Chapter IV: Part 4

The grey Wolf spoke these words and went into the forest; and Iván Tsarévich wept bitterly for the grey Wolf, and went on his road with the fair Eléna on the golden-maned horse. And before he reached his own kingdom and when he was only twenty _versts_ off, he stopped, got off his horse, and together with the fair Eléna went under a tree: he tied the golden-maned horse to that same tree, and he took the cage with the Bird of Light with him; and lying on the grass engaged in loving conversations they went to sleep.

Now it happened at this time that the brothers of Iván Tsarévich, Dmítri and Vasíli, were riding out in different states and could not find the Bird of Light. They were just returning to their kingdom with empty hands, and they were provoked. And they lit upon their sleeping brother with the fair Princess Eléna. When they saw the golden-maned horse and the Bird of Light in the golden cage on the grass they were delighted, and thought that they would slay their brother Iván Tsarévich. Dmítri took his sword out of his sheath and cleft Iván Tsarévich, and then he roused the fair Princess Eléna and began to ask her: “Fair maiden, from what kingdom art thou, who was thy father, how do they call thee on earth?”

And the fair Princess Eléna, seeing Iván Tsarévich dead, was sore afraid, and with bitter tears spake. “I am Princess Eléna the Fair; and Iván Tsarévich found me, whom ye have slain, whom ye have given over to an evil death: if ye were good champions, ye would have gone with him into the open field and have slain him in fair fight. But ye have slain him in his sleep, and how shall ye receive praise? Is not a man asleep as one dead?”

Then Dmítri Tsarévich put his sword to the breast of fair Princess Eléna: “Listen, Eléna the Fair, you are now in our hands: we will take you to our father, Tsar Výslav Andrónovich, and you are to tell him that we found you and the Bird of Light and the golden-maned steed. If you do not say this, we will slay you at once.”

Princess Eléna the Fair was frightened to death, and swore by all the holy relics that she would do as she was bidden. Then Dmítri Tsarévich and Vasíli Tsarévich began to cast lots who should have the fair Princess Eléna and who should have the golden-maned horse, and the lot fell that the fair Princess Eléna should belong to Vasíli and the horse to Dmítri.

Iván Tsarévich lay down dead on that spot for thirty days, and in that time the grey Wolf ran up to him and he recognised Iván Tsarévich by his breath, and he wished to help him and revive him, but he did not know how. Then at that time he saw a crow and two nestlings flying round the body, who wished to land there and to eat the flesh of Iván Tsarévich. The grey Wolf sprang from behind the bush, laid hold of one of the nestlings and was going to tear it in two. Then the crow flung himself on earth and sat not far from the grey Wolf on the fields. “Don’t touch my child; it has not done you any harm!”

“Listen, Vóron Vóronovich: I will not touch your son if you will do me a service; to fly across thrice-nine lands into the thrice-tenth realm and bring me the waters of Life and Death.”

Then the crow said, “Grey Wolf, I will do this service; only do not touch my son.” And the crow spoke these words and flew away.

On the third day the crow flew back and brought with him two phials: in one was the water of Life and in the other the water of Death. And he gave these to the grey Wolf; and the grey Wolf took the phials, cut the nestling into two, sprinkled him with the dead water, and the nestling grew together; then he sprinkled him with the water of Life, and the nestling shook himself and flew away.

Then the grey Wolf sprinkled Iván Tsarévich with the water of Death, and his body clove together; and he sprinkled him then with the water of Life, and Iván Tsarévich stood up alive and said: “Oh, what a long sleep I have had!”

And the grey Wolf said to him, “Yes, Iván Tsarévich, you might have slept for ever if I had not been here: for your brothers have plundered you, and they have taken Princess Eléna the Fair and the golden-maned horse and the Bird of Light with them. Now listen, and return to your kingdom as fast as you can: your brother Vasíli is to-day going to marry your bride, Princess Eléna the Fair. You must hasten there as fast as possible. Sit on me, on the grey Wolf, and I will take you there.”

Iván Tsarévich sat on the grey Wolf, and the Wolf ran with him into the kingdom of Tsar Výslav Andrónovich, and, whether it be long or whether it be far or whether it be near, they reached the town. Iván Tsarévich slipped off the grey Wolf and went into the town and arrived at the palace, and waited until his brother had returned with the Princess from the crowning; and they were sitting down at table.

When Eléna the Fair saw Iván Tsarévich, she jumped up at once from her chair and began to kiss his sweet lips and to cry out, “O my beloved bridegroom, Iván Tsarévich: this is he, and not that other who sits at table.”

Then Tsar Výslav Andrónovich stood up from his place and began to ask, and began to question the Princess Eléna the Fair what this might mean. Then the fair Princess told him all the real truth, how it had been.

Tsar Výslav Andrónovich was then very wroth with Dmítri and Vasíli and sent them into the darkness of the dungeon. Iván Tsarévich married Princess Eléna the Fair and lived with her friendlywise and lovingly, so that one might never be seen anywhere without the other.

