home. But they were very hungry there; there was not a crust of bread. “Here,” he said, as he came in, to his wife, “here is a hen I have bought you.”

But his wife turned on him fiercely and scolded him. “What an old fool you are! You must have gone utterly mad: our children are sitting down at home without any bread, and you buy a hen which you must feed!”

“Hold your tongue, foolish woman; does a hen eat so much? Why, she will lay us an egg and will bring us chicks; we can sell the chicks and then buy bread.”

So the old man made a little nest and he put the hen under the stove. In the morning he looked, and the hen had laid a jewel of absolutely natural colours. So the old man said to his wife, “Now, old lady; amongst other folks the hens lay eggs, but our hen lays jewels: what shall we do?”

“Take it into the city; possibly somebody may buy it.”

So the old man went into the city, went into all the inns by turns and showed his precious stone. All the merchants gathered round him and began valuing the stone. They valued it and valued it, and it was at last bought for five hundred roubles.

From that day the old man went on trading in precious stones which his hen laid him, and he very soon became enriched, had himself inscribed into the merchants’ guild, put up a shop, hired apprentices, and set up seafaring ships to carry his wares into foreign lands. One day he was going into foreign parts, and he bade his wife have a great heed to the hen: “Treasure her more than your eyes; should she be lost, you shall forfeit your own head.”

As soon as he had gone the old woman began to think evil thoughts. For she was great friends with one of the young apprentices.

“Where do you get these precious stones from?” the apprentice asked her.

“Oh, it is our hen that lays them.”

So the apprentice took the hen, looked, and under the right wing he saw written in gold: “Whoever eats this hen’s head shall become a king, and whoever eats her liver shall spit out gold.”

So he told the wife, “Bake me the hen for supper.”

“Oh, my dear friend, how can I? My husband will be coming back and will punish me.”

But the apprentice would not listen to any argument. “Bake it,” he said—that was all.

The next day the old woman got supper ready, made ready to twist the hen’s neck and to roast it for supper with the head and the liver. The cook twisted the hen’s neck and put her into the oven, and himself went out. But in that time the two little children of the house, who were at school, ran in, looked into the oven, and wanted to nibble. The elder brother ate the head and the youngest ate the liver.

When supper-time came, the hen was put on the table, but when the apprentice saw that both the head and the liver were missing he was very angry, quarrelled with the old woman and went home. The old woman followed him and wheedled, but he still insisted: “You bring your children, take their liver out and brains, and give them me for supper; otherwise I will have nothing to do with you.”

So the old woman put her children to bed, called the cook and bade him take them whilst they were asleep into the wood, there kill them and extract their liver and their brains and get them ready for supper. The cook took the children into the slumbrous forest, stopped, and made ready to whet the knife.

The boys woke up and asked, “Why are you sharpening the knife?”

“Because your mother has bidden me take out your liver and brains and cook them.”

“Oh, grandfather, little dove, do not slay us; we will give you all the gold you desire, only pity us and let us free.” So the younger brother filled his skirt with gold, and the cook was contented with this and he set them free.

So the boys went forth into the forest and he turned back. Fortunately for him a bitch came his way, so he took her two puppies, took their livers and brains, roasted them and gave them for supper. The apprentice was very pleased with the dish, swallowed it all, and became neither a king nor a king’s son, but simply a fool.

The boys went out of the wood on the broad road, and went whither their eyes gazed—maybe far, maybe short, they went. Soon the road divided into two, and a column stood there, and on the column it was written:

“WHO GOES TO THE RIGHT SHALL RECEIVE A KINGDOM,
WHO GOES TO THE LEFT SHALL RECEIVE MUCH OF EVIL AND OF GRIEF,
BUT HE SHALL MARRY A FAIR PRINCESS.”

So the brothers considered this inscription, and decided to go in different directions; the elder went to the right and the younger to the left.

The elder went on and on, and soon came to an unknown capital city. He also saw a mass of people, only they were all mourning and sad. So he begged shelter of a poor old widow. “Will you protect,” he said, “a foreigner from the dark night?”

“I should be very glad to have you,” she said, “but I cannot put you anywhere, I am so closely packed.”

“Do let me in, _bábushka_; I am such a simple youth, just as you are; you can find me some small space, some kind of nook for the night.”

So the old woman admitted him, and they began to speak.

“Why, _bábushka_,” the stranger asked, “is there such a throng in the city, why are rooms so dear, and why are the people all mourning and melancholy?”

“Well, our king has just died, and the _boyárs_ have sent the town-crier out to announce that old and young are to assemble, and each of them is to have a candle, and with the candles they are to go into the cathedral, and whosesoever’s candle lights of itself is to be king.”

So in the morning the boy got up, washed, prayed to God, said the grace for the bread and salt and the soft bed which his hostess had given him, and went into the cathedral. When he got there, if you had been there three years you could not have counted all those people. And he took a candle in his hand, and it lit up at once. So they all burst upon him and began to blow out his candle, to damp it, but the flame lit all the brighter. There was no help for it: they acknowledged him as their king, and dressed him in golden apparel and led him to the palace.

But the younger brother, who had turned to the left, heard that there was a fair princess in a certain kingdom who was indescribably lovely. But she was very grudging, and she announced in all countries that she would only marry the man who could feed her army for three whole years; yet every one had to try his luck. So the boy went there, and he went on his way, went on the broad road. And he spat into his little bag, and spat it full of pure gold. Well, it may be long, it may be short, it may be near, it may be far, but he at last reached the fair princess, and he said he would accomplish her task. He had no need to ask for gold, he simply had to spit and there it was. For three years he maintained the princess’s army, gave it food and drink and dress.