Chapter V: Part 5

By the evening of the next day she reached the house, and was going to throw the skull away, when she heard a hollow voice coming out of the skull and saying: “Do not throw me away. Bring me up to your stepmother’s house.” And she looked at her stepmother’s house and saw that there was no light in any window, and decided to enter with the skull. She was friendlily received, and the sisters told her that ever since she had gone away they had had no fire; they were able to make none; and all they borrowed of their neighbours went out as soon as it came into the room.

“Possibly _your_ fire may burn!” said the stepmother.

So they took the skull into the room, and the burning eyes looked into the stepmother’s and the daughters’ and singed their eyes out. Wherever they went, they could not escape it, for the eyes followed them everywhere, and in the morning they were all burned to cinders. Vasilísa alone was left alive.

Then Vasilísa buried the skull in the earth, locked the house up, and went into the town. And she asked a poor old woman to take her home and to give her food until her father came back; she said to the old woman, “Mother, sitting here idle makes me feel dull. Go and buy me some of the very best flax; I should like to spin.”

So the old woman went and bought good flax. Vasilísa set herself to work, and the work went merrily along, and the skein was as smooth and as fine as hair, and when she had a great deal of yarn, no one would undertake the weaving, so she turned to her doll, who said: “Bring me some old comb from somewhere, some old spindle, some old shuttle, and some horse mane; and I will do it for you.”

Vasilísa went to bed, and the doll in that night made a splendid spinning stool; and by the end of the winter all the linen had been woven, and it was so fine that it could be drawn like a thread through the eye of a needle. And in the spring they bleached the linen, and Vasilísa said to the old mistress: “Go and sell the cloth, and keep the money for yourself.”

The old woman saw the cloth and admired it, and said: “Oh, my child! nobody except the Tsar could ever wear such fine linen; I will take it to Court.”

The old woman went to the Tsar’s palace, and kept walking up and down in front of it.

The Tsar saw her and said: “Oh, woman, what do you want?”

“Almighty Tsar, I am bringing you some wonderful goods, which I will show to nobody except you.”

The Tsar ordered the old woman to be given audience, and as soon as ever he had seen the linen he admired it very much. “What do you want for it?” he asked her.

“It is priceless, Bátyushka,” she said; “I will give it you as a present.”

And the Tsar thought it over and sent her away with rich rewards.

Now the Tsar wanted to have shirts made out of this same linen, but he could not find any seamstress to undertake the work. And he thought for long, and at last he sent for the old woman again, and said: “If you can spin this linen and weave it, perhaps you can make a shirt out of it?”

“I cannot weave and spin the linen,” said the old woman; “only a maiden can who is staying with me.”

“Well, she may do the work.”

So the woman went home and told Vasilísa everything.

“I knew that I should have to do the work!” said Vasilísa. And she locked herself up in her little room, set to work, and never put her hands again on her lap until she had sewn a dozen shirts.

The old woman brought the Tsar the shirts, and Vasilísa washed and combed herself, dressed herself, and sat down at the window, and waited. Then there came a henchman of the Tsar’s, entered the room and said: “The Tsar would fain see the artist who has sewn him the shirts, and he wants to reward her with his own hands.”

Vasilísa the Fair went to the Tsar. When he saw her, he fell deep in love with her. “No, fairest damsel; I will never part from you. You must be my wife.”

So the Tsar took Vasilísa, with her white hands, put her next to him, and bade the bells ring for the wedding.

Vasilísa’s father came back home, and was rejoiced at her good luck, and stayed with his daughter.

Vasilísa also took the old woman to live with her, and the doll ever remained in her pocket.

THE ANIMALS IN THE PIT

A Pig was going to church at St. Petersburg, and the Wolf met him.

“Piggy, Piggy, where are you faring?”

“To St. Petersburg, to pray to God.”

“Take me with!”

“Come along, Gossip.”

So they went on together, and met the Vixen.

“Pig, where are you going?”

“To St. Petersburg, so please you.”

“Take me with!”

“Come along, Gossip.”

So they went on together and met the Hare, who said, “Piggy, Piggy, where are you going?”

“On to St. Petersburg, to pray to God.”

“Very well, take me with.”

“Very well, Slant-eyes, I will.”

Then they met the Squirrel, who also went with them. But on their road they came across a broad, deep pit. The Pig jumped and tumbled in, and after him the Wolf, the Fox, the Hare and the Squirrel.

And they sat there for a long time, and became very hungry, for they had nothing to eat.

“Let’s all begin singing,” said the Vixen, “and we will eat the animal who has the thinnest voice.”

So the Wolf struck in a deep gruff voice, Aw, aw, aw! And the Pig followed in a tone just a shade softer, Oo, oo, oo! But the Vixen came in fine and sharp, Eh, eh, eh; whilst the Hare trilled the thinnest Ee, ee, ee in the world. The Squirrel also sang Ee, ee, ee! So the animals at once set to tearing up the Squirrel and Hare, and ate them down to their bones.

Next day the Vixen said: “We will eat the person with the fattest voice.” That was the Wolf with his great gruff Aw, aw, aw! So they ate him up. The Vixen ate up the flesh and kept the heart and the bowels. And for three days she sat and ate them.