THE PRIEST WITH THE ENVIOUS EYES

There was once a priest who lived in the parish of St. Nicholas. He served St. Nicholas for some years, and all his earnings were that he had neither house nor home, nor a roof over his head. So our good priest got together all his keys, and seeing the icon of St. Nicholas, struck it down, and left his parish to go whithersoever his eyes should guide him. And he went roaming on his way.

Suddenly an unknown man met him. “How do you do, good man?” he said to the pope.[18] “Whither are you going? and whence do you come?” “Take me with you as a companion.” So they went off together. They went on some _versts_, and became tired. It was time to rest.

Now the pope had two biscuits, and his new friend had two wafers. The pope said to him: “We will first of all eat up your wafers, and we will then go on with the biscuits.”

“All right!” the unknown man said to him. “Let us first eat up my wafers, and leave your biscuits for a dessert.”

So they ate the wafers, ate them all up, and they were fully sated, and there were still wafers over.

So the pope became envious. “Why,” he thought, “I will steal them.” The old man lay down to sleep after dinner, and the pope was all agog to see how he could steal those wafers. The old man went to sleep; so the pope abstracted the wafers from his pocket and silently began eating them.

The old man woke up and felt for his wafers, and could not find them anywhere. “Where are my wafers? Who has eaten them up? Have you, pope?”

“No, I did not,” answered the pope.

“Well, all right; I don’t mind.”

So they shook themselves up, and they went on their way and journey, went on and on, and the roads suddenly divided and they came to a carfax. So they both went on a single road and arrived at a kingdom. Now, in this kingdom the Tsar’s daughter was near her death, and the Tsar had promised any one who should cure her half of his reign and rule and realm; but any one who failed was to have his head cut off and placed on a pole.

When they arrived in front of the Tsar’s courtyard, they got themselves up finely, and they called themselves doctors. The henchmen sallied out of the Tsar’s courtyard, and asked them: “What sort of people are you? What is your race? What is your city? What do you require?”

“We,” they answered, “are doctors, and we can cure the Tsarévna.”

“Well, if you are doctors, come into the palace.”

So they went into the palace, looked at the Tsarévna, asked for special huts from the Tsar, for a can of water, for a curved sabre, and a large table. The Tsar gave them all they required.

They then locked themselves up in the huts, tied the princess down on the big table, cut her up with the curved sabre into little bits, put them all into the cauldron, washed them, and rinsed them out. Then they began to put them together—bit by bit, fragment by fragment. And the old man breathed on them. Piece clove to piece, and made one. Then he took all the pieces, breathed on them for the last time, and the princess trembled all over, and woke alive and well.

The Tsar himself came into their hut. “In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost!”

“Amen!” they answered.

“Have you cured the Tsarévna?” asked the Tsar.

“Yes,” the doctors answered—“there she is!” The Tsarévna came out with the Tsar alive and well.

The Tsar said to the doctors: “What good thing do you desire—gold or silver? Ask and you shall have.” So they began to bring gold and silver. And the old man took as much as he could take with his thumb and two fingers, but the pope took it by handfuls, and he rammed it all into his wallet and hid it away, concealed it, lifted it up as much as ever his power could.

The old man then said to the pope: “Let us bury all the money in the earth and again go a-healing.”

So they went on and went on, and they arrived at another kingdom in which there also was a princess on the verge of death, and the Tsar promised any one who should cure her half of his realm and rule and reign; but any one who failed was to have his head cut off.

But the Evil One was tempting the envious pope—how he should manage to tell nothing to the old man, but to cure her by himself, and so get all the gold and silver for himself. So he dubbed himself a doctor, arrayed himself finely, and arrived at the Tsar’s courtyard, just as they had done before. In the same way he asked for the same implements from the Tsar, shut himself up in the special hut, tied the princess down on the table, took out the curved sabre; and however much the Tsarévna might cry out and wriggle, the pope disregarded all her shrieks, and all her yelpings, poor girl, and cut her to bits like mincemeat. He then cut it all up fine, threw it into the cauldron, washed it and rinsed it, took it out, put piece to piece exactly the same as the old man had done. And he then wanted to put them altogether, breathed on them—and nothing happened! He pumped his lungs out, but nothing happened. It was all to no purpose. So he put all the fragments back into the water, rinsed and scoured them through, fitting the pieces together, and breathed on them. It was all of no good.

“Oh, whatever shall I do?” the pope thought. “This is simply horrible!”

In the morning the Tsar went to him and saw that the doctor had had no luck. He had mixed up the whole body on the floor. So the Tsar ordered the doctor to the gallows.

The pope then began to beg. “Tsar! Tsar! I am a free man. Give me a short space of time. I will go and look out for another old man who can really cure the Tsarévna.” So the pope went to look for the old man, found him, and said: “Old man, I am a depraved sinner. The fiends tempted me. I wanted to cure the Tsar’s daughter all by myself, and I was not able, and they are now going to hang me. Do come and help me!”

So the old man went with the pope, and the noose was put round the pope’s neck. Then the old man said to the pope: “Pope, who ate up my wafers?”

“I really didn’t; I swear I didn’t!”

So they made him mount one rung higher, and again the old man said to him: “Pope, who ate my wafers up?”

