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Title: Russian Folk-Tales

Author: A. N. Afanas'ev

Translator: Leonard A. Magnus

Release date: June 28, 2020 [eBook #62509]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RUSSIAN
FOLK-TALES ***

RUSSIAN FOLK-TALES

DEDICATED

TO

J. C.

RUSSIAN FOLK-TALES
(TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN)

WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES

BY

LEONARD A. MAGNUS, LL.B.
EDITOR AND TRANSLATOR OF “THE ARMAMENT OF IGOR (A.D. 1185)” ETC.

LONDON

KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRUBNER & CO., LTD.
NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON AND CO.

First Published October 1915

Second Impression September 1916

INTRODUCTION

Any editor of Slav folk-tales starts with great advantages. Russia is a
country where artistic development began very late; where popular lore was
conserved with little alteration owing to the immensities of the country, the
primitiveness of the people, and the punctiliousness of the compilers.
The principal source for Russian folk-tales is the great collection of
Afanáśev, a coeval of Rybnikov, Kirěyevski, Sakharov, Bezsonov, and
others who all from about 1850 to 1870 laboriously took down from the lips
of the peasants of all parts of Russia what they could of the endless store of
traditional song, ballad, and folk-tale. These great collectors were actuated
only by the desire for accuracy; they appended laboriously erudite notes;
but they were not literary men and did not sophisticate, or improve on their
material.
But, before venturing on a brief account of the tales, something must be
premised as to the position occupied by folk-tales in the cultural
development of a people. In Pagan times, there always existed a double
religion, the ceremonial worship of the gods of nature and the tribal deities,
—a realm of thought in which all current philosophy and idealism entered
into a set form that symbolized the State,—and also local cults and
superstitions, the adoration of the spirits of streams, wells, hills, etc. To all
Aryan peoples, Nature has always been alive, but never universalized, or
romanticized, as in modern days; wherever you were, the brook, the wind,
the knoll, the stream were all inhabited by agencies, which could be
propitiated, cajoled, threatened, but, under all conditions, were personal
forces, who could not be disregarded.
When Christianity transformed the face of the world, it necessarily left
much below the surface unaffected. The great national divinities were
proscribed and submerged; some of their features reappearing in the

legendary feats of the saints. The local cults continued, with this difference,
that they were now condemned by the Church and became clandestine
magic; or else they were adopted by the Church, and the rites and
sanctuaries transferred. The memory of them subsisted; the fear of these
local gods degenerated into superstition; the magic of the folk-tales
becomes half-fantastic, half-conventional, belief in which is surreptitious,
usual, and optional. At this stage of disorganization of local custom, folk-
tales arise, and into them, transmitted as they are orally and under the ban
of the Church, contaminations of all sorts creep, such as mistaken
etymologies, faint memories of real history, reminiscences of lost folk-
songs, Christian legend and morals, etc.
The Russian people have handed down three categories of records. First
of all, the Chronicles, which are very full, very accurate, and, within the
limits of the temporary concepts of possibility and science, absolutely true.
Secondly, the ballads or bylíny; epic songs in an ancient metre, narrating
historical episodes as they occur; and also comprising a cycle of heroic
romance, comparable with the chansons de geste of Charlemagne, the
cycles of Finn and Cuchúlain of the Irish, and possibly with the little minor
epics out of which it is supposed that some supreme Greek genius built up
the artistic epics of the Iliad and the Odyssey. These bylíny may be ranked
as fiction: i.e. as facts of real life (as then understood), applied to non-
existent, unvouched, or legendary individuals. They are not bare records of
fact, like the Chronicles; imagination enters into their scope; non-human,
miraculous incidents are allowable; their content is not a matter for faith or
factual record; they may be called historical fiction, which, broadly taken,
corresponded to actual events, and typified the national strivings and ideals.
The traditional ceremonial songs, magical incantations and popular
melodies are of the same date and in the same style.
Thirdly, the folk-tales. In their matter, these differ little, if at all, from the
common Aryan stock. In their treatment, there are well-marked
divergencies. They are, in the first place, characterized by the so-called
realism that tinges all Russian literature; a better word would be factualism,
as realism is associated with the anti-romanticism that accentuates material
facts and seeks to obliterate moral factors.
This attitude of mind is rather like that of a careful observer, who has
become callous, because he is helpless—an attitude of those who serve and

stand and wait.
From the earliest Chronicles to the most modern fiction, this factualism
characterizes Russian work. It has reacted on the Folk-tales in several ways;
all the more observable as we have them fresh and ungarnished, as the
tellers told them.
The stories are not, like the German Märchen, neatly rounded off into
consequential and purposive stories. The incidents follow almost
haphazard; and at the end, the persons mentioned at the beginning may be
forgotten; the stories are often almost as casual as real life.
The stories relate experiences in succession, attempt no judgment, do not
even affirm their own credibility. Things simply happen; our exertions may
sometimes be some good; we can only be quietly resigned. But, unlike the
Arabian Nights, there is no positive fatalism; for that would imply a
judgment; a warping of facts to suit a theory.
Equally, there is none of the artistic grace of Greek legend, nor the
exuberance of Celtic fantasy; both of these are departures from the crude,
unilluded, unexpectant observation.
This unconsciously involves a perfect art with regard to detail; so much
is told as a man would remember of an experience; there is no striving after
impressionism, nor meticulous detail.
The prevailing tone is sadness; but there is no absence of humour; yet fun
merely happens, and is inherent; there is no broad, boisterous fun.
In them, unlike other Aryan folk-tales, there are no fairies, nor giants, nor
gnomes, nor personifications of nature. As in his Pagan myths, the Slav
never advanced beyond inchoate conceptions of Nature, he neither
philosophized like the Hindu, nor created types of pure grace like the
Greek, nor beautiful fancies, like the Celt. Where the river-gods
[vodyanóy], or the wood-sprites [lěši], have human form, it is to a certain
extent because they have been contaminated with the Christian Devil.
To sum up, these undiluted products of the Russian people are a faithful
mirroring of life, as it appeared, casual; for the most part unfortunate, and
inscrutable.
There are some very frequent supernatural beings. The Witch who lives
in the forest, rides the winds in a mortar, devours human flesh, lives in a hut
on cocks’ legs, is one of the commonest. The great baleful magician is

Koshchéy the Deathless, whose soul, in some stories, is contained in an egg
far away, fearsomely guarded. Historically, his ancestry is the dread Tatar,
in which figure all the previous Turanian tribes that overran medieval
Russia have been confounded.
Notes will be found dealing with all such specific persons and places.
The folk-tales are very various; some classes of them can be
distinguished.
The bestiary, or animal story, is common, and the parts which the beasts
enact are similar to the Teutonic fairy-tales.
The semi-sacred legends of the days when Christ and his Apostles
walked the earth, superficially may be compared with Grimm’s stories. But
the spirit is very different. To a very slight extent they are based on the
Gospel. But the Russian Christ of the folk-tales is a good, just, honest
peasant, with democratic sympathies, and plenty of humour. His justice is
unwavering, but tempered with sound common sense. He is kind, charitable
and thoroughly human.
The Saints also walk the earth. Saint George [Egóri] has taken over many
Pagan legends; in one of the semi-sacred bylíny [v. Bezsónov, Kalěki
Perekhózhie], he turns round the oaks and the mountains, like Vertodúb and
Vertogór, and in other bylíny of the same class the miraculous incidents of
the birth of Ilyá Múromets are attributed to him. Saint Nicholas is the
worker of miracles; and Saint Elias has had some of the powers of the
thundergod transferred to him.
Other stories are prose adaptations of the ballads, and must be considered
as such.
There are two personifications, which call for special attention, those of
Death and of Sorrow. Both are borrowed from ballad cycles. Both figures
appear as ghostly spirits, who persecute man, but yet can be very
efficaciously and roughly handled.
There are some few satires; but the large majority cannot be readily
classified. They contain the usual incidents of transformations, magic,
witches, the valorous youngest son, the beautiful princess wronged by the
evil stepmother,—in fact, the common Aryan stock, all tinged with the
characteristic Slav temperament.

Artless as these stories are, there are a few peculiar conventions in the
narration. Such are the little forewords, with their sardonic musings; the
conclusion of almost every happy tale that the narrator was at the feast, but
never might taste the viands; the references to the distances the hero must
go, which the narrator has not the knowledge to estimate accurately; the
reference to the land of these wonderful happenings, “the thrice-ninth land,
the thrice-tenth kingdom”; and many other traditional stylisms.
In conclusion, it should be stated that the store of primitive folk-lore of
the Slavs has scarcely been touched. The Slav peoples conserved primitive
Aryan customs almost up to the middle of the nineteenth century; and then
these were industriously and conscientiously compiled. Taking Russia
alone, there are collections of magic formulas, ceremonial songs of Pagan
origin, volumes of traditional ballads; and the ancient munic has also been
recorded. But Bulgaria, Little-Russia, Serbia, Bohemia, and all the Slav
countries have similar compilations; and every one of these nationalities is
as strongly individualized, as are, say, the Danes, the Dutch, and the
Germans.

These stories have been translated direct from the Russian of Afanášev;
the selection is intended to represent, as completely as possible, the
varieties of Russian folk-tale. As far as an analytic language, like modern
English, can render so highly inflected a tongue as Russian, the translator
has tried to keep strictly to the style and diction of the originals, which are
the undoctored traditional stories.

THE PRONUNCIATION OF RUSSIAN WORDS

Every Russian word has one strongly accented syllable, which is marked
with an acute accent. The vowels are to be sounded as in Italian.
Ch to be sounded as in English.
G always hard, as in ‘give,’ ‘got’: never as in ‘gem.’
J always as in English.
Kh like German ch, or Scotch ch in ‘loch.’
L when hard (e.g. before a, o, u) something like ll in ‘pull’; when soft (e.g. before e, i) like l in
French ‘vil.’
S always hard, as in ‘so.’
V as in English: at the end of words as ‘f.’
Y consonantally, as in English ‘yet’; as a vowel like ‘i’ in ‘will.’
Z always as in English.
Zh like ‘s’ in leisure, or French ‘j.’

CONTENTS

Page
Introduction v
The Pronunciation of Russian Words xi
The Dun Cow 1
A Tale of the Dead 6
A Tale of the Dead 8
A Tale of the Dead 9
The Bear, the Dog and the Cat 13
Egóri the Brave and the Gipsy 17
Danílo the Unfortunate 22
The Sorry Drunkard 30
The Wolf and the Tailor 33
The Tale of the Silver Saucer and the Crystal Apple 36
The Foundling Prince 42
The Sun and how it was Made by Divine Will 43
The Language of the Birds 45
Bába Yagá and Zamorýshek 48
The Miraculous Hen 52
Mark the Rich 61
By Command of the Prince Daniel 64
The Thoughtless Word 70
The Tsarítsa Harpist 75
The Tale of Iván Tsarévich, the Bird of Light, and the Grey Wolf 78
The Priest with the Envious Eyes 91
The Soldier and Death 96
The Midnight Dance 106
Vasilísa the Fair 109
The Animals in the Pit 119
The Poor Widow 121
Ilyá Múromets and Svyatogór the Knight 125
The Smith and the Devil 128
The Princess who would not Smile 133
The Tsarévich and Dyád’ka 137
Prince Evstáfi 145
Vasilísa Popóvna 147
The Dream 151
The Soldier and the Tsar in the Forest 154
The Tale of Alexander of Macedon 160
The Brother of Christ 162
Alyósha Popóvich 165
God’s Blessing Compasses all Things 170

Shemyák the Judge 173
A Story of Saint Nicholas 176
The Potter 185
The Witch and the Sister of the Sun 188
Márya Moryévna 192
The Realm of Stone 204
The Story of Tsar Angéy and how he Suffered for Pride 208
The Feast of the Dead 212
The Quarrelsome Wife 213
Elijah the Prophet and St. Nicholas 216
The Princess to be Kissed at a Charge 220
The Wood Sprite 223
The Realms of Copper, Silver and Gold 225
Chufíl-Fílyushka 230
Donotknow 234
The Sea Tsar and Vasilísa the Wise 243
The Animals’ Winter Quarters 256
The Story of Ilyá Múromets and the Nightingale Robber 260
Nikíta the Tanner 267
The Singing-Tree and the Speaking-Bird 269
At the Behest of the Pike 274
The Journey to Jerusalem 281
Vazúza and Vólga 282
The Enchanted Tsarévich 283
The Snake Princess 287
Beer and Bread 292
Sorrow 299
Iváshko and the Wise Woman 306
Never-wash 311
Christ and the Geese 315
Christ and Folk-songs 316
The Devil in the Dough-pan 317
The Sun, The Moon and Crow Crowson 318
The Legless Knight and the Blind Knight 321
A Cure for Story-Telling 333

Notes 335
Glossary 349

RUSSIAN FOLK-TALES

THE DUN COW

You know that there are all sorts in this world, good and bad, people who
do not fear God, and feel no shame before their own brother.

In a certain kingdom, in a certain land, there once lived a Tsar and
Tsarítsa, who had one only daughter, Márya Tsarévna. But the old Tsarítsa
died and the Tsar took to him a second wife, who was a witch. And the
witch had three daughters, one of whom had one eye, the next two eyes, and
the third had three. The stepmother could not abide Márya Tsarévna, and
sent the girl with a dun cow on to the heath, and gave her a dry crust as her
only food.
Márya Tsarévna went on to the heath, bowed down to the right foot of the
cow, and all at once was splendidly dressed, and had as much to eat and
drink as she liked. So she guarded the dun cow the whole day, and looked
as gay as any lady in the land. And at night she bowed down again in front
of the right foot, and again became shabby and went home. And the bit of
bread she took with her and offered it to her stepmother.
“Whatever is she living on?” the witch thought, and she gave her the
same piece of bread next day, and told her eldest daughter to watch what
Márya Tsarévna did.

When they reached the heath Márya Tsarévna said: “Come, little sister, I
will find a cushion for your head.” So she went to look, but whispered to
herself:
“Sleep, my sister, sleep,
Sleep, O sister mine;
One eye go to sleep,
Close that eye of thine.”

The sister went to sleep, and Márya Tsarévna stood up, went to her dear
dun cow, bowed down to the right foot, and ate, and drank, and went about
all day long like a princess.
In the evening she woke up her sister and said: “Get up, sister; get up,
dearest; and we will go home.”
“Oh! oh! oh!” her sister whimpered, “I have been asleep all day long and
have not seen anything, and mother will be so angry!”
When they got home, the stepmother asked: “What was it Márya
Tsarévna ate and drank?”
“I did not see anything.”
So the witch scolded her, and next day sent the two-eyed sister with
Márya. “Go,” she said, “and see what she eats and drinks.”
And the girls came to the heath, and Márya Tsarévna said, “Come, little
sister, I will find a cushion for your head.” So she went to search, and
whispered to herself:
“Sleep, my sister, sleep,
Sleep, O sister mine;
Two-eyes go to sleep,
Close both eyes of thine.”

Two-eyes went to sleep, and Márya Tsarévna bowed down as before, to
the right foot of the cow, and looked like a princess all day long. In the
evening she roused Two-eyes; and if the stepmother was angry before, she
was much angrier this time.
So next day she sent Three-eyes, and Márya Tsarévna sent her to sleep in
the same way; only she forgot the third eye, and that went on looking and
looking at what Márya Tsarévna did. For she ran to her dun cow’s right
foot, bowed down, and ate, and drank, and went about all day long
splendidly attired.

And when she got home she laid the dry crust on the table. And the
mother asked the daughter what Márya Tsarévna had eaten and drunk.
Three-eyes told her everything; and the witch ordered the dun cow to be
slain.
“You must be mad, woman,” said the Tsar, “it’s quite a young heifer and
so beautiful!”
“I tell you,” said the stepmother, “it must be done”; and the old Tsar
consented.
But Márya Tsarévna asked him: “Father, do at least give me a little tiny
bit out of the cow!”
The old man gave her the piece, and she planted it; and a bush with sweet
berries grew up, with little birds singing on it, singing songs fit for kings
and peasants.
Now Iván Tsarévich had heard of Márya Tsarévna, went to her
stepmother, laid a bowl on the table, and said: “Whichever of the maidens
brings me the bowl full of berries, I will marry.”
So the mother sent One-eye to get the berries. But the birds drove her
away from the bush and almost pecked out her one eye; and so with Two-
eyes and Three-eyes. At last Márya Tsarévna had to go. Márya Tsarévna
took the bowl and gathered the berries, and the little birds helped her in the
task. When she got home she put the bowl on the table and bowed down to
Iván Tsarévich. So Iván Tsarévich took Márya Tsarévna to be his wife, and
they celebrated a merry wedding and lived a happy life.
But, after a while, Márya Tsarévna bore a son. She wanted to show him
to her father, and, together with her husband, went to visit him. Then the
stepmother turned her into a goose, and decked her eldest daughter as
though she were the wife of Iván Tsarévich. And Iván Tsarévich returned
home.
The old man, who tended the children, got up early in the morning,
washed himself clean, took the child on his arm and went out to the field, to
the bush in the field. Grey geese were flying over it.
“Geese, ye grey ones, where is the baby’s mother?”
“In the next flock!”
Then the next flock came by.

“Geese, ye grey ones, where is the baby’s mother?”
Then the baby’s mother came to them, threw off her feathers, and gave
her little child the breast, and began weeping:
“For this one day I may come, and to-morrow, but the next day I must fly
away over the woods and over the hills.”
The old man went back home, and the boy slept all day long, until next
morning, and did not wake up. The false wife was angry with him for taking
the child into the fields where it must be much too cold.
But next morning the old man again got up very early, washed himself
clean, and took the child into the field. Iván Tsarévich followed him secretly
and hid in the bush. Then the grey geese began soaring by.
“Geese, ye grey ones, where is the baby’s mother?”
“In the next flock!”
Then the next flock came by.
“Geese, ye grey ones, where is the baby’s mother?”
Then the baby’s mother came to them, threw off her feathers, and gave
her little child the breast, and began weeping: “For this one day I may
come, but to-morrow I must fly away over the woods and over the hills.”
Then she asked: “What do I smell there?” and wanted to put on her
feathers again, but could not find them anywhere.
Iván Tsarévich had burnt them. He seized hold of Márya Tsarévna, but
she turned first into a frog, then into a lizard, and into all sorts of insects,
and last of all into a spindle. Iván Tsarévich took the spindle and broke it in
halves, threw the dull end behind him and the sharp one in front; and his
beautiful young wife stood in front of him, and they went home.
Then the daughter of the witch cried out: “The destroyer and the wicked
woman have come.”
But Iván Tsarévich assembled all the Princes and the boyárs, and he
asked them: “With which wife shall I live?”
They said: “With the first.”
But he answered, “My lords, whichever wife leaps quickest to the door
shall remain with me.”
So the witch’s daughter climbed up at once, but Márya Tsarévna clung
on. Then Iván Tsarévich took his gun and shot the substitute wife, and lived

happy ever after with Márya Tsarévna.

A TALE OF THE DEAD

One day a peasant was going by night with pots on his head. He
journeyed on and on, and his horse became tired and came to a spot in front
of God’s acre. The peasant ungirded the horse, set it to graze, but he could
not get any sleep. He lay down and lay down, suddenly the grave began
opening under him, and he felt it and leaped to his feet. Then the grave
opened and the corpse with the coffin lid got out, with his white shroud on;
got out and ran up to the church door, laid the coffin lid at the gate and
himself went into the village.
Now this peasant was a bold fellow: so he took the coffin lid and set it by
his teléga, and went to see what would come of it. Very soon the corpse
came back, looked about him and could not find the coffin lid anywhere,
and began to hunt for it. And at last he came up to the peasant, and said,
“Give me my coffin lid, or else I will smash you to atoms.”
“What are you bragging for?” answered the peasant, “I will break you up
into little bits.”
“Do, please, give it me, dear good man,” asked the corpse.
“Well, I will give it you if you will tell me where you have been and what
you have done.”
“Oh, I have been in the village, and I there slew two young lads!”
“Well, tell me how to revive them.”
The corpse had no choice, so he answered, “Cut off the left lappet from
my shroud and take it with you. When you come to the house where the
lads have died, scatter hot sparks into a pot and put the piece of my shirt
there, then close the door and at the breath of it they will revive at once.”
So the peasant cut off the left lappet from the shroud and gave him back
the coffin lid. Then the dead man went back into the grave and laid himself

down in it. Then the cocks crowed and he could not lock it down properly:
one corner of the coffin lid would perk upwards. The peasant noticed all
this. Day was breaking, so he yoked his horse and went into the village.
In a certain house he could hear the sound of lamentation and cries of
grief: he went in there, and two youths lay dead. “Do not weep: I can revive
them.”
“Do revive them, kinsman: half of our goods we will give you,” said the
relations.
So the peasant did as the corpse had told him, and the lads revived. The
parents were delighted, and they seized hold of the peasant, and they
pinioned him with ropes. “Now, doctor, we are going to take you up to the
authorities: if you can revive them it must be you who killed them!”
“What, good Christians! Have some fear for God!” the peasant shrieked:
and he told what he had seen at night.
Soon the news spread through the village, and the people assembled and
rushed up to the cemetery, looked at the grave out of which the corpse had
come, tore it up and dug into the dead man’s heart an oaken stake, so that he
should never rise up and kill folks. And they rewarded the peasant greatly
and led him home with honour.

A TALE OF THE DEAD

Once a carpenter was going home late at night from a strange village: he
had been at a jolly feast at a friend’s house. As he came back an old friend
met him who had died some ten years before.
“How do you do?”
“How do you do?” said the walker, and he forgot that his friend had long
ago taken the long road.
“Come along with me: let us have a cup together once more.”
“Let us go.”
“I am so glad to have met you again, let us toast the occasion.”
So they went into an izbá,[1] and they had a drink and a talk. “Well, good-
bye; time I went home!”
“Stay, where are you going? Come and stay the night with me.”
“No, brother, do not ask me: it is no good. I have business at home to-
morrow and must be there early.”
“Well, good-bye.”
“But why should you go on foot? Better come on my horse, and he will
gallop along gaily.”
“Thank you very much.”
So he sat on the horse, and the horse galloped away like a whirlwind.
Suddenly the cock crowed: it was a very terrible sight! Graves all around,
and under the wayfarer a gravestone!

A TALE OF THE DEAD

They had discharged the soldier home, and he was going on his road, it
may be far, it may be a short way, and he at last was nearing his village. Not
far from his village there lived a miller in his mill: in past times the soldier
had been great friends with him.
Why should he not go and see his friend? So he went.
And the miller met him, greeted him kindly, brought a glass of wine, and
they began speaking of all they had lived through and seen. This was
towards the evening, and whilst the soldier was the miller’s guest it had
become dark. So the soldier got ready to go into the village.
But the miller said to him, “Soldier, stay the night with me: it is late and
you might come by some mishap.”
“What?”
“A terrible sorcerer has died, and at night he rises out of the grave, ranges
about the village and terrifies the boldest: why, he might give you trouble.”
What was the use of it? Why, the soldier was a State servant, and a
soldier cannot be drowned in the sea, nor be burned in the fire! So he
answered, “I will go, for I should like to see my relatives as soon as I can.”
So he set out; and the road crossed a grave-yard. As he looked he saw a
glow on one grave. “What is it?” he said; “I must look at this.” So he went
up, and beside a fire there sat the sorcerer, sewing shoes. “Hail, brother!”
said the soldier.
So the wizard looked, and asked, “What are you doing here?”
“I only wanted to see what you are up to.”
So the wizard threw down his work, and he invited the soldier to a
wedding. “Let us go, brother, let us have a walk: there is a wedding now
going on in the village.”

“Very well,” said the soldier.
So they went to the wedding, and were royally feasted and given to eat
and drink.
The wizard drank and drank, walked about and walked about, and grew
angry, drove all the guests and the family out of the izbá,[2] scattered all the
wedding guests, took out two bladders and an awl, pricked the hands of the
bride and bridegroom and drew their blood, filling the bladders with the
blood. He did this and said to the soldier, “Now we will leave the house.”
On the road the soldier asked him, “Tell me, why did you fill the bladders
with the blood?”
“So that the bride and bridegroom might die. To-morrow nobody will be
able to wake them up: I only know one means of reviving them.”
“What is that?”
“You must pierce the heels of the bride and bridegroom and pour the
blood again into the wounds, their own blood into each. In my right pocket
I have the bridegroom’s blood hidden, and in my left, the bride’s.”
So the soldier listened and never said a single word.
But the wizard went on boasting. “I, you know, carry out whatever I
desire.”
“Can you be overcome?”
“Yes, certainly: if any one were to make a pile of aspen wood, one
hundred cartloads in all, and to burn me on the pile, it can be done; then I
should be overcome. Only you must burn me in a cunning way. Out of my
belly snakes, worms and all sorts of reptiles will creep; jackdaws, magpies
and crows will fly: you must catch them and throw them on the pile. If a
single worm escapes, it will be no good, for I shall creep out into that
worm.”
So the soldier listened and remembered. So they had a long talk, and at
last they came to the grave.
“Now, my brother,” said the wizard, “I am going to tear you to bits!
Otherwise you will tell the tale!”
“Now! Let’s argue this out! How are you going to tear me to bits; I am a
servant of God and the Tsar!”

So the wizard gnashed his teeth, howled, and threw himself on the
soldier. But he drew out his sabre and dealt a backstroke. They tussled and
struggled, and the soldier was almost exhausted. Ho, but this is a sorry
ending! Then the cocks crowed and the wizard fell down breathless.
The soldier got the bladders out of the wizard’s pockets, and went to his
relations. He went in and he greeted them. And they asked him, “Have you
ever seen such a fearful stir?”
“No, I never have!”
“Why, have you not heard? There is a curse on our village: a wizard
haunts it.”
So they lay down and went to sleep.
In the morning the soldier rose and began asking: “Is it true that there
was a wedding celebrated here?”
So his kin answered him, “There was a wedding at the rich peasant’s
house, only the bride and bridegroom died that same night. No, we don’t
know at all of what they died.”
“Where is the house?”
So they showed him, and he said never a word, and went there, got there,
and found the whole family in tears.
“What are you wailing for?”
So they told him the reason.
“I can revive the bridal couple: what will you give me?”
“Oh, you may take half of our possessions.”
So the soldier did as the wizard had bidden him, and he revived the bride
and bridegroom, and grief was turned to joy and merriment.
They feasted the soldier and rewarded him.
So he then turned sharp to the left and marched up to the stárosta[3] and
bade him assemble all the peasants and prepare one hundred cartloads of
aspen boughs. Then they brought the boughs into the cemetery, put them
into a pile and raised the wizard out of the grave, put him on the faggots and
burned him. And then all the people stood around, some with brushes,
shovels and pokers. The pile lit up gaily and the wizard began to burn. His
belly burst, and out of it crept snakes, worms and vermin of all sorts, and
there flew jackdaws and magpies. But the peasants beat them all into the

fire as they came out, and did not let a single worm escape. So the wizard
was burned, and the soldier collected his dust and scattered it to the four
winds. Henceforth there was peace in the village.
And the peasants thanked the soldier.
He stayed in his country, stayed there until he was satisfied, and then
with his money returned to the imperial service: he served his term, went on
the retired list, and then lived out his life, living happily, loving the good
things and shunning the ill.

THE BEAR, THE DOG, AND THE CAT

Once there lived a peasant who had a good dog, and as the dog grew old
it left off barking and guarding the yard and the storehouses: its master
would no longer nourish it, so the dog went into the wood and lay under a
tree to die.
Then a bear came up and asked him, “Hello, Dog, why are you lying
here?”
“I have come to die of hunger. You see how unjust people are. As long as
you have any strength, they feed you and give you drink; but when your
strength dies away and you become old they drive you from the courtyard.”
“Well, Dog, would you like something to eat?”
“I certainly should.”
“Well, come with me; I will feed you.”
So they went on.
On the way a foal met them.
“Look at me,” said the bear, and he began to claw the ground with his
paws. “Dog, O dog!”
“What do you want?”
“Look, are my eyes beautiful?”
“Yes, Bear, they are beautiful.”
So the bear began clawing at the ground more savagely still. “Dog, O
dog, is my hair dishevelled?”
“It is dishevelled, Bear.”
“Dog, O dog, is my tail raised?”
“Yes, it is raised.”

Then the bear laid hold of the foal by the tail, and the foal fell to the
ground. The bear tore her to pieces and said, “Well, Dog, eat as much as
you will, and when everything is in order, come and see me.”
So the dog lived by himself and had no cares, and when he had eaten all
and was again hungry, he ran up to the bear.
“Well, my brother, have you done?”
“Yes, I have done, and again I am hungry.”
“What! Are you hungry again? Do you know where your old mistress
lives?”
“I do.”
“Well, then, come; I will steal your mistress’s child out of the cradle, and
do you chase me away and take the child back. Then you may go back; she
will go on feeding you, as she formerly did, with bread.”
So they agreed, and the bear ran up to the hut himself and stole the child
out of the cradle: the child cried, and the woman burst out, hunted him,
hunted him, but could not catch him; so they came back, and the mother
wept, and the other women were afflicted; from somewhere or other the dog
appeared, and he drove the bear away, took the child and brought it back.
“Look,” said the woman, “here is your old dog restoring your child!” So
they ran to meet him, and the mother was very glad and joyous. “Now,” she
said, “I shall never discharge this old dog any more.” So they took him in,
fed him with milk, gave him bread, and asked him only to taste the things.
And they told the peasant, “Now you must keep and feed the dog, for he
saved my child from the bear; and you were saying he had no strength!”
This all suited the dog very well, and he ate his fill, and he said, “May
God grant health to the bear who did not let me die of hunger!” and he
became the bear’s best friend.
Once there was an evening party given at the peasant’s house. At that
time the bear came in as the dog’s guest. “Hail, Dog, with what luck are you
meeting? Is it bread you are eating?”
“Praise be to God,” answered the dog, “it is no mere living, it is butter
week. And what are you doing? Let us go into the izbá.[4] The masters have
gone out for a walk and will not see what you are doing. You come into the
izbá and go and hide under the stove as fast as you can. I will await you
there and will recall you.”