And the Pig then asked her: “What are you eating?—give me some!”

“Oh, Pig, I am eating my own flesh. You tear your belly up and munch it yourself.”

So the Pig did, and the Vixen feasted on him.

The Vixen then was left as the last person in the pit.

Did she climb up, or is she there still? I don’t know, really!

THE POOR WIDOW

A very long time ago Christ and the twelve Apostles walked on earth. They went about like simple people, and nobody could have known that it was Christ and the twelve Apostles.

Once they came to a village and they asked a rich peasant for a bed. The rich peasant would not let them in, telling them: “Over there there lives a widow who receives beggars; go to her.” So they asked the widow for a night’s rest, and the widow was poor, poor of the poorest; she had nothing at all. She had only a very little crust of bread and a mere handful of flour, and she also had a cow, but the cow had no milk.

“Yes, fathers,” the widow said, “my little hut is very small, and there is nowhere to lie down.”

“Never mind; we can manage somehow!”

So the widow received the wanderers, and did not know how to feed them.

“How shall I feed you?” the widow said. “I only have one little crust of bread and a mere handful of flour, and my cow is calving and has no milk. I have to wait for her to calve. You cannot look for bread and salt here.”

“Well, woman,” the Saviour said, “have no fear—we shall all be satisfied. Give us all you have. We will eat the crust. Everything, woman, comes of God.”

So they sat down to table and began to feast, and they were all fed on the one crust of bread. There were even crumbs left behind.

“Lo and behold! woman, you said that there was nothing to feed us on,” the Saviour said. “Look, we are all satisfied, and there are some crumbs over. Everything, woman, comes of God!” And so Christ and the Apostles stayed with the poor widow.

In the morning the widow told her sister: “Go and scrape up any flour you can find in the corn-bin; possibly we may make a tiny pancake so as to feed our guests.” The girl went and brought up a clay pot full. The old woman was not astonished when so much came—she simply took it as it came and started making a pancake. And the girl told her: “There is as much again in the corn-bin.” So the woman cooked the pancake for the Saviour and the twelve Apostles, telling them: “Come and eat of the good fare, kinsmen, which God has sent.” And so they ate and bade farewell to the aged widow and went on the road.

And when they were on the way there was a grey wolf sitting on a knoll. He bowed low to Christ and asked for food.

“Lord,” he bayed, “I am hungry. Lord, I should like to eat.”

“Go,” said the Saviour to him, “to the old widow and eat her cow with the calf.”

And the Apostles were astonished and said: “Lord, why do you bid him snatch the poor widow’s cow? She received you so kindly and fed us, and she was so happy in the expectation of the calf, for then the cow would have had milk, which is food for every home.”

“That is how it must be,” the Saviour replied. And they went on.

The wolf ran and snatched up the poor widow’s cow, and when the old woman saw this she said contentedly: “The Lord hath given, the Lord hath taken away. Hallowed be His will!”

So Christ and the Apostles went on, and they met a keg with money in it on the way. The Saviour said: “Keg, go and roll to the rich peasant’s door.”

And again the Apostles were astonished.

“Lord, it would have been better had you bidden the keg roll to the poor widow’s door, for the rich man has so much.”

“That is how it must be,” the Saviour said. And they went on.

And the keg with the money in it rolled straight to the rich peasant’s door, and the peasant took and hid the money and was still discontented. “Surely the Lord might have sent me more,” he mused.

Christ and the Apostles went on their way and travelled still further. At midday the sun was very hot, and the Apostles wanted to drink.

“Lord,” they said, “we should like to drink.”

“Go,” replied the Saviour, “and on this road you will find a well. There take your fill.”

So the Apostles went on and on and on, and they saw a well. When they looked into it there was filth and dirt, toads, snakes and frogs, and everything vile, and the Apostles would not drink of it, and swiftly returned to the Saviour.

“Why did you not drink the water?” Christ asked them.

“As you, Lord, told us, the well was there, but it was so horrible that we could hardly look into it.”

Christ answered never a word.

And they went forward on their road. They went on and on and on, and the Apostles again said to the Saviour: “We are thirsty.”

So the Saviour sent them in another direction. “There you will see a well. Go and drink your fill.”

The Apostles went to the other well, and there it was, beautiful—oh, so delightful! Enchanted trees were there and birds of paradise. They did not ever want to leave it, and they drank of it, and the water was so pure, so chilled, and so sweet. And they came back.

“Why have you been so long?” the Saviour asked them.

“Why, we only took a short drink,” the Apostles answered, “and we were only away three little minutes.”

“You were not there three little minutes, but three whole years,” the Lord answered. “As it was in the first well, so ill shall in the next world deal by the rich peasant; and as it was in the second well, so good shall be the poor widow’s fare.”