“I really didn’t; I swear I didn’t!”

So he went up the third rung, and again said he didn’t. This time he had his head in the noose tight, and still he said: “I did nothing of the sort!”

So the old man said to the Tsar: “I am a free man. Will you let me cure the Tsarévna, and if I do not succeed, have a second noose got ready for my neck: one for me and one for the pope.”

Then the old man took the morsels of the Tsarévna’s body, bit by bit, breathed on them, and she arose alive and well.

Then the Tsar rewarded them both with gold and silver.

“Now let us go and divide the money,” said the old man.

So they started. They put all the money into three little piles, and the pope looked on, and said: “What do you mean? There are only two of us. Who is to have the third?”

Said the old man: “That is for the thief who ate up my wafers.”

“Oh, it was I who ate them up!” the pope cried out. “I really did! I swear it!”

“Then you may have all the money, and my own share as well. Henceforth serve your parish faithfully. Do not be a miser, and do not beat St. Nicholas on the shoulders with the keys!” the old man said, and vanished.

THE SOLDIER AND DEATH

Once upon a time there was a soldier who had served God and the Great Sovereign for twenty-five whole years, and had only in the end earned three biscuits, and was journeying back home. And, as he went along, he thought: “Lord! here am I; I have served my Tsar for twenty-five years, have received my food and dress, and what have I lived for after all? I am cold and hungry, and have only three biscuits to eat.” So he pondered and thought, and decided to desert and run away whither his eyes might lead him.

As he went along he met a poor beggar who asked alms of him. The soldier gave him one biscuit, and kept two. And, as he trudged on, he soon came across another poor beggar, who bowed down low and asked for alms. So the soldier gave him another biscuit, and had only one left. Again on he went, and met a third beggar. The old fellow bowed low and asked for alms. The soldier got his last biscuit out, and thought: “If I give him the whole, I shall have none left; if I give half, why, this old man will come across brother-beggars, will see they have a whole biscuit, and be offended. Better let him have it all, and I shall get on somehow.” So he gave his last biscuit, and had nothing left.

Then the old man asked him: “Tell me, good man, what do you wish? Of what have you need? I will help you.”

“God bless you!” the soldier answered. “How should I take anything of you?—you are old and poor.”

“Don’t think of my poverty,” he replied. “Just say what you would like, and I will requite you according to your own goodness.”

“I want nothing; but, if you have any cards, give me some as a keepsake.”

For the old man was Christ Himself walking on earth in a beggar’s guise. The old man put his hand into his breast and drew out a pack of cards, saying: “Take them. With whomsoever you play, you will win the game; and here you have a nosebag. Whatever you meet on the way, whether wild beast or bird that you would like to catch, just say to it: ‘Jump in here, beast or bird!’ and your wish will be carried out.”

“Thank you!” said the soldier, took the cards and the nosebag, and fared forth.

He went on and on, may-be far, may-be near, may-be short, may-be long, and arrived at a lake, on which three wild geese were swimming. Then the soldier suddenly remembered the nosebag and thought: “I’ll just test this nosebag”; took it out, opened it, and said: “Hi! you wild geese, fly into my nosebag!” No sooner uttered than the geese flew straight up from the lake into the bag. The soldier grabbed the bag, tied it up, and went on his way.

He travelled on and on and came to a town. He entered an eating-house and told the inn-keeper: “Take this goose and cook it for my supper, and I will give you another goose for your pains. Change me this third one for vódka.” So there the soldier sat like a lord in the inn, at his ease, drinking wine and feasting on roast goose.

It occurred to him suddenly he might peer out of the window, and he saw opposite a big palace, but not one pane of glass was whole. “What is this?” he asked the inn-keeper. “What is this palace? Why does it stand empty?”

“Why, don’t you know?” the master replied. “Our Tsar built himself this palace, but cannot inhabit it; and, for seven years, it has been standing empty. Some unholy power drives every one out of the place. Every night an assemblage of devils meets there, make a row, dance, play cards, and perpetrate every sort of vileness!”

So off the soldier went to the Tsar. “Your Imperial Majesty,” quoth he, “please let me spend one night in your empty palace!”

“What do you mean, fellow?” said the Tsar. “God bless you; but there have been some dare-devils like you who passed a night in this palace, and not one emerged alive!”

“Well, still, a Russian soldier cannot drown in water, or burn in fire. I served God and the Great Sovereign five-and-twenty years, and never died of it; and, for one night’s service for you, I am to die! No!”

“But I tell you: a man enters the palace at night alive, and only his bones are found there in the morning!”

But the soldier stood firm: he must be admitted into the palace.

“Well,” said the Tsar, “go, and God help you. Stay the night there if you will; you are free, and I won’t hinder you!”

So the soldier marched into the palace, and settled himself down in the biggest saloon, took his knapsack off and his sabre, put the knapsack in a corner and the sabre on a hand-peg, sat down on a chair, put his hand into his pocket for his tobacco-pouch, lit his pipe, and smoked at his ease. Then about midnight, I don’t know where from, hordes of devils, seen and unseen, scurried up, and made such a turmoil and row, and set up a dance with wild music. “What, you here, discharged soldier!” all the devils began yelling. “Welcome! Will you play cards with us?”