“Very well.”
And so they went into the izbá. The dog saw that his master’s guests had
drunk too much, and made ready to receive his friend. The bear drank up
one glass, then another, and broke it. The guests began singing songs, and
the bear wanted to chime in. But the dog persuaded him: “Do not sing, it
would only do harm.” But it was no good, for he could not keep the bear
silent, and he began singing his song. Then the guests heard the noise, laid
hold of a stick and began to beat him. He burst out and ran away, and just
got away with his life.
Now the peasant also had a cat, which had ceased catching mice, and
even playing tricks. Wherever it might crawl it would break something or
spill something. The peasant chased the cat out of the house. But the dog
saw that it was going to a miserable life without any food, and secretly
began bringing it bread and butter and feeding it. Then the mistress looked
on, and as soon as she saw this she began beating the dog, beat it hard, very
hard, and saying all the time, “Give the cat no beef, nor bread.”
Then, three days later, the dog went to the courtyard and saw that the cat
was dying of starvation. “What is the matter?” he said.
“I am dying of starvation: I was able to have enough whilst you were
feeding me.”
“Come with me.”
So they went away. The dog went on, until he saw a drove of horses, and
he began to scratch the earth with his paws and asked the cat, “Cat, O cat,
are my eyes beautiful?”
“No, they are not beautiful.”
“Say that they are beautiful!”
So the cat said, “They are beautiful.”
“Cat, O cat, is my fur dishevelled?”
“No it is not dishevelled.”
“Say, you idiot, that it is dishevelled.”
“Well, it is dishevelled.”
“Cat, O cat, is my tail raised?”
“No, it is not raised.”

“Say, you fool, that it is raised.” Then the dog made a dash at a mare, but
the mare kicked him back, and the dog died.
So the cat said, “Now I can see that his eyes are very red, and his fur is
dishevelled, and his tail is raised. Good-bye, brother Dog, I will go home to
die.”

EGÓRI THE BRAVE AND THE GIPSY

In a certain kingdom, in a certain land, there was a gipsy who had a wife
and seven children, and he lived so poorly that at last there was nothing in
the house to eat or to drink—not even a crust of bread. He was too idle to
work, and too much of a coward to thieve. So what could he do?
Well, the peasant went on the road and stood pondering. At this time
Egóri the Brave was passing by.
“Hail!” said the peasant. “Whither are you faring?”
“To God.”
“Why?”
“With a message from men wherewith each man should live, and
wherewith each man should busy himself.”
“Will you, then, send in a report about me to the Lord?” the peasant said,
“what He wishes me to engage in?”
“Very well—I will hand in a report,” Egóri said, and he went on his road.
So there the peasant stood, waiting for him—waiting. And when at last
he saw Egóri on his way back, he asked him at once: “Did you hand in a
report about me?”
“No,” said Egóri; “I forgot.”
So the peasant set out on his road a second time, and he again met Egóri,
who was going to God on an errand. So the gipsy asked him once more:
“Do please hand in a request on my behalf.”
“All right,” said Egóri. And he forgot again.
And so once more the peasant set out on the road, and once more met
Egóri. And he asked him for the third time: “Do please speak on my behalf
to God!”

“Yes—all right!”
“Will you forget again?”
“No, I shall not forget this time.”
Only the gipsy did not believe him. “Give me,” he said, “your golden
stirrup. I will keep it until you come back; otherwise, you may once more
forget.”
Egóri untied his golden stirrup, gave it to the gipsy, and rode on farther
with a single stirrup. Then he reached God, and he began to ask wherewith
each man should live, and wherewith each man should busy himself. In
each case he received the right order, and he was starting back. But as soon
as ever he mounted, he glanced down at the stirrup and recollected the
gipsy. So he ran back to see God and said: “Oh, I forgot. Whilst I was
coming here I met a gipsy on the way, and he asked me what he should do.”
“Oh, tell the gipsy,” the Lord said, “that his trade is from whomsoever he
take and steal, he, then, shall cheat and perjure himself.”
So Egóri went and mounted his horse, came up to the gipsy, and told
him: “I shall now tell you the truth. If you had not taken the stirrup, I should
have forgotten all about it.”
“I thought as much,” said the gipsy. “Now, for all eternity, you cannot
forget me if you only look down at your stirrup, and I shall be always in
your mind. Well, what did the Lord say to you?”
“Oh, He told me from whomsoever you take or steal you will cheat and
perjure yourself; that will be your trade.”
“Thank you very much,” said the gipsy, and he bowed down to the
ground, and went home.
“Where are you going?” said Egóri. “Give me my golden stirrup!”
“What stirrup?”
“Didn’t you take one from me?”
“How in the world could I take one from you? This is the first time I have
seen you, and I have not even had a stirrup. Before God!—I never have!”
And so the gipsy perjured himself.
What could he do? He could struggle and fight it out, Egóri could, and so
he did; but it was all no good. It is perfectly true, and the gipsy spoke the

truth: “If I had not given him the stirrup!—if I had not only known him!
Now I shall forget him no more.”
So the gipsy took the golden stirrup and began hawking it. And as he
went on his way, a fine lord came and met him. “Hullo, gipsy!” he said.
“Will you sell the stirrup?”
“Yes—all right!”
“What will you take?”
“Fifteen hundred roubles.”
“Much too dear, isn’t that?”
“Well, you see, it is all gold.”
“Very well!” said his lordship; and he put his hand into his pocket, and he
only had a thousand. “You just take this thousand, gipsy, and then give me
the stirrup: I will send you on the odd five hundred.”
“Oh, no, my lord! One thousand roubles I will certainly take, but I shall
not give up the stirrup. When you carry out your part of the bargain, then
you shall receive the stirrup.” So the lord gave him the thousand, and he
went home.
The very instant he got there he took out five hundred roubles, and sent
his man up to the gipsy, telling him to give the money to him and to take the
golden stirrup.
When his lordship’s groom came to the gipsy’s izbá,[5] “Hail, gipsy!” he
said. “How fare you, good man? I have brought you the money from his
lordship.”
“Well, give it me if you have brought it.” So the gipsy took the five
hundred roubles, and gave the man a glass of wine, and then another, until
the man had his fill.
And when he had had his fill the groom began to make his way home,
and said to the peasant: “Now give me the golden stirrup.”
“What?”
“Yes—the stirrup which you sold my master.”
“What, I sold it! I never had a golden stirrup!”
“Well, then, give me the money back.”
“What money?”

“But I just gave you five hundred roubles!”
“I have not even seen a grívennik[6]—never in my life! I looked after you
kindly, simply for the sake of our Lord, and not in the least in order to get
any money out of you.” And in this manner the gipsy had disavowed
everything.
When the master had heard of this, he instantly started out to see the
gipsy. “What on earth do you mean, you vile thief, by taking money and not
giving up the golden stirrup?”
“What golden stirrup? Now do, my lord, think a little. How is it possible
for a grey, hoary old peasant like me to possess a golden stirrup?”
Then the master became angrier and angrier, but he could not find it.
“Well, we will come to court!” he said.
“Oh, please,” the gipsy answered, “please think! How in the world can I
come in your company? You are a lord, and I am only a blockhead—I am
only a dolt and a mere hind. At least you might dress me in a fine costume
if we are to go together.” So the master dressed him in his own dress, and
they journeyed together to the town for the case to be tried.
When they came into the town, the master said: “I bought of this peasant
a golden stirrup. He took the money for it and will not deliver the chattel.”
And the peasant answered: “My Lords Justices, do you think it out for
yourselves, however could one get a golden stirrup out of a grey-haired
peasant? Why, I have not a single loaf at home. And I really cannot imagine
what this fine gentleman wants of me. Why, he will even be saying next that
I am wearing his clothes.”
“But the dress is mine!” the master shrieked out.
“There you are, my Lords Justices!”
After this the case came to an end, and the master went back home
without getting anything, and the peasant went on living merrily—living on
and gaining nothing but good.

DANÍLO THE UNFORTUNATE

Good Prince Vladímir had many henchmen and serfs in the city of Kíev,
and amongst them there was Danílo the Unfortunate, the noble. And on
Sundays Prince Vladímir used to give all his servants goblets filled with
wine, but Danílo good hard blows; and on great feast days every one was
sated, but Danílo had nothing.
On the eve of Easter Sunday Prince Vladímir summoned Danílo the
Unfortunate, and he gave him eighty score of sable skins, and he bade him
sew a shúba[7] for the feast: the sable skins were not prepared, and the
buttons had not been moulded, and the buttonholes had not been made. In
the buttons he was bidden mould the wild beasts of the wood and to sew
into the buttonholes all the seabirds.
Danílo the Unfortunate loathed the task, so he hurled it away, and he
went outside. He went out on his road and way, and shed tears. An old
woman came to meet him. “Look, Danílo,” she said, “do not rend yourself
asunder: why are you crying, Danílo the Unfortunate?”
“Oh, you old fatty!” he exclaimed, “shivers and shakes, quivers and
quakes! Be off! this has nothing to do with you!” Then he went on a little
way and thought, “Why did I bid her remove?” So he approached her again
and said, “Bábushka,[8] little dove, forgive me: this is my trouble. Prince
Vladímir has given me eighty score of sable skins, of which I am to make a
shúba in the morning. If only the buttons had been moulded and the silken
buttonholes sewn! But there are to be lions moulded on to the buttons, and
there are to be shepherds embroidered on to the buttonholes that should
have sung and warbled. How am I to set about it? It would be better for me
to drink vódka behind the counter.”
Then the old woman, with her patched skirt, said, “Oh, I am now
‘Bábushka’ and your ‘little dove’! Do you go to the border of the blue sea,

and stand in front of the grey oak: at the hour of midnight the blue sea will
boil over and Chúdo-Yúda, the Old Man of the Sea, will come out to you:
he has no hands, no feet, and he has a grey beard. Take hold of him by his
beard and beat him until he asks you, ‘Why do you beat me, Danílo the
Unfortunate?’ Then you are to answer, ‘I am beating you for this reason: let
me see the Swan,[9] the fair maiden; let her body glint through her wings,
and through her body let her bones appear, and from bone to bone let the
marrow run like a flowing string of pearls.’”
Then Danílo the Unfortunate went to the blue sea, and he stood in front
of the dusky oak: and at midnight the blue sea was disturbed and Chúdo-
Yúda, the Old Man of the Sea, appeared before him. He had no hands, he
had no feet, and his beard was grey. Danílo seized him by his beard and
began to beat him on to the grey earth. Then at last Chúdo-Yúda asked him:
“Why do you beat me, Danílo the Unfortunate?” “For this reason: let me
see the Swan, the fair maiden; let her body glint through her wings, and
through her body let her bones appear, and from bone to bone let the
marrow run like a flowing string of pearls.”
Very soon the Swan, the fair maiden, swam up to the shore, and she
spoke in this wise:
“Is it work on your way,
Or for sloth do you stay?”

“Oh, Swan, fair maiden, I have a double task: Prince Vladímir has bidden
me sew a shúba, and the sables are not prepared, the buttons are not
moulded, and the buttonholes are not sewn.”
“You take me with you, and it will all be done in time.”
Then he began to think in his thoughts, “How shall I take her with me?”
“Now, Danílo, what are you thinking?”
“I must do as you say: I will take you with me.”
So she flapped her wings, and she moved her little head, and said, “Turn
to me with your white face; we will build for ourselves a princely house.
Shake your locks, that our house may have rooms.” Then twelve youths
appeared, all of them carpenters, sawyers, stone-hewers; and they set to
work, and the house was soon ready.

Then Danílo took her by her right hand, and he kissed her on her sweet
lips, and he led her into the princely home. They sat down at a table, ate and
drank. They refreshed themselves, and their hands met at one table. “Now,
Danílo, go to rest and to bed; think of nothing else; it will all be done.” So
she laid him to sleep and herself went out to the crystal flight of steps. And
she waved her pinions and she shook her little head: “My father,” she cried,
“send me your craftsmen!”
And the twelve youths appeared and asked, “Swan-bird, fair maiden,
what do you bid us do?”
“Sew me this shúba at once: the sables are not prepared, the buttons are
not moulded, the buttonholes are not sewn.”
So they set to work: one of them made the sables ready and sewed the
shúba, one of them worked the forge and moulded the buttons, and one of
them sewed the buttonholes, and in a minute, wondrously, the shúba was
made.
Then the Swan-bird, the fair maiden, came up and woke Danílo the
Unfortunate: “Arise, my dear friend, the shúba is ready, and the church-
bells are ringing in the city of Kíev: it is time for you to arise and to prepare
for matins.”
Danílo arose, put on the shúba, and went: she looked out of the window,
stayed, gave him a silver staff, and bade him, “When you leave matins,
stand on the right side of the choir as the choir leave, raise your hands and
strike the sable shúba, and the birds will sing joyously and the lions roar
fearsomely. Then take the shúba from your shoulders and array Prince
Vladímir at that instant, lest he forget us. He will then summon you as a
guest, and will give you a glass of wine. Do not drink the glass to the
bottom: if you drink it to the bottom no good will befall you; and do not
boast of me: do not boast that we built a house together in a single night.”
Danílo took the silver staff and hied away, and she again stayed him on
his course, and she gave him three little eggs, two of silver, one of gold, and
said, “With the silver eggs give the Easter greeting to the Prince and the
Princess, but the golden one keep and live your life along with it.”
Danílo the Unfortunate bade farewell to her and went to matins. All the
people wondered. “Look what a fine man Danílo the Unfortunate has
become: he has made the shúba and he has brought it with him for the
feast.”

After the Mass, he went up to the Prince and Princess, and he gave them
the Easter greeting, but carelessly took out the golden egg. Alyósha
Popóvich saw this, the Mocker of Women. As they went out of the church,
Danílo the Unfortunate struck himself on the breast with the silver staff, and
the birds sang and the lions roared; and all the folk were amazed and gazed
at Danílo. But Alyósha Popóvich, the Mocker of Women, dressed himself as
a sorry beggar and asked for holy alms. They all gave to him; only Danílo
the Unfortunate alone said and thought, “What shall I give him? I have
nothing to give.” So, as it was Easter Day, he gave him the golden egg.
Alyósha Popóvich took that golden egg and changed into his former garb.
Prince Vladímir summoned them all to him, all to his palace to dessert:
so they ate and drank and were refreshed, and they exalted themselves.
Danílo drank until he was drunk; and, when he was drunk, made boast of
his wife. Alyósha Popóvich bragged at the feast that he knew Danílo’s wife.
But Danílo said, “If you know my wife you may cut off my head; and, if
you do not know her, you shall forfeit your own.”
So Alyósha Popóvich, the Mocker of Women, went whither his eyes
might go, and he went and wept.
Then the old woman met him on his way and asked, “Why are you
weeping, Alyósha Popóvich?”
“Go away, old woman with the swollen belly; I have naught to do with
you.”
“Yet I shall be of service to you.”
Then he began to ask her, “O my own grandmother, what did you wish to
tell me?”
“Ha! am I now your own grandmother?”
“O, I was boasting I knew Danílo’s wife!”
“O bátyushka,[10] how do you know her: was there any little bird that told
you? Do you go up to a certain house and invite her to feast with the Prince.
She will wash herself, busk herself, and put a little chain out of the window.
You take that chain and show it to Danílo the Unfortunate.”
So Alyósha Popóvich, the Mocker of Women, went to the window jamb,
and called the Swan-bird, the fair maiden, to dine with the Prince. She was
starting to wash herself, busk herself, and make ready for the feast, and that

moment Alyósha Popóvich seized her little chain, ran up into the palace,
and showed it to Danílo the Unfortunate.
So Prince Vladímir said to Danílo the Unfortunate, “I see now that you
must forfeit your head.”
“Let me go home and bid farewell to my wife.” So he went home and
said, “O fair Swan-maiden, what have I done? I became drunk and I
bragged of you and have lost my life.”
“I know it all, Danílo the Unfortunate. Go, summon the Prince and
Princess here as your guests, and all the burghers and generals and field-
marshals and boyárs.”
“But the Prince will not come out in the mud and the mire!” (For the
roads were bad, and the blue sea became stormy; the marshes surged and
opened.)
“You are to tell him: ‘Have no fear, Prince Vladímir: across the rivers
have been built hazel-tree bridges, the transoms are of oak covered with
cloth of purple and with nails of tin. The shoes of the doughty warrior will
not be soiled, nor will the hoofs of his horse be smeared.’”
So Danílo the Unfortunate invited them as guests; and the Swan-bird, the
fair maiden, stepped out to her window, flapped her wings, shook her little
head, and there was a bridge laid from her house to the palace of Prince
Vladímir. It was covered with cloth of purple, tacked in with tacks of tin;
and on one side flowers grew, nightingales sang, and on the other side apple
trees and fruits bloomed and ripened.
The Prince and Princess made ready to be guests, and they set out on
their journey with all their noble host with them, crossed the first river,
which ran with splendid beer. And very many soldiers fell down by that
beer. Then they advanced to the second river, which ran with wonderful
mead, and more than half of the brave host bent down to drink the mead
and rolled on their sides. So they came to the third river, which ran with
glorious wine. Here all the officers bent down and drank till they were
drunk. At the fourth river powerful vódka flowed. And the Prince looked
backwards: all of his generals were lying on their backs. Only the Prince
was left with three companions—with the Princess, Alyósha Popóvich, the
Mocker of Women, and Danílo the Unfortunate.

Then the invited guests arrived, and they entered into the lofty palace:
there were tables standing, and the table-cloths were of silk, and the chairs
painted with many colours. They sat down at the tables: there were all sorts
of dishes and of foreign drinks. There were no bottles, no mere pints—
entire rivers flowed! Prince Vladímir and the Princess drank nothing, tasted
nothing, only looked on. When would the Swan, the fair maiden, come out?
And they sat long at the table, waited for her long, until it was time to go
home. Danílo the Unfortunate called her once, and twice, and a third time,
but she would not come and see her guests.
Alyósha Popóvich, the Mocker of Women, then said, “If this had been
my wife I should have taught her to obey!”
Then the Swan-bird, the fair maiden, came out and stood at the window,
and she said these words: “This is how we teach our husbands!” And so she
flapped her wings, moved her little head, and flew about: and there the
guests sat on mounds in the bog.
One way the waters tossed,
On the other lay woe,
On the third side naught but moss,
On the fourth side—Oh!

“Get up, Prince, and avaunt! Let Danílo sit at the head of the table.”
So they went back all the way to their palace, and they were covered with
mud from head to foot.

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

THE SORRY DRUNKARD

Once there lived an old man, and he was such a sorry drunkard as words
cannot describe. He used to go to the drinking-booth, drink green wine, and
crawl away home through the hops. And his road lay across a river.
When he came to the river, he did not dally to think; but slipped off his
boots, hung them on his head, and wandered at ease till he came into the
middle, stumbled and fell into the water, and was heard of no more.
But he had a son, Ugly Peter, Petrúsha. When Petrúsha saw that his father
had vanished utterly, he became melancholy, and wept, had a Requiem
Mass sung for his soul, and began to administer the property.
One day, on a Sunday, he went to church to pray to God. As he was going
on his way, in front of him there was a woman crawling along, going
slowly, slowly, stumbling on the reeds, and scolding hard: “What the devil
knocks you against me!”
Petrúsha heard her ugly language, and said: “Good-day, Auntie; where
are you going?”
“I am off to church, Gossip, to pray to God.”
“But is not it very sinful of you, going to church to pray to God, and then
invoking the Unholy Spirit? You stumbled, and then invoked the devil!”
Well, he went on, and he heard Mass, and went on and on; and suddenly,
from somewhere or other, there stood in front of him a fine youth who
bowed down to him and said: “Thank you, Petrúsha, for your good word.”
“What are you? Why do you thank me?” Petrúsha asked.
“Oh, I am the Devil, and I am thanking you because when the old woman
was stumbling along and barking at me uselessly, you put in a good word
for me.” And he began to beseech him: “Do come, Petrúsha, and be my
guest, and I will give you a reward—gold and silver—all you wish.”

“All right!” said Petrúsha; “I will come.”
And the Devil gave him his directions, and instantly vanished, and
Petrúsha went back home.
Next day Petrúsha went to pay a visit to the Devil—went on and went on
for three whole days; and he got into a deep wood—into the dreary and
darksome forest where he could not see the sky. And in that forest there
stood a rich palace; and when he came to the palace, a fair maiden saw him.
She had been stolen from a village by the Unholy Spirit. She saw him and
asked: “Why have you come here, doughty youth? Here the devils live, and
they will tear you to tatters.”
Petrúsha told her how and why he had come to this palace.
“Well, look you to it,” the fair maiden said; “the devils are going to give
you gold and silver—do not take any of it. Only ask them to give you the
sorry horse on which the unholy spirits load their fuel and water. This horse
is your father. When he got drunk and fell into the water, the devils instantly
got hold of him, turned him into a horse, and now he serves as the beast of
burden to carry their wood and water for them.”
Then that same youth came forward who had invited Petrúsha to pay him
a visit, and he began to entertain him with all sorts of sweetmeats and
drinks. Then the time came for Petrúsha’s departure home.
“As a parting gift,” the Devil said to him, “I will give you money, and a
splendid horse, and you shall ride home royally.”
“This is of no use to me,” Petrúsha answered. “But if you will give me
anything, give me that sorry jade—that battered jade which carries your
wood and water.”
“Whatever use is that sorry nag to you? Why, you will hardly get home
on it! Why, it tumbles down if you look at it!”
“I don’t mind about that; give it to me; it is the only thing I will take.”
So the devils gave him the sorry jade. Petrúsha took it and led it out to
the entrance. As soon as he was at the outside, he met the fair maiden, who
asked: “Have you got the horse?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Then, fair youth, when you arrive at your village, take the cross off from
your neck and pass it round the horse three times, and then hang the cross

on its head.”
Petrúsha bowed down to her, and set on his way; and he arrived at his
village, and did all the maiden had commanded: took his copper cross from
his neck, passed it three times round the horse, and hung the cross on its
head. And all at once it was the horse no longer; but, instead, became his
own father.
The son looked at the father, shed hot tears, and took him into his own
izbá.[11] The old man lived for three days without speaking, and could not
unseal his tongue. After that, they lived on in all good luck and happiness.
The old man altogether forsook being drunk; and to his last day not a
drop of wine passed his lips.

THE WOLF AND THE TAILOR

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

One day they were still on their road, going on a long, long road, and a
wolf met them and said: “Lord, I am feeling hungry.”
“Go,” Christ said to him, “and eat a mare.”
So the wolf went to look for a mare.
And he saw her going up and down, and said: “Mare, the Lord has
bidden me eat you!”
So she answered: “Well, please do not eat me—it is not the proper thing.
But I have a passport on me; only it is driven in very hard.”
“Well, show it me.”
“Just come near my hind feet!”
So the wolf went up, and she kicked him with her hoofs, and knocked out
his front teeth, so that the wolf was thrown, at a blow, three sazhéns[13]
away, and the mare ran off.
Back the wolf came with a petition, met Christ, and said: “Lord, the mare
almost killed me!”
“Well, go on and eat the ram.”
So the wolf ran up to the ram—ran up and said: “Ram, I am going to eat
you—it is the command of the Lord.”
“Well, come and eat me up if you will. I will stand on the hill, and will
jump up into your mouth all ready.”
So the wolf stood on the hill, and the ram told him to open his mouth. So
the wolf went and stood on the hill and opened his mouth for the food, and

the ram ran down and hit him hard with the horns on his forehead—whack!
The wolf was knocked off his feet, and the ram went away. And the wolf
got up, looked all round, and there was never a sign of the ram.
So he went up with another complaint. And he found Christ and said:
“Lord, even the ram has deceived me. Why, it almost knocked me to bits.”
“All right!” said Christ, “go and eat the tailor.”
So the wolf ran up, and he met a tailor on the way. “Tailor,” he said, “I
am going to eat you, by command of the Lord.”
“All right. Let me say good-bye—I should like to greet my kin.”
“No, I cannot let you say good-bye with your kin.”
“Well, I cannot help it—it must be so. Come and eat me up. Only at least
let me take your measurements. I only want to see whether I shall slip in
easily.”
“All right!—measure away,” said the wolf.
So the tailor went back, took hold of the wolf by his tail, twined his tail
round in his hand, and began to whip the wolf. And the wolf struggled and
tussled, roared and shrieked, and tore until he tore his tail loose, and he then
took to his feet. So he ran away with all of his might, and he met seven
other wolves. They said: “Why are you, grey wolf, tailless?”
“Oh, the tailor tore it out.”
“Where is the tailor?”
“You see him there, on the road.”
“All right—we will hunt after him.” And they started after the tailor.
When the tailor heard the chase coming after him, and saw that it was a
disagreeable business, he scaled up a tree as fast as he could. So the wolves
arrived there and said: “We will stop here, brothers, and wait until the tailor
comes down. Do you, manx-wolf, stop below, and we will each of us climb
on the other’s shoulders.” So the manx-wolf lay at the bottom, and all the
seven wolves went after the others and climbed up.
When the tailor saw his ill-fate coming so near him, for they were nearer
and nearer, he cried out to the top one: “It is nobody’s fault, only the manx-
wolf’s!” So the manx-wolf was frightened, and jumped out from below and
ran off. All the seven wolves tumbled down and chased after him, caught

him up, and tore him to bits. But the tailor slid down the tree and went back
home.