ILYÁ MÚROMETS[20] AND SVYATOGÓR THE KNIGHT

From the famous city of Múrom, out of the village of Karachárovo, the valiant, doughty youth Ilyá Múromets, the son of Iván, set out far into the open fields. The valiant champion met on his way the mighty knight Svyatogór; and the good youth was afraid of him; the old Cossack, Ilyá Múromets, was afraid of Svyatogór the knight. So he set his horse to browse and himself mounted a thick grey oak to avoid Svyatogór the knight. Svyatogór the knight arrived under that same stout oak, put up his white linen tent, and took his wife out of his pocket. She spread out the chequered table-cloths and put sugary food and honeyed drink for him to eat. Svyatogór ate until he was sated, and drank until he was satisfied, and lay down to repose.

Then the wife of the knight observed Ilyá up in the grey oak, and spoke to him in this wise: “Hail, valiant and brave youth; climb down from the grey oak. If you do not climb down from the grey oak, you will arouse Svyatogór the knight, and he will give you to a speedy death.”

So Ilyá Múromets was afraid of Svyatogór, and slid down from the grey oak.

And again she spoke in this wise: “Come and do fornication with me, good youth. If you do not, I will arouse Svyatogór the knight, and he will give you to a speedy death.”

So he did as he was bidden and went with her into the pocket of Svyatogór. Svyatogór arose from a sound sleep, saddled his horse, and went to the Holy Mountains. Then his horse began to sink fast into the earth, until the knight dug his spurs into his horse’s fat haunches.

Then the horse spoke with a human voice: “I have carried you Svyatogór the knight and your young wife, but I cannot carry two knights and your young wife as well.”

So then Svyatogór put his hand into the depths of his pocket, took his young wife out, and discovered Ilyá Múromets.

“How did you get into the depths of my pocket?”

“Your young wife forced me in there; she threatened my life.” And Ilyá Múromets told Svyatogór the knight how he had fallen into the depths of the pocket.

So Svyatogór took his young wife, cut off her unruly head, broke up her white body into four parts, and scattered them on the bare fields.

Then Ilyá and Svyatogór made themselves sworn brothers, and they set out to the Holy Mountains. They came to a deep tomb, and the tomb was decked with red-gold. Svyatogór the knight lay down in that tomb as if it had been built for him.

“Cover me over with boards, my sworn brother,” he said. And, as Ilyá covered him over with boards, the boards by Divine grace grew as they were required. “Uncover me, my sworn brother!”

But Ilyá Múromets had not the strength to uncover him; so he began to break the boards with his sword, and wherever he brandished his sword, hoops arose in his way.

“Take my sword, my sworn brother!”

And Ilyá took the sword, but had not the strength to lift it up.

“Come, my sworn brother, I will give you strength.”

Ilyá then went into the pit and Svyatogór breathed on him with his knightly breath. Then Ilyá took that sword, and wherever he made a stroke, iron hoops arose around.

“Come to me a second time, my sworn brother; I will give you more strength.”

Ilyá Múromets said at once: “If I come down to you again, then our mother the grey earth will not be able to bear it: I have enough strength.”

But Svyatogór answered: “If you had come down again I should have breathed on you with a fatal breath, and you would have lain down to sleep beside me.”

So there Svyatogór the knight remains to this day.

THE SMITH AND THE DEVIL

Once upon a time there was a smith who had a son six years old—a sturdy and sensible lad. One day the old man was going into the church, and stood in front of a picture of the Last Judgment. And he saw there was a devil painted there so terrible, so black, with horns and tail! “What a fine devil!” he thought. “I will go and paint such a devil for myself in the smithy.” So he sent for a painter and told him to paint on the doors of the smithy a devil who should be exactly the same as the one he had seen in the church. This was done.

From this time forward, the old man, whenever he went into the smithy, always looked at the devil and said, “Hail, fellow-countryman!” And soon after he would go up to the forge, light the fire, and set to work. So he went on living for some ten years on most excellent terms with the devil. Then he fell ill and died. His son succeeded him and took over the smithy. But he had no such respect for the devil as his father had had. Whether he went early to the smithy or not, nothing prospered; and, instead of greeting the devil kindly, he went and took his very biggest hammer and knocked the devil three times on his forehead, and then set to work. When a holy feast-day came by, he went into the church and lit a taper in front of the saints; but, as he approached the devil he spat on him. For three whole years this went on; and every day he greeted the unclean spirit with a hammer and spat on him.

The devil was very patient, and endured all this maltreatment. At last it became beyond bearing, and he would stand it no longer. “Time is up!” he thought. “I must put an end to such contemptuous treatment.” So the devil turned himself into a fine lad and came into the smithy.

“How do you do, uncle?” he said.

“Very well, thank you!”

“Will you take me into the smithy as an apprentice? I will heat your coals and will blow the bellows.”

Well, the smith was very glad. “I certainly will!” he said. “Two heads are better than one.”

So the devil turned apprentice, and he lived a month with him, and soon got to know all of the smith’s work better than the master himself; and, whatever the master could not do, he instantly carried out. Oh, it was a fine sight, and the smith so grew to love him, and was so content with him—I cannot tell you how much!

One day he did not come into the smithy, and left his underling to do the work; and it was all done.

Once when the master was not at home, and only the workman was left in the smithy, he saw an old rich lady passing by. He bobbed out his head, and cried: “Hail there! There is new work to be done—old folks to be turned into young!”