“Certainly; here I have a set ready. Let’s start!”

He took them out and dealt round. They began, played a game out, and the soldier won; another, and the same luck; and all the finessing of the devils availed them nothing; the soldier won all the money, and raked it all together.

“Stop, soldier,” the devils said. “We still have sixty ounces of silver and forty of gold. We’ll stake them on the last game.” And they sent a little devil-boy to fetch the silver.

So a new game commenced; and then the little devil had to pry in every nook and come back and tell the old devil: “It’s no use, grandfather—we have no more.”

“Off you go; find some gold!” And the urchin went and hunted up gold from everywhere, turned an entire mine inside out and still found nothing: the soldier had played everything away.

The devils got angry at losing all their money, and began to assault the soldier, roaring out: “Smash him up, brothers! Eat him up!”

“We’ll see who’ll have the last word if it comes to eating,” said the soldier, shook the nosebag open, and asked, “What is this?”

“A nosebag,” said the devils.

“Well, in you all go, by God’s own spell!” And he collected them all together—so many you couldn’t count them all! Then the soldier buckled the bag tightly, hung it on a peg, and lay down to sleep.

In the morning the Tsar sent for all his folks. “Come up to me and inform me how does it stand with the soldier. If the unholy powers have destroyed him, bring me his little bones.”

So off they went and entered the palace, and there saw the soldier trudging up and down gaily in the rooms and smoking his pipe. “Well, how are you, discharged soldier? We never expected to see you again alive. How did you pass the night? What kind of bargain did you make with the devils?”

“What devils! Just come and look what a lot of gold and silver I won off them. Look, what piles of it!” And the Tsar’s servants looked and were amazed. And the soldier told them: “Bring me two smiths as fast as you can. Tell them to bring an iron anvil and a hammer.”

Off they went helter-skelter to the smiths, and the matter was soon arranged.

The smiths arrived with iron anvil and with heavy hammers.

“Now,” said the soldier, “take this nosebag and beat it hard after the ancient manner of smiths.”

So the smiths took the nosebag, and they began to whisper to each other: “How fearfully heavy it is! The devil must be in it.”

The devils shrieked in answer: “Yes, we are there, father—yes, we are there! Kinsmen, help us!”

So the smiths instantly laid the nosebag on the iron anvil, and they began to knock it about with their hammers as though they were hammering iron.

Very soon the devils saw that they could not possibly stand such treatment, and they began to shriek: “Mercy on us!—mercy on us! Let us out, discharged soldier, into the free world. Unto all eternity we will not forget you, and into this palace never a devil shall enter again. We will forbid everybody—all of them—and drive them all a hundred _versts_ away.”

So the soldier bade the smiths stop, and as soon as he unbuckled the nosebag the devils rushed out, and flew off, without looking, into the depths of hell—into the abysses of hell. But the soldier was no fool; and as they were flying out he laid hold of one old devil—laid hold of him tight by his paw. “Come along,” he said; “give me some written undertaking that you will always serve me faithfully.”

The unholy spirit wrote him out this undertaking in his own blood, gave it him, and took to his heels.

All the devils ran away into the burning pitch, and got away as fast as they could with all their infernal strength, both the old ones and the young ones; and henceforth they established guards all round the burning pit and issued stern ordinances that the gates be constantly guarded, in order that the soldier and the nosebag might never draw near.

The soldier came to the Tsar, and he told him some kind of tale how he had delivered the palace from the infernal visitation.

“Thank you,” the Tsar answered. “Stay here and live with me. I will treat you as if you were my brother.”

So the soldier went and stayed with the Tsar, and had a sufficiency of all things, simply rolled in riches, and he thought it was time he should marry. So he married, and one year later God gave him a son. Then this boy fell into such a fearful illness—so terrible that there was nobody who could cure it—and it was beyond the skill of the physicians; there was no understanding of it. The soldier then thought of the old devil and of the undertaking he had given him, and how it had run in the undertaking: “I shall serve you eternally as a faithful servant.” And he thought and said: “What is my old devil doing?”

Suddenly the same old devil appeared in front of him and asked: “What does your worship desire?”

And the soldier answered: “My little boy is very ill. Do you know how to cure him?”

So the devil fumbled in his pocket, got out a glass, poured cold water into it, and put it over the head of the sick child, and told the soldier: “Come here, look into the water.” And the soldier looked at the water; and the devil asked him: “Well, what do you see?”

“I see Death standing at my son’s feet.”

“Well, he is standing at his feet; then he will survive. If Death stands at his head, then he cannot live another day.” So the devil took the glass with the water in it and poured it over the soldier’s son, and in that same minute the son became well.

“Give me this glass,” the soldier said, “and I shall never trouble you for anything more.” And the devil presented him with the glass, and the soldier returned him the undertaking.

Then the soldier became an enchanter, and set about curing the _boyárs_ and the generals. He would go and look at the glass, and instantly he knew who had to die and who should recover. Now, the Tsar himself became ill, and the soldier was called in. So he poured cold water into the glass, put it at the Tsar’s head, and saw that Death was standing at the Tsar’s head.