THE TALE OF THE SILVER SAUCER AND
THE CRYSTAL APPLE

Once a peasant lived with his wife, and they had three daughters: two
were finely dressed and clever, but the third was a simple girl; the sisters
and the father and mother as well called her the Little Fool. They hustled
the Little Fool, thrust her about this way and that and forced her to work.
She never said a word and was always ready to weed the grass, break off
lamp-splinters, feed the cows and ducks, and whatever anybody asked for
the Little Fool would bring. They had only to say, “Fool, go and fetch this!”
or “Fool, come and look here!”
One day the peasant went with his hay to the fair, and he asked his
daughters, “What shall I bring you as your fairing?”
One daughter asked, “Buy me some red cloth for a sarafan.” The other
asked, “Buy me some scarlet nankin.” But the Fool sat still and said
nothing.
Well, after all, the Fool was his daughter, and her father felt sorry for her,
so he asked her, “What would you like to have, Fool?”
So the Fool smiled and said, “Buy me, my own father, a silver saucer and
a crystal apple.”
“What do you mean?” asked the sisters.
“I should then roll the apple on the saucer, and should speak words which
an old woman taught me in return for my giving her a loaf of white bread.”
So the peasant promised, and went away.
Whether he went far or near, whether he took long or short, anyhow he
went to the fair, sold his hay, bought the fairings, gave his one daughter the
scarlet nankin, the other the red cloth for a sarafan and the Fool a silver
saucer and a crystal apple. He came back home and he showed them. Both

sisters were overjoyed, sewed sarafans, and mocked the Fool, and waited to
see what she would do with her silver saucer and crystal apple. But the Fool
did not eat the apple, but sat in a corner and whispered, “Roll, roll, roll,
little apple, on the silver saucer, and show me all the cities and the fields, all
the woods and the seas, and the heights of the hills and the fairness of
heaven.”
Then the apple rolled about on the saucer; a transparency came over the
silver; and, on the saucer, all the cities, one after the other, became visible,
all the ships on the seas, and the regiments in the fields, and the heights of
the mountains, and the beauties of the sky. Sunset appeared after sunset and
the stars gathered in their nocturnal dances: it was all so beautiful and so
lovely as no tale can tell and no pen can write.
Then the sisters looked on and they became envious and wanted to take
the saucer away from their sister, but she would not exchange her saucer for
anything else in the world. So the evil sisters walked about, called out and
began to talk. “Oh, my darling sisters, let us go into the wood and pick
berries and look for wild strawberries!” So the Fool gave her saucer to her
father and herself went into the wood. She wandered about with her sisters,
plucked the strawberries, and saw a spade lying on the grass; then the other
sisters took the spade and began beating the Fool with it, slew the Fool,
buried her under a silver birch, and came back to their father late at night,
saying, “The Little Fool ran away from us, we could not find her, we went
all over the wood searching for her. We suppose the wolves must have eaten
her up.” But the father was sorry. She was a Fool, but she was his daughter
after all, and so the peasant wept for his daughter, took the silver saucer and
the apple, put them into a coffer and locked them up. And the sisters also
wept for her.
Soon a herd came by and the trumpet sounded at dawn. But the shepherd
was taking his flock, and at dawn he sounded his trumpet and went into the
wood to look for a little lamb. He saw a little hummock beside a silver
birch, and on it all around ruby-red and azure flowers, and bulrushes
standing above the flowers. So the young shepherd broke a bulrush, made a
pipe of it, and a wonderful wonder happened, a marvellous marvel: the pipe
began of itself to sing and to speak. “Play on, play on, my little pipe.
Console my father, console my guiding light, my father, and tell my mother

of me, and my sisters, the little doves. For they killed me, the poor one, and
for a silver saucer have severed me from light, all for my enchanted apple.”
People heard and ran together, the entire village thronged round the
shepherd, asked him who had been slain. There was no end to the question.
“Good folks all,” said the shepherd, “I do not know anything about it. I was
looking for a little sheep in the wood, and I saw a knoll, on the knoll
flowers, and a bulrush over the knoll. I broke off a bulrush, carved myself a
pipe out of it, and the pipe began singing and speaking of itself.”
Now it so happened that the father of the Little Fool was there, heard the
words of the shepherd, wanted to lay hold of the pipe, when the pipe began
singing, “Play on, play on, little pipe: this is my father; console him with
my mother. My poor little self they slew, they withdrew from the white
world, all for the sake of my silver vessel and crystal apple.”
“Lead us, shepherd,” said the father, “where you broke off the bulrush.”
So they followed the shepherd into the wood and to the knoll, and they were
amazed at the beautiful flowers, ruby-red, sky-blue, that grew there.
Then they began to dig up the knoll and discovered the dead body. The
father clasped his hands, groaned as he recognised his unfortunate daughter,
saw her lying there slain, not knowing by whom she had been buried. And
all the good folks asked who had been the slayers, who had been the
murderers. Then the pipe began playing and speaking of itself. “O my light,
my father, my sisters called me to the wood: they killed me here to get my
saucer, my silver saucer, and my crystal apple. You cannot raise me from
my heavy sleep till you get water from the Tsar’s well.”
The two envious sisters trembled, paled, and their soul was in flames.
They acknowledged their guilt. They were seized, bound, locked up in a
dark vault at the Tsar’s pleasure. But the father set out on his way to the
capital city. The road was long or short. At last he reached the town and
came up to the palace. The Tsar, the little sun, was coming down the golden
staircase. The old man bowed down to the earth and asked for the Tsar’s
mercy. Then the Tsar, the hope, said, “Take the water of life from the Tsar’s
well. When your daughter revives, bring her here with the saucer, the apple,
and the evil-doing sisters.”
The old man was overjoyed, bowed down to earth and took the phial with
the living water, ran into the wood to the flowery knoll, and took up the
body. As soon as ever he sprinkled it with the water his daughter sprang up

in front of him alive, and hung like a dove upon her father’s neck. All the
people gathered together and wept. The old man went to the capital city. He
was taken into the Tsar’s rooms. The Tsar, the little sun, appeared, saw the
old man with his three daughters, two tied by the hands, and the third
daughter like a spring flower, the light of Paradise in her eyes, with the
dawn on her face, tears flowing in her eyes, falling like pearls.
The Tsar looked and was amazed, and was wroth with the wicked sisters.
He asked the fair maiden, “Where are your saucer and the crystal apple?”
Then she took the little coffer out of her father’s hands, took out the
apple and the saucer, and herself asked the Tsar, “What do you want to see,
O Tsar my Emperor? Would you like to see your powerful cities, your
valorous hosts, your ships on the sea, or the wonderful stars of the sky?”
And she let the crystal apple roll about on the silver saucer, and on the
saucer one after the other all the towns appeared in their shape; all the
regiments with their banners and their arquebuses standing in warlike array,
the leaders in front of the lines and the colonels in front of the platoons and
the sergeants in front of their companies. And the guns fired and the shots
flew, and the smoke wreathed and writhed: it was all visible to the eye.
Then again the apple rolled about on the saucer, the crystal on the silver,
and the sea could be seen billowing on the shore, and the ships swimming
like swans, flags flying, issuing from the stern, and the noise of guns and
cannon-smoke arriving like wreaths, all visible to the eye. Then again the
apple rolled on the saucer, the crystal on the silver, and the sky was red on
the saucer, and little sun after little sun made its round, and the stars
gathered on their dance. The Tsar was amazed at this wonder.
But the fair maiden was lost in tears and fell down at the Tsar’s feet and
begged for mercy, saying, “Tsar, your Majesty,” she said, “take my silver
saucer and crystal apple if you will only forgive my sisters, and do not
destroy them for my sake.”
And the Tsar was melted by her tears and pardoned them at her request.
She for sheer joy shouted out and fell upon her sisters. The Tsar looked
round, was amazed, took the fair maiden by the hand, said to her in a kindly
voice, “I must for your goodness love your beauty: will you be my wife and
the Tsarítsa of my fair realm?”
“Tsar, your Majesty,” answered the fair maiden, “it is your imperial will,
but it is the father’s will which is law amongst the daughters, and the

blessing of their mother. If my father will, if my mother will bless me, I
will.”
Then the father bowed down to earth, and he sent for the mother, and the
mother blessed her.
“Yet I have one word more for you,” said the fair maiden to the Tsar: “Do
not separate my kin from me, let my mother and my father and my sisters
remain with me.”
Then the sisters bowed down to her feet, and said, “We are not worthy!”
“It has all been forgotten, my beloved sisters,” she said to them; “ye are
my kin, ye are not strangers. He who bears in mind an ill bygone has lost
his sight.” And as she said this, she smiled and raised her sisters up.
And her sisters wept from sheer emotion, as the rivers flow, and would
not rise from the ground.
Then the Tsar bade them rise and looked on them kindly, bidding them
remain in the city.
There was a feast in the palace: the front steps glittered and glowed as
though with flame, like the sun enwreathed in his beams. The Tsar and the
Tsarítsa sat on a chariot, and the earth trembled, and the people ran up
crying out, “Long live the Tsar and Tsarítsa!”

THE FOUNDLING PRINCE

Once upon a time there was a Tsar and Tsarítsa who had only one son.
The Tsar one day had to leave home, and in his absence a disaster befell
them; the Tsarévich disappeared. They searched and searched for the
Tsarévich, dragging the ponds. Not a breath nor a sound could be heard of
him. So fifteen years went by, until at last the Tsar received news that in a
certain village a peasant had found a child who was a wonder for his beauty
and his cleverness.
So the Tsar ordered the peasant to be brought to him as soon as possible:
he was brought, and the Tsar began asking him where he had found the boy.
The peasant explained that he had found him fifteen years ago in a corn-
kiln, with strange and rich clothing on him; and by every sign he was the
Tsar’s own son.
So the Tsar told the peasant, “Tell your foundling that he is to come to me
neither naked nor dressed, nor on foot nor on horseback, neither by day nor
by night, neither in the courtyard nor in the street.”
So the peasant went back home, wept and told the boy. How on earth was
it to be done!
But the boy replied, “That is easy enough: I can guess this riddle.”
So he took and undressed himself from head to foot, put a net on himself,
came on a goat, came up to the Tsar at twilight, and mounted the goat at the
gate, leaving the fore-feet of the goat on the courtyard and the hind feet in
the street.
When the Tsar saw this, he became convinced and said, “This must be
my son!”

THE SUN AND HOW IT WAS MADE BY
DIVINE WILL

The Sun is thirty times the size it appears: looks very small because it is
very high up from the earth.
The Sun has an apparel and a crown which would befit a Tsar, and fifteen
thousands of angels of the Lord accompany him and deck him every day.
And when the Sun wanes to the West, then the angels strip off from him
that garb and crown which would befit a Tsar, and lay it on the throne of the
Lord.
Three angels remain with the Sun and make him ready, and God has
consigned one hundred angels to enrobe the Sun in an apparel and a crown
meet for a Tsar.
And when the Sun arises from the East crossing to the West, then fiery
phœnixes and the Ksálavy of paradise fly in front of the Sun, but first wet
their wings in the waters of the ocean and asperse with their wings the Sun
that he may not sear them with his golden rays.
But from the fire of the Sun the feathers even of these birds are
consumed, because they are scorched away. And they again bathe in the
ocean and are renewed.
For this reason the cock is a prophet, and it has under its wings a white
feather belonging to the other birds.
And when the Sun wanes to the West, then the cock’s feathers warp.
But when the Lord’s angels take the dress and the crown from the throne
of the Lord, the cock awakens, lifts up his voice, flutters with his wings, the
first time to announce the resurrection to the world and to tell the angels of
the law; then to say: “O Christ, Giver of Light, look down on us and bestow
on the world Thy light”; and the third time to sing: “Christ is the Life and

accomplishes all things.” And thus the cock sings to the light, magnifies its
Creator, and announces joy to the just. Amen.

THE LANGUAGE OF THE BIRDS

In a certain city there was a merchant and his wife and their son, who
was wise beyond his years; he was called Vasíli. Once all three were
lunching together, and in a cage there was a Nightingale singing over the
table, singing so woefully that the merchant could not bear it, and he said,
“If there ever were a man who could really tell me what that Nightingale is
saying and the doom he is foreboding, I should like to meet him: I would
give him in my life half of my possessions, and after my death I would
bequeath him many goods.”
Then the little boy, who was only six years old, looked his father and
mother fixedly in the eyes and said, “I know what the Nightingale is
singing, only I am frightened of saying it.”
“Speak out openly,” said the mother and father.
And then Vasíli said with tears, “The Nightingale is foretelling that a time
and season is coming when you will be my servants, when father will draw
me water and mother will give me the towel to wipe my face and hands.”
These words made the merchant and his wife very angry, so they decided
to get rid of their child; they built a little boat, and in the dark of night, put
the sleeping boy into it and let it sail into the open sea.
Just then the prophetic Nightingale flew out of its cage into the boat and
sat on the boy’s shoulder. Then the boat came to the seashore, and a ship
came to meet it with all its sails spread. The master of the ship saw the boy,
pitied him, adopted him, asked him questions, promised to keep and love
him as if he were his own son.
Next day the boy said to his new father, “The Nightingale foretells that a
storm is brewing which will break the masts and shatter the sails. You must
go back to the haven.”

But the master of the ship would not go. And a storm arose at once, and
the masts were shattered, and the sails torn down. It was no good, what is
ended cannot be mended, so new masts were built and new sails were
rigged. And they sailed on further.
Again Vásya said, “The Nightingale sings that there are twelve ships
coming to meet us, all pirate ships, and they will take us prisoner.”
This time the master of the ship believed him, and returned to the island,
and he saw the twelve bold pirates go sailing by. So the master of the ship
waited as long as need be, and then sailed further.
Some time went by, not too much, not too little, and the ship arrived at
the city of Khvalynsk; and, for very many years, in front of the palace of the
King of Khvalynsk, a Crow, with his wife and child, had been flying and
screeching, giving no rest either by day or night. Whatever they did,
whatever gins they might set, they could not drive them off from the
window. Small shot was not any good. And so that King ordained that at
every cross-road and at all the harbours this notice should be exhibited:
“If any man can drive away the Crow, with his wife and child,
from the royal windows, the King will grant him as a reward
half of his kingdom, and his youngest daughter as wife—but if
any shall undertake the work and shall not fulfil it he shall
forfeit his head.”

Very many were the hunters eager to become kinsmen of the King, and
all of their heads had been hewn off and hung on stakes.
Now Vasíli heard of this, went up and asked the master of the ship, “Let
me go to the King; possibly I can chase away the Crow and his wife.”
They endeavoured to deter him, but failed. “Very well, go. And if you
come by any harm, put the blame on yourself!”
So Vasíli came into the palace, told the King, and ordered the windows to
be opened in front of which the Crows were flying. He then listened to what
the birds were saying, and told the King, “Your Majesty, you see that there
are three flying here, the Crow, Madam Crow, and Master Crow: the Crow
is disputing with his wife as to which of them the son belongs, whether to
the father or to the mother; and they are asking for a decision. Your Majesty,
decide to whom it is the son belongs.”
The King answered, “To the father.”

As soon as the King had said this, the Crow with Master Crow sailed to
the right, but Madam Crow to the left.
After this the King took the youth unto himself, and he lived at the royal
court and received the greatest kindness and honour, grew up and became a
youth of youths, married the Princess, and received half of the kingdom as a
dowry.
One day he thought he would like to journey to foreign parts and see
strange lands, view the folks of the world, and show himself. So he set out
to roam through the world. In one city he stayed for a night, passed the
night there, got up in the morning and said he wished to wash. So the
master brought him water and the mistress brought him the towel. The
King’s son spoke with them, and then saw that they were his father and
mother, wept for joy, and fell at the feet of his parents. Afterwards he took
them with him to his own city of Khvalynsk, and they lived together long,
and lived to enjoy good.

BÁBA YAGÁ AND ZAMORÝSHEK

Once upon a time there lived an old man and his old wife, and they had
no children, and what on earth did they not do to get them! How did not
they beseech God! But for all that the wife bore no children. One day the
old man went into the forest to look for mushrooms, and an old gaffer met
him.
“I know your thoughts. You are thinking of children,” he said. “Go to the
village and collect one little egg from every house and put a brood hen over
them, and, what will ensue, you will yourself see.”
Now there were forty-one houses in the village. The old man went and
collected the eggs and put a brood hen over them. Two weeks later he and
his wife went to see, and they found that there were children born of the
eggs, and they looked again and they found that forty of the children were
fine, strong and healthy, and there was one who was a weakling.
So the old man gave them names. But he had no name left for the last, so
he called him Zamorýshek.[14] And these children grew up not by days, but
by hours, and they shot up fast and began to work and to help the mother
and father. The forty of them used to go into the fields whilst Zamorýshek
stayed at home. When the harvesting season came on the forty began
making the hayricks, and in a single week all the ricks were put up. So they
came back home to the village, lay down, slept, and ate of the fare God
provided.
The old man looked at them and said, “Young and green, goes far, sleeps
sound, and leaves the work undone!”
“You go and see, bátyushka,”[15] said Zamorýshek.
So the old man went into the fields and saw forty ricks standing. “Ah,
these are fine boys of mine! Look at all they have harvested in one week!”

Next day he went out again to gloat on his possessions, and found one rick
was a-missing. He came home and said, “One rick has vanished.”
“Never mind, bátyushka,” said Zamorýshek, “we will catch the thief:
give me a hundred roubles, and I will do the deed.”
Then Zamorýshek went to the smith and asked for a chain big enough to
cover a man from head to foot.
And the smith said, “Certainly.”
“Very well, then: if the chain hold, I will give you one hundred roubles; if
it break, your labour’s lost.”
The smith forged the chain; Zamorýshek put it round him, stretched it,
and it broke. So the smith made a second iron chain, Zamorýshek put it
round his body, and it again broke. Then the smith made a third chain, three
times as strong, and Zamorýshek could not break it.
Zamorýshek then went and sat under the hayrick and waited. At midnight
a sudden storm rose and the sea raged, and a strange nag rose out of the sea,
ran up to the rick and began to eat it. Zamorýshek bound the neck round
with chains and mounted her. The mare began to gallop over the valleys and
over the hills, and she reared, but she could not dislodge the rider; and at
last she stopped and said in a human voice: “Now, good youth, now you can
mount me, you may become master of my foals.” Then she ran under the
sea and neighed, and the sea opened and up ran forty-one foals; and they
were such fine foals, every single horse was better than every other horse.
You might go round the entire earth and never see any horses as good.
Next morning the old man heard neighing outside his door, and wondered
what the noise was, and there was his son Zamorýshek with the entire
drove. “Good!” he said. “Now, my sons, ye had better go and hunt for
brides.” So off they went. The mother and father blessed them, and the
brothers set forth on their distant way and road.
They rode far in the white world in order to seek their brides. For they
would not marry separately, and what mother could they find who should
boast of having forty-one daughters?
And they went across thirteen countries, and they then saw a steep
mountain which they ascended, and there there stood a white stone palace
with high walls round and iron columns and gates where they counted

forty-one columns. So they tied their knightly horses to each of the stakes,
and they entered.
Then the Bába Yagá met them and said: “O ye unlooked-for, uninvited
guests, how did you dare without leave to tie your horses to my stakes?”
“Come, old lady, what are you complaining of? First of all give us food
and drink, take us into the bath, and thereafter ask us for our news, and
question us.”
So the Bába Yagá served them with food and drink, conducted them to
the bath, and then afterwards she asked them: “Have ye come to do deeds,
doughty youths, or to flee from deeds?”
“We have come to do deeds, grandmother,” they said.
“What have ye come to seek?”
“We are seeking brides.”
Then she replied, “I have daughters.” And she burst into the lofty rooms
and brought out her forty-one daughters.
They were then betrothed, and began to feast together and celebrate the
marriage.
When the evening came Zamorýshek went to look at his horse, and the
good horse saw him and spoke with a human voice. “See to this, my master:
when you lie down with your young wives, dress them in your clothes, and
put on your wives’ clothes, otherwise you will all be killed.”
Then they all went and lay down, and they all went to sleep, only
Zamorýshek took care to keep his eyes open.
And at midnight Bába Yagá cried out in a loud voice: “Ho, ye my faithful
servants! Will ye cut off the heads of my insolent and uninvited guests?”
And so the servants ran and cut off the daughters’ heads.
Zamorýshek roused his brothers and told them what had happened. So
they took the heads with them, put them on the forty-one stakes, armed
themselves and galloped off.
In the morning the Bába Yagá got up, looked through her little window,
and saw the heads on the stakes. She was very angry, and she called for her
fiery shield, and leapt out on the chase, and set to waving her fiery shield in
all directions to the four winds.

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

THE MIRACULOUS HEN

Beyond thrice-nine lands, in the thrice-tenth realm—it was not in our
kingdom—once an old man and an old woman lived in great need and
poverty. They had two sons, who were very young and as yet of no use for
field work. So the old man got up himself, and himself did all the work; he
went out and looked after the labourers, and for all that he could only earn a
few pence.
As he was going home one day he met a sorry drunkard, who had a hen
in his hands. “Will you, old man, buy my hen?”
“What do you want for it?”
“Give me fifty kopeks for it.”
“No, brother; take these few pence—that will be enough for you; you
will get a pint and can drink it out on your way home and go to sleep.”
So the drunkard took the pence and gave the old man the hen.
Then the old man returned home. But they were very hungry there; there
was not a crust of bread. “Here,” he said, as he came in, to his wife, “here is
a hen I have bought you.”
But his wife turned on him fiercely and scolded him. “What an old fool
you are! You must have gone utterly mad: our children are sitting down at
home without any bread, and you buy a hen which you must feed!”
“Hold your tongue, foolish woman; does a hen eat so much? Why, she
will lay us an egg and will bring us chicks; we can sell the chicks and then
buy bread.”
So the old man made a little nest and he put the hen under the stove. In
the morning he looked, and the hen had laid a jewel of absolutely natural
colours. So the old man said to his wife, “Now, old lady; amongst other
folks the hens lay eggs, but our hen lays jewels: what shall we do?”

“Take it into the city; possibly somebody may buy it.”
So the old man went into the city, went into all the inns by turns and
showed his precious stone. All the merchants gathered round him and began
valuing the stone. They valued it and valued it, and it was at last bought for
five hundred roubles.
From that day the old man went on trading in precious stones which his
hen laid him, and he very soon became enriched, had himself inscribed into
the merchants’ guild, put up a shop, hired apprentices, and set up seafaring
ships to carry his wares into foreign lands. One day he was going into
foreign parts, and he bade his wife have a great heed to the hen: “Treasure
her more than your eyes; should she be lost, you shall forfeit your own
head.”
As soon as he had gone the old woman began to think evil thoughts. For
she was great friends with one of the young apprentices.
“Where do you get these precious stones from?” the apprentice asked her.
“Oh, it is our hen that lays them.”
So the apprentice took the hen, looked, and under the right wing he saw
written in gold: “Whoever eats this hen’s head shall become a king, and
whoever eats her liver shall spit out gold.”
So he told the wife, “Bake me the hen for supper.”
“Oh, my dear friend, how can I? My husband will be coming back and
will punish me.”
But the apprentice would not listen to any argument. “Bake it,” he said—
that was all.
The next day the old woman got supper ready, made ready to twist the
hen’s neck and to roast it for supper with the head and the liver. The cook
twisted the hen’s neck and put her into the oven, and himself went out. But
in that time the two little children of the house, who were at school, ran in,
looked into the oven, and wanted to nibble. The elder brother ate the head
and the youngest ate the liver.
When supper-time came, the hen was put on the table, but when the
apprentice saw that both the head and the liver were missing he was very
angry, quarrelled with the old woman and went home. The old woman
followed him and wheedled, but he still insisted: “You bring your children,

take their liver out and brains, and give them me for supper; otherwise I will
have nothing to do with you.”
So the old woman put her children to bed, called the cook and bade him
take them whilst they were asleep into the wood, there kill them and extract
their liver and their brains and get them ready for supper. The cook took the
children into the slumbrous forest, stopped, and made ready to whet the
knife.
The boys woke up and asked, “Why are you sharpening the knife?”
“Because your mother has bidden me take out your liver and brains and
cook them.”
“Oh, grandfather, little dove, do not slay us; we will give you all the gold
you desire, only pity us and let us free.” So the younger brother filled his
skirt with gold, and the cook was contented with this and he set them free.
So the boys went forth into the forest and he turned back. Fortunately for
him a bitch came his way, so he took her two puppies, took their livers and
brains, roasted them and gave them for supper. The apprentice was very
pleased with the dish, swallowed it all, and became neither a king nor a
king’s son, but simply a fool.
The boys went out of the wood on the broad road, and went whither their
eyes gazed—maybe far, maybe short, they went. Soon the road divided into
two, and a column stood there, and on the column it was written:
“WHO GOES TO THE RIGHT SHALL RECEIVE A KINGDOM,
WHO GOES TO THE LEFT SHALL RECEIVE MUCH OF EVIL AND OF GRIEF,
BUT HE SHALL MARRY A FAIR PRINCESS.”

So the brothers considered this inscription, and decided to go in different
directions; the elder went to the right and the younger to the left.
The elder went on and on, and soon came to an unknown capital city. He
also saw a mass of people, only they were all mourning and sad. So he
begged shelter of a poor old widow. “Will you protect,” he said, “a
foreigner from the dark night?”
“I should be very glad to have you,” she said, “but I cannot put you
anywhere, I am so closely packed.”
“Do let me in, bábushka; I am such a simple youth, just as you are; you
can find me some small space, some kind of nook for the night.”

So the old woman admitted him, and they began to speak.
“Why, bábushka,” the stranger asked, “is there such a throng in the city,
why are rooms so dear, and why are the people all mourning and
melancholy?”
“Well, our king has just died, and the boyárs have sent the town-crier out
to announce that old and young are to assemble, and each of them is to have
a candle, and with the candles they are to go into the cathedral, and
whosesoever’s candle lights of itself is to be king.”
So in the morning the boy got up, washed, prayed to God, said the grace
for the bread and salt and the soft bed which his hostess had given him, and
went into the cathedral. When he got there, if you had been there three years
you could not have counted all those people. And he took a candle in his
hand, and it lit up at once. So they all burst upon him and began to blow out
his candle, to damp it, but the flame lit all the brighter. There was no help
for it: they acknowledged him as their king, and dressed him in golden
apparel and led him to the palace.
But the younger brother, who had turned to the left, heard that there was
a fair princess in a certain kingdom who was indescribably lovely. But she
was very grudging, and she announced in all countries that she would only
marry the man who could feed her army for three whole years; yet every
one had to try his luck. So the boy went there, and he went on his way, went
on the broad road. And he spat into his little bag, and spat it full of pure
gold. Well, it may be long, it may be short, it may be near, it may be far, but
he at last reached the fair princess, and he said he would accomplish her
task. He had no need to ask for gold, he simply had to spit and there it was.
For three years he maintained the princess’s army, gave it food and drink
and dress.
So the time came for a jolly feast and for the wedding. But the princess
was still full of wiles. She asked herself and she sought to know whence
God had sent him such enormous wealth. So she invited him to be her
guest, received him, honoured him. And the doughty youth fell sick, and he
vomited up the liver of the hen, and the Tsarévna swallowed it. From that
day gold fell from her lips, and she would not have her bridegroom with
her. “What shall I do with this ignoramus?” she asked her boyárs, and she
asked her generals. “He has had the idiotic idea of wanting to marry me.”

So the boyárs said he must be hung, and the generals said he must be
shot. But the Tsarévna had a better idea—that he ought to be sent to hell.
So the doughty youth escaped and once more set forth on his road. And
he had only one thought in his mind, how he should make himself wise and
revenge himself on the Tsarévna for her unkind jest. So he went on and
went on, and he came into the dreamy wood, and he looked and he saw
three men fighting with their fists.
“What are you fighting about?”
“We have three finds in the road, and we cannot divide them; every one
wants them for himself.”
“What are the finds? what are you contending for?”
“Look, this is a barrel: you only have to knock it, and a soldier leaps out
of its mouth. This is a flying carpet: wherever you think it will take you.
And this is a whip: strike a maiden and say ‘You have been a maiden, now
become a mare,’ and she will become a mare at once.”
“These are valuable gifts, and they are hard to divide. But this is the way
out: I will send an arrow in this direction, and you all run after it; he who
reaches it first shall have the barrel, and the second shall have the flying
carpet, and the third shall have the whip.”
“Very well; shoot the dart.”
So the youth sent out the arrow very far. The three darted after it and ran,
and they never looked up. But the doughty youth took the barrel and the
whip, sat upon the flying carpet, waved it one end, and he rose higher than
the forest that stood there, lower than the clouds above, and he flew whither
he would.
So he went back to the forbidden lands of the fair princess, began beating
the barrel, and an enormous army came out; infantry, cavalry and artillery,
with cannon and with powder waggons. And the mighty host rolled on and
rolled on. The doughty youth asked for a horse, mounted it, and went up to
his army and commanded it. The drums beat out and the trumpets sounded,
and the army went at a pace. Then the Tsarévna saw from her rooms and
was very much frightened, and sent her boyárs and generals to ask for
peace. The good youth bade these ambassadors be seized, had them cruelly
and savagely punished and sent them back to the Tsarévna, who was to
come herself and ask for a reconciliation.

Well, there was no help for it: so the Tsarévna herself got out of her
carriage, recognised him and swooned. But he took the whip, struck her on
the back: “You are a maiden, now become a mare!” And the Tsarévna
turned into a mare. He bridled and rode her, and went to the kingdom of his
elder brother. He galloped at a full pace, put both spurs into her back and
used a scourge of three iron rods, and the army followed him, an
unbelievable host. It may be long, it may be short, at last they came to the
boundary, and the doughty youth stopped, collected his army into the barrel,
and went to the capital. He went straight to the royal palace, and the king
himself saw him and looked at the mare and began to wonder: “What is this
great hero approaching? I have never seen such a fine mare in all my life.”
So he sent his generals to trade for that horse.
“No, what an envious king you have!” said the youth. “It would evidently
be out of the question in your city to come here with a young wife; if you
are so greedy for a mare, you would certainly take away my wife.”
Then he went to the palace and said, “Hail, brother!”
“Oh, I never knew you!”
So they set to kissing each other.
“What sort of barrel have you?”
“That is for drinking. How should I journey forth on the road otherwise?”
“And the carpet?”
“Sit down and you will find out.”
So they sat on the flying carpet, and the younger brother shook it at the
corner and they flew higher than the forest, lower than the wandering cloud,
straight back to their own country. So they flew back, took a room with
their father, and as to who they were they never told their father and mother.
So they then thought they would give a feast to all the christened world.
They assembled all the people in countless hosts, and for three whole days
they gave food and drink to all without requital, without any charge. And
afterwards every one began saying had any one a tale of wonder to tell; let
him start. But no one would say: “We, it is said, are strange folk, but——”
“Well, I will tell you a story,” said the younger brother; “only do not talk
until the end. Whoever interrupts three times is to be ruthlessly punished.”
So they all agreed.

And he began to tell how the two old folks had lived together, how they
had had a hen which laid jewels, and how the mother had made friends with
the apprentice. “What a lie!” interrupted the mistress. But the son went on
with his tale. And he narrated how they had twisted the hen’s neck, and the
mother again interrupted. At last the story went up to the point when the old
woman wished to take away the children, and again she would not stand it:
“It is untrue!” she said. “Could ever such a thing happen? Could ever a
mother wish to be torn from her children?”
“Obviously, it is possible. Look at us, mother; we are your children.”
Then the whole story came out, and the father bade his wife be chopped
up into bits. He tied the apprentice to the tail of horses, and the horses broke
in every direction and scattered his bones over the fields. “Let the dog die a
dog’s death!” said the old man. And he gave all his property to the poor and
went to live in his elder son’s kingdom.
But the younger son smote his mare with the back of his hand and said,
“You are a mare; now become a maiden!” So the mare turned into the fair
Tsarévna. They made peace, became friends and wedded. It was a
magnificent wedding.
I was there, I drank mead and it flowed up to my beard, but none came
into my mouth.