Out skipped the old lady from her barouche and into the smithy. “What are you saying you can do? Is that really true? Do you mean it? Are you mad?” she asked the boy.

“No reason to start lecturing me,” the Evil Spirit answered. “If I didn’t know how I should not have summoned you.”

“What would it cost?” the rich woman asked.

“It would cost five hundred roubles.”

“Well, there is the money. Turn me into a young woman!”

The Evil Spirit took the money, and sent the coachman into the village to get two buckets of milk. And he seized the lady by the legs with the pinchers, threw her into the forge, and burned her all up. Nothing but her bones were left. When the two tubs of milk came, he emptied them into a pail, collected all the bones, and threw them into the milk. Lo and behold! in three minutes out the lady came, young—yes, alive and young, and so beautiful!

She went and sat down in the barouche and drove home, went up to her husband, and he fixed his eyes on her, and didn’t know his wife. “What’s the matter? Have you lost your eyesight?” the lady asked. “Don’t you see it is I, young and stately; I don’t want to have an old husband. Go at once to the smith and ask him to forge you young, and you won’t know yourself!”

What could the husband do? Husbands must obey, and so off he drove.

In the meantime, the smith had returned home and went to the smithy. He went, and there was no sign of his man. He looked for him everywhere, asked everybody, questioned them, but it was no good, and all trace had vanished. So he set to work by himself and began hammering.

Then the husband drove up and said straight out to the smith: “Make a young man of me, please!”

“Are you in your senses, master? How can I make a young man of you?”

“Oh! you know how to!”

“I really have not any idea!”

“Liar! fool! swindler! Why, you turned my old woman into a young one. Do the same by me, otherwise life with her won’t be worth living.”

“But I have not seen your wife!”

“Never mind!—your young man saw her, and if he understood how to manage the work, surely you, as the craftsman, understand! Set to work quickly, unless you want to taste worse of me and be birched.”

So the smith had no choice but to transform the master. So he quietly asked the coachman what his man had done with the lady, and thought: “Well, I don’t mind! I will do the same; it may come out to the same tune, or it may not. I must look out for myself.”

So he stripped the lord to his skin, clutched his legs up with nippers, threw him into the forge, began to blow up the bellows, and burned him to ashes. Afterwards he threw the bones—hurled them all into the milk, and began watching would a young master emerge from the bath. And he waited one hour, and another hour, and nothing happened, looked at the little tub—all the little bones were floating about all burned to pieces.

And what was the lady doing? She sent messengers to the smithy. “When was the master to be turned out?” And the poor smith answered that the master had wished her a long life. And you may imagine what they thought of this. Soon she learned that all the smith had done had been to burn her husband to bits and not to make him young, and she was very angry indeed, sent her body-servants, and ordered them to take the smith to the gallows. The order was given, and the thing was done. The attendants ran to the smith, laid hold of him, and took him to the gallows.

Then the same young man who had acted as a hand to the smith came and asked: “Where are they taking you, master?”

“They are going to hang me!” the smith said. And he explained what had happened.

“Well, never mind, uncle!” said the Unholy Spirit. “Swear that you will never strike me with your hammer, and I will secure you such honour as your father had. The lady’s husband shall arise young and in full health.”

The smith swore and made oath that he would never raise the hammer on the devil and would give him every honour.

Then the workman ran to the smithy, and soon returned with the husband, crying out to the servants to stop and not to hang the smith, for there the master was! He then untied the ropes and set the smith free.

And the youth thereafter never more spat on the devil and beat him with a hammer. But his workman vanished and was never seen again. The master and mistress lived on and experienced good in their life, and they are still alive, if they are not dead.

THE PRINCESS WHO WOULD NOT SMILE

If you think of it, what a big world God’s world is: in it rich and poor folk live, and there is room enough for them all; and the Lord overlooks and judges them all. There are fine folk who have holidays, there are wailful folk who must moil; every man has his lot.

* * * * *

In the Tsar’s palace, in the Prince’s chamber, every day the Princess Without a Smile grew fairer. What a life she had, what plenty, what beauty round her! There was enough of everything that exists that the soul may desire, but she never smiled, never laughed, and it seemed as though her heart could not rejoice at anything.

It was a bitter thing for the Tsar her father to gaze at his doleful daughter. He used to open his imperial palace to whoever would be his guest. “Come,” he said, “come and try to enliven the Princess Without a Smile: any one who succeeds shall gain her as his wife.” And as soon as he had said this all folk thronged up at the gates of the palace, driving up from all sides, coming on foot, Tsarévichi and princes’ sons, _boyárs_ and noblemen, military folk and civil. Feasts were celebrated, rivers of mead flowed, and the Princess would not smile.

But, at the other end of the town, in his own little hut, there dwelt an honourable labourer. Every morning he used to sweep out the courtyard: every evening he used to pasture the cattle, and he was engaged in ceaseless labour. His master was a rich man, a just man, and he did not begrudge pay. When the year came to an end he put a purse of money on the table, “Take,” he said, “as much as you like”; and the master went outside.