The soldier said: “Your Imperial Majesty, there is nobody in the world who can cure you. Death is standing at your head, and you have only three hours left of life.”

When the Tsar heard this speech, he was furious with the soldier. “What, what!” he shrieked at him. “You who have cured so many _boyárs_ and generals, cannot do anything for me! I shall instantly have you put to death.”

So the soldier thought and thought what he should do. And he began to beseech Death. “O Death,” he said, “give the Tsar my life and take me instead, for it doesn’t matter to me whether I live or die; for it is better to die by my own death than to suffer such a cruel punishment.”

And he looked in the glass, and saw that Death was standing at the Tsar’s feet. Then the soldier took the water and sprinkled the Tsar, and he recovered completely. “Now, Death,” said the soldier, “give me only three hours’ interval in order that I may go home and say farewell to my wife and my son.”

“Well, you may have three hours. Go,” Death replied.

So the soldier went away home, lay down on his bed, and became very ill.

And when Death was standing very near him, she said, “Now, discharged soldier, say good-bye quickly—you have only three minutes left to live in the bright world.”

So the soldier stretched himself out, took his nosebag from under his head, opened it, and asked: “What is this?”

Death answered: “A nosebag.”

“Well, if it is a nosebag, then jump into it!”

And Death instantly jumped straight into the bag. And the soldier, ill as he was, jumped up from his bed, buckled the nosebag together firmly, very tightly, threw it on his shoulder, and went into the Bryánski Woods, the slumbrous forest. And he went there, and he hung this bag on the bitter aspen, on the very top twig, and he went back home.

From that day forward nobody died in that kingdom: they were born, and they kept on being born, and they never died. And very many years went by, and the soldier never took his nosebag down. One day he happened to go into the town. He went, and on his way he met such an old, old lady, so old that on whichever side the wind blew, she inclined. “Oh, what an old lady!” the soldier said. “Why, it is almost time she died.”

“Yes, father,” the old dame replied. “The time has come and gone long since. At the time when you put Death into the nosebag I had only one hour left in which to live in the white world. I should be very glad to have some rest; but unless I die, earth will not take me up; and you, discharged soldier, are guilty of an unforgivable sin in God’s eyes. For there is no single soul left on earth who is tortured as I am.”

Then the soldier stayed and began to think. “Yes, yes; it would be better to let Death out; perhaps I, too, might die. And beyond this, too, I have many sins on my conscience. Thus it is better now whilst I am still strong and I bear pain on this earth; for when I shall become very old then it will be all the worse for me to suffer anything.”

So he got up and he went up into the Bryánski Woods, and he went up to the aspen, and saw there the nosebag was hanging very high, shaking in the winds to all sides. “Oh, you Death,” he says, “are you still alive?”

A faint voice came out of the nosebag: “Yes, father, I am alive.”

So the soldier took the nosebag, opened it, and he let out Death.

And he himself lay down on his bed, bade farewell to his wife and son, and he begged Death that he might die. And she[19] ran outside the door with all the strength in her feet. “Go!” she cried. “It is the devils who shall slay you—I shall not slay you!”

So the soldier remained alive and healthy. And he thought: “Shall I go straight into the burning pitch, for then the devils will throw me into the seething sulphur until such time as my sins shall have been melted from off me.” And he bade farewell from all, and he went with the knapsack in his hand straight into the burning pitch.

And he went on: may-be near, may-be far, may-be downhill, may-be uphill, may-be short, may-be long; and he at last arrived in the abyss, and he looked, and all round the burning cauldron there stood watchmen. As soon as he stopped at the gate a devil asked who was coming.

“A guilty soul to be tortured.”

“Why do you come? What are you carrying with you?”

“Oh, a nosebag.”

And the devil shrieked out of his full throat and made a tremendous stir. All the infernal powers roused themselves and looked out of the gates and windows with their unbreakable bolts.

And the soldier went all round the cauldron, and he called out to the master of the cauldron: “Let me in, please; do let me into the cauldron. I have come to you to be tortured for my sins.”

“No, I will not let you in. Go away wherever you will—there is no room for you here.”

“Well, if you will not let me in to be tortured, at least give me two hundred souls. I will take them up to God, and perhaps the Lord will pardon my faults.”

And the master of the cauldron answered: “I will add fifty more souls to the lot; only do go away!” So he instantly ordered two hundred and fifty souls to be counted out and to be taken to the rear gates in order that the soldier might not see him.

So the soldier gathered up the guilty souls, and he went up to the gates of Paradise.

The Apostles saw him, and said to the Lord: “Some soldier or other has come up here with two hundred and fifty souls from hell!”

“Take them into Paradise, but do not let the soldier in.”

But the soldier had given up his nosebag to one guilty soul, and had told it: “Just look here. When you enter the gates of Paradise, say at once: ‘Soldier, jump into the nosebag!’”

Then the gates of Paradise opened, and the souls began to go in; and this guilty soul also went in, and for sheer joy forgot all about the soldier.

Thus the soldier was left behind, and could not find any home in either place, and for long after that he still had to live and go on living in the white world. And after very many days he died.

THE MIDNIGHT DANCE

Once upon a time there was a king who was a widower. He had twelve daughters: each was fairer than the others. Every night these princesses went where nobody knew: it was only for twenty-four hours, and they always wore out a new pair of shoes. Now the king had no shoes ready for them, and he wanted to know where they went at night and what they did. So he made a feast ready, and he summoned all the kings and _korolévichi_, all the _boyárs_, and the merchants and the simple folk, to it, and he asked them, “Can any of you guess this riddle? Whoever guesses it I will give him my beloved daughter as a wife and a half of my kingdom as a dowry.”

No one was able to find out where the princesses went at night. Only one poor nobleman cried out, “Your kingly Majesty, I will find out!”

“Very well; go and find out.”

So then the poor nobleman began pondering and saying to himself, “What have I done? I have undertaken to find out, and I don’t know myself. If I don’t find out now, possibly the king will put me under arrest.”

So he went out of the palace beyond the city, and went on and on, and at last he met an old woman on the road who asked him, “What are you thinking of, doughty youth?”

And he answered, “How should I, Bábushka, not become thoughtful? I have undertaken to discover for the king where his daughters go by night.”

“Oh, this is a difficult task, but it can be done. Here, I will give you the cap of invisibility; with that you cannot be seen. Now, remember, when you go to sleep the princesses will pour a sleeping-draught out for you: you turn to the wall and pour it into the bed and do not drink it.”

So the poor nobleman thanked the old woman and returned to the palace. Night-time approached and they gave him a room next to that in which the princesses slept. So he lay on the bed and began to keep watch. Then one of the princesses brought sleeping-drugs in wine and asked him to drink her health. He could not refuse, and so he took the goblet, turned to the wall, and poured it into the bed. At midnight the princesses went to look whether he was asleep or not. Then the poor nobleman pretended to be as sound asleep as a log, and himself kept a keen look out for every noise.

“Now, sisters, our watchman has gone to sleep: it is time we set out on our promenade: it is time.”

So they all put on their best clothes, and the elder sister went to her bedside, moved the bed, and an entrance into the subterranean realm instantly opened up beneath, leading to the home of the Accursèd Tsar.

They all went down a flight of stairs, and the poor nobleman quietly got off his bed, put on the cap of invisibility, and followed them. He, without noticing, touched the youngest princess’s dress: she was frightened and said to her sisters, “O my sisters, somebody has stepped on my dress. This is a foretokening of woe.”

“Nonsense; it does not mean anything of the sort!”

So they all went down the flight of steps into a grove, and in that grove there were golden flowers. Then the poor nobleman broke off and plucked a single sprig, and the entire grove rustled.

“Oh, sisters,” said the youngest sister, “some unfortunate thing is injuring us. Did you hear how the grove rustled?”

“Do not fear; this is the music in the Accursèd Tsar’s realm.”

So they went into the Tsar’s palace. He, with his lacqueys, met them; music sounded; and they began dancing: and they danced until their shoes were worn thin. Then the Tsar bade wine to be served to his guests. The poor nobleman took a single goblet from under his nose, poured out the wine, and put the cup into his pocket.

At last the rout was over, and the princesses bade farewell to their cavaliers, promised to come another night, turned back home, undressed and lay down to sleep.

Then the king summoned the poor nobleman, and asked him, “Did you keep watch on my daughters?”

“Yes, I did, your Majesty.”

“Where did they go?”

“Into the subterranean realm, to the Accursèd Tsar, where they danced all night long.”

So the king summoned his daughters, and began cross-examining them. “Where do you go at night?”

So the princesses tried a feint: “We have not been anywhere.”

“Were you not with the Accursèd Tsar? There is this poor nobleman who can turn evidence on you. He is able to convict you.”

“What do you mean, bátyushka? He can convict us when all night he slept the sleep of the dead?”

Then the poor nobleman brought the golden flower out of his pocket, and the goblet, and said, “There is the testimony.”

What could they do? The princesses had to acknowledge their guilt, and the king bade the entrance to the subterranean realm be slated up. And he married the poor nobleman to the youngest daughter, and they lived happily ever after.

VASILÍSA THE FAIR

Once upon a time there was a merchant who had been married for twelve years and had only one daughter, Vasilísa the Fair. When her mother died the girl was eight years old. On her death-bed the mother called the maiden to her, took a doll out of her counterpane, said: “Vasilísushka, hear my last words. I am dying, and I will leave you my mother’s blessing and this doll. Keep this doll always by you, but show it to nobody, and no misfortune can befall you. Give it food and ask it for advice. After it has eaten, it will tell you how to avoid your evil.” Then the wife kissed her daughter and died.

After the wife’s death the merchant mourned as it behoved, and then he thought of a second wife. He was a handsome man and found many brides, but he liked one widow more than any one. She was no longer young, and had two daughters of about the same age as Vasilísa. So she was an experienced housewife and mother. The merchant married her, but he had made a mistake, for she was no good mother to his own daughter.

Vasilísa was the fairest damsel in the entire village, and the stepmother and the sisters envied her therefore. And they used to torture her by piling all the work they could on her, that she might grow thin and ugly, and might be tanned by the wind and the sun. And the child lived a hard life. Vasilísa, however, did all her work without complaining, and always grew more beautiful and plumper, while the stepmother and her daughters, out of sheer spite, grew thinner and uglier. Yet there they sat all day long with their hands folded, just like fine ladies. How could this be?

It was the doll that had helped Vasilísa. Without her the maiden could never have done her task. Vasilísa often ate nothing herself, and kept the tastiest morsels for the doll; and when at night they had all gone to bed, she used to lock herself up in her cellaret below, give the doll food to eat, and say, “Dollet, eat and listen to my misery. I am living in my father’s house, and my lot is hard. My evil stepmother is torturing me out of the white world. Teach me what I must do in order to bear this life.”

Then the doll gave her good advice, consoled her, and did all her morning’s work for her. Vasilísa was told to go walking, plucking flowers; and all her flowerbeds were done in time, all the coal was brought in, and the water-jugs carried in, and the hearthstone was hot. Further, the doll taught her herb-lore; so, thanks to her doll, she had a merry life; and the years went by.

Vasilísa grew up, and all the lads in the village sought her. But the stepmother’s daughters nobody would look at; and the stepmother grew more evil than ever and answered all her suitors: “I will not give my youngest daughter before I give the elders.” So she sent all the bargainers away, and to show how pleased she was, rained blows on Vasilísa.

One day the merchant had to go away on business for a long time; so the stepmother in the meantime went over to a new house near a dense, slumbrous forest. In the forest there was a meadow, and on the meadow there was a hut, and in the hut Bába Yagá lived, who would not let anybody in, and ate up men as though they were poultry. Whilst she was moving, the stepmother sent her hated stepdaughter into the wood, but she always came back perfectly safe, for the doll showed her the way by which she could avoid Bába Yagá’s hut.

So one day the harvest season came and the stepmother gave all three maidens their task for the evening: one was to make lace and the other to sew a stocking, and Vasilísa was to spin. Each was to do a certain amount. The mother put all the fires out in the entire house, and left only one candle burning where the maidens were at work, and herself went to sleep. The maidens worked on. The candle burned down, and one of the stepmother’s daughters took the snuffers in order to cut down the wick. But the stepmother had told her to put the light out as though by accident.

“What is to be done now?” they said. “There is no fire in the house and our work is not finished. We must get a light from the Bába Yagá.”

“I can see by the needles,” said the one who was making lace.

“I also am not going,” said the second, “for my knitting needles give me light enough. You must go and get some fire. Go to the Bába Yagá!” And they turned Vasilísa out of the room.

And Vasilísa went to her room, put meat and drink before her doll, and said: “Dolly dear, eat it and listen to my complaint. They are sending me to Bába Yagá for fire, and the Bába Yagá will eat me up.”

Then the Dollet ate, and her eyes glittered like two lamps, and she said: “Fear nothing, Vasilísushka. Do what they say, only take me with you. As long as I am with you Bába Yagá can do you no harm.” Vasilísa put the doll into her pocket, crossed herself, and went tremblingly into the darksome forest.

Suddenly a knight on horseback galloped past her all in white. His cloak was white, and his horse and the reins: and it became light. She went further, and suddenly another horseman passed by, who was all in red, and his horse was red, and his clothes: and the sun rose. Vasilísa went on through the night and the next day. Next evening she came to the mead where Bába Yagá’s hut stood. The fence round the hut consisted of human bones, and on the stakes skeletons glared out of their empty eyes. And, instead of the doorways and the gate, there were feet, and in the stead of bolts there were hands, and instead of the lock there was a mouth with sharp teeth. And Vasilísa was stone-cold with fright.

Suddenly another horseman pranced by on his way. He was all in black, on a jet-black horse, with a jet-black cloak. He sprang to the door and vanished as though the earth had swallowed him up: and it was night. But the darkness did not last long, for the eyes in all the skeletons on the fence glistened, and it became as light as day all over the green.

Vasilísa trembled with fear, but remained standing, for she did not know how she could escape. Suddenly a terrible noise was heard in the forest, and the tree-boughs creaked and the dry leaves crackled. And out of the wood Bába Yagá drove in inside the mortar with the pestle, and with the broom swept away every trace of her steps. At the door she stopped, sniffed all the way round, and cried out:

“Fee, Fo, Fi, Fum, I smell the blood of a Russian mum!

Who is there?”

Vasilísa, shuddering with dread, stepped up to her, bowed low to the ground, and said: “Mother, I am here. My stepmother’s daughters sent me to you to ask for fire.”

“Very well,” said Bába Yagá: “I know them. Stay with me, work for me, and I will give you fire. Otherwise I shall eat you up.”

Then she went to the door, and she cried out: “Ho! my strong bolts, draw back, my strong door, spring open!” And the door sprang open, and Bába Yagá went in whistling and whirring, and Vasilísa followed her.

Then the door closed, and Bába Yagá stretched herself in the room and said to Vasilísa: “Give me whatever there is in the oven. I am hungry.”

So Vasilísa lit a splinter from the skulls on the hedge and fetched Bába Yagá food out of the oven, and there was food enough there for ten men. Out of a cellar she fetched _kvas_, mead, and wine. Bába Yagá ate and drank it all up. But all there was left for Vasilísa was a little of some kind of soup, and a crust of bread, and a snippet of pork.

Bába Yagá lay down to sleep and said: “In the morning, to-morrow, when I go away you must clean the courtyard, brush out the room, get dinner ready, do the washing, go to the field, get a quarter of oats, sift it all out, and see that it is all done before I come home. Otherwise I will eat you up.”

And, as soon as ever she had given all the orders, she began snoring.

Vasilísa put the rest of the dinner in front of the doll and said: “Dollet, eat it up and listen to my woe. Heavy are the tasks which the Bába Yagá has given me, and she threatens to eat me up if I don’t carry them all out. Help me!”

“Have no fear, Vasilísa, thou fair maiden. Eat, pray, and lie down to sleep, for the morning is wiser than the evening.”

Very early next day Vasilísa woke up. Bába Yagá was already up and was looking out of the window. The glimmer in the eyes of the skulls had dimmed; the white horseman raced by: and it dawned. Bába Yagá went into the courtyard, and whistled, and the mortar, the pestle, and the besom appeared at once, and the red horseman came by: and the sun rose. Bába Yagá sat in the mortar and went by, thrusting the mortar with the pestle, and with the besom she removed every trace of her steps.

Vasilísa, left all by herself, looked over the house of the Bába Yagá, wondered at all the wealth gathered in, and began to consider what she should start with. But all the work was already done, and the doll had sifted out the very last of the ears of oats.

“Oh, my saviour!” said Vasilísa. “You have helped me in my great need.”

“You now have only to get dinner ready,” the doll answered, and clambered back into Vasilísa’s pocket. “With God’s help get it ready, and stay here quietly waiting.”

In the evening Vasilísa laid the cloth and waited for Bába Yagá. The gloaming came, and the black horseman reached by: and it at once became dark, but the eyes in the skulls glowed. The trees shuddered, the leaves crackled, Bába Yagá drove in, and Vasilísa met her.

“Is it all done?” Bába Yagá asked.

“Yes, grandmother: look!” said Vasilísa.

Bába Yagá looked round everywhere, and was rather angry that she had nothing to find fault with and said: “Very well.” Then she cried out: “Ye my faithful servants, friends of my heart! Store up my oats.” Then three pairs of hands appeared, seized the oats and carried them off.

Bába Yagá had her supper, and, before she went to sleep, once more commanded Vasilísa: “To-morrow do the same as you did to-day, but also take the hay which is lying on my field, clean it from every trace of soil, every single ear. Somebody has, out of spite, mixed earth with it.”

And, as soon as she had said it, she turned round to the wall and was snoring.

Vasilísa at once fetched her doll, who ate, and said as she had the day before: “Pray and lie down to sleep, for the morning is wiser than the evening. Everything shall be done, Vasilísushka.”

Next morning Bába Yagá got up and stood at the window, and then went into the courtyard and whistled; and the mortar, the besom, and the pestle appeared at once, and the red horseman came by: and the sun rose. Bába Yagá sat in the mortar and went off, sweeping away her traces as before.

Vasilísa got everything ready with the help of her doll. Then the old woman came back, looked over everything, and said: “Ho, my faithful servants, friends of my heart! Make me some poppy-oil.” Then three pairs of hands came, laid hold of the poppies and carried them off.

Bába Yagá sat down to supper, and Vasilísa sat silently in front of her. “Why do you not speak; why do you stay there as if you were dumb?” Bába Yagá asked.

“I did not venture to say anything; but if I might, I should like to ask some questions.”

“Ask, but not every question turns out well: too knowing is too old.”

“Still, I should like to ask you of some things I saw. On my way to you I met a white horseman, in a white cloak, on a white horse: who was he?”

“The bright day.”

“Then a red horseman, on a red horse, in a red cloak, overtook me: who was he?”

“The red sun.”

“What is the meaning of the black horseman who overtook me as I reached your door, grandmother?”

“That was the dark night. Those are my faithful servants.”

Vasilísa then thought of the three pairs of hands and said nothing.

“Why don’t you ask any further?” Bába Yagá asked.

“I know enough, for you say yourself ‘too knowing is too old.’”

“It is well you asked only about things you saw in the courtyard, and not about things without it, for I do not like people to tell tales out of school, and I eat up everybody who is too curious. But now I shall ask you, how did you manage to do all the work I gave you?”

“By my mother’s blessing!”

“Ah, then, get off with you as fast as you can, blessed daughter; no one blessed may stay with me!”

So she turned Vasilísa out of the room and kicked her to the door, took a skull with the burning eyes from the fence, put it on a staff, gave it her and said, “Now you have fire for your stepmother’s daughters, for that was why they sent you here.”

Then Vasilísa ran home as fast as she could by the light of the skull; and the flash in it went out with the dawn.