MARK THE RICH

In a country, in a kingdom far away, once upon a time there lived a
merchant, Mark the Rich; and, what with all his estates and revenues, you
couldn’t count them. He lived, and was merry, and never suffered the poor
man to come to his door, so ungracious was he.
One day he had a dream: “Make ready, Mark the Rich, and wait. God
Himself will be thy Guest!” In the morning Mark got up, called his wife,
and bade her make a banquet. He covered all of his courtyard with scarlet
velvet and golden brocade, and at every side-path he posted journeymen
and servants to keep out all the hunger-brothers and scare them outside.
Then Mark the Rich came, and sat awaiting the Lord. The hours went by,
and never a guest. And then the poor heard that there was a great feast at the
house of Mark the Rich. They all gathered round for the hallowed gifts; but
the journeymen and servants drove them all away. But one poor beggar,
bent with age, and all in rags, went up to the door of Mark the Rich. And as
Mark the Rich saw him from the window, he cried out in a fierce voice:
“Hi, you sluggards and louts! Eyes and no eyes? Look at the beast that is
traipsing up and down our courtyard: get rid of him.”
And all the servants scampered up, laid hold of the poor old fellow, and
rushed him out the back way. One good old woman saw him, and said:
“Come to me, you poor old beggar; I will feed and rest you.” She took him
in, fed him, gave him to drink, and laid him to sleep; and thus Mark the
Rich had never found the Lord for whom he was waiting.
At midnight the lady had a dream, and heard some one knock at the
window and ask: “Old and righteous man, are you sleeping here to-night?”
“Yes,” said the old man. “In a village near by a poor peasant has had a son;
how will you reward him?” The poor man said: “He shall be lord of all the
domains of Mark the Rich!” Next day the poor old man left his hostess and

went forth to roam. The old peasant woman went to Mark the Rich and told
him of her dream.
Mark went to the peasant and asked for the baby. “Give him to me—I
will adopt him; he shall grow up; I will teach him well; and when I die he
shall have all my wealth.” This was what he said, but his thoughts were
quite different. He took the little boy, went home, and threw him into a
snow-drift. “Lie there and freeze; that’s the way to become master of
Mark’s wealth!” But that same night hunters, passing by, hunting for hares,
found the boy, took him home, and brought him up.
Many years passed by, and much water flowed in the river, and one day
Mark the Rich went out with those huntsmen, saw the young boy, heard his
story, and spoke about him, and knew it was the same he had cast forth.
So Mark the Rich asked the youth to go home and take a letter to his
wife; but in that letter he bade her poison the boy like a dog. The poor
foundling set out on his road; when on his way, he met a poor man with
nothing on but a shirt; but this beggar was Christ Himself. He stopped the
wayfarer, took the letter, and held it for one minute, and the letter was
changed in all it said. The wife of Mark the Rich was to receive the bearer
with all honour, and marry him to her daughter. It was said, and it was done.
Mark the Rich returned home; and was very wroth at seeing his new son-
in-law, and said: “In the evening go to my distillery and look after the
work”; whilst he secretly told the men to hunt him into the burning cauldron
as soon as ever he appeared. So the boy made ready to go to the distillery;
but a sudden sickness befell him, and he had to go back home. Mark the
Rich waited his time, and went to see what had become of his son-in-law,
and tumbled into his own distillers’ clutches, into the burning cauldron!

BY COMMAND OF THE PRINCE DANIEL

Once upon a time there was an aged queen who had a son and a daughter,
who were fine, sturdy children. But there was also an evil witch who could
not bear them, and she began to lay plots how she might contrive their
overthrow.
So she went to the old Queen and said: “Dear Gossip, I am giving you a
ring. Put it on your son’s hand, and he will then be rich and generous: only
he must marry the maiden whom this ring fits.”
The mother believed her and was extremely glad, and at her death bade
her son marry only the woman whom the ring fitted.
Time went by and the boy grew up: he became a man and looked at all
the maidens. Very many of them he liked, only as soon as he put the ring on
their finger it was either too broad or too narrow. So he travelled from
village to village and from town to town, and searched out all the fair
damsels, but he could not find his chosen one, and returned home in a
reflective mood.
“What’s the matter, brother?” his sister asked him. So he told her of his
trouble, explained his sorrow. “What a wonderful ring you have!” said the
sister. “Let me try it on.” She tried it on her finger, and the ring was firmly
fixed as if it had been soldered on, as though it had been made for her.
“Oh, sister! you are my chosen bride, and you must be my wife.”
“What a horrible idea, brother! That would be a sin.”
But the brother would not listen to a word she said. He danced for joy
and told her to make ready for the wedding. She wept bitter tears, went in
front of the house, and sat on the threshold and let her tears flow.
Two old beggars came up, and she gave them to eat and to drink. They
asked what her trouble was, and she needs must tell the two. “Now, weep

no more, but do what we say. Make up four dolls and put them in the four
corners of the room. After your brother calls you in for the betrothal, go;
and if he calls you into the bridal chamber, ask for time, trust in God, and
follow our advice.” And the beggars departed.
The brother and sister were betrothed, and he went into the room and
cried out, “Sister mine, come in!”
“I will come in in a moment, brother; I am only taking off my earrings.”
And the dolls in the four corners began to sing:
Coo-Coo—Prince Danílo
Coo-Coo—Govorílo
Coo-Coo—’Tis a brother
Coo-Coo—Weds his sister:
Coo-Coo—Earth must split asunder
Cooo—And the sister lie hid under.

Then the earth rose up and slowly swallowed the sister.
And the brother cried out again, “Sister mine, come in to the feather-
bed!”
“In a minute, brother. I am undoing my girdle.”
Then the dolls began to sing:
Coo-Coo—Prince Danílo
Coo-Coo—Govorílo
Coo-Coo—’Tis a brother
Coo-Coo—Weds his sister:
Coo-Coo—Earth must split asunder;
Cooo—And the sister lie hid under.

Only she had vanished now, all but her head. And the brother cried out
again: “Come into the feather-bed.”
“In a minute, brother; I am taking off my shoes.”
And the dolls went on cooing, and she vanished under the earth.
And the brother kept crying, and crying, and crying. And when she never
returned, he became angry and ran out to fetch her. He could see nothing
but the dolls, which kept singing. So he knocked off their heads and threw
them into the stove.
The sister went farther under the earth, and she saw a little hut standing
on cocks’ feet and turning round. “Hut!” she cried out, “Stand as you should

with your back to the wood.”
So the hut stopped and the doors opened, and a fair maiden looked out.
She was knitting a cloth with gold and silver thread. She greeted the guest
friendlily and kindly, but sighed and said, “Oh, my darling, my sister! Oh, I
am so glad to see you. I shall be so glad to look after you and to care for
you as long as my mother is not here. But as soon as she flies in, woe to you
and me, for she is a witch.”
When she heard this the maiden was frightened, but could not fly
anywhere. So she sat down and began helping the other maiden at her work.
So they chattered along; and soon, at the right time before the mother came,
the fair maiden turned her guest into a needle, stuck her into the besom and
put it on one side. But scarcely had this been done, when Bába Yagá came
in.
“Now, my fair daughter, my little child, tell me at once, why does the
room smell so of Russian bones?”
“Mother, there have been strange men journeying past who wanted a
drink of water.”
“Why did you not keep them?”
“They were too old, mother; much too tough a snack for your teeth.”
“Henceforth, entice them all into the house and never let them go. I must
now get about again and look out for other booty.”
As soon as ever she had gone, the maidens set to work again knitting,
talking and laughing.
Then the witch came into the room once more. She sniffed about the
house, and said, “Daughter, my sweet daughter, my darling, tell me at once,
why does it so smell of Russian bones?”
“Old men who were just passing by who wanted to warm their hands. I
did my best to keep them, but they would not stay.”
So the witch was angry, scolded her daughter, and flew away. In the
meantime her unknown guest was sitting in the besom.
The maidens once more set to work, sewed, laughed, and thought how
they might escape the evil witch. This time they forgot how the hours were
flying by, and suddenly the witch stood in front of them.
“Darling, tell me, where have the Russian bones crept away?”

“Here, my mother; a fair maiden is waiting for you.”
“Daughter mine, darling, heat the oven quickly; make it very hot.”
So the maiden looked up and was frightened to death. For Bába Yagá
with the wooden legs stood in front of her, and to the ceiling rose her nose.
So the mother and daughter carried firewood in, logs of oak and maple;
made the oven ready till the flames shot up merrily.
Then the witch took her broad shovel and said in a friendly voice: “Go
and sit on my shovel, fair child.”
So the maiden obeyed, and the Bába Yagá was going to shove her into
the oven. But the girl stuck her feet against the wall of the hearth.
“Will you sit still, girl?”
But it was not any good. Bába Yagá could not put the maiden into the
oven. So she became angry, thrust her back and said, “You are simply
wasting time! Just look at me and see how it is done.” Down she sat on the
shovel with her legs nicely trussed together. So the maidens instantly put
her into the oven, shut the oven door, and slammed her in; took their
knitting with them, and their comb and brush, and ran away.
They ran hard away, but when they turned round there was Bába Yagá
running after them. She had set herself free. “Hoo, Hoo, Hoo! there run the
two!” So the maidens, in their need, threw the brush away, and a thick,
dense coppice arose which she could not break through. So she stretched
out her claws, scratched herself a way through, and again ran after them.
Whither should the two poor girls flee? They flung their comb behind them,
and a dark, murky oak forest grew up, so thick, no fly could ever have
flown its way through. Then the witch whetted her teeth and set to work.
And she went on tearing up one tree after another by the roots, and she
made herself a way, and again set out after them, and almost caught them
up.
Now the girls had no strength left to run, so they threw the cloth behind
them, and a broad sea stretched out, deep, wide and fiery. The old woman
rose up, wanted to fly over it, but fell into the fire and was burned to death.
The poor maidens, poor homeless doves! did not know whither to go.
They sat down in order to rest, and a man came and asked them who they
were. He told his master that two little birds had fluttered on to his estate;
two fairest damsels similar in form and shape, eye for eye and line for line.

One was his sister, but which was it? He could not guess. So the master
went to both of them. One was the sister—which? The servant had not lied;
he did not know them, and she was angry with him and did not say.
“What shall I do?” asked the master.
“Master, I will pour blood into an ewe-skin, put that under my armpit and
talk to the maiden. In the meantime I will go by and will stab you in the
side with my knife; then blood will flow; then your sister will betray herself
who she is.”
“Very well!”
As soon as it was said it was done. The servant stabbed his master in the
side, and the blood poured forth, and he fell down.
Then his sister flung herself over him and cried out, “Oh, my brother! my
darling!”
Then the brother jumped up again healthy and well. He embraced his
sister, gave her a proper husband, and he married her friend, for the ring
fitted her just as well. So they all lived splendidly and happily.

THE THOUGHTLESS WORD

Once upon a time an old man lived in a village with his wife, and they
were very poor: they had only one son. And when he grew up, the mother
said to her husband: “It is full time that we secured a wife for our son.”
“Well, go and see if you can bargain for a wife.”
The old woman went to her neighbour and asked him if her son could
marry his daughter. But the neighbour said, “No!” And she went to the next
peasant, who also declined the honour. And she searched the whole village,
and not a single soul would hear a single word of it. When she came back
she said: “Goodman, I fear our son is born under an unlucky star!”
“Why?”
“I went through the whole village, and there is nobody who will give me
his daughter.”
“That looks bad!” said the husband. “It will soon be summer, and we
shall not have anybody to help us at the harvest. Woman, go into the next
village, as you may find somebody there.”
The old woman went to the next village, went from one end to the other,
went through all the courtyards and houses of the peasants, but it was all in
vain. Wherever she showed her nose, she was put off. And she came back
home as she had left. “No one wants to be kin with such poor folk as us!”
“In that case it is no good running oneself off one’s legs. Go and sit
behind the oven.”
But the son was indignant, and asked: “Father, bless me, and I will go
and seek my own fate.”
“Where then will you go?”
“Wherever my eyes lead me!”

So they blessed him and they let him go wherever the four winds blow.
When the boy was on the road, he wept bitterly and spoke to himself:
“Am I then the feeblest man in the world, and no maiden will really have
me? If the Devil would only send me a bride I think I would rake her!”
Suddenly, just as though he had grown out of the earth, an old man came
to meet him. “Good day, doughty youth!”
“Good day, old father!”
“What were you saying just now?”
Then the boy was frightened and did not know what to answer.
“You need not fear me. I will do you no harm, and perhaps I can help you
in your need. Speak out boldly.”
So the boy told him all the truth. “Oh, I am a sorry fellow, and no maiden
will marry me. That is making me angry; and I said in my indignation that if
the Devil himself came and gave me a girl, I would make her my bride.”
So the old man laughed and said: “I can give you a bride, oh, as many
brides as you like”; and they then came to a lake. “Stand with your back to
the water, and step backwards,” the old man told the boy.
As soon as he had turned round, and had gone four steps, he found
himself under the water, in a white stone palace.[16] All the rooms were
splendidly furnished and finely decorated.
The old man gave him meat and drink, and afterwards showed him
twelve maidens, each of whom was fairer than the others. “Choose which
you will of them. You shall have any of them.”
“It is a difficult choice, grandfather! Let me have till to-morrow to think
of it.”
“Well, you can have until to-morrow,” said the old man, and he took him
into a large room.
The boy lay down to sleep and began to think which he would take.
Suddenly the door opened and a beautiful maiden came in. “Are you asleep,
doughty youth, or not?”
“No, fair maiden, I cannot sleep. I am thinking which is the bride I shall
take.”
“That is the very reason I came to see you, in order to give you counsel;
for, good man, you have become the Devil’s guest. So, listen to me; if you

ever wish to return to the light of day, you must do as I say. If you do not,
you will not leave this place alive.”
“Give me your counsel, fair maiden. I shall not forget it all my life long.”
“To-morrow the Evil Spirit will show you twelve maidens, one like the
other. You must choose me, and look at me very carefully. There will be a
patch over my right eye; that will be the sign.” And the maiden told him her
story. “Do you know the pope in a neighbouring village? I am his daughter,
and was stolen from his house nine years ago. One day my father was angry
with me and made a hasty wish that the Devil might take me. I went in front
of the house and cried, and the Unholy Spirit soon snatched me on the spot,
carried me here; and I have never left the place since.”
Next day the old man set the twelve maidens in a row before the boy, and
commanded him to choose one of them. He looked until he had seen the
one with the patch over the right eye, and chose her. The old man was
angry, but he had to give her up. And he therefore mixed the maidens
together and told him to make a second choice. The boy hit on the same
one, and after a third choice he took his fated bride.
“This has been your piece of luck. Now take her home!”
All at once the boy and the maiden found themselves on the bank of the
lake, and they walked backwards until they reached the high road. The
Devil wanted to hunt after them; but all at once the lake vanished, and there
was no trace of the water.
When the boy had taken his bride into the village, he stopped at the
pope’s house. The pope saw her, and sent a servant out and asked what they
desired.
“We are wandering folk, and ask for shelter.”
“I have guests staying here, and my hut would be too small anyhow.”
“But, father!” said the merchants, “wandering folk must be always taken
in: they will not disturb us.”
“Well, come in.”
The boy and the maiden came in, made due greetings, and sat behind, on
a corner of the fire bank.
“Do you know me, father? I am your own daughter!” She told him what
had happened; and they kissed, and embraced, and shed tears of joy.

“Who is he?” said the pope, pointing to the boy.
“That is my own chosen bridegroom, who brought me back to light of
day, but for whom I should have remained beneath for ever!” Thereupon the
fair maiden opened her bag, and there were golden and silver vessels in it
which she had stolen from the devils.
A merchant looked at them and said: “Those are my plate. Once I was
dining with guests, and became rather drunk, quarrelled with my wife, and I
wished them all to the Devil. And since then all my plate has vanished!”
And this was the truth, for as soon as ever the man mentioned the Devil,
the Evil Spirit appeared on the threshold, gathered up all the gold and silver
plate, and threw skeleton bones down instead.
So the boy got a fine bride, married her, and drove to see his parents.
They had long given him up for dead, and it was no wonder; for he had
been away for three years, although it had seemed to him only twenty-four
hours that he had stayed with the Devil.

THE TSARÍTSA HARPIST

In a certain kingdom in a certain land once there lived a Tsar and a
Tsarítsa. He lived with her for some time, then he thought he would go to
that far distant country where the Jews crucified Christ. So he issued orders
to his ministers, bade farewell to his wife, and set out on his road.
It may-be far, it may-be short, he at last reached that distant land where
the Jews crucified Christ. And in that country then the Accursèd King was
the ruler. This King saw the Tsar, and he bade him be seized and lodged in
the dungeon. There were many tortures in that dungeon for him. At night he
must sit in chains, and in the morning the Accursèd King used to put a
horse-collar on him and make him drive the plough until the evening. This
was the torment in which the Tsar lived for three whole years, and he had
no idea how he should tear himself away or send any news of himself to his
Tsarítsa. And he sought for some occasion. And he wrote her this little line:
“Sell,” he said, “all my possessions and come to redeem me from my
misfortune.”
When the Tsarítsa received the letter she read it through and said to
herself, “How can I redeem the Tsar? If I go myself, the Accursèd King will
receive me and will take me to himself as a wife. If I send one of the
ministers, I can place no reliance on him.” So what did she advise? She cut
off her red hair, went and disguised herself as a wandering musician, took
her gusli, and never told anybody, and so set out on her road and way.
She arrived at the Accursèd King’s courtyard and began to play the gusli
so finely as had never been heard or listened to for ages. When the King
heard such wonderful music he summoned the harpist into the palace.
“Hail, guslyár! From what land have you come? From what kingdom?”
asked the King.

“I do not journey far in the wide white world: I rejoice men’s hearts and I
feed myself.”
“Stay with me one day and another day, and a third, and I will reward
you generously.”
So the guslyár stayed on, and played for an entire day in front of the
King, and he could never hear enough of her. “What wonderful music! why,
it drove away all weariness and grief as though at a breath.”
So the guslyár stayed with the King three days, and was going to say
farewell.
“What reward can I offer you for your labour?” asked the King.
“Oh, your Majesty, give me one prisoner who has sat long in the prison; I
must have a companion on the road! I wish to go to foreign kingdoms, and I
have no one with whom I can exchange a word.”
“Certainly! Select whom you will,” said the King, and he led the guslyár
into the prison.
The guslyár looked at the prisoners, selected the Tsar, and they went out
to roam together.
As they were journeying on to their own kingdom the Tsar said, “Let me
go, good man, for I am no simple prisoner, I am the Tsar himself. I will pay
you ransom for as much as you will; I will grudge you neither money nor
service.”
“Go with God,” said the guslyár: “I do not need you at all.”
“Well, come to me as my guest.”
“When the time shall come, I will be there.”
So they parted, and each set out on his own way. The Tsarítsa went by a
circuitous route, reached home before her husband, took off her guslyár’s
dress and arrayed herself like an empress.
In about one hour cries rang out and the attendants came up to the palace,
for the Tsar had arrived. The Tsarítsa ran out to meet him, and he greeted
them all, but he did not look at her. He greeted the ministers and said,
“Look, gentlemen, what a wife mine is! Now she flings herself on my neck,
but when I sat in prison and sent her a letter to sell all my goods and to
redeem me she did nothing. Of what was she thinking if she so forgot her
liege husband?”

And the ministers answered the Tsar, “Your Majesty, on the very day the
Tsarítsa received your letter she vanished no one knows where, and has
been away all this time, and she has only just appeared in the palace.”
Then the Tsar was very angry and commanded, “My ministers, do ye
judge my unfaithful wife according to justice and to truth. Where has she
been roaming in the white world? Why did she not try to redeem me? You
would never have seen your Tsar again for ages of eternity, if a young
guslyár had not arrived, for whom I am going to pray God, and I do not
grudge giving him half my kingdom.”
In the meantime the Tsarítsa got off her throne and arrayed herself as the
harpist, went into the courtyard and began to play the gusli. The Tsar heard,
ran to meet her, seized the musician by the hand, led her into the palace and
said to his Court, “This is the guslyár who rescued me from my
confinement.” The guslyár then flung off his outer garment, and they then
all recognised the Tsarítsa. Then the Tsar was overjoyed and for his joy he
celebrated a feast which lasted seven whole days.

THE TALE OF IVÁN TSARÉVICH, THE BIRD
OF LIGHT, AND THE GREY WOLF

There was once, in a certain kingdom, a certain state, where there lived
Tsar Výslav Andrónovich, who had three sons: the first was called Dmítri
Tsarévich, the second Vasíli Tsarévich, and the third Iván Tsarévich. This
Tsar had a garden so rich that in no other kingdom was there any better, and
in that garden many rare trees grew with fruits and without fruits. And the
Tsar had an apple-tree which he especially loved, and on that apple-tree all
the apples that grew were of gold. But it happened that the Bird of Light
began to fly to visit Tsar Výslav. The feathers of the bird were all gold, but
the eyes were like crystal of the East. It flew into the garden every night and
sat on the apple-tree beloved of Tsar Výslav, and used to pluck down the
golden apples and fly away. Tsar Výslav Andrónovich was deeply afflicted,
and he called to him his three sons and said to them: “My beloved children,
which of you will go into my garden and catch the Bird of Light? He who
captures it alive, I will in my lifetime give him the half of my kingdom, and
at my death he shall have it all.”
Then his children, the Tsarévichi, said in a single voice: “Gracious lord,
our father, Your Imperial Majesty, we will, with the greatest pleasure, try to
catch the Bird of Light alive.”
On the first night Dmítri Tsarévich went into the garden and sat under the
apple-tree from which the Bird of Light used to steal the apples; but he
went to sleep, and he never heard when the Bird of Light flew up and again
plucked off many apples.
In the morning Tsar Výslav Andrónovich called his son Dmítri to him,
and he asked him: “Well, my beloved son, did you see the Bird of Light, or
did you not?” And he answered: “Father, gracious lord, this night it did not
come.”

So the next night Vasíli Tsarévich went to keep watch in the garden. He
sat under the same apple-tree, and sat there one hour and went to sleep so
soundly that he never heard the coming of the Bird of Light, which flew on
to the tree, perched on it, and plucked many apples.
In the morning the Tsar called his second son and questioned him, and he
answered: “Gracious lord, my father, this night the Bird of Light did not
come.”
And on the third night Iván Tsarévich went into the garden to watch, and
sat under the same apple-tree; and he waited one hour, a second hour, and a
third hour; and then the whole garden lit up as though it shone with many
fires, and the Bird of Light flew in and sat on the apple-tree and began to
pluck the apples. Iván Tsarévich stole under it so warily, and seized it by its
tail, only he could not keep hold of it; and had only one feather out of its
tail.
In the morning, when Tsar Výslav awoke from his sleep, Iván Tsarévich
went to him, and gave him the feather of the Bird of Light. Tsar Výslav was
very glad that his youngest son had succeeded, although he had only a
single feather; and this feather was so marvellous and bright that you had
only to take it into some dark attic and it shone as bright as the red sun. Tsar
Výslav put the feather into his cabinet as an article which he must keep for
ever; and from that time forward the Bird of Light never flew into the
garden.
Tsar Výslav once again called his children unto him and said, “My
beloved sons, do ye journey forth: I will give you my blessing. You must
seek for the Bird of Light and bring it to me alive; and what I promised you
before, he who captures the Bird of Light shall have.”
Dmítri and Vasíli were envious of their younger brother Iván that he had
succeeded in pulling the feather out of the Bird of Light’s tail. But Iván
Tsarévich asked leave of his father and his blessing. Tsar Výslav tried to
keep Iván back, but he could not, and he let him go at his unrelaxing prayer.
Iván Tsarévich received his father’s blessing, took his horse, and went on
his journey, journeying forth, not knowing whither he was going.
And as he went on the road and way—it may be near, it may be far, it
may be high, it may be low, the tale is soon told, but the deed is not soon
done—at last he reached an open field and green meadows. And in the open

field there stood a stone column, and on the column these words were
written:
“Whosoever goes on straight from this column, he shall have
hunger and cold. Whosoever goes to the right, he shall have health
and life, but his horse shall be slain. And whosoever goes to the
left, he shall himself be slain, but his horse shall have life and be
healthy.”
Iván Tsarévich read this inscription, and he went to the right, bethinking
himself, if his horse were to be slain, anyhow he would remain alive. So he
went on one day, and a second and a third day, and suddenly a fierce grey
Wolf met him and said: “All hail to thee, warrior! Doughty of might, Iván
Tsarévich, hast thou read how it is written on the column that thy horse
shall be slain? So why hast thou ridden this way?” And the Wolf, speaking
these words, cleft the horse of the young Iván Tsarévich in two and went far
aside.
Iván Tsarévich wept bitterly for his horse, and he went on on foot. And he
went one whole day and grew very, very tired; and when he wanted to sit
down and to rest, suddenly the grey Wolf came up to him and said: “I have
pity for you, Iván Tsarévich, that you are tiring yourself going on foot.
Come, sit on me—on the grey Wolf—and say whither I shall take you and
wherefore.” Iván Tsarévich told the grey Wolf where he wanted to go, and
the grey Wolf flew off with him swifter than any horse; and, in a short time,
as it might be in a single night, he conducted Iván Tsarévich to a stone wall,
stopped, and said: “Now, Iván Tsarévich, jump off me—off the grey Wolf—
and go through this stone wall. There is a garden behind the wall, and in
that garden the Bird of Light is sitting in a golden cage. You must take the
Bird of Light, but you must not touch the golden cage, or they will capture
you at once.”
Iván Tsarévich slipped through the stone wall into the garden, saw the
Bird of Light in the golden cage, and was very pleased. He took the Bird
out of the cage, and was going back, and then he thought and said to
himself: “Why should I take the Bird of Light without the cage? Where
shall I put it?” So he turned back, and as soon as ever he had taken the
golden cage there was a clamour and a clangour in the garden as though
there were ropes attached to the cage. All the watchmen woke up, ran up

into the garden, seized Iván Tsarévich with the Bird of Light, and took him
to their Tsar, who was called Dolmát.
Tsar Dolmát was very angry with Iván Tsarévich, and shrieked in a
wrathful tone: “Are you not ashamed of yourself, young man, to come
stealing? Who are you—of what land? Who was your father? How do they
call you on earth?”
Iván Tsarévich answered him: “I am the son of Tsar Výslav Andrónovich,
and they call me Iván Tsarévich. Your Bird of Light flew into the garden
every night and stole the golden apples from the apple-tree my father loved,
and for that reason my father sent me to seek the Bird of Light and to take it
to him.”
“Oh, thou brave youth, Iván Tsarévich!” Tsar Dolmát cried. “I would
certainly have given you the bird, but what did you do? If you had come to
me, I should have given you the Bird of Light as an honour; but, now,
would it be well, were I to send you into all kingdoms to proclaim how you
came into my realm and dealt dishonourably? Now listen, Iván Tsarévich. If
you will do me this service, if you will go across thrice nine kingdoms into
the thrice-tenth realm, and will there obtain me from Tsar Afrón the golden-
maned horse, I will forgive your sin, and I will give you the Bird of Light,
and will do you great honour.”
And Iván Tsarévich became very sorrowful, and left Tsar Dolmát, found
the grey Wolf, and told him of everything.
“Hail to thee, warrior, doughty of might!” the grey Wolf said to him.
“Why did you not listen to my words? Why did you take the golden cage?”
“I am guilty,” Iván Tsarévich said to the Wolf.
“Well, so be it,” said the grey Wolf. “Sit on me—on the grey Wolf. I will
take you wherever you wish.”
Iván Tsarévich sat on the grey Wolf’s back, and the Wolf chased as fast as
a dart and ran may-be far, may-be near, and at last he reached the kingdom
of Tsar Afrón at night-time; and when he had come to the white-stoned
stables of the Tsar, the grey Wolf said to Iván Tsarévich: “Get down, Iván,
go into the white-stoned stables, and take the golden-maned horse; only
there hangs a golden bridle on the wall which you are not to touch, or it will
go ill with you.”

Iván Tsarévich went into the white-stoned stables, took the horse, and
went back. But he saw the golden bridle on the wall, and when his glance
fell on it he took it from the hook. And as soon as he touched it there was a
clangour and a clamour throughout all the stables as though there were
ropes attached to the bridle. All the watchmen woke up, ran into the stable,
seized Iván Tsarévich with the golden-maned steed and took him to their
Tsar Afrón.
Tsar Afrón was very angry with Iván Tsarévich, and asked him who he
was, who was his father, and what was his name. When Iván had told him
also of his errand, he said: “I would have certainly given you the golden-
maned horse if you had asked me for it, but since you have dealt thus
dishonourably with me, you must do me this service, and then I will give
you the golden-maned horse with the bridle: you must ride across thrice-
nine lands into the thrice-tenth kingdom and gain me Princess Eléna the
Fair, whom I have for long loved with all my heart and soul, but cannot
gain. In return for this I will forgive you, and give you what you sought as
an honour: but if you do not do me this service I will proclaim throughout
all the realms of the world that you are a dishonourable thief.”
Iván Tsarévich went out of the palace and began to weep bitterly: then he
came to the grey Wolf and related how it had gone with him.
“Hail to thee, brave warrior, doughty of might!” the grey Wolf said.
“Why did you not listen to my words, and take the golden bridle?”
“I have been guilty before you,” said Iván Tsarévich.
“Well, so be it,” the grey Wolf went on. “Sit on my back, on the grey
Wolf: I will take you wherever you require.”
So Iván Tsarévich sat on the grey Wolf’s back, and the grey Wolf scoured
as fast as a dart, and at last he arrived at the kingdom of Princess Eléna the
Fair, to the golden palisade which surrounded the wonderful garden; and the
Wolf said to the Tsarévich: “Iván Tsarévich, slip off my back, off the grey
Wolf, and go behind on that road and wait for me in the open field under the
green oak.” Iván Tsarévich went as he was bidden, and the grey Wolf sat
near the golden palisade, waiting until Princess Eléna the Fair should come
into the garden to walk.
In the evening, when the little sun was setting fast to the West, Princess
Eléna the Fair went into the garden to take a walk with all of her maids of
honour and servants and attendants and all the boyáryni[17] around. When

she came to the place where the grey Wolf sat behind the railing, suddenly
the grey Wolf leapt across the grating to the garden, seized Princess Eléna
the Fair, leapt back and ran away with all his might and strength. He then
went into the open field under the green oak where Iván Tsarévich was
waiting, and said, “Iván Tsarévich, come sit on my back, on the grey Wolf
swiftly.” Iván Tsarévich sat on him, and the grey Wolf scoured off with
them both fast to the kingdom of Tsar Afrôn.
All the maids of honour and servants and attendants and boyáryni ran
swiftly into the palace and began to set a hunt on foot, but however many
the hunters that hunted, they could not hunt down the grey Wolf, and so
they all turned back home again frustrated.
Iván Tsarévich, seated on the grey Wolf’s back with Princess Eléna the
Fair, fell in love with her and she with him: and when the grey Wolf arrived
at the garden of Tsar Afrón, the Tsarévich grew very sad and began to weep
tears.
The grey Wolf asked him, “Why are you weeping, Tsarévich?”
And Iván Tsarévich answered him, “O my friend, the grey Wolf, how
shall it be to me, the doughty youth, not to weep, not to be afflicted? I love
Princess Eléna the Fair with all my heart, and now I must give her up to
Tsar Afrón in exchange for the golden-maned horse: and, if I do not give
her up, then Tsar Afrón will dishonour me throughout all the kingdoms.”
“I have served you well, Iván Tsarévich,” the grey Wolf replied, “and I
will serve you yet this service. Listen, Iván Tsarévich, I will turn myself
into the fair Princess Eléna, and you will take me to Tsar Afrón and be
given the golden-maned horse: he will then take me as his queen, and when
you sit on the golden-maned horse and you ride far away, then I will ask
Tsar Afrón leave to walk in the open field, and when he lets me go with the
maids of honour and servants and serving-maids and attendants and the
boyáryni, then think of me, and I shall be with you once again.”
His speech finished, the grey Wolf struck the grey earth and he turned
himself into Princess Eléna.
Iván Tsarévich took the grey Wolf and went into the palace of Tsar Afrón
together with the supposed Eléna the Fair. Then the Tsar was very joyous in
his heart that he had received such a treasure, which he had been desiring
for long, and he gave the golden-maned horse to Iván Tsarévich. Iván
Tsarévich sat on the horse, and he went behind the town and he placed

Eléna the Fair on it, and they went away, taking their road to the kingdom
of Tsar Dolmát.
The grey Wolf stayed one day with Tsar Afrón, and a second day and a
third in the stead of fair Princess Eléna. And then he asked leave of Tsar
Afrón to go and walk in the open field, that he might drive out the ravening
sorrow from his heart. Then Tsar Afrón said to him: “O my fair Queen
Eléna, I will do anything for you,” and he promptly bade the maids of
honour, the servants, the attendants and the boyáryni to go with him and the
fair Princess into the open field to walk.
Iván Tsarévich went on his way and rode with Eléna the Fair, and they
had almost forgotten the grey Wolf, when he suddenly recollected: “Oh,
where is my grey Wolf?”
Then, from some source unknown, he stood in front of Iván Tsarévich
and said, “Sit on me, Iván Tsarévich, on the grey Wolf, and the fair Princess
can go on the golden-maned steed.”
Iván Tsarévich sat on the grey Wolf, and so they went on to the realm of
Tsar Dolmát, may-be far or near; and when they reached that kingdom then
they stopped three versts out of the town, and Iván began to beseech the
grey Wolf: “Listen to me, my beloved friend, the grey Wolf; you have
served me so many services, serve me a last: can you not turn yourself into
the golden-maned horse?”
Then the grey Wolf struck the grey earth and became the golden-maned
horse; and Iván Tsarévich left the Fair Eléna in the green meadow, sat on
the grey Wolf and went into the palace to Tsar Dolmát; and as soon as ever
Tsar Dolmát saw Iván Tsarévich, that he was riding the golden-maned
horse, he came out of his palace, met the Tsarévich in the open courtyard,
kissed him on his smooth cheeks, took him by his right hand and led him
into the white-stoned palace. Tsar Dolmát for such a joy bade a feast be
prepared, and they sat at the oaken tables by the chequered table-cloths, and
they ate, drank and made merry for two days. On the third day Tsar Dolmát
delivered to Iván the Bird of Light with the golden cage. The Tsarévich took
the golden Bird, went outside the town, sat on the golden-maned horse
together with the Princess Eléna, and went back to his own country.
Tsar Dolmát thought the next day he would take his golden-maned horse
into the open fields, and as soon as ever he had angered the horse, it reared
and was turned into a great grey Wolf who raced off.

When it came up with Iván Tsarévich it said, “Sit on me, on the grey
Wolf, and Princess Eléna the Fair she can ride on the golden-maned horse.”
Iván Tsarévich sat on the grey Wolf and they went a third journey. Soon
the grey Wolf took Iván Tsarévich to the place where he had cleft his horse
in two, and said: “Now, Iván Tsarévich, I have served you well, faithfully
and truly: on this spot I cleft your horse in two, and up to this spot I have
brought you again: slip off me, off the grey Wolf; now you have your
golden-maned horse, I can serve you no more.”
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.
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.”
But before ever the Tsar had had time to undress in the front room, she
was in the bath and out of it, so quick was she, and the Tsar was as puzzled
as ever. In the meantime Vasilísa Vasílyevna had written a letter and bade
the attendants give it to the Tsar as soon as he came out of the bath. And this
was what she wrote:
“O you crow, you Tsar Bárkhat! The crow has not caught the falcon in
the garden. I am not Vasíli Vasílyevich, but Vasilísa Vasílyevna!”
This was the way in which Tsar Bárkhat was hoodwinked; and you see
how clever and beautiful Vasilísa Vasílyevna was.

THE DREAM

One day an old, old man was wandering about the earth, and he asked for
a night’s shelter from the peasant. “Certainly,” said the peasant—“I shall be
only too glad; only, will you go on telling me stories all night long?”
“Yes, all right! I will tell you stories; only, let me rest here.”
“Then, pray, come in!”
So the old man entered the hut and lay down on the sleeping bench on the
top of the stove.
And the master said: “Make yourself ready, honoured guest. We shall
have supper. Now, old man, tell me a story.”
“Wait a bit; I had better tell you one in the morning.”
“As it please you!” And they lay down to sleep.
Then the old man went to sleep, and dreamed that there were two candles
blazing in front of the images and two birds fluttering in the izbá.[23] He felt
thirsty, and wanted to drink, got off the sleeping bench, and there were
newts running about on the floor. And he went up to the table, and saw
frogs jumping and croaking on it. Then he looked up at the master’s eldest
son, and there was a snake lying in between him and his wife. And he
looked at the second son, and on the second son’s wife there was a cat
which was yawning at the man. Then he looked at the third son, and
between him and his wife there was a young man lying. This all seemed
rather queer to the old man, and rather strange.
So he went and lay on the corn-kiln, and there he heard shrieks: “Sister!
Sister! come and fetch me!” Then he went and lay under the fence, and
there he heard a cry: “Pull me out and stick me in again!” Then he went and
lay on the cauldron, and he heard a cry: “I am hanging on the cross-beam! I
am falling on the cross-beam!” Then he went back into the hut.

The master woke up and said: “Now tell me a story.”
But the old man replied: “I shall not tell you a story, only the truth. Do
you know what I have just dreamed? I went to sleep and thought I saw two
candles blazing in front of the images and two birds fluttering inside the
hut.”
“Those are my two angels fluttering about.”
“And I also saw a snake lying between your son and his wife.”
“That is because they quarrel.”
“And I looked also at your second son, and there was a cat sitting on his
wife, and yawning at the man.”
“That means that they are bad friends, and the wife wants to get rid of the
husband.”
“Then, when I looked at your next son, I saw a youth lying in between
them.”
“That is not a youth, but an angel who was lying there; and that is why
they are on such good and loving terms.”
“Why is it, then, master of the house, when I slipped off the sleeping
shelf that there were newts running on the floor; and, when I wanted to
drink at the table, I saw frogs leaping about and croaking?”
“Because,” the peasant answered, “my daughters-in-law do not sweep up
the lathes; but put the kvas on the table when they are sitting round together
without saying grace.”
“Then I went to sleep on the corn-kiln, and I heard a cry: ‘Sister! Sister!
come and fetch me!’”
“That means that my sons never put the brush back into its place and say
the proper blessing.”
“Then I went to lie under the fence, and I heard a cry: ‘Pull me out and
stick me in again!’”
“That means that the stick’s upside-down.”
“Then I went and lay under the cauldron. And I heard a cry of ‘I am
hanging on the cross-beam! I am falling on the cross-beam!’”
“That means,” said the master, “that, when I die, my entire house will
fall.”

THE SOLDIER AND THE TSAR IN THE
FOREST

In a certain kingdom, in a certain State, lived a peasant who had two
sons. The recruiting-sergeant came round and took the elder brother. So the
elder brother served the Tsar with faith and loyalty, and was so fortunate in
his service that in a few years he attained a general’s rank.
Now at this same time there was a new enlistment, and the lot fell on his
younger brother, and they shaved his brow. And it so happened that he was
made to serve in the very same regiment in which his brother was a general.
The soldier recognised the general, but it was no good, because the general
would not acknowledge him at all: “I do not know you, and you must not
claim acquaintance with me!”
One day the soldier was standing on sentry-go at the ammunition-wagons
just outside the general’s quarters, and the general was giving a great
dinner, and a multitude of officers and gentlemen were going to him. The
soldier saw that it was jollity within, but that he himself had nothing at all,
and he began to weep bitter tears.
Then the guests began to ask him, “Tell us, soldier, why are you crying?”
“Why should I not cry? There is my own brother faring abroad and
making merry, but he forgets me!”
Then the guests told the general of this; but the general was angry: “Do
not believe him, he is an utter liar.” So he ordered him to be taken away
from sentry-go, and to be given thirty blows with the cat, so that he should
not dare to claim kinship.
This offended the soldier, so he put on undress uniform and decamped.
In some time, maybe long, maybe short, he found himself in a wood so
wild, so dreamy, that he could not get out of it anywhere, and he began

killing time and feeding on berries and roots.
Just about this time the Tsar was setting out, and made a mighty hunt
with a splendid suite. They galloped into the open fields, let loose the
hounds, and sounded trumpets, and began to press in. Suddenly from
somewhere or other a beautiful stag leapt out straight in front of the Tsar,
dived into the river, and swam across to the other side right into the wood.
The Tsar followed after him, swam over the river, leapt and leapt and
looked; but the stag had vanished from view, and he had left the hunters far
behind, and all around him was the thick dark forest. Where should he go?
He did not know: he could not see a single path. So until the fall of the
evening he ambled about and tired himself out.
On his way the runaway soldier met him. “Hail, good man, where are
you going?”
“Oh, I was out on a hunt and I lost my way in the wood; will you lead me
to the right path, brother?”
“Who are you?”
“A servant of the Tsar.”
“Well, it is dark now; we had better take shelter somewhere in the
thickets, and to-morrow I will show you the way.”
So they went to look where they might pass the night, went on and on,
and they saw a little hut. “Oho! God has sent us a bed for the night; let us
go there,” said the soldier. So they went into the little hut.
There an old woman sat. “Hail, bábushka!”
“Hail, soldier!”
“Give us something to eat and drink.”
“I have eaten it all up myself, and there is not anything to be had.”
“You are lying, old devil!” said the soldier, and began rummaging about
in the stove and on the shelves. And he found plenty in the old woman’s
hut: wine and food, and all ready. So they sat down at the table, feasted to
their fill, and went to lie down in the attic.
Then the soldier said to the Tsar, “God guards him who guards himself;
let one of us rest and the other stand guard.” So they cast lots, and the Tsar
had to take the first watch. Then the soldier gave him his sharp cutlass, put
him at the door, bade him not go to sleep, and arouse him if anything should

happen. Then he himself lay down to sleep. But he thought, “Will my
comrade be able to stand sentry-go? Possibly he is unaccustomed to it; I
will take watch over him.” Then the Tsar stood there and stood, and soon
began to nod.
“What are you nodding for?” asked the soldier: “are you going to sleep?”
“No!” said the Tsar.
“Well, then, keep a good look-out!”
So the Tsar stood a quarter of an hour, and again dozed off.
“Ho, friend, you are not dozing?”
“No, I don’t think so.” And he again dozed off.
“Ho, friend, you are not dozing?”
“I don’t think so: if you go to sleep do not blame me.”
Then the Tsar stood a quarter of an hour longer, and his legs bowed in, he
fell on the ground and went to sleep.
The soldier jumped up, took the cutlass and went to recall him and to
have a talk: “Why do you keep guard in this way? I have served for ten
years, and my colonel never forgave me a single sleep: evidently they have
not taught you anything. I forgave you once before; a third guilt is
unpardonable. Well, now go to sleep; I will stand and watch.”
So the Tsar went and lay down to sleep, and the soldier went sentry-guard
and did not close his eyes.
Very soon there was a whistling and a knocking, and robbers came into
that hut. The old woman met them and told them, “Guests have come in to
spend the night.”
“That is very well, bábushka; we have been rambling the woods in vain
all night, and our luck has come into the hut; give us supper.”
“But our guests have eaten and drunk everything up.”
“What bold fellows they must be: where are they?”
“They have gone to sleep in the garret.”
“Very well; I will go and settle them!”
So a robber took a big knife and crept up into the garret; but as soon as
ever he had poked his head into the door, the soldier swept his cutlass
round, and off came his head.

Then the soldier took a drink and stood and waited on eventualities. So
the robbers waited and waited and waited. “What a long time he has been!”
So they sent a man to look after him and the soldier killed him also, and in a
short time he had chopped off the heads of all the robbers.
At dawn the Tsar awoke, saw the corpses, and asked, “Ho, soldier, into
what danger have we fallen?”
So the soldier told him all that had happened. Then they came down from
the attic. When the soldier saw the old woman he cried out to her, “Here,
stop, you old devil! I must have some business with you. Why are you
acting as a receiver for robbers? Give us all the money now.” So the old
woman opened a box full of gold, and the soldier filled his knapsack with
gold and all of his pockets. He then said to his companion: “You also take
some.”
So the Tsar answered, “No, brother, I need not; our Tsar has money
enough without this; and if he has it, we shall also have it.”
“Well, I suppose you ought to know!” said the soldier, and he took him
out of the wood into the broad road. “Go,” he said, “on this road, and in an
hour you will reach the town.”
“Farewell,” said the Tsar. “Thank you for the service you have done me;
come and see me, and I will make you a happy man.”
“Very well; but that’s a fine tale! I am a runaway soldier: if I show my
head in the town I shall be seized on the spot.”
“Have no fear, soldier: the Tsar is very fond of me; and, if I ask him for a
favour on your behalf and tell him of your bravery, he will forgive you and
have pity on you.”
“Where can I find you?”
“Go into the palace.”
“Very well; I will go there to-morrow.”
So the Tsar and the soldier said good-bye. And the Tsar went on the broad
road into his capital, and without delay he ordered all the staffs and the
watches and the sentries to keep their eyes open, and as soon as a certain
soldier came to give him the honour due to a general.
Next day, as soon as ever the soldier had appeared at the barriers, a sentry
ran out and gave him a generous honour. So the soldier wondered, “What

does this mean?” And he asked, “To whom are you showing these
honours?”
“To you, soldier.”
So he took a handful of gold out of his wallet and gave it to the sentry as
a tip. Then he entered the town. Wherever he went all the sentries gave him
honours, and he always paid them back in tips. “What a wretched dolt was
this servant of the Tsar’s: he has given a hint to everybody that I have plenty
of money on me!” So he came up to the palace, and the entire army was
assembled there, and the Tsar met him in the same dress in which he had
gone hunting.
Then the soldier at last saw with whom he had passed the night in the
wood, and he was terribly frightened. “This was the Tsar,” he said, “and I
threatened him with my cutlass, just as though he had been my brother!”
But the Tsar took him by the hand and rewarded him with a generalship,
and degraded the brother into the ranks, telling him he must not disown his
own kin.

THE TALE OF ALEXANDER OF MACEDON

Once upon a time there lived a king on the earth whose name was
Alexander of Macedon: this was in the old days very long ago. So long ago
that neither our grandfathers, nor great-grandfathers, nor our great-great-
grandfathers, nor our great-great-great-grandfathers recollect it. This Tsar
was one of the greatest knights of all knights that ever were. No champion
of earth could ever conquer him. He loved warfare, and all his army
consisted entirely of knights. Whomsoever Tsar Alexander of Macedon
might go to combat, he would conquer, and he numbered under his sway all
the kings of the earth.
He went to the edge of the world, and he discovered such peoples that he,
however bold he was himself, felt afraid of them; ferocious folk, fiercer
than wild beasts, who ate men; live folks who had but one eye; and that eye
was on the forehead; folks who had three eyes, folks who had only a single
leg; others who had three, and they ran as fast as an arrow darts from the
bow. The names of these peoples were the Gogs and Magogs. Tsar
Alexander of Macedon never lost courage at seeing these strange folk, but
he set to and waged warfare on them. It may be long, it may be short, the
war he waged—we do not know. Only the wild peoples became dispersed
and ran away from him. He began to hunt and to chase after them, and he
chased them into such thickets, precipices and mountains as no tale can tell
and no pen can describe.
So at last they were able to hide themselves from Tsar Alexander of
Macedon. What then did Tsar Alexander of Macedon do with them? He
rolled one mountain over them, and then another roof-wise on top; on the
arch he put trumpets, and he went back to his own land. The winds blew
into the trumpets, and a fearsome roar was then raised to the skies, and the
Gogs and Magogs sitting there cried out, “Oh, evidently Alexander of

Macedon must still be alive!” The Gogs and Magogs are still alive and to
this day are afraid of Alexander. But, before the end of the world, they shall
escape.

THE BROTHER OF CHRIST

An old man was dying, and he was enjoining on his son not to forget the
poor.
So on Easter Day he went into the church, and he took some fine eggs
with him with which to greet his poor brothers, although his mother was
very angry with him for so doing—for she was an evil-minded woman and
merciless to the poor.
When he reached the church there was only one egg left, and there was
one dirty old man. And the lad took him home to break his fast with him.
When the mother saw the poor man, she was very wroth. “It would be
better,” she said, “to break your fast with a dog than with such a filthy old
beggar.” And she would not break the fast.
So the son and the old man broke their fast together, and went out for a
walk. Then the son looked and saw that the dress of the old man was very
shabby, but the cross on him burnt like fire.
“Come,” said the old man, “we will change crosses; you become my
brother by the cross.”
“No, brother,” the lad replied, “however much I may wish it; for I should
get such a fine cross as you are carrying, and can give you nothing in
return.”
But the old man overbore the youth, and they exchanged. And he asked
him to come as his guest on Tuesday in Easter week. “And if you want to
find your way,” he said, “follow the path yonder. You need only say, ‘The
Lord bless me!’ and you will find me.”
That very Tuesday the youth set out on the footpath, and said: “The Lord
bless me!” and set out on his way journeying forth. He went a little way,
and he heard children crying: “Brother of Christ, speak of us to Christ,

whether we must be long in pain?” And he went on a few steps farther; and
he saw maidens ladling water out of one well into another. “Brother of
Christ!” they said to him, “speak of us to Christ, how long we must remain
in torture?” And he went on still farther, and saw a hedge, and beneath that
hedge there became visible old men, and they were all covered with slime.
And they said to him: “Brother of Christ, speak of us to Christ, how long
shall we remain in pain?”
And so he went on and on. Then he saw the very old man with whom he
had broken his fast. And the old man asked him: “What did you see on the
way?”
And the youth recounted all that he had met.
“Well, do you recognise me?” said the old man. And it was only at this
moment that the peasant boy understood that he was speaking to Jesus
Christ Himself.
“Why, O Lord, are the children tortured?”
“Their mother cursed them in the womb, and they can never enter
Paradise.”
“And the maidens?”
“They traded in milk, and they mixed water with their milk; and now for
all eternity they must ladle out water.”
“And the old men?”
“They lived in the white world, and they used to say: ‘How pleasant it
really might be to live in this world! But, as it is, there is nothing worth
caring about!’ So they must bear up against the mire.”[24]
Then Christ led the boy into Paradise, and told him his place was ready
for him there, and you may be sure the boy was none too anxious to leave it
on that day. And afterwards He led him into Hell, and there the peasant’s
mother was sitting.
So the peasant boy began to beseech Christ to have mercy on her. “Have
mercy on her, Lord!”
And Christ bade the lad plait a rope of brome-grass. The peasant plaited
the rope of brome-grass, and the Lord must have supervised.
And he brought it to Christ, Who said: “Now you have been weaving this
rope for thirty years and have laboured sufficiently for your mother, rescue

her out of Hell.”
And the son dangled the rope down to the mother who was sitting in the
boiling pitch. And the rope never burned nor singed: so did God provide.
And the son tried and tried to drag his mother up, and caught hold of her
head, and she cried out to him: “You savage dog! Why, you are almost
choking me!” Then the rope broke off, and the guilty soul once more flew
down into the burning pitch.
“She had not desired to escape,” said Christ, “and all of her heart is down
there, and she must stay there for all eternity.”

ALYÓSHA POPÓVICH[25]

In the sky the young bright moon was being born, and on the earth, of the
old prebendary, the old pope León, a son was born, a mighty knight, and he
was called by name Alyósha Popóvich, a fair name for him.
When they began to feed Alyósha, what was a week’s food for any other
babe was a day’s food for him, what was a year’s food for others was a
week’s food for him.
Alyósha began going about the streets and playing with the young boys.
If he touched the little hand of anyone, that hand was gone: if he touched
the little nose of anyone, that nose was done for: his play was insatiate and
terrible. Anyone he grappled with by the waist, he slew.
And Alyósha began to grow up, so he asked his mother and father for
their blessing, for he wished to go and to fare into the open field.
His father said to him, “Alyósha Popóvich, you are faring into the open
field, but we have yet one who is even mightier than you: do you take into
your service Marýshko, the son of Parán.”
So the two youths mounted their good horses and they fared forth into the
open field. The dust rose behind them like a column, such doughty youths
were they to behold.
So the two doughty youths went on to the court of Prince Vladímir. And
Alyósha Popóvich went straight to the white stone palace, to Prince
Vladímir, crossed himself as is befitting, bowed down in learned-wise in all
four directions, and especially low to Prince Vladímir. Prince Vladímir
came to meet the doughty youths and set them down at an oaken table, gave
the doughty youths good food and drink, and then asked their news. And the
doughty youths sat down to eat baked gingerbread and to drink strong
wines.

Then Prince Vladímir asked the doughty youths, “Who are ye, doughty
youths? Are ye mighty knights of prowess or wandering wayfarers bearing
your burdens? I do not know either your name or your companion’s name.”
So Alyósha Popóvich answered, “I am the son of the old prebendary
León, his young son Alyósha Popóvich, and my comrade and servant is
Marýshko, the son of Parán.”
And when Alyósha had eaten and drunk he went and sat on the brick
stove to rest from the midday heat, whilst Marýshko sat at the table.
Just at that time the knight, the Snake’s son, was making a raid and was
ravaging all the kingdom of Prince Vladímir. Túgarin Zmyéyevich[26] came
to the white stone palace, came to Prince Vladímir. With his left leg he
stepped on the threshold and with his right leg on the oaken table. He drank
and ate and had conversation with the princess, and he mocked Prince
Vladímir and reviled him. He put one round of bread to his cheek and piled
one on another; on his tongue he put an entire swan, and he thrust off all the
pastry and swallowed it all at a gulp.
Alyósha Popóvich was lying on the brick stove, and spake in this wise to
Túgarin Zmyéyevich: “My old father, León the pope, had a little cow which
was a great glutton: it used to eat up all the beer vats with all the lees; and
then the little cow, the glutton, came to the lake, and it drank and lapped all
the water out of the lake, took it all up and it burst, and so it would also
have torn Túgarin to bits after his feed.”
Then Túgarin was wroth with Alyósha Popóvich and burst on him with
his steel knife. Alyósha turned aside and stood behind an oaken column.
Then Alyósha spoke in this wise: “I thank you, Túgarin Zmyéyevich; you
have given me a steel knife: I will break your white breast, I will put out
your clear eyes, and I will behold your mettlesome heart.”
Just at that time Marýshko Paránov leapt out from behind the table, the
oaken table, on to his swift feet, seized Túgarin, and fell on his back and
threw him over; lifted up one of the chairs and hurled in the white stone
palace, and the glass windows were shattered.
Then Alyósha Popóvich said from the brick stove, “O Marýshko, son of
Parán, thou hast been a faithful servant!”
And Marýshko the son of Parán answered, “Do you give me, Alyósha
Popóvich, your steel knife, and I will break open the white breast of

Túgarin Zmyéyevich, I will close his clear eyes, and I will gaze on his
mettlesome heart.”
But Alyósha answered, “Hail, Marýshko Paránov, do you not sully the
white stone palace; let him go into the open field wherever he may, and we
will meet him to-morrow in the open field.”
So, in the morning early, very early, Marýshko the son of Parán arose,
together with the little sun, and he led out the stout horses to water them in
the swift stream. Túgarin Zmyéyevich flew into the open and challenged
Alyósha Popóvich to fight him in the open field. And Marýshko Paránov
came to Alyósha Popóvich and said: “God must be your judge, Alyósha
Popóvich: you would not give me your steel knife; I should have carved out
the white breast from that pagan thief, should have gouged out his bright
eyes, and I should have taken out his mettlesome heart and gazed on it.
Now, what will you make of Túgarin? He is flying about in the open.”
Then Alyósha Popóvich spake in this wise: “That was no service, but
treachery.”
So Alyósha led out his horse, saddled it with a Circassian saddle,
fastened it on with twelve silken girths, not for the sake of decoration, but
for the sake of strength. Alyósha set out into the open field, and he saw
Túgarin Zmyéyevich, who was flying in the open.
Then Alyósha made a prayer: “Holy Mother of God, do thou punish the
black traitor, and grant out of the black cloud a thick gritty rain that shall
damp Túgarin’s light wings, and he may fall on the grey earth and stand on
the open field!”
It was like two mountains falling on each other when Túgarin and
Alyósha met. They fought with their clubs, and their clubs were shattered at
the hilts. Their lances met, and their lances broke into shreds. Then Alyósha
Popóvich got down from his saddle like a sheaf of oats, and Túgarin
Zmyéyevich was almost striking Alyósha down. But Alyósha Popóvich was
cautious. He stood between his horse’s feet and, turning round to the other
side from there, smote Túgarin with his steel knife under his right breast,
and threw Túgarin from his good horse. And then Alyósha Popóvich cried
out, “Túgarin, I thank you, Túgarin Zmyéyevich, for the steel knife: I will
tear out your white breast, I will gouge out your bright eyes, and I will gaze
on your mettlesome heart.”

Then Alyósha cut off his turbulent head, and he took the turbulent head to
Prince Vladímir. And as he went on he began playing with that little head,
flinging it high up in the air and catching it again on his sharp lance.
But Vladímir was dismayed. “I see Túgarin bringing me the turbulent
head of Alyósha Popóvich: he will now take captive all of our Christian
kingdom.”
But Marýshko Paránov gave him answer: “Do not be distressed, oh
bright little sun, Vladímir, in thy capital of Kíev. If Túgarin is coming on
earth and is not flying in the skies he is putting his turbulent head on my
steel lance. Do not be afraid, Prince Vladímir; whatever comes I will make
friends with him.”
Then Marýshko the son of Parán looked out into the open field, and he
recognised Alyósha Popóvich, and he said, “I can see the knightly gait and
youthful step of Alyósha Popóvich. He is guiding his horse uphill and he is
playing with a little head: he is throwing the little head sky-high, and is
catching the little head on the point of his sharp lance. He who is riding is
not the pagan Túgarin, but Alyósha Popóvich, the son of the old prebendary,
the pope León, who is bringing the head of the pagan Túgarin
Zmyéyevich.”

GOD’S BLESSING COMPASSES ALL THINGS

Once upon a time in a certain country, in a certain kingdom, there were
two peasants, Iván and Naúm. They entered into a partnership and went
together to look for work, and they rambled about until they came to a rich
village and got work with different masters. For the whole week they kept
at work and met on Sunday for the first time.
“Brother, how much have you earned?” asked Iván.
“God has given me five roubles.”
“God gave them to you? He does not give much unless you work for it.”
“No, Brother, without God’s blessing you can do nothing; you cannot
gain a groat.”
So they quarrelled about this, and at last they decided, “We will each go
our own way. We will ask the first man we meet which of us is right. He
who loses the bet must sacrifice all his earnings.”
So they went on some twenty paces. Afterwards they came across an
unholy spirit in human guise, and they asked him and received his reply.
“What you earn for yourself is the proper thing; place no reliance on God.”
Naúm gave Iván his money and returned emptyhanded to his master. One
week later the two men met once again, and set about the same argument.
Naúm said: “Though you took my money from me last week, still, this
week God gave me yet more.”
“If God gave it you as you said, we will once more ask the first person
who meets us who is right. The loser of the bet shall have the money, and
shall have his right hand hewn off.”
Naúm consented. On their way they met the same devil, who returned the
same reply. Iván gave Naúm his money, hacked off his right hand, and left
it behind.

Naúm pondered for a long time what he should do without his right hand.
Who would give him meat and drink? But God is merciful. So he went to
the river, and he lay down on a boat on the shore. “I will sit down here, and
to-morrow I may see what I shall do, for the morning is wiser than the
evening.”
And about midnight very many devils assembled on the boat and began
to tell each other what tricks they had played. The first said: “I started a
quarrel between two peasants, backed up the one who was in the wrong;
and the one, who was in the right, had his hand hacked off.”
“That’s not much of a feat! If he were to wave his hand, three times over
the dew, his hand would grow again,” said the second.
Then the third began to boast, “I have sucked a lord’s daughter dry, and
she can hardly stir.”
“What! if any one had any compassion on the lord, he would heal the
daughter at once. It is as simple as possible. You have only to take this
herb”—pointing to a herb on the shore—“cook it, boil her in the brew, and
she will be healed.”
“In a certain pond,” a fifth devil said, “there is a peasant who has put up a
water-mill, and for many years he has been striving to make it go, but
whenever he lets the water through the sluice, I make a hole in it, and all the
water flows through.”
“What a fool your peasant is!” said the sixth devil. “He ought to dam it
up well, and as soon as the water breaks through, throw in a sheaf of straw,
and all your work would be no good.”
Naúm had listened very attentively. Next day he grew his hand on again,
then he saw to the peasant’s dam, and he healed the lord’s daughter. Both
the peasant and the lord rewarded him richly, and he lived a fine life.
Once he met his former companion, who was very much astonished, and
asked: “How is it you have become so rich, and how did you grow your
hand on again?”
Naúm told him exactly what had happened, and kept nothing back.
Iván listened very attentively, and thought, “Ha! I shall do the same, and
shall become richer than he!” So he went to the river and lay down on the
shore, in the boat.

And at midnight all the devils gathered together. “Brothers,” they said,
“somebody must have been eavesdropping on us, for the peasant’s hand
grew again, the maiden is healed, and the mill-wheel is turning!”
So they burst on the boat, found Iván, and tore him into tiny bits.

Then the wolves wept cows’ tears.

SHEMYÁK THE JUDGE

Once in a certain country, in a certain kingdom, there lived two brothers;
one was rich and the other poor. One day the poor brother came to the rich
and asked him for a horse to fetch wood out of the forest. The rich man lent
him a horse. Then the poor man also asked him for a horse-collar: this the
rich brother refused, and became angry. Then the poor man decided to tie
the wood to the horse’s tail. And so he drove into the wood. He cut down so
much wood that the horse could hardly drag it. When he got home he
opened the door, but he forgot to remove the cross-beam. The horse jumped
over it, but wrenched his tail out.
The poor brother brought the rich man the horse back without a tail.
When he saw the animal in this condition, he would not take it; but went
with the poor man before Judge Shemyák. The poor man went with his
brother, and surmised he would fare very badly, for the sentence would be
exile; the poor man is a butt for all, as he cannot give anything.
The brothers came to a rich peasant and asked for a night’s lodging. The
peasant gave the rich man good food and drink, but the poor man nothing.
The poor man lay on the oven and saw how merry the other two were
making; and fell down and killed the child in the cradle.
Then the peasant decided to go with the brothers, to bring a further
indictment against the poor man. They went off together, the peasant and
the rich brother in front, and the poor man after them. Then they crossed a
bridge: the poor man considered that he would hardly escape the Court with
his life; so he jumped over the bridge, in order to commit suicide. But,
under the bridge, a son was bathing his sick father, and the poor man fell
plump on the old man and drowned him. Then the son also went up to the
Court in order to bring a plaint against the poor man.

The rich man put in a plea to the Court that his poor brother had torn off
the horse’s tail. In the meantime the poor man had wrapped a stone in a
cloth and was threatening the judge with it behind the brother’s back, for he
was thinking, “If the judge goes against me, I will kill him.” The judge
believed that the poor man was offering him a hundred roubles so as to
prove his case, and he gave judgment that the rich man must leave the horse
in the poor peasant’s possession until the tail grew again.
Then the peasant came and complained that the poor man had killed his
son. Once again the poor man lifted up the same stone in a menacing way
against the judge, behind the peasant’s back. And the judge this time felt
perfectly sure of getting a hundred roubles more for the judgment. And he
commanded the peasant to give his wife to the poor peasant until another
son was born. “Then you can take your wife and the child back.”
This time it was the son’s turn. And he brought in a plea that the poor
man had murdered his father. Once again the poor man took the stone out of
his pocket and showed it to the judge. Then the judge felt sure he would get
altogether three hundred roubles in the case, and he commanded the son to
go to the bridge, “and you, poor man, go there; stop under the bridge; and
the son is to jump into the water plump on to you and to kill you.”
Judge Shemyák sent his servant to the poor man to ask for the three
hundred roubles.
Then the poor man showed the servant the stone with which he had
threatened the judge: “If the judge had not decided in my favour I should
have killed him with this stone!”
When the judge heard of this, he crossed himself piously and said:
“Thank God I decided for the right party.”
The poor brother went to the rich brother to fetch the horse from him in
accordance with the judge’s decision, until the tail should grow again. The
rich man did not want to give the horse, so he gave him instead five roubles,
three quarters of corn, and a milch-goat; and made peace with him for all
time.
Then the poor man went to the peasant, and in accordance with the
judgment, asked for the wife, in order that she might remain with him until
another child came. Then the peasant made a compromise with the poor
man, gave him fifty roubles, a cow and a calf, and a mare with a foal, and
four quarters of corn, and settled matters with him.

Then the poor man went to the son whose father he had killed, and read
the judgment out to him, according to which the son was to jump on him
from the bridge, so as to kill him. Then the son began to consider: “If I do
jump, possibly I shall kill him, possibly I shall not; anyhow I shall be done
for.” So he made terms with the poor man, gave him two hundred roubles
and a horse, and five quarters of corn; and lived in peace with him for ever.

A STORY OF SAINT NICHOLAS

In a certain city, in a certain state, there once lived a merchant Nicholas
with his wife. From the beginning they lived happily and were wealthy. But
their chief joy was in this: that the Lord had presented them with a son, and
such a beautiful son too! Sensible and wise—and the only prayer which the
mother and father addressed to God and to his holy godfather St. Nicholas
the Wonder-Worker, was that they should endow him with happiness and
long life.
But, as old age crept on, they, for some reason, began to become poor;
and they became so poor that Nicholas, from a famous merchant, became a
mere tradesman, and they only had one little shop, and in the shop there
was a chest of tobacco, a few nails, and a little iron. And either from the fact
that they were growing poorer, or that they were becoming older, the
mother and father of Iván—for this was the name of Nicholas’s son—had
become feeble.
One day the father called Iván to him, and said: “Now, our beloved son,
we, it seems, shall soon die; but do you not weep for us, but rather pray
God. For we have already lived out our life; and this is as it must be. But
you bury us properly, for I have saved up money for you for this purpose.
One third of the money you are to spend on the funeral, the second on the
Requiem Mass, and with the third buy a shop and go into trade. And I will
give you my blessing. Do not give any one false measure or cheat; and if
you shall grow rich, do not forget God, and to give alms to the poor, as I did
time agone. Now, my son, farewell. May the Divine mercy guard you and
our guilty souls.”
Seven days passed, and Iván buried his father, and his mother soon
afterwards, and began to trade. Soon he began to overlook the stock, and in
the corner he found an image of the holy St. Nicholas the Wonder-Worker.

So he brought the image into the izbá[27] and he poured water into a vessel,
washed it out, cleaned it in front of the image, and soon after went to
market, bought a little lamp, and lighted it in front of the image.
On the first Sunday he called the Pope in, had a Mass said for his parents,
chanted a prayer to St. Nicholas the Wonder-Worker, and took the image
into the shop, so that he might gaze at it constantly; and thereafter,
whenever he went into the shop, he used first of all to pray before the
image, and afterwards he began to trade.
And his trade went so well that it seemed as if the Lord Himself had been
sending customers. Later on he built a second shop, and every day he gave
much money in alms, and amongst others, to one old man who every day
repaired to him. Iván was very fond of him, and when a new clerk had to be
engaged for the new shop, he said to this old man: “Grandfather, I do not
know thy hallowed name; I do not know, father, how to call thee; only do
not be angry with me, for I have built a new shop, and I have no clerk.
Come with me as my clerk, and I will obey you as I would have obeyed my
own father. Do be kind and do not refuse.”
The old man at the beginning would very gladly have refused; but
afterwards they agreed, and began to live and dwell together, and Iván, in
all things, obeyed the old man, and called him Bátyushka.
The old man carried on trade prosperously and profitably; and one day he
said: “Ivánushka, your trade does not altogether suit me; for you trade in
tobacco, and God loves not smoking, nor does He love tobacconists. So buy
some small goods, and you will have more purchasers, and will not incur
sin.”
Iván obeyed, and purchased many goods of all sorts, and set up shop
anew. When all the goods were sold out, Iván went into the counting-house,
and he saw threefold his money wherever he looked. Iván was extremely
joyous at so big a profit, and he called in the Pope, and he recited the prayer
to Nicholas the Wonder-Worker. And as to the old man, he was so happy,
and he prayed so heartily to God.
So they traded on for three years more, and Iván became so rich that the
old man advised him to sell out and cross the seas with his goods. And Iván
obeyed the old man, bought a ship, loaded it with wares, and gave his house
to the poor, setting one of them in as the master until he should come back
himself. And they prayed to God, and he and the old man set sail.

Soon they arrived: it may be near, it may be far—the tale is soon told, but
the deed is not soon done—and suddenly robbers came upon them and
plundered them of all their goods: and only left themselves alive and
unscathed. It was a bitter shock to Iván. But the old man quieted him, and
said that all of this was for the best. So they sailed on for three days after
this; and on the third day they landed on an island, and they saw a great
mass of bricks. The old man said to Iván: “Get ready, Ivánushka, and load
these bricks on your ship.” Iván said: “What shall I do with these bricks? I
would sooner die than do trade in them.” But the old man answered and
said: “Oh, Ivánushka, Ivánushka, you have had little experience; and I tell
you that any single one of these bricks is worth more than all the wares of
which the robbers plundered you!” And he threw one of the bricks on the
ground, and under the clay there was a splendid jewel.
So Iván was glad, and began loading the ship with the bricks. And when
they had loaded it to the full, the old man said: “Now, Ivánushka, you must
also make some plain bricks in order that buccaneers may not steal the
valuable ones.” So they loaded plain bricks as well. But on their way the
wind arose and they sailed farther, and the robbers fell on them again and
began to search for the goods. So the old man said to them: “Have mercy,
good folk! Leave us alive; for robbers some time ago took away all we had,
and now we only carry bricks, such bricks as we made on the island.” The
pirates looked and were persuaded and sailed farther on, and so did Iván
and the old man, and very soon arrived at a haven and stayed there.
In that kingdom there was a custom that all merchants who arrived
should bring some of all their wares as a homage to the king. So the old
man said to Iván: “Ivánushka, pray to the Lord God, and go and buy a
golden vessel and a fatá, and to-morrow go and make your homage to the
king.” Iván obeyed the old man, and the next day went to make his homage
to the king. They told the king that a merchant had come to do allegiance,
and the king sat on his throne and gave audience to Iván.
Iván came up to the king, and in his hands there was a golden vessel
covered by a fatá, and in the golden vessel there was a brick. So the king
asked Iván from what realm he came, and how his father and mother were
named. And then he uncovered the fatá, and when he saw the brick he was
very wroth, and said: “I suppose you think I have very few bricks, and you

have come to trade in them in my kingdom!” And then he rushed at Iván.
But Iván turned aside and the brick fell to the ground and split in two.
Then the king saw that he had behaved unseemlywise, and began to ask
Iván for forgiveness. And he forthwith bought the entire ship off Iván. And
when Iván saw this, he said: “You may take all my goods, but I will not sell
my vessel, for therein do I have an old man who is my clerk, and we should
not be able to live in the town.” “Oh,” said the king, “are there two of you?”
And the king, on hearing this, became very angry, and said: “I will not let
you go, but I must have the ship.” And Iván went down on his knees and
besought him that he would let them go. Then the king said: “If one of you
will read some psalms for three nights to my daughter who is now in the
church, you may keep the ship.” For his daughter was a witch, and every
night turned into a human being.
Iván returned to his ship, and he was sad and disheartened. He did not
wish to go himself, for he did not wish to die; and if he dismissed the old
man, it was very hard to part.
The old man said to Iván: “Why, Ivánushka, why are you so miserable
and hang your head?” And Iván told him all that had happened, and what
the king had said. So the old man answered him: “Never mind, Ivánushka,
cheer up! Pray to the Saviour, and lie down and sleep, and I will think out
some means of getting out of the danger.”
Soon it began to grow dark, and the old man roused Iván and said: “Here
are three tapers. As long as the first burns, pray to God; when the second is
burnt out, light the third, and then enter by the right-hand side of the Holy
Gates by the altar-screen and say nothing; only mutter a prayer all the time.
Go, and God bless you.”
So Iván landed, and the king’s attendants took Iván into the church and
locked it, and he began to read the Psalter. One candle went out and then
another, and he lighted the third, and lay down at the right-hand side of the
Holy Gates. Then the flooring suddenly jumped up, and the witch began to
search for Iván: “Where are you? I want to eat you.” And she looked, and
she looked, and she could not find him, and then the cock crew, and she
went once more into the grave. Then Iván got up, covered up the grave, and
began to read once more.
In the morning they went there to collect his bones; but there Iván was, as
large as life. And they went and told the king. And he bade him for the

second time go and read prayers.
And Iván went to the old man and told him what had happened in the
church by night.
Next night the old man told Iván to lie down on the left-hand side of the
Holy Gates. And once more the witch could not find him.
On the third night the old man gave him three tapers and a ball of pitch;
and the pitch was rolled round with hair. He said: “To-night, Ivánushka, is
the last night. When you have burned out the last taper, lie down beside the
grave, and when the witch rises out of it, go and lie in the grave in her
place, and do not let her in until she shall read out the prayers ‘Maiden
Mother of God, rejoice!’ and ‘Our Father Which art in Heaven.’”
Iván went into the church and began to read the Psalter, and after lighting
the third candle, lay down on the right-hand side of the grave. The witch
broke out of the coffin and passed over Iván and began to look for him all
over the church. When the time came for her to lie down, there was Iván in
her place. “Ah! there art thou!” the witch cried. “For thrice twenty-four
hours I have been hungry. Come out; I want to eat you.” And Iván threw the
ball covered with hair at her, and she nibbled and gnawed at it. And she at
last said: “Let me go!” “No,” said Iván, “I will not let you go.” “Let me
go!” the witch repeated. “Then do you,” said Iván, “recite the prayer
‘Maiden Mother of God, rejoice!’ after me, and then I will let you go.” And
the witch read out the prayer and then said: “Let me go!” And Iván said:
“Now read the Our Father, then I will let you go.” And the witch read it
out. Then Iván came out and said: “Lie down.” But the witch said: “Now I
cannot lie down.” Then she and Iván began to pray.
In the morning two men came in, and they not only saw Iván, but also
Olyóna, the king’s daughter—for this was the witch’s name. And they went
to the king, and recounted all they had beheld.
And the king assembled all the spiritual hierarchy and went into the
church. And he thought it must be that Iván had turned into a wizard, but
when he saw how things really were, he embraced Iván and called him his
son. And the witch said to Iván: “Now, Iván, the merchant’s son, if you
have been able to pray to God and to bring me to life again, now learn how
to master me, and I will never depart one step from you.”
So Iván went to the ship, and he told the old man all that had happened,
and the old man said: “Ivánushka, fear nothing, take Olyóna Korólyevna[28]

as your wife, only for the first three nights do not go to sleep until the cock
has crowed three times, and then she will never more oppress you.”
There was no loitering at the king’s court; very soon all was got ready,
and Iván was affianced to Princess Olyóna. And for two weeks he lived
quite happily. Then he said to his father-in-law: “Good father, let me go
home and have a Mass said for my father and mother, and once more see
my home.” And the king said: “My beloved son, Iván, the merchant’s son, I
will not withstand your wish, but do return hither. You see yourself I am no
longer young, and I have no heir. When you return I will give you my
kingdom, and you will live happily and merrily.”
So they set out on their journey, and arrived at their own kingdom, to
their native land. And Iván took Olyóna with him. When they arrived at the
island of the bricks, they loaded all the vessels, and there were many ships,
and they excavated the entire island.
One day the old man began to cut firewood, took them to the opposite
side of the island and said: “Ivánushka, my well-doer, I must now speak
with you.” And he bade them come where the firewood was stacked. He lit
the firewood; and when it was in flame he took Olyóna, threw her down,
trod on one leg, and pulled her apart into two halves, taking hold of the
other leg. Iván did not know what to say! And the old man put both halves
on the fire, and out of the fire there then crept snakes, frogs, and all sorts of
reptiles. Then he took the two parts out of the fire, rinsed them thoroughly
in the sea, sprinkled them over with water, made the sign of the cross, and
Olyóna arose such a beauty as no tale can tell and no pen can write. Then he
said: “Now, my well-doer, Ivánushka, you are to be a mighty king; Iván, the
merchant’s son, you are now rich and famous and happy, so see to it that
you do not forget God and the poor. I shall see you no more.”
Iván and Olyóna knelt down and began to beseech him, but the old man
said: “Beg no more of me, but rather thank God for sending me to you. I
loved you and your father, Iván, and you even more, because you kindly
gave me alms; and now you are rich and famous, do not forget to give alms
to the poor.” Then he vanished.
Iván and Olyóna praised God, went back to the ships, and sailed farther
on.
When the poor saw that Iván had arrived with untold wealth, they
crowded to the shore and began to kiss Iván’s hands, his feet, and the hem

of his garment; and all present were so joyous that the tears flowed from
their eyes.
Iván put up crosses on his parents’ grave, clothed the poor, gave them his
house, and returned to his father-in-law, and for many years governed his
kingdom. And he lived so long that he saw in his old age his sons, his
grandsons, and his great-grandsons. And he ever prayed and blessed God
and Nicholas the Wonder-Worker for the mercy they had manifested to him.
In that kingdom where he was king, to this very day King Iván and his
wife Olyóna the Fair are remembered.[29]

THE POTTER

Once a potter was journeying on his road with his goods and dozed off.
The Tsar Iván Vasílyevich came driving by in his carriage and said, “Peace
be to you!”
The potter looked up and said, “I thank you very much and wish you the
same.”
“Have you been asleep?”
“Yes, my lord. Do not fear a man who sings songs; but fear a man who
slumbers!”
“You are a bold fellow, potter: I have seen very few such, and I like them.
Coachman, slower! Potter, tell me, have you been long at your trade?”
“Ever since my youth, and I am now middle-aged.”
“Can you keep your children with it?”
“Yes, I do not sow, nor plough, nor mow, nor reap, and no frosts can do
me any harm.”
“Right, potter; but there are still misfortunes left in the world.”
“Yes, I know three of them.”
“What are the three?”
“The first is an evil neighbour, the second an evil wife, and the third a
weak understanding.”
“Yet now, tell me which is the worst of these evils?”
“The evil neighbour can be escaped; so can the evil wife if one has
children enough, but the weak intellect can never be got rid of.”
“Yes, that is true, potter; you are a sensible fellow. Listen! You suit me
and I suit you. When there are geese flying over Russia, will you pluck a
feather out of them or let them fly by in peace?”

“If it suit me, I should let them fly by as they should; otherwise I should
pluck them bald.”
“Potter, hold in your horse a little while I look at your stock.”
The potter stopped and displayed his goods.
“Can you make any such for me?”
“How many?”
“Ten cartloads.”
“How long will you require?”
“One month.”
“In a fortnight I can bring them into the town. I suit you and you suit
me.”
“Thank you, potter.”
“Will you be in the city when I bring the goods?”
“Yes, I shall be there as the merchant’s guest.”
So the Tsar drove into the city and ordered that at all his feasts the plates
should be neither of silver nor of pewter, nor of copper nor of wood, but
only of clay. The potter carried out the Tsar’s orders and brought his goods
into the city. A boyár rode up to the potter and said to him: “God be with
you, potter.”
“Thank you, your honour.”
“Sell me all your goods.”
“I cannot; they are already sold.”
“What does that matter? Take my money for it; you will be doing no
wrong, as long as you have received no orders for the work. What do you
want?”
“I want every plate filled with money.”
“Listen, potter—that is too much.”
“Very well, then: one filled with money and two empty. Do you agree?”
So they agreed at that: “You suit me and I suit you.”
They filled up the plates and again emptied them, and they went on
filling plates until there was not any money left: but there were ever so
many plates over. The boyár saw he was getting the worst of the bargain
and sent for more money from the house. So they piled the plates higher

still, but all the money vanished, and still all the goods had not been used
up.
“What is to be done, potter? Why are you so greedy?”
“There is nothing to be done.”
“I have a very high esteem for you, potter, but do you know what?”
“Do you carry me in to the courtyard, and I will give you the goods and
the money back as well.”
So the boyár hesitated: he was very sorry to lose his money and for
himself, but he could not help himself, and so they agreed. They
unharnessed the horse, and the peasant sat in the carriage and the boyár
walked on. The potter sang a song, and the boyár drew it along, drew it
along. “How far must I take you in front of that courtyard?”
The potter went on singing joyously and said, “In front of the house, at
the very top of the carriage.”
When he reached the palace he stood up erect and sang, joyously.
The Tsar heard him singing and ran to the flight of steps, and recognised
the potter. “Ha! welcome, potter!”
“Thank you, your honour.”
“What are you travelling with?”
“With folly.”
“Now, you fine potter, you have known how to sell your goods; boyár,
take off your gay costume and your boots; and you, potter, take off your
kaftán and your bast shoes. Put the peasant’s smock on, boyár, and you,
potter, put on the boyár’s robes. You have sold your goods very finely,
potter; you have done very little, and you have won much. But as for you,
boyár, you were not able to keep your rank. Now, potter, were there any
geese flying over Russia? Did you pluck a feather out of them, or did you
leave them in peace?”
“No, I plucked them bald.”

THE WITCH AND THE SISTER OF THE SUN

In a distant country, a country far away, once there lived a Tsar and
Tsarítsa, who had a son, Iván Tsarévich, who was dumb from his birth.
When he was twelve years old he went to the stable to the groom whom he
loved, who always told him stories. But this time he was not to be told any.
“Iván Tsarévich,” said the groom, “your mother will soon have a
daughter, and you will have a sister. She will be a dreadful witch and will
eat up your father and your mother and all their subjects. Go back home and
ask your father to give you his best horse; mount that and ride away and
follow your eyes if you would escape misfortune.”
Iván Tsarévich ran up to his father and spoke for the first time in his life.
The Tsar was so glad at this that he never asked what the Tsarévich wanted
the horse for, but ordered the very best of his Tabún to be saddled for him.
Iván Tsarévich mounted the horse and rode away, following his eyes. He
rode far, to a very great distance, and he came to two old seamstresses, and
asked them if they would not let him live with them.
“We should be very glad to accept you, Iván Tsarévich,” they replied,
“but we shall not live much longer. We are breaking up this box and with
our needles sewing it together again, and as soon as we have done that
Death will come to us.”
Then Iván Tsarévich wept and rode on farther. And he rode on, very very
far, and came to Vertodúb. And he begged him, “Will you take me as your
son?”
“I should be very glad to take you,” Vertodúb replied, “but, as soon as I
have turned round all these oaks with all their roots, the hour will have
come for me to die.”

Then the Tsarévich wept yet more, and he rode farther on, and he came to
Vertogór, and he made him the same request.
“I should be very glad to take you, Iván Tsarévich, but I too shall not live
much longer,” was the answer he received. “You see, I am placed here in
order to turn these mountains round; and when I have done with the last of
them then I must die.”
Then Iván Tsarévich wept bitter tears, and he rode yet farther. And at last
he came to the Sister of the Sun. She gave him meat and drink and adopted
him as a son. The Tsarévich had a fine time there. But still he was always
dissatisfied, because he did not know what was going on at home. And so
he clomb a lofty mountain, looked out to his own house, and saw that
everything there had been eaten up, and only the walls were standing. Then
he sighed and wept.
And when he came down from the mountain, the Sister of the Sun met
him and asked, “Iván Tsarévich, why hast thou wept?”
“It was the wind which was blowing something in my eye!” And once
again he began to weep.
And he went a second time into the mountain, and saw that only the walls
of his house remained standing—everything had been eaten up. And he
wept and returned home.
Again the Sister of the Sun met him: “Iván Tsarévich, why hast thou
wept?”
“It was the wind which was blowing something in my eye!” And the Sun
was angry, and forbade the wind to blow.
And he mounted the hill a third time, and this time he was forced to say
why he was sad, and beg the Sister of the Sun for leave to go home to see
what had been happening, like a doughty youth. So she gave him a brush
and comb and two apples to take with him. And, however old a man might
be, if he only ate one apple, he would be young once more.
Iván ran away, and he found Vertogór, who had only one mountain left.
So Iván Tsarévich took his brush, and threw it into the open field. And
suddenly mountains grew up everywhere, and their summits and peaks
pierced into the skies, and there were so many of them that no man could
count them. Vertogór was then very happy and set about work gaily.

Iván Tsarévich met Vertodúb once more, and there were only three oaks
left. So he threw the comb into the field, and then there rustled out of the
earth a thick oak forest, every tree thicker than the other. And Vertodúb was
then very joyous and set to work gaily.
And at last, after a journey long or short, Iván Tsarévich reached the old
women, and he gave each of them an apple. They ate them, and they once
more became young, and gave him a little handkerchief, which he need
only shake, and a big lake would appear.
When Iván Tsarévich came home, his sister ran to him and caressed him.
“Sit down, brother mine; play on the harp whilst I go and prepare dinner.”
Iván Tsarévich sat down and began to finger the strings when a mouselet
crept out of the corner and spoke with a human voice: “Run away,
Tsarévich, as fast as you can. Your sister is now whetting her teeth.”
Iván Tsarévich then left the room, sat on his horse, and went all the way
back to the Sun. The mouselet ran up and down on the strings of the harp,
and the sister never noticed that the brother had gone away. When she had
sharpened her teeth, she ran into the room, but there was not a single soul to
be seen there, even the mouselet had crept back into its hole. And the witch
became furious, gnashed her teeth and made ready to pursue Iván
Tsarévich. Iván Tsarévich heard a noise behind him, looked, and saw his
sister had almost caught him up, so he waved his handkerchief, and a deep
lake rose behind him. Whilst the witch was swimming through the lake Iván
Tsarévich flew a vast way, and she was swifter than he, and again came
near.
Vertodúb guessed Iván was fleeing from his sister, and piled oaks on the
way, whirled a vast mass of them in her path and she could not get through;
she had at first to clear the road. So she gnawed and gnawed away, and at
last made herself a path. But Iván Tsarévich in the meantime had gained
ground. So she followed him farther, and she had almost caught him up.
When Vertogór saw what was happening, he seized hold of the highest
mountain, piled it up on the road and stuck another on top of it. And the
witch was very furious, and began climbing up, and in the meantime Iván
Tsarévich got far and far away. But the witch soon got up and cried out:
“This time you shall not escape me.”
He had got into the palace of the Sister of the Sun, and cried out, “Sun,
Sun! open your big windows.” The Sun opened his window and Iván

Tsarévich leaped in on his horse.
The witch asked him to give her her brother, but the Sun would not. Then
the witch said, “Iván Tsarévich must put himself on one balance and I will
put myself on the other, and if I am the heavier I will eat him up; and, if he
is the heavier he shall lay me low.”
So they went and set up the scales. First Iván Tsarévich sat down on it,
then the witch on the other side; but as soon as ever she had put her foot
into it the Tsarévich was hurled with such force into the house, that he flew
right into the very bosom of the sky, into the chambers of the Sun, whilst
the witch remained on the earth.

MÁRYA MORYÉVNA

In a certain kingdom, in a certain state, there once lived Iván Tsarévich,
who had three sisters: one was called Márya Tsarévna, the second Ólga
Tsarévna, and the third Ánna Tsarévna. Their mother and father had died:
when they were dying they bade the son, “Whoever come first as a suitor
for your sisters’ hands, let them take them; do not keep them long with
you.” The Tsarévich buried his parents; and, in his grief, went with his
sisters to walk in a green garden. Then a dark cloud appeared in the sky, and
a fearful clap of thunder was heard. “Let us go home, sisters,” said Iván
Tsarévich.
Soon they reached the palace: the thunder rattled and the ceiling fell
down, and the ceiling divided into two. And a clear-eyed Hawk came into
the room, struck the ground, and turned himself into a fair, doughty youth:
“Hail, Iván Tsarévich! before, I came to you as a guest, now I am coming to
ask for your sister’s hand: I wish to marry Márya Tsarévna.”
“If you wish my sister, I will not say you nay: take her with God’s
blessing.”
Márya Tsarévna agreed, and the Hawk married her and took her away to
his own kingdom.
Then day followed day and hour followed hour. One whole year went by
unheeded. Iván Tsarévich stayed with his sisters in the green garden. Then
there came a cloud and there was thunder and lightning. “Let us go home,
sisters,” said the Tsarévich.
When they came to the palace there was a thunderclap, and the roof fell
in and the ceiling was cleft in two, and an Eagle flew in, struck the ground
and turned himself into a doughty youth, and said, “Hail, Iván Tsarévich!
formerly I came to you as a guest, now I come to you as a suitor.” And he
asked for the hand of Ólga.

And Iván Tsarévich answered, “If Ólga Tsarévna pleases you, she may go
to you—I will not withstand your will.”
Ólga Tsarévna was willing, and married the Eagle: the Eagle laid hold of
her and took her to his own kingdom.
One year further went by, and Iván Tsarévich said to his youngest sister,
“Let us go and have a walk in the green garden,” and they went for a little
walk. And a cloud came over the sky with thunder and lightning. “Let us
turn back, sister, home!”
So they turned back home, and they had hardly sat down when the
thunder clapped and the ceiling was divided into two, and a Crow flew in.
And the Crow struck the ground and turned himself into a doughty youth.
The former suitors were fair enough in themselves, but he was fairer still.
“Formerly I came to you as a guest, but now I come to you as a suitor: give
me your sister Ánna.”
“I will not withstand my sister’s will; if you are in love with her she may
have you.”
And Ánna Tsarévna went with the Crow, and he took her to his own
kingdom.
So Iván Tsarévich was there alone, and for one whole year he lived there
without any sisters, and began to feel melancholy. “I will go,” he said, “and
seek my sisters.” So he started out on the road. He went on and on and on.
And there lay on the field an army of a great host conquered. And Iván
asked them: “If there be any man alive here, let him call! Who slew this
mighty host?”
And one man who was still alive replied: “All this mighty host was
conquered by Márya Moryévna, the fair princess.”
And Iván Tsarévich went on yet further, and he came upon white tents,
and Márya Moryévna came to meet him, the fair queen.
“Hail,” she said, “Tsarévich! where is God taking you? Is it at your will
or perforce?”
And Iván Tsarévich answered her: “Doughty youths do not go perforce.”
“Well, if you have no quest to accomplish, come and stay in my tents.”
And Iván Tsarévich was glad of this, and he stayed two nights in the
tents, fell in love with Márya Moryévna, and married her.

Márya Moryévna took him with her to her own kingdom, and they lived
together for some time; and they thought of making ready for war; and so
she handed all of her possessions over to Iván, and said: “Go everywhere,
look at everything, only into this lumber-room you must not look.”
But he was impatient: as soon as Márya Moryévna’s back was turned, he
at once opened the lumber-room, opened the door and looked in, and there
Koshchéy the Deathless was hanging.
Koshchéy asked Iván Tsarévich, “Have pity on me: give me something to
eat. I have been tortured here for ten years. I have eaten nothing, I have
drunken nothing, and my throat is all dried up.” Iván Tsarévich gave him a
whole gallon of water: he drank it at a single gulp, and he still asked, “I am
still thirsty: give me a gallon,” and Iván gave him a second gallon, and yet a
third. And when he had drunk the third, he recovered all his former
strength, broke all his chains, shattered them all, all the twelve chains.
“Thank you, Iván Tsarévich,” Koshchéy the Deathless said. “Now you will
never again see Márya Moryévna any more!” and with a fearful flash of
lightning he flew into the country, gathered up Márya Moryévna on the
road, the fair Queen, snatched her up and took her to himself.
Iván Tsarévich wept bitterly, got ready and started on his road: “Come
what may, I will seek out Márya Moryévna.” And he went one day, and he
went another day, and on the dawning of the third day he saw a wonderful
palace, and in front of the palace there was an oak, and on the oak there sat
a clear-eyed hawk.
And the Hawk flew down from the oak, struck the ground, turned into a
doughty youth, and cried out, “O my beloved brother: how is the Lord
dealing with you?”
And Márya Tsarévna came out, went to meet Iván Tsarévich, asked him
how he was, and began to tell him all her own story.
So the Tsarévich abode as their guest for three days, and then said, “I
cannot stay with you any longer: I am going to seek my wife Márya
Moryévna the fair Queen.”
“This will be a hard search for you,” answered the Hawk. “At least leave
a silver spoon here; we can gaze on it and think of you.”
Iván Tsarévich left his silver spoon with them, and set out on his road.

So he went on one day and a second day, and at the dawning of the third
day he saw a palace fairer than the first, and in front of the palace there was
an oak, and an eagle sat on the oak: the Eagle flew down from the tree,
struck the earth, turned into a doughty youth and cried: “Rise, Ólga
Tsarévna, our dear brother has arrived.”
Ólga Tsarévna at once came to meet him, began kissing and welcoming
him, asking how he was, and they told of all they had lived and done.
Iván Tsarévich stayed with them three little days, and then said, “I can no
longer be your guest: I am going seeking my wife, Márya Moryévna the fair
Princess.”
And the Eagle answered: “It will be an evil quest. Leave us your silver
fork; we will look at it and think of you.”
So he left his silver fork, and he went on the road.
And a day went by and a second, and at the dawn of the third day he saw
a palace fairer than the first two. And in front of the palace there was an
oak, and on the oak there perched a crow. And the Crow flew down from
the oak, struck the earth, turned into a doughty youth, and cried out, “Ánna
Tsarévna, come out as fast as you can: our brother has arrived.”
Then Ánna Tsarévna came out, met him joyously, began to kiss and to
welcome him, asking him how he was. And they spoke of all they had lived
and done.
After three days Iván Tsarévich said, “I can stay no longer with you; I am
going to seek my wife, Márya Moryévna, the fair Queen.”
“This will be a hard search for you,” the Crow said. “At least leave us
your silver snuff-box; we can gaze on it and think of you.”
So Iván Tsarévich left them his silver snuff-box, and set out on his road.
Then a day went and another day, and on the third day he at last reached
Márya Moryévna. When she saw her beloved through the window, she
rushed out to him, flung herself at his neck, wept, and said, “Oh! Iván
Tsarévich, why did you not obey me? Why did you look into the lumber-
room and let Koshchéy the Deathless out?”
“Forgive me, Márya Moryévna; let bygones be bygones: come away with
me now, whilst Koshchéy the Deathless is away: possibly he may not catch
us up.”

So they went away.
Now Koshchéy was out hunting. Towards evening he returned home, and
his horse stumbled. “Why, you sorry jade, are you stumbling, or is it some
evil that you fear?”
And the horse answered: “Iván Tsarévich has arrived, and has taken away
Márya Moryévna.”
“Can one catch them up?”
“You can sow wheat, wait until it grows up, harvest it, thresh it, turn it
into flour, make five stones of bread, eat the bread, and then set out on the
hunt, and we shall succeed.”
Koshchéy leapt on the horse, caught up Iván Tsarévich. “Now,” he said,
“for the first time I will let you go for your doughtyhood, as you fed me
with water; for the second time I will let you go; for the third time, take
care: I will tear you to morsels.” And he took Márya Moryévna from him,
took her away, and Iván Tsarévich sat on the stone and cried.
And he cried and he cried, and again came back to Márya Moryévna.
Koshchéy the Deathless was not at home: “Let us start, Márya Moryévna.”
“Oh, Iván Tsarévich, he will catch us up.”
“Well, let him; still we shall have one or two hours together.”
So they started, and off they went.
Koshchéy the Deathless came back home, and his good horse stumbled
under him. “Why, you sorry jade, are you stumbling, or is it some evil thing
which you fear?”
And the horse answered, “Iván Tsarévich has again arrived, and has taken
Márya Moryévna away.”
“Can one catch them up?”
“It would be possible to sow barley and to wait until it grows up, reap it,
thresh it, to brew beer, drink it until you were drunk, sleep out your sleep
and then to go on the hunt, and we should still succeed.”
Koshchéy leaped on his horse, caught up Iván Tsarévich, and said, “I said
you were not to see anything more of Márya Moryévna!” and he took her
away with him.
So Iván Tsarévich was again left alone, and he wept bitterly; and once
again he returned to Márya Moryévna, and this time too Koshchéy was not

at home. “Let us go, Márya Moryévna!”
“Oh, Iván Tsarévich, he will catch us up and he will tear you to bits.”
“Let him tear me to bits; I cannot live without you.”
So they got ready, and off they went.
Koshchéy the Deathless returned home, and under him his good horse
stumbled. “Why do you stumble, you sorry jade, or is it some evil that you
fear?”
“Iván Tsarévich has arrived, and has taken Márya Moryévna with him.”
Koshchéy leaped on his horse, caught up Iván Tsarévich, broke him up
into tiny bits, put them into a tar cask, took this cask, locked it with iron
bolts and threw it into the blue sea. And he took Márya Moryévna away
with him.
At the same time the brothers-in-law of Iván Tsarévich looked at their
silver ornaments and found they had turned black. “Oh,” they said,
“evidently some disaster has befallen him!” The Eagle rushed into the blue
sea, dragged out the cask to the shore, and the Hawk flew for the Water of
Life, and the Crow flew for the Water of Death. Then they all three met at a
single spot and broke up the cask, took out the bits of Iván Tsarévich,
washed them, laid them together as was fit: then the Crow sprinkled him
with the Water of Death, and the body grew together and was one; and the
Hawk sprinkled him with the Water of Life, and Iván Tsarévich shivered,
sat up and said, “Oh, what a long sleep I have had!”
“But your sleep would have been very much longer if we had not been
there,” answered the brothers-in-law. “Now you must come and be our
guest!”
“No, brothers, I must go and seek Márya Moryévna.”
So he came to her and said, “Go and find out from Koshchéy the
Deathless where he got such a fine horse!”
Then Márya Moryévna looked out for a good opportunity, and asked
Koshchéy the Deathless.
Koshchéy answered, “Beyond thrice-nine lands, in the thrice-tenth
kingdom, beyond the river of fire, lives the Bába Yagá. She has a mare on
which every day she rides round the whole of the world. She has many

splendid mares. I was there for three days as a herd, and she would not let
me have the mare; but she gave me one of the foals.”
“How can one cross the river of fire?”
“I have a kerchief: if you shake it to the right three times a lofty bridge
rises and the fires cannot overreach it.”
Márya Moryévna listened, told Iván Tsarévich all about it, and he took
the cloth away. Iván Tsarévich crossed the river of fire and he reached the
Bába Yagá: but journeying afar, neither eating nor drinking. A sea-bird
came to meet him with her young. Iván Tsarévich asked if he might eat one
of her chicks.
“Do not eat it,” the sea-bird said; “at some time I shall be of service to
you, Iván Tsarévich.”
Then he went farther, and he was in a wood, and he saw a bee-hive.
“Perhaps,” he said, “I may take a little honey.”
Then the queen-bee answered him, “Do not touch my honey, Iván
Tsarévich; at some time or other I shall be of service to you.”
So he did not touch the honey, but went farther. Then he met a lioness
with her whelps. “May I eat this lion-whelp? I am so hungry!”
“Do not touch it, Iván Tsarévich,” the lioness said; “at some time or other
I shall be of service to you.”
“Very well; it shall be as you will.”
So he went on hungry, and he went on and on and on, and at last he
reached the house of the Bába Yagá. Round the house there were twelve
poles, and on eleven of the poles there were the skulls of men: only one as
yet was untenanted.
“Hail, bábushka!” he said.
“Hail, Iván Tsarévich!” she replied: “what have you come for? By your
own good will or for need?”
“I have come to earn of you a knightly horse.”
“Very well, Iván Tsarévich: you are to serve me not one year, but only
three days. If you can guard my mares, I will give you a knightly horse; if
you cannot, do not be angry, but your head must also lie on the last of the
stakes.”

Iván Tsarévich agreed, and Bába Yagá gave him drink and food and bade
him set to work. As soon as ever he had driven the mares into the field, they
all turned their tails and ran in the meadows so far that the Tsarévich could
not trace them with his eyes: and thus they were all lost. Then he sat down
and wept, and became melancholy, and sat down on a stone and went to
sleep.
The sun was already setting when the sea-bird flew to him, woke him up
and said, “Arise, Iván Tsarévich—all the mares have gone home.”
The Tsarévich got up, turned back home; but Bába Yagá was angry with
her mares. “Why have you all come home?”
“Why should we not come home? the birds flew down from every
quarter of the sky and almost clawed out our eyes.”
“Well, to-morrow do not stray in the meadows, but scatter into the
dreamy forest.”
So Iván Tsarévich passed that night; and next day Bába Yagá said to him,
“Look, Iván Tsarévich, if you do not keep the mares well, if you lose one,
then your false head shall nod up and down on the stake.”
So then he drove all the mares to the field, and this time they turned their
tails, and they ran into the dreamy woods. And once again the Tsarévich sat
on the stone and wept and wept and went to sleep, and the sun began to rest
on the woods when the lioness ran up and said, “Get up, Iván Tsarévich—
all the mares have been collected.” Then Iván Tsarévich got up and went
home.
And Bába Yagá was angry that the mares had come home, and she called
out to her mares, “Why have you all come home?”
And they answered, “How should we not come home?—wild beasts from
all the four quarters of the world assembled round us and almost tore us to
bits.”
“Well, you go to-morrow into the blue sea.”
Once again Iván passed the night there, and the next day Bába Yagá sent
her mares to feed. “If you do not guard them, then your bold head shall
hang on the pole.”
He drove the mares into the field, and they at once turned tail and
vanished from his eyes and ran into the blue sea and stood up to their necks
in the water. So Iván Tsarévich sat on the stone, wept and went to sleep.

And the sun was already setting on the woods when the bee flew up to him
and said: “Get up, Iván Tsarévich—all the mares have been gathered
together. But, when you return home, do not appear before Bába Yagá; go
into the stable and hide behind the crib. There there is a mangy foal who
will be rolling in the dung: steal him; and, at the deep of midnight, leave the
house.”
Iván Tsarévich got up, went into the stable, and lay behind the crib.
Bába Yagá made a tremendous stir and cried out to her mares: “Why did
you come back?”
“How should we not come back?—all the bees from every part of the
world, visible and invisible, flew round us, and they stung us till our blood
flowed.”
Bába Yagá went to sleep; and that same night Iván Tsarévich stole the
mangy steed from its stall, mounted it and flew to the fiery river. He
reached that river, waved the cloth three times to the right; and, at once,
from some strange source, a lofty, splendid bridge hung all the way over.
The Tsarévich crossed the bridge, waved the cloth to the left twice, and all
that was left of the bridge was a thin thread.
In the morning Bába Yagá woke up and she could not see the mangy foal,
so she hunted to the chase: with all her strength she leapt into her iron
mortar and she chased after with the pestle, and very soon she was on their
track. When she came to the river of fire, she looked across and thought,
“Ah ha ha! a fine bridge!” Then she went on to the bridge; but as soon as
she got on to the bridge it snapped, and Bába Yagá slipped into the river,
and it was a savage death she had.
Iván Tsarévich fed his foal on the green, and a splendid horse grew out of
him; then the Tsarévich arrived at the palace of Márya Moryévna. She
rushed out, fell upon his neck and said, “How has God blessed you?” And
he told her how it had gone with him. “I am frightened, Iván Tsarévich; if
Koshchéy catches us up you will again be torn to atoms.”
“No, he will not catch us up now; I have a fine knightly horse which flies
like a bird.” So they sat on the horse and went.
Koshchéy the Deathless came back home, and his horse stumbled. “Oh,
you sorry jade, why do you stumble, or is it that you fear some evil?”
“Iván Tsarévich has arrived, and has taken away Márya Moryévna.”

“Can one catch them up?”
“God knows; now Iván Tsarévich has a knightly horse better than me.”
“No, I will not stand it,” Koshchéy the Deathless said. “We will up and
after him!”
And, sooner or later, so soon he caught up Iván Tsarévich, and he leapt to
him and was going to cleave him with his curved sabre; but then the steed
of Iván Tsarévich kicked Koshchéy the Deathless with all his might, and
clove in his head, and the Tsarévich struck him down with his club. Then
the Tsarévich gathered together a mass of timber, set fire to it, burnt
Koshchéy the Deathless on the pile and scattered the dust to the winds.
Márya Moryévna then sat on Koshchéy’s steed, and Iván Tsarévich on his
own, and the two went and stayed as guests, first of all with the Crow, then
with the Eagle, and lastly with the Hawk. Wherever they went they were
joyously received. “Oh! Iván Tsarévich, I am so glad to see you! We never
expected to see you back. And your work has not been in vain; such a
beauty as Márya Moryévna might be sought for all over the world and you
would not have found any other.”
So they were as guests and junketed well, and arrived into their own
kingdom, reached it and began to live a life of joy enduring and to drink
good mead.

THE REALM OF STONE

In a certain kingdom, in a certain state, once there lived a soldier who
had served long and faithfully and knew all about the Tsar’s service, the
reviews, and always came up to parade looking clean and smart. The last
year of his service came along, and, to his ill-luck, his superior officers,
great and small, did not like him, and as a result he was soundly thrashed.
This grieved the soldier, and he thought of deserting. So, with his wallet on
his back and his gun on his shoulder, he began to bid farewell to his
comrades, who asked him, “Where are you going? Do you want to enter a
battalion?”
“Do not ask me, my brothers; just buckle my wallet firmly on, and do not
think evil of me.”
Then the good youth set forth whither his eyes gazed. May be far, may be
near, he went on and on, and arrived at another kingdom, saw the sentry-
guard and asked “May I rest here?”
So the sentry-guard told the Corporal, the Corporal told the Officer, and
the Officer told the General, and the General told the King himself. And the
King ordered the soldier to be brought before him in order that he might see
him with his own eyes. And the soldier appeared before him in his proper
regimentals, with musket on his shoulder, as though he were rooted to the
ground.
Then the King asked him, “Tell me on your faith and oath, whence are
you and where are you going?”
“Your kingly Majesty, do not have me punished! Bid the word be not
spoken.” And he told the whole story to the King, and asked to be admitted
to the service.

“Very well,” said the King; “come and serve me as sentry in my garden.
All is not well in my garden: somebody is breaking my best-loved trees,
and you must endeavour to preserve them; and, as to the reward for your
labour, you shall not fare ill.”
So the sentry agreed and stood as sentry in the garden. For a year, for two
years, he served on, and all went well. But in the third year, as he went out,
he went to look in the garden, and saw that half of the best trees had been
shattered. “My goodness!” he thought to himself, “what a fearful
misfortune! If the King observes this he will instantly have me pinioned and
hanged.” So he took his gun in his hand, went to a tree, and began
pondering very hard. Then he heard a crackling and a rumbling. So the
good youth glimpsed down, and he saw a fearful, huge bird flying into the
garden and overthrowing the trees. The soldier fired at the bird, but could
not kill it; and could only wing it on the right wing, and three feathers fell
out of the wing, but the bird took to flight. After him the soldier dashed. The
bird’s wings were swift, and very speedily it flew into a pit and vanished
from sight. But the soldier was not afraid and dived down after him into the
pit, fell into the deep crevasse, fell down flat and lay for whole days
unconscious.
When he came to himself he got up and he looked, and he found himself
in the subterranean world, where there was the same light as was here. “I
suppose there are people here as well,” he thought. So he went on and on,
and saw a great city and a sentry-box in front of it, and in it a sentry. He
began to ask him questions, but never an answer, never a movement! So he
took him by the hand, and found that he was all stone. Then the soldier
went into the sentry-box: and there were many people, and they stood or
sat, only they had all been turned to stone. He then set to wandering in the
streets, and everywhere it was the same—not a single live soul to be seen!
Soon he came to a decorated, raised, clean-cut palace, marched in there, and
looked. Rich rooms; and food and drink of all sorts were on the table; and
all was silent and empty. So the soldier ate and drank; sat down to have a
rest. Suddenly it seemed to him as though some one had come up the steps.
So he shouldered his musket and went to the door.
A fair Tsarévna was coming in with her maids of honour and attendants.
The soldier bowed down to her, and she curtsied to him kindly.
“Hail, soldier!” she said. “By what ill doom have you fallen down here?”

So the soldier began to tell her. “I was engaged as sentry in the imperial
garden, and a big bird came and flew round the trees and shattered them. I
watched him, fired at him, and three feathers fell out of his wing. I began to
chase after him, and arrived here.”
Then she answered, “That bird is my own sister: she does much evil of
every kind and has set an ill doom on my kingdom, having turned all my
people to stone. Listen! here is a book for you. Stand here and read it from
evening time until the hour when the cocks crow. Whatever suffering may
come over you, do your duty; read the book, keep it close to you that they
may not tear it from you, otherwise you will not remain alive. If you can
stay here for three nights I will come and marry you.”
“Very well,” said the soldier.
Soon it became dark, and he took the book and began reading it. Then
there was a knocking and a thundering, and an entire host appeared in the
palace. All his former superiors appeared in front of the soldier, scolded him
and threatened him with the punishment of death. And they got their guns
and were levelling them at him: but the soldier never looked at them, never
let the book drop out of his hand, and simply went on reading. Then the
cocks crowed, and it all vanished!
On the next night it was still more terrible, and on the third night worst of
all. All the executioners came up with their saws, axes, clubs, and wanted to
break his bones, put him on the rack, burn him at the stake, and were
devising any means of getting the book out of his hand. It was fearful
torture, and the soldier could hardly endure it. Then the cocks crowed, and
the demons vanished!
At the same time the entire kingdom awoke, and in the streets and in the
houses people bestirred themselves, and in the palace the Tsarévna and her
generals and her suite appeared, and all began to thank the soldier, and they
made him their king.
On the next day he married the fair Princess, and lived with her in love
and joy.

So the soldier, the peasant’s son, became a Tsar, and he still reigns.
He is a very good king over his subjects, and is very generous to other
soldiers.

THE STORY OF TSAR ANGÉY AND HOW HE
SUFFERED FOR PRIDE

Once there was in the city of Filuyán[30] a Tsar named Angéy, who was
very famous. And, in course of time, it came upon him to stand in the
church at the Divine Service at the reading of the sacred Gospel by the
priest, when the priest was reading those verses in the Gospel in which it is
said: He hath put down the mighty from their seat, and hath exalted the
humble and meek. And when the Tsar heard this he grew angry, and the Tsar
spoke: “This writing is falsely written; the word of the Gospel is untrue.”
And the Tsar said: “I am very rich and famous. How shall I be put down
from my seat and the humble and meek be exalted?” And then he was filled
with fear. And the Tsar bade the priest be confined in a dungeon, and he
bade that page be torn out of the Gospel Book. And the Tsar went to his
palace and began to eat and drink and be merry.
When the Tsar saw a deer in the fields, he went up and he took his young
men with him, and he hunted him and almost captured the deer; and the
deer was very beautiful. And the Tsar spoke to his champions: “Do ye stand
here. I will go, and I alone will take the deer alive.” And he hunted after
him, and they swam across the stream. The Tsar tied his horse to an oak,
and tied his garments around him, and swam naked across the stream. Then
the deer became invisible, and an angel of God stood by the Tsar’s horse in
the image of Tsar Angéy and spoke to the youths. “The deer has swum
across the stream.”
And he went with the youths into the Tsar’s city to his palace.
But Tsar Angéy went back for his horse, but he could neither find his
steed nor his apparel, and he remained there naked and began to think. And
Angéy went up to his city, and he saw shepherds feeding oxen, and he
asked them: “Ye lesser brothers, shepherds, where have ye seen my horse

and my garments?” And the shepherds asked him: “Who art thou?” He said
to them: “I am Tsar Angéy.” And the shepherds spake: “Wicked boaster!
how darest thou call thyself the Tsar, for we have seen Tsar Angéy, who has
just ridden into his city with five youths!” And they began to rebuke him
and to beat him with whips and scourges. And the Tsar began to weep and
to sob. The shepherds drove him afar, and he went naked into his city.
The trade folk of the city met him on his way and asked him: “Man, why
art thou naked?” And he said to them: “Robbers have stolen my garments.”
And they gave him a poor and tattered dress. He took it and bowed down to
them, and he went unto his city, and arrived in his town, and he asked a
widow if he might stay there the night, and he questioned her, saying: “Say,
my mistress, who is the Tsar here?” And she replied to him: “Art thou not a
man of our country?” And she said: “Our Tsar is Tsar Angéy.” He asked:
“For how many years has he been Tsar?” And she said: “For years five and
thirty.”
He then wrote a letter with his own hand to the Tsarítsa, that he had
secret things and thoughts to speak of with her; and he bade a woman take
this letter to the queen. The Tsarítsa received the letter and had it read to
her. He signed it as her husband, Tsar Angéy. And a great fear fell upon her,
and in her fear she began to speak: “How can this poor man name me his
wife? I must inform the Tsar and have him punished.” And she bade him be
beaten with whips mercilessly, without informing the Tsar. He was pitilessly
beaten, and was scarcely left alive, and could hardly leave the town. He
wept and sobbed, and remembered the words of the Gospel: He hath put
down the mighty from their seat, and hath exalted the humble and meek.
And he spoke to a pope of this, how he had profaned the Sacred Book, and
had sent the priest into the dark dungeon, and had gone a long, long way.
And the Tsarítsa spoke to the angel who was taking the shape of the Tsar:
“Thou, my dear lord, for one year hast not slept with me. How can I, then,
be thine?” And the Tsar spake to her: “I have made a covenant with God
that for three years I will not sleep with thee nor share thy bed.” And he left
her and went into the Tsar’s palace.
Angéy the Tsar arrived in an unknown town and engaged himself with a
peasant to reap the harvest; and he did not know how to do a peasant’s
work; and the peasant discharged him, and he began to weep and sob, and
went on his way from that city. And poor men met him on the road. He said

to them: “Will ye take me up with ye? I am now a poor man, and do not
know how to work, and I am ashamed to beg. What ye bid of me I will do. I
will work for you.” And they accepted him and gave him a burden to carry.
And they went to lie at night, and they bade him heat the bath, carry water,
and lay the bed. And Tsar Angéy wept bitterly: “Woe to me! What have I
done! I was wroth with the Sovereign, and He has deprived me of my
kingdom and has brought me to ruin, and I have suffered all this through the
word of the Gospel.”
In the morning the poor men got up, and they arrived at his own city of
Filuyán. And they reached the abode of the Tsar and began to beg for alms.
At this time the Tsar was holding a mighty feast, and he bade the poor be
summoned into the palace, bade them be fed sufficiently, and he bade the
food of the poor men be taken into the Tsar’s palace and put into a special
room. And, when the Tsar’s feast was over and the boyárs[31] and the guests
had all separated, the angel who had taken the form of the Tsar Angéy came
to him in the palace where Angéy the Tsar was dining with the beggars:
“Dost thou know of a proud and mighty Tsar, how he profaned the word of
the Gospel?” And he began to teach him and to instruct him before all of the
world, that he must not profane the word of the Gospel, and must show
respect for the priests, and must not upraise himself, but must be kindly and
inclined to the ways of peace.

THE FEAST OF THE DEAD

Some girls were out at night for the evening, and arranged for an evening
party. They went out to get some vódka. There were bones lying on the
road. “Ho!” they said, “bones, bones, come and be our guests: we are
having an evening party.”
So, they went back home, brought the vódka, and stepped in over the
threshold.
But the bones came and sat at the table just like men, and said to the
maidens, “Now give us the brandy.”
So the girls gave them brandy.
“Give us bread!”
So they gave them bread.
They all sat down to eat, and one maiden dropped the meat.
Then the bones began lifting and stretching their legs under the bench.
The girls tried to run away; and the bones raced after them. The bones
caught one girl up, and broke her across their knees. The other girls made
their escape into the loft; one girl hid behind the water-butt.
The bones ran up to the loft and asked: “What is there up there?”
“God’s taper.”
“But down there?”
“The Devil’s poker,” she answered.
So the bones hauled the second girl out and strangled her.

THE QUARRELSOME WIFE

“Father, I should like to marry! Mother, I should like to marry, I should
really,” said the youth.
“Well then, my child—marry.”
So he married, and chose a lanky, black, squinting wife. She would have
pleased Satan more than the clear-eyed hawk, and it was no good frothing at
anybody: he was the only person in the wrong. So he lived with her and
wrung his tears out with his fist.
One day he went out where audiences were being given, stood there, and
came home.
“Wherever have you been sauntering?” asked his squint-eyed wife.
“What have you seen?”
“Oh, they say that a new Tsar has come on the throne and has issued a
new úkaz that wives are to command their husbands!”
He only meant to joke, but she sprang up, pulled his whiskers and said,
“Go to the stream and wash the shirts, take the broom and sweep the house,
then go and sit by the cradle and rock the child, cook the supper and grill
and bake the cakes.”
The man wanted to answer, “What are you talking about, woman? That is
not a man’s work.” Then he looked at her, and he froze cold and his tongue
clave to his throat.
So he got the washing together, baked the cakes, swept the cottage, and
was no good for anything.
One year went by, and a second, and the good youth got rather weary of
the yoke. But what on earth was he to do? He had married and he had tied
himself for all eternity, and, may-be, his entire life would go by in this
misery. From sheer wretchedness he contrived himself this contrivance. In

the forest there was a deep pit of which neither end nor bottom could be
seen. So he took and closed it up on the top with stakes, and strewed it over
with straw. Then he came up to his wife: “My dear wife, you don’t know
that there is a treasure in the forest. It simply moans and groans with gold,
and will not give itself up to me. It said, ‘Send for your wife.’”
“Ha, ha! let us go: I will take it, and you say nothing about it.”
So they went into the wood. “Sssh, woman, that is hollow ground out of
which the treasure comes forth.”
“Oh, what a fool you are of a peasant, frightened of everything! This is
how I run up to it.” So she ran up to the straw and was precipitated into the
pit.
“Now, off you go,” said the peasant; “I am now going to have a rest.”
So he had a rest for a month, and a second month, but he soon became
melancholy without his squint-eyed wife. So he went into the forest, and he
went into the field, and he went to the river, and he could only think of her.
“Possibly by now she has become quiet. Possibly I will take her out again.”
So he took a withy, let it into the ground, and he listened: she was sitting
there. He drew it up, looked at it very near, looked very carefully, and in the
basket there was a little devil sitting. At this the peasant was frightened, and
almost let the cord fall out of his hands.
Then the little devil begged him and cried in his ear: “Do let me go,
peasant. Your wife has been torturing and oppressing us. Tell me what to
do: I will be your faithful servant. I will this very instant run into the
boyárs’ palace; I will in an instant cook the grill; by day and night I will
knock and drive away the boyárs. You are to declare yourself a doctor to go
and to call on me. I will leap up on the spot and vanish. Now, go and dig;
shovel up your money.”
So the peasant let the devil leap out, shake himself and vanish away. And
from that day everything went upside down in the boyárs’ house, and they
began looking for some doctor: the good youth dubbed himself a doctor,
exorcised the devil, and received good pay. Soon the rumour went forth that
in the prince’s palace, in the lofty castle home, familiar spirits were
appearing, and never gave the princes rest. They sent for hunters in every
part of the earth, and summoned them to assemble doctors. They collected
from all the kings: it was no good. The familiar spirits still knocked and
groaned.

At last our doctor arrived, recognised his old acquaintance, called for his
little devil, and the little devil never thought of running away, and he would
not leave the prince’s palace. “Wait a little, if this is the case,” cried the
doctor. “Ho, my squint-eyed wife, just come up here!” Then the little devil
could not stand it and took to his heels out of the stove.
So the doctor received honour and praise, and earned a mine of money.
But it is said, not untruly, that, even in Paradise, it is sad to live alone. For
the good youth grew melancholy, and he again went to seek his squint-eyed
wife. So he let down the basket right away into the pit. There the woman
was sitting, and he hauled her to the top. As soon as ever she came near she
was breathing out fire and fury, gnashing her teeth and brandishing her fists.
The peasant’s hands shook with fear, and the withy broke, and the squint-
eyed woman clashed down as before into Hell.

ELIJAH THE PROPHET AND ST. NICHOLAS

Once, a long time ago, there lived a peasant. He always observed St.
Nicholas’ day, but never, never, that of St. Elias; he even worked on it. He
used to say a Te Deum to Nicholas, and burn a taper, but never gave as
much as a thought to the Prophet Elijah.
One day Elijah and Nicholas were walking through this peasant’s fields,
going along and surveying; and the ears were so large, so full, that it
warmed one’s heart to look at them!
“What a fine crop this will be!” said Nicholas. “Yes, and he’s a fine
fellow, a good, brave peasant, pious; he remembers God, and reveres the
Holy Saints. Whatever he turns his hand to shall prosper.”
“Ha, let’s have a look, brother,” Elijah demurred. “Will there be so much
over? My lightnings shall glint and my hail beat his field down; then your
peasant shall learn right, and regard my name-day.”
So they wrangled and argued, and at last agreed to go each his own way.
St. Nicholas at once went off to the peasant, and said: “Go and sell the
Father by St. Elias’ all your standing corn: not a blade will be left; it will be
destroyed by hail.”
Up the peasant dashed to the pope: “Oh, bátyushka, won’t you buy all my
standing corn? I’ll sell you my whole field; I am so short of money; take it
and give it me. Do buy it, Father; I’ll sell it cheap.”
They haggled and bargained, and at last agreed. The peasant took his
cash and went home.
Time went by—not much, nor little; a heavy thundrous cloud gathered,
and, with frightsome lightning and hail, played on the peasant’s field, cut
through his crops like a scythe, and left not one blade to tell the tale.

Next day, Elijah and Nicholas were faring through, and Elijah said:
“Look how I’ve blasted the peasant’s field!”
“The peasant’s field? No, my brother, no; you’ve done your work
thoroughly; but it belongs to the pope by St. Elias, not to the peasant.”
“What! That pope?”
“Oh, yes; about a week ago the peasant sold the field to the pope, and got
hard cash for it! And the pope is crying over the spilt money.”
“That won’t do,” said Elijah; “I will grow the meadow anew—’twill be
as good as it was.”
They had their talk out and went on their way.
Up went St. Nicholas to the peasant once again. “Go and see the pope,”
he said, “and redeem your field; you won’t lose by it.”
The peasant went to see the pope. “The Lord has grievously afflicted you,
has smitten your field with hail, as smooth as a board. Let’s share the cost
of it; I will take back my field, and to relieve your loss will return you half
the money.”
Oh, how glad the pope was to consent! They shook hands on it at once.
Meanwhile, somehow or other, the peasant’s field righted itself; new
shoots sprang up out of the old roots, the rain poured down on them, and
nourished the earth; wonderful fresh corn grew up, lofty and thick; not a
weed to be seen; and the ears were so full that they bowed down to earth.
The little sun warmed them, and the rye was warmed through, and waved
like a field of gold. The peasant bound up sheaf after sheaf, built rick after
rick; carted it away and stacked it.
Just then Elijah and St. Nicholas were once more passing by. Elijah
looked blithely at the field and said: “Just look, Nicholas, what a blessing I
have wrought! This is my reward to the pope, and he’ll never forget it all
his life.”
“The pope! No, brother; it is a great boon, but then this is the peasant’s
field; the pope hasn’t a rod of it!”
“Wha-at?”
“It is true. After the meadow had been battered by hail, the peasant went
up to the pope and bought it back at half price.”

“Stop a bit,” said the Prophet Elijah, “I’ll take all the good out of it; out
of all the peasant’s ricks he shall not thresh more than six gallons at a time.”
“Here, this looks bad,” thought St. Nicholas, and instantly went to see the
peasant, and said: “See to it; when you start threshing, never take more than
a sheaf at a time on the threshing-floor.”
So the peasant set to threshing, and he got six gallons out of every sheaf;
all his granaries and lofts were full up with rye, and still there was much left
over; he built new storehouses, and filled them full to the flush.
But one day Elijah the Prophet and St. Nicholas were passing by his
courtyard, and Elijah glanced up and said: “Why has he built these new
granaries? How can he stock them all?”
“They’re full up,” St. Nicholas replied.
“How did he get so much grain?”
“Oho! Every sheaf yielded him six gallons, and, as soon as he started
threshing, he brought them in sheaf by sheaf.”
“Oh, my brother Nicholas!” Elijah guessed: “you must have told him
what to do!”
“Well, I thought it all out, and was going to say....”
“What are you after? It’s all your work. Never mind; your peasant shall
still have a reminder of me.”
“What will you do?”
“I shall not tell you this time!”
“Well, if evil is to be, it will come.”
Nicholas thought, and again went to the peasant, told him to buy two
tapers, one big and one small, and gave him instructions.
Next day Elijah the Prophet and St. Nicholas were out together in the
guise of wanderers, and the peasant happened to meet them, carrying two
waxen candles—one big one that cost a rouble, and a little one that cost a
kopek.
“Where are you going to, peasant?” St. Nicholas said.
“Oh, I am going to light the rouble taper to the Prophet Elijah; he has
been so charitable to me. My field was ravaged by hail, so he intervened,
bátyushka, and gave me a crop twice as good.”

“For whom is the farthing dip?”
“Oh, for St. Nicholas!” the peasant said, and pursued his way.
“There you are, Elijah,” said St. Nicholas: “you said I gave everything
away to the peasant; now you see what the truth is.”
And with this the dispute was ended: Elijah the Prophet was reconciled,
and ceased persecuting the peasant with hail-storms, so that he lived a
merry life from that day and honoured both name-days equally.

THE PRINCESS TO BE KISSED AT A CHARGE

We still say that we are clever, but our elders go and quarrel with us and
say, “No, we had more sense than you.” But the tale tells that, even when
our grandfathers had not learned their lessons and our great-great-great-
great-grandfathers had not been born, in a certain kingdom, in a certain
land, once there lived an old man who had taught his three sons reading and
writing.
“Now, children,” he said to them, “I shall die; do you come and read
prayers over my grave.”
“Very well, bátyushka,” the three sons answered. And the two elder
brothers were indeed fine lads, and they grew up fine stout fellows; but the
youngest, Vanyúshka,[32] was under-sized, like a starved duckling, and flat-
chested. The old man, their father, died.
Just about then a decree was issued by the Tsar that his daughter, Eléna
Tsarévna the Fair, had ordered a temple to be built for her, with twelve
columns and twelve wreaths. She was going to sit in this temple on a lofty
throne, and was going to wait for the bridegroom—the valiant man who
should on a flying horse, at a single spring, kiss her on the lips. All the
young folks were bustling about, washing themselves clean, combing their
hair, and considering to whom should the great honour fall.
“Brothers,” Vanyúshka said, “our father is dead: who of us will go and
read prayers on his grave?”
“Whoever wishes may go,” answered the brothers.
So the youngest went. But the elders got ready and mounted their horses,
curled their hair, dyed their hair; and all their kinsmen gathered round.
Then the second night came: “Brothers, I read the prayers last night,”
Ványa said; “it’s your turn; which of you will go?”

“Any one who wishes may go; don’t interfere with us.”
They gave their hats a knowing tilt, whooped and shouted, flew about,
and rushed and galloped abroad on the open fields; and once again Ványa
read the prayers; and so, too, on the third night. But the brothers saddled
their horses, combed out their whiskers, and got ready on the very morrow
to try their prowess in front of the eyes of Eléna the Fair. “What about our
youngest brother?” they thought.
“Never mind about him; he will only disgrace us and make people smile:
let us go by ourselves.” So they started.
But Ványa also very much wanted to look at Princess Eléna the Fair, and
so he wept sorely, and he went to his father’s grave, and his father heard
him in his last home, and he came up to him, shook off the grey earth from
his forehead, and said, “Do not grieve, Vanyúshka; I will aid you in your
sorrow.” Then the old man got up, whistled and halloed with a young man’s
voice, with a nightingale’s trill; and from some source or other a horse ran
up, and the earth trembled, and from his nostrils and from his ears flames
issued forth. He breathed smoke, and stood in front of the old man as
though he were rooted to the ground, and asked him, “What do you wish?”
Ványa mounted the horse by one ear, dismounted it by the other, and
turned into so fine a youth as no tale can tell and no pen can write. He sat
on the horse, bent over sideways; and he flew like your hawk over there,
straight to the palace of Eléna the Fair Tsarévna. He stretched out, leaped
on, and he did not reach two of the crowns. He again made an effort, flew
up, jumped; there was only one wreath left. He made one more effort,
turned round once more, and, as fire leaps to the eyes, he instantly kissed
and smacked Eléna the Fair on the lips. “Who is it! Who is it! Catch him!”
For his very trace had vanished. Then he leapt back to his father’s grave,
and he let his horse free into the open field; and he then bowed down to the
earth and asked advice of his father, and the old man gave him advice.
Ványa went back home as though he had never been there; and the brothers
told him where they had been, what they had done and seen; and he listened
as though he had never heard of it before.
There was another bout next day, and you could never see an end of the
boyárs and the lords seated at the royal palace. The elder brothers started
out, and the younger brother set out on foot secretly and quietly, just as
though he had never kissed the Tsarévna, and he stopped in his distant

corner. Eléna Tsarévna was asking for her bridegroom; Eléna Tsarévna was
wishing to show him to the whole world, desiring to give him the half of
her kingdom; but never a bridegroom appeared. They were looking for him
in the midst of the boyárs, in the midst of the generals; and they went to
them all, but they could not find him. But Ványa looked on and smiled, and
waited until his bride came to him. For he said, “I won her like a knight;
now she is to love me in my kaftán.”
So she got up, looked out of the open windows, glanced through them all,
and then she saw and recognised her bridegroom, took him to herself, and
soon the betrothal took place. And oh, what a fine young man he was—so
sensible, brave, and so handsome! He used to sit on his flying horse, undo
his cap, put his arms a-kimbo; and he seemed like a king, like the reigning
king; and you looked on, and you would never have imagined that at one
time he could ever have been poor Vanyúshka.

THE WOOD SPRITE

One day the daughter of a pope, without asking leave of her mother or
her father, went for a walk into the wood, and utterly lost her way. Three
years went by. Now, in this wood, in which her mother and father lived,
there was a bold hunter. On every holy day he used to go hunting with his
gun and his dog in the dreamy forest.
One day he went into the wood, and the hairs of his dog bristled up. Then
the hunter looked, and in front of him there was a stump on the wood path,
and a Peasant stood on the stump and was cleaning his bast shoe. He went
on with his shoe and was threatening the moon: “Light, give me light, clear
moon.” It was all very strange to the hunter. “Why does this Peasant,” he
thought, “live by himself? He looks so young, but his hair is quite grey.”
He only thought this, but the Peasant guessed his thought and said, “Why
am I grey? Because I am the Devil’s grandfather.”
Then the hunter understood that it was no mere peasant he saw, but the
Wood Sprite, and he aimed at him with his gun, Bang! and he hit him in the
belly. The Wood Sprite groaned, almost fell down from the stump, and that
very instant jumped up again and crept into the thicket. After him ran the
dog, and after the dog ran the hunter. So he went on and on and on, and he
came up to the mountains, and on one of the mountains there was a fissure,
and in the fissure stood a little hut.
He entered the hut and looked, and there was the Wood Sprite rolling on
a bench, absolutely out of breath, and beside him a maiden who was
weeping bitterly. “Who will now give me food and drink?”
“Hail, fair maiden!” said the hunter; “tell me what you are and whence.”
“O doughty youth, I do not know myself: I have never seen the free
world, and I have never known my father and mother.”

“Well, come quickly, I will take you back to Holy Russia.” So he took
her with him and led her out of the wood, and he went through the villages,
inquiring of all of the places. Now, this maiden had been taken away by the
Wood Sprite, and had lived with him for three whole years, and she had
been enclosed and cut off, and was almost entirely naked, but she had no
shame. Then they came to the village, and the huntsman began to ask
whether anyone had lost a maiden.
Then the pope said, “This is my daughter.” And the pope’s wife came:
“Oh, my dear daughter, where have you been so long? I never thought I
should see you any more.”
Then the daughter looked at them, but was simply staggered and
understood nothing, and only afterwards, little by little, came to herself. The
pope and his wife gave her in marriage to the huntsman and rewarded him
with all good things.
Then they went to look for the izbá[33] in which she had lived with the
Wood Sprite. They wandered far into the woods, but could not find it.

THE REALMS OF COPPER, SILVER AND
GOLD

Once upon a time there was an old man and his old wife, and they had
three sons. One was called Egórushko Zalyót;[34] the second was called
Mísha Kosolápy;[35] and the third was called Iváshko Zapéchnik.[36] The
parents wanted to secure wives for them, and sent the eldest son out to seek
a bride. He went for a long time, and saw many maidens, but he took none
to wife, for he liked none well enough. On the way he met a three-headed
dragon, and was very frightened.
The dragon asked him, “Whither are you going, brave youth?”
“I am going a-wooing, but I cannot find a bride.”
“Come with me; I will take you where you may find one.”
So they journeyed together till they came to a great heavy stone; and the
dragon said to him: “Lift that stone off, then you will find what you are
seeking.” And Egórushko endeavoured to lift the stone away, but he failed.
Then the dragon said: “I have no bride for you here!”
So Egórushko went back home, and he told his father and mother all he
had gone through. And the parents reflected for a long time. And they at last
sent Mísha Kosolápy on the same journey. He met the dragon after many
days, and asked him to show him how he should get a bride. The dragon
bade him go with him. And they came to the stone. Mísha tried to lift it
away, but in vain; so he returned to his parents and told them all he had
gone through.
This time the parents were at an utter loss what they should do. Iváshko
Zapéchnik could not have any better luck! But still Iváshko asked his
parents’ leave to go to the dragon, and after some reluctance he obtained it.

Iváshko met the three-headed dragon, who asked him: “Where are you
going, sturdy youth?”
“My brothers set out to marry, but they could find no brides. It is now my
turn.”
“Come with me; perhaps you may win a bride.”
So the dragon and Iváshko went up to the stone, and the dragon
commanded him to lift the stone up, and Iváshko thrust the stone, and it
flew up from its bed like a feather, as though it were not there, and revealed
an aperture in the earth, with a rope ladder.
“Iváshko,” said the dragon, “go down that ladder; and I will let you down
into the three kingdoms, and in each of them you will see a fair maiden.”
So Iváshko went down, deeper and deeper, right down to the realm of
copper, where he met a maiden who was very fair.
“God greet you, strange guest! Sit down where you may find room, and
say whence you come.”
“Oh, fair maiden, you have given me nothing to eat and drink, and you
ask me for my news!”
So the maiden gave him all manner of meat and drink and set them on the
table.
Iváshko had a drink, and then said: “I am seeking a bride; will you marry
me?”
“No, fair youth! go farther on into the silver kingdom. There there is a
maiden who is much fairer than I.” Thereupon she gave him a silver ring.
So the young boy thanked her for her kindness, said farewell; and he
went farther until he reached the silver kingdom. There he saw a maiden
who was fairer yet than the former, and he prayed and bowed down low.
“Good day, fair maiden!”
“Good day, strange youth! Sit down and tell me whence you come and
what you seek.”
“But, fair maiden, you have given me nothing to eat or drink, and you ask
my news!”
So the maiden put rich drink and food on the table, and Iváshko ate as
much as he would. Then he told her that he was seeking a bride, and he
asked her if she would be the bride. “Go yet farther into the golden realm;

there there is a maiden who is yet much fairer than I!” the girl said, and she
gave him a golden ring.
Iváshko said farewell, and went yet farther, went deeper still, into the
golden realm. There he found a maiden who was much, very much fairer
than the others, and there he said the right prayer, and he saluted the
maiden.
“Whither art thou going, fair youth; and what do you seek?”
“Fair maiden, give me to eat and drink, and I will tell you my news.”
So she got him so fine a meal that no better meal on earth could be
wished, and she was so fair that no pen could write and no tale could tell.
Iváshko set to valorously, and then he told his tale. “I am seeking a bride;
if you will marry me, come with me!”
So the maiden consented, and she gave him a golden ball. Then they
went on and on together, until they reached the silver realm, where they
took the maiden who was there; and they went on and on and on from there
to the copper realm, and took this maiden with them as well. And then they
came to the hole through which they were to climb out. The rope ladder
stood all ready, and there there stood the elder brothers, who were looking
for him. Iváshko tied the maiden out of the copper realm to the ladder, and
the brothers lifted her out, and they let the ladder down again. Then Iváshko
laid hold of the maiden from the silver realm, and she was drawn up, and
the ladder let down again. This time the maiden from the golden realm
came, and was also drawn up. When the steps were let down again, Iváshko
sat on them, and the brothers drew it up into the height. But when they saw
that this time it was Iváshko Zapéchnik who sat on it, they began to reflect:
“If we let him out perhaps he will not give us any of the maidens.” So they
cut the steps down, and Iváshko fell down. He wept bitterly, but it was no
good. He went down farther, and he then came across a tiny old man, who
sat on a tree stem and had a long white beard. Iváshko told him how it had
been.
The old man advised him once more to go on. “You will come to a little
hut. Enter it and you will see a long man lying in it from one corner to the
other. Ask him how you shall reach Russian land once more.”
So Iváshko went up to the hut, stepped in and said: “Strong giant,[37]
spare me, and tell me how I shall get home again.”

“Fi, fo, fum, you Russian bones!” said Ídolishche, “I did not summon
you, and still you have come. Go to the thrice-tenth sea, there there stands a
hut on cocks’ legs in which the Bába Yagá lives. She has an eagle who will
carry you.”
So the young boy went on and on, a far way, to the hut, and he stepped
in.
The Bába Yagá cried out at once, “Fi, fo, fum, Russian bones, why have
you come here?”
“Oh, mother, the giant Ídolishche sent me to ask you to lend me your
mighty eagle to carry me to Russia.”
“Go,” said Bába Yagá, “into the garden. At the gate there stands a
watchman; take his keys and pass through seven doors, and when you open
the last the eagle will flap his wings. Sit on his back if you are not afraid,
and fly away. But take meat with you and give him to eat whenever he turns
round.”
Iváshko did as he was bidden, sat on the eagle and flew away. The eagle
flew on, flew on; then he soon turned his head round, and Iváshko gave him
a bite of flesh. Then the eagle flew on afar, and turned round again, and
Iváshko fed him. And he fed him until he had nothing more left, and Russia
was still far off. Then the eagle turned round, and as he had no flesh, he tore
a fragment out of Iváshko’s withers and ate it up. But they had already
reached the aperture. When Iváshko parted from the eagle, he spat a bit of
flesh out and bade Iváshko lay it on him. And Iváshko did so, and his body
healed; and Iváshko went home, took the maiden from the golden realm
from his brothers; and they then lived happily, and may still be living if they
are not dead.

I was there and I drank beer; I drank the beer, and it flowed up to my
whiskers, but none of it reached my mouth.

CHUFÍL-FÍLYUSHKA

Once upon a time there were three brothers in a family; the eldest was
called the Ram, the second the Goat, and the third and youngest Chufíl-
Fílyushka.[38] One day all three went into the forest, where the warder lived
who was their real grandfather. With him Ram and Goat left their own
brother Chufíl-Fílyushka, and went out into the forest to hunt. Fílyushka
had all his own will and way: his grandfather was old, and a great stupid;
and Fílyushka was generous. He wanted to eat an apple. So he eluded his
grandfather, got into the garden, and climbed up the apple-tree.
All of a sudden, Heaven knows where from, who should come but the
Yagá-Búra,[39] with an iron mortar, and a pestle in her hand; she leaped up to
the apple-tree, and said, “How are you, Fílyushka? What have you come
here for?”
“Oh, to pluck an apple!” said Fílyushka.
“Well, then, dearie, have a bite of mine!”
“No, it’s a rotten one,” said Fílyushka.
“Well, here’s another one!”
“No, it’s all wormy!”
“Don’t be saucy; just come up and take one out of my hand.”
He stretched out his hand. Then Yagá-Búra gripped it tight, put him into
the mortar, and made off, leaping over hills, and forests, and clefts; and
swiftly with the pestle driving the mortar.
Then Fílyushka remembered himself, and began to cry out, “Goat, Ram,
come along quick. Yagá has carried me away beyond the high, steep hills,
the dark, lone woods, the steppes, where the geese roam.”
The Ram and the Goat were just then resting. One was lying on the
ground, and heard a noise of somebody shouting. So he told the other one:

“Come and lie down, and listen!”
“Oh, it’s our Fílyushka crying.”
Off they went and ran and ran, and ran the Yagá-Búra down, saved
Fílyushka and brought him home to his grandfather, who had nearly gone
out of his mind with fright! They told him to look after Fílyushka better,
and went out again.
But Fílyushka was a real boy, and the first chance he got, off he was
again to the apple-tree, clambered up. There was the Yagá-Búra again, and
offering him an apple.
“No, you won’t catch me this time, you old beast!” said Fílyushka.
“Don’t be unkind—do just take an apple from me; I’ll throw it to you!”
“Right: throw it down.”
Then Yagá threw him down an apple: he stretched out his hand, and she
clutched it and leapt over hills, and valleys, and dark forests, so fast that it
seemed like a twinkling of an eye, got him into her home, washed him,
went out and put him into the bunk.
In the morning she made ready to go out, and ordered her daughter,
“Listen! heat the oven well, very hot, and roast me Chufíl-Fílyushka for
supper.” And she went out to seek further booty.
The daughter went and got the oven thoroughly hot, took out and bound
Fílyushka, and put him on the shovel, and was just going to shove him into
the oven, when he went and knocked his forehead with his feet.
“That’s not the way, Fílyushka,” said the daughter of the Yagá-Búra.
“How then?” he answered. “I don’t understand.”
“Look here, just let go; I’ll show you.” She went and lay down on the
shovel in the right fashion.
But, although Chufíl-Fílyushka was small, he was no fool! He stuffed her
at once into the oven, and shut the oven door with a bang.
About two or three hours later Fílyushka smelt a smell of good roast
meat, opened the door, and took out the daughter of the Yagá-Búra well
cooked; buttered it over, put it into the frying-pan and covered it with a
towel, and put it into the bunk; then he climbed up to the roof-tree and took
away the business-day pestle and mortar of the Yagá-Búra.

About evening time, the Yagá-Búra came in, went straight to the bunk
and took the roast meat out; ate it all up, collected all the bones, laid them
out on the ground in rows, and began to roll on them. But somehow she
could not find her daughter, and thought she had gone away to another
cottage to weave. But suddenly, whilst she was rolling, she said, “My dear
daughter, do come to me and help me roll Fílyushka’s little bones!”
Then Fílyushka cried out from the rafters: “Roll away, mother, and stand
on your daughter’s little bones!”
“Are you there, you brigand! You just wait, and I’ll give it you!”
But little Chufíl was not frightened, and when the Yagá-Búra, gnashing
her teeth, stamping on the ground, had got up to the ceiling, he just got hold
of the pestle and with all his might struck her on the forehead, and down
she flopped. Then Fílyushka climbed up on to the roof, and saw some geese
flying, and called out to them, “Lend me your wings; I want wings to carry
me home.”
They lent him their wings, and he flew home.
But they had long, long ago been praying for the repose of his soul at
home, and how glad they were to see him turn up alive and sound! So they
changed the requiem for a merry festival, and lived out their lives, and lived
on to receive more good yet!

DONOTKNOW

Here begins the tale of a grey horse, a chestnut horse and of the wise
fallow-bay. On the shore of the ocean, in the isle of Buyán, there stood a
roasted ox, and behind pounded garlic: on the one side cut your meat, on
the other dip deep and eat.

Once upon a time there lived a merchant who had a son, and when the
son grew up he was taken into the shop. Now, the first wife of the merchant
died, and he married a second.
After some months the merchant made ready to sail to foreign lands, and
he loaded his ship with goods and he bade his son look after the house well
and attend to business duly.
Then the merchant’s son asked, “Bátyushka,[40] when you go, get me my
luck!”
“My beloved son,” answered the old man, “where shall I find it?”
“It is not far to seek, my luck. When you get up to-morrow morning,
stand at the gates and buy the first thing that meets you and give it to me.”
“Very well, my son.”
So next day the father got up very early, stood outside the gates, and the
first thing that met him was a peasant who was selling a sorry, scabby foal
—mere dog’s meat. So the merchant bargained for it and got it for a silver
rouble, took the foal into the courtyard and put it into the stable.
Then the merchant’s son asked him, “Well, bátyushka, what have you
found as my luck?”
“I went out to find it, and it turned into a very poor thing.”

“Well, so it really had to be: whatever luck the Lord has given us we
must use.”
Then the father set sail with his goods into foreign lands, and the son sat
on the counter and engaged in trade. He grew into the habit, whether he
were going into the shop or returning home, always to go and stand in front
of his foal.
Now, his stepmother did not love her stepson, and looked out for fortune-
tellers to learn how to get rid of him. At last she found an old wise woman,
who gave her a poison and bade her put it under the threshold just when her
stepson was coming in. As he came back from the shop, the merchant’s son
went into the stable and saw that his foal was standing in tears, and so he
stroked him and asked, “Why, my good horse, do you weep? Why your
counsel do you keep?”
Then the foal answered, “Oh, Iván the merchant’s son, my beloved
master, why should I not weep? Your stepmother is trying to ruin you. You
have a dog: when you go home let it go in front of you, and you will see
what will come to it.”
So the merchant’s son listened, and as soon as ever the dog crossed the
threshold it was torn into small atoms.
Iván the merchant’s son never let his stepmother know that he saw
through her spite, and set out next day to the shop, whilst the stepmother
went to see the soothsayer. So the old woman got a second poison, and bade
her put it into the trough. In the evening, as he went home, the merchant’s
son went into the stable; and once more the foal was standing on tip-toes
and in tears; and he struck him on the haunches and said, “Why, my good
horse, do you weep? Why your counsel do you keep?”
Then the foal answered, “Why should I not weep, my master, Iván the
merchant’s son? I hear a very great misfortune—that your stepmother
wishes to ruin you. Look when you go into the room and sit down at the
table: your mother will bring you a draught in the glass. Do you not drink it,
but pour it out of the window: you will yourself see what will happen
outside.”
Iván the merchant’