The workman went up to the table and thought, “How shall I not be guilty in the eyes of God if I take too much for my labour?” So he took only one little coin, put it into the hollow of his hand and thought he would have a little drink. So he went to the well, and the coin slipped through his fingers and fell to the bottom. So the poor fellow had nothing left. Now, anybody else in his place would have cried out, would have become melancholy and angry, might have put his hands up. He did nothing of the sort. “Everything,” he said, “comes from God. The Lord knows what He gives to each man, whose money He divides, from whom He takes the last money. Evidently I have given bad care, I have done little work; and now am I to become angry?”

So he set to work once more. And all that his hand touched flew like fire. Then, when the term was over, when one year more had gone by, the master again put a purse of money on the table: “Take,” he said, “as much as your soul desires”; and he himself went outside.

Then again the labourer thought how he should not offend God, how he should not take too much for his work. So he took one coin and he went to have a little drink at the well. In some way or other the money fell from his hands and the coin tumbled into the well and was lost.

So he set to work even more obstinately: at night he would not sleep and by day he would not eat. Other men saw their corn grow dry and yellow, but his master’s corn prospered amain. Some men’s cattle became bowlegged, but his master’s gambolled in the street. And the horses of some masters fell downhill, but his master’s could not be kept to the bridle. The master knew very well whom he must thank, to whom he must render gratitude. So, when the third year came to an end, he laid a pile of money on the table: “Take, my dear man, as much as your soul desires. It is your work, and it is your money”; and he went out of the room.

Once more the workman took a single coin, went to the well for a drink of water and looked, and the lost money floated up to the surface: so he took them, and he then felt sure that God had rewarded him for his labour. He was joyous and thought, “It is now the time for me to go and look at the white world and to learn of people.” So he thought this, and he went out whither his eyes gazed.

He went on to the field, and he saw a mouse running: “My friend, my dear gossip, give me a coin; I will be of service to you.”

So he gave the mouse a coin.

Then he went to the forest, and a beetle crept up and said, “My friend, my dear gossip, give me a coin; I will be of service to you.”

So he gave him the second coin.

Then he came up to the stream, and he met a sheat-fish. “My friend, my dear gossip, give me a coin; I shall be of service to you.”

And he could not refuse him, so he gave his last coin.

So then he came into the city. Oh, it was so thronged! All the doors were opened, and he looked, and the workman turned in all directions, and he did not know where to go. In front of him stood the Tsar’s palace decked with gold and silver, and at the window the Tsarévna Without a Smile sat and gazed on him straight. What should he do? The light in his eyes turned dark, and a sleep fell on him, and he fell straight into the mud. Up came the sheat-fish with his big whiskers, and after him the beetle and the mouse: they all ran up, they all pressed round him and did all the service they could. The little mouse took his coat: the beetle cleaned his boots, and the sheat-fish drove away the flies. The Princess Without a Smile gazed on their services, and she smiled.

“Who is he who has enlivened my daughter?” cried the King. One man said “I,” and another man said “I.”

“No,” said the Princess, “that is the man there”; and she pointed out the workman.

Instantly he was taken into the palace, and the workman stood in the imperial presence, a youth such as never was: then the Tsar kept his princely word and gave what he had promised.

I am saying it. Was not this a mere dream? Did not the workman only dream it? They assure me this is not the fact, and that it all happened in real truth; so you must believe it.

THE TSARÉVICH AND DYÁD’KA[21]

Once upon a time, in a certain kingdom, in a city of yore, there was a King who had a dwarf son. The Tsarévich was fair to behold, and fair of heart. But his father was not good: he was always tortured with greedy thoughts, how he should derive greater profit from his country and extract heavier taxes.

One day he saw an old peasant passing by with sable, marten, beaver, and fox-skins; and he asked him: “Old man! whence do you come?”

“Out of the village, Father. I serve the Woodsprite with the iron hands, the cast-iron head, and the body of bronze.”

“How do you catch so many animals?”

“The Woodsprite lays traps, and the animals are stupid and go into them.”

“Listen, old man; I will give you gold and wine. Show me where you put the traps.”

So the old man was persuaded, and he showed the King, who instantly had the Woodsprite arrested and confined in a narrow tower. And in all the Woodsprite’s forests the King himself laid traps.

The Woodsprite-forester sat in his iron tower inside the royal garden, and looked out through the window. One day, the Tsarévich, with his nurses and attendants and very many faithful servant-maids, went into the garden to play. He passed the door, and the Woodsprite cried out to him: “Tsarévich, if you will set me free, I will later on help you.”

“How shall I do this?”

“Go to your mother and weep bitterly. Tell her: ‘Please, dear Mother, scratch my head.’ Lay your head on her lap. Wait for the proper instant, take the key of my tower out of her pocket, and set me free.”

Iván Tsarévich did what the Woodsprite had told him, took the key; then he ran into the garden, made an arrow, put the arrow on a catapult, and shot it far away. And all the nurses and serving-maids ran off to find the arrow. Whilst they were all running after the arrow Iván Tsarévich opened the iron tower and freed the Woodsprite. The Woodsprite escaped and destroyed all the King’s traps.

Now the King could not catch any more animals, and became angry, and attacked his wife for giving the key away and setting the Woodsprite free. He assembled all the _boyárs_, generals, and senators to pronounce the Queen’s doom, whether she should have her head cut off, or should be merely banished. So the Tsarévich was greatly grieved; he was sorry for his mother, and he acknowledged his guilt to his father.

Then the King was very sorry, and didn’t know what to do to his son. He asked all the _boyárs_ and generals, and said: “Is he to be hanged or to be put into a fortress?”

“No, your Majesty!” the _boyárs_, and generals, and senators answered in one voice. “The scions of kings are not slain, and are not put in prison; they are sent out into the white world to meet whatever fate God may send them.”

So Iván Tsarévich was sent out into the white world, to wander in the four directions, to suffer the midday winds and the stress of the winter and the blasts of the autumn; and was given only a birch-bark wallet and Dyád’ka, his servant.

So the King’s son set out with his servant into the open fields. They went far and wide over hill and dale. Their way may have been long, and it may have been short; and they at last reached a well. Then the Tsarévich said to his servant, “Go and fetch me water.”

“I will not go!” said the servant.

So they went further on, and they once more came to a well.

“Go and fetch me water—I feel thirsty,” the Tsarévich asked him a second time.

“I will not go.”

Then they went on until they came to a third well. And the servant again would not fetch any water. And the Tsarévich had to do it himself. When the Tsarévich had gone down into the well the servant shut down the lid, and said: “You be my servant, and I will be the Tsarévich; or I will never let you come out!”

The Tsarévich could not help himself, and was forced to give way; and signed the bond to his servant in his own blood. Then they changed clothes and rode on, and came to another land, where they went to the Tsar’s court, the servant-man first, and the King’s son after.

The servant-man sat as a guest with the Tsar, ate and drank at his table. One day he said: “Mighty Tsar, send my servant into the kitchen!”

So they took the Tsarévich as scullion, let him draw water and hew wood. But very soon the Tsarévich was a far finer cook than all the royal chefs. Then the Tsar noticed and began to like his young scullion, and gave him gold. So all the cooks became envious and sought some opportunity of getting rid of the Tsarévich. One day he made a cake and put it into the oven, so the cooks put poison in and spread it over the cake. And the Tsar sat at table, and the cake was taken up. When the Tsar was going to take it, the cook came running up, and cried out: “Your Majesty, do not eat it!” And he told all imaginable lies of Iván Tsarévich. Then the King summoned his favourite hound and gave him a bit of the cake. The dog ate it and died on the spot.

So the Tsar summoned the Prince and cried out to him in a thundering voice: “How dared you bake me a poisoned cake! You shall be instantly tortured to death!”

“I know nothing about it; I had no idea of it, your Majesty!” the Tsarévich answered. “The other cooks were jealous of your rewarding me, and so they have deliberately contrived the plot.”

Then the Tsar pardoned him, and he made him a horseherd.

One day, as the Tsarévich was taking his drove to drink, he met the Woodsprite with the iron hands, the cast-iron head, and the body of bronze. “Good-day, Tsarévich; come with me, visit me.”

“I am frightened that the horses will run away.”

“Fear nothing. Only come.”

His hut was quite near. The Woodsprite had three daughters, and he asked the eldest: “What will you give Iván Tsarévich for saving me out of the iron tower?”

“I will give him this table-cloth.”

With the table-cloth Iván Tsarévich went back to his horses, which were all gathered together, turned it round and asked for any food that he liked, and he was served, and meat and drink appeared at once.

Next day he was again driving his horses to the river, and the Woodsprite appeared once more. “Come into my hut!”

So he went with him. And the Woodsprite asked his second daughter, “What will you give Iván Tsarévich for saving me out of the iron tower?”

“I will give him this mirror, in which he can see all he will.”

And on the third day the third daughter gave him a pipe, which he need only put to his lips, and music, and singers, and musicians would appear before him.

And it was a merry life that Iván Tsarévich now led. He had good food and good meat, knew whatever was going on, saw everything, and he had music all day long: no man was better. And the horses! They—it was really wonderful—were always well fed, well set-up, and shapely.

Now, the fair Tsarévna had been noticing the horseherd for a long time, for a very long time, for how could so fair a maiden overlook the beautiful boy? She wanted to know why the horses he kept were always so much shapelier and statelier than those which the other herds looked after. “I will one day go into his room,” she said, “and see where the poor devil lives.” As every one knows, a woman’s wish is soon her deed. So one day she went into his room, when Iván Tsarévich was giving his horses drink. And there she saw the mirror, and looking into that she knew everything. She took the magical cloth, the mirror, and the pipe.

Just about then there was a great disaster threatening the Tsar. The seven-headed monster, Ídolishche, was invading his land and demanding his daughter as his wife. “If you will not give her to me willy, I will take her nilly!” he said. And he got ready all his immense army, and the Tsar fared ill. And he issued a decree throughout his land, summoned the _boyárs_ and knights together, and promised any who would slay the seven-headed monster half of his wealth and half his realm, and also his daughter as his wife.

Then all the princes and knights and the _boyárs_ assembled together to fight the monster, and amongst them Dyád’ka. The horseherd sat on a pony and rode behind.

Then the Woodsprite came and met him, and said: “Where are you going, Iván Tsarévich?”

“To the war.”

“On this sorry nag you will not do much, and still less if you go in your present guise. Just come and visit me.”

He took him into his hut and gave him a glass of _vódka_. Then the King’s son drank it. “Do you feel strong?” asked the Woodsprite.

“If there were a log there fifty _puds_, I could throw it up and allow it to fall on my head without feeling the blow.”

So he was given a second glass of _vódka_.

“How strong do you feel now?”

“If there were a log here one hundred _puds_, I could throw it higher than the clouds on high.”

Then he was given a third glass of _vódka_.

“How strong are you now?”

“If there were a column stretching from heaven to earth, I should turn the entire universe round.”

So the Woodsprite took _vódka_ out of another bottle and gave the King’s son yet more drink, and his strength was increased sevenfold. They went in front of the house; and he whistled loud, and a black horse rose out of the earth, and the earth trembled under its hoofs. Out of its nostrils it breathed flames, columns of smoke rose from its ears, and as its hoofs struck the ground sparks arose. It ran up to the hut and fell on its knees.

“There is a horse!” said the Woodsprite. And he gave Iván Tsarévich a sword and a silken whip.

So Iván Tsarévich rode out on his black steed against the enemy. On the way he met his servant, who had climbed a birch-tree and was trembling for fear. Iván Tsarévich gave him a couple of blows with his whip, and started out against the hostile host. He slew many people with the sword, and yet more did his horse trample down. And he cut off the seven heads of the monster.

Now Marfa Tsarévna was seeing all this, because she kept looking in the glass, and so learned all that was going on. After the battle she rode out to meet Iván Tsarévich, and asked him: “How can I thank you?”

“Give me a kiss, fair maiden!”

The Tsarévna was not ashamed, pressed him to her very heart, and kissed him so loud that the entire host heard it!

Then the King’s son struck his horse one blow and vanished. Then he returned to his room, and sat there as though nothing had happened, whilst his servant boasted that he had gone to the battle and slain the foe. So the Tsar awarded him great honours, promised him his daughter, and set a great feast. But the Tsarévna was not so stupid, and said she had a severe headache.

What was the future son-in-law to do? “Father,” he said to the Tsar, “give me a ship, I will go and get drugs for my bride; and see that your herdsman comes with me, as I am so well accustomed to him.”

The Tsar consented; gave him the ship and the herdsman.

So they sailed away, may be far or near. Then the servant had a sack sewn, and the Prince put into it, and cast him into the water. But the Tsarévna saw the evil thing that had been done, through her magic mirror; and she quickly summoned her carriage and drove to the sea, and on the shore there the Woodsprite sat weaving a great net.

“Woodsprite, help me on my way, for Dyád’ka the servant has drowned the King’s son!”

“Here, maiden, look, the net is ready. Help me with your white hands.”

Then the Tsarévna threw the net into the deep; fished the King’s son up, took him home, and told her father the whole story.

So they celebrated a merry wedding and held a great feast. In a Tsar’s palace mead has not to be brewed or any wine to be drawn; there is always enough ready.

Then the servant in the meantime was buying all sorts of drugs, and came back. He came to the palace, was seized, but prayed for mercy. But he was too late, and he was shot in front of the castle gate.

The wedding of the King’s son was very jolly, and all the inns and all the beer-houses were opened for an entire week, for everybody, without any charge.

I was there. I drank honey and mead, which came up to my moustache, but never entered my mouth.

PRINCE EVSTÁFI

In a certain kingdom once there lived a Tsar who had a young son—Tsarévich Evstáfi—who did not love visiting or dances, nor promenades, but only liked going in the streets and walking among the poor, the simple folk, and the beggars, and bestowing alms on them. And the Tsar was very angry with him for this, and commanded him to be taken up to the gallows and to be delivered to a cruel death.

So the attendants took the Tsarévich, and were on the point of hanging him, when the Tsarévich fell on his knees before his father and began to ask for three hours’ interval. And the Tsar agreed, and gave him the three hours’ respite.

And the Tsarévich went to the silversmith’s and ordered him to make three chests—one of gold, one of silver, and for the third he was simply to divide a stump into two, to mortise out a trough, and to attach a lock. So the smith made the three cases, and took them up to the gallows.

The Tsar with all his _boyárs_ looked on to see what was going to happen. And the Tsarévich opened the cases and showed them. On the gold one, very much gold had been poured, on the silver, very much silver had been poured, and the wooden one was buried in dirt. He showed them, and once more opened the cases, and then banged them tight.

And the Tsar was even more angry, and he asked Prince Evstáfi: “What is this new insolence of yours?”

“My king and my father,” said the Tsarévich Evstáfi, “you are here with the _boyárs_ to value these cases, what they are worth.”

Then the _boyárs_ valued the silver case at a high price, and the golden one at a higher price still, and did not deign to look at the wooden one.

And Evstáfi Tsarévich said: “Now open the cases and see what is in them.”

And they opened the golden case and there were snakes and frogs and all sorts of dirt in it; and looked into the silver one, and they saw the same; and looked into the wooden one, and there trees with leaves and fruit were growing, which emitted sweet odours, and in the middle there was a church and an orchard.

And the Tsar was humbled; and did not bid Evstáfi be punished.

VASILÍSA POPÓVNA

In a certain kingdom, in a certain country, once there lived Vasíli the pope and his daughter, Vasilísa Vasílyevna. She used to dress in male fashion, used to sit astride on horseback; shot with her gun, and did nothing like other girls; and there were very few who knew that she was a maiden. It was always thought that she was a man, and they called her Vasíli Vasílyevich. And the main reason that they so called her was because Vasilísa Vasílyevna loved _vódka_—a custom ill-befitting a maid.

Once Tsar Bárkhat[22] (this was the name of the King) was travelling through this same country hunting deer, and Vasilísa Vasílyevna met him: she was riding out to hounds in a man’s clothes. When Tsar Bárkhat saw her, he asked: “Who is this young man?”

And an attendant answered him: “Tsar, this is no young man, but a maiden. I am certain of it; she is the daughter of Pope Vasíli, and her name is Vasilísa Vasílyevna.”

The Tsar had hardly reached home before he sent a note to Pope Vasíli, bidding his son Vasíli Vasílyevich come and dine with him at the imperial table. And he, in the meantime, went to his old evil-tempered housekeeper and bade her devise some means of eliciting whether Vasíli Vasílyevich were a maiden.

The old evil housekeeper said: “Hang an embroidery-frame in your palace, at the right hand, and a gun on the left; if she is really Vasilísa Vasílyevna, she will, as soon as ever she enters the palace, first take hold of the frame; but, if it is Vasíli Vasílyevich he will lay hands on the gun.”

Tsar Bárkhat obeyed the counsel of his ancient evil housekeeper and ordered his attendants to hang an embroidery-frame and a flint-lock up in the palace.

As soon as ever her father Vasíli received the Tsar’s message he communicated it to his daughter, Vasilísa Vasílyevna, who at once went into the stable and saddled the grey horse with the silver mane, and rode straight out to the courtyard of Tsar Bárkhat.

Tsar Bárkhat came to meet her. She humbly prayed God, crossed herself as is ordained, bowed to all four sides, and greeted Tsar Bárkhat friendlywise, and with him entered the palace. They sat down to table together, ate sweetmeats, and drank strong wine. After the dinner Vasilísa Vasílyevna went for a walk with the Tsar through the palace. As soon as ever she saw the embroidery-frame she began to scold Tsar Bárkhat: “Whatever nonsense have you hanging up there, Tsar Bárkhat? I never saw such girlish trash in my father’s house, and I have never heard of it, and yet you find it hanging in Tsar Bárkhat’s palace!” And she promptly bade a courteous farewell to the Tsar and rode home.

And the Tsar was still in a quandary whether she were a maiden or not. Two days later Tsar Bárkhat sent another message to Pope Vasíli, begging him send his son Vasíli Vasílyevich. As soon as Vasilísa Vasílyevna heard that she went into the stable and saddled the grey horse with the silver mane, and galloped away to Tsar Bárkhat’s courtyard. Tsar Bárkhat came to meet her, and she greeted him friendlily, modestly prayed to God, crossed herself, as is becoming, and bowed to the four quarters of the wind. At the advice of the old and evil housekeeper he had commanded a sweet pie to be made for supper and pearls to be mixed in it, for the old hag said: “If it is only Vasilísa Vasílyevna, she will take up the pearls; but, if it is Vasíli Vasílyevich, he will throw them under the table.”

So they passed the time merrily and they sat down. The Tsar sat at table and Vasilísa Vasílyevna on his right. They ate sweetmeats and they drank strong wines. Then there came the pie, and as soon as even Vasilísa Vasílyevna’s spoon touched it, it tingled on the pearls; and she flung them and the pie under the table, and began to scold the Tsar. “Who,” she asked, “put these into the pie? Whatever nonsense have you here, Tsar Bárkhat? I never saw such girlish trash in my father’s house, and I have never heard of them, and yet you find them in Tsar Bárkhat’s food!” And she bade farewell courteously and rode home.

Still the Tsar was utterly at a loss whether it were a maiden, and he had made up his mind to find out. So, two days later, the Tsar, at the advice of the old evil-minded housekeeper, had the bath heated, for the old woman said: “If it is only Vasilísa Vasílyevna she will not go into the bath together with the Tsar.” So the bath was heated, and Tsar Bárkhat sent Pope Vasíli another message that he would like to have his son Vasíli Vasílyevich as his guest; and when Vasilísa Vasílyevna heard of it she went into the stable and saddled the grey horse with the silver mane, and galloped away to Tsar Bárkhat’s courtyard. He received her at the state entrance. They greeted each other friendlily, and she trod on velvet pile into the palace. As she came in she prayed devoutly, crossed herself, as is seemly, and bowed to all four quarters, and sat together with the Tsar at table. They ate sweetmeats and drank strong wine.

After the dinner the Tsar said: “Will you not come with me into the bath, Vasíli Vasílyevich?”

“If you wish it, mighty Tsar,” Vasilísa Vasílyevna answered. “It is a long time since I have had a bath, and I should like a steam bath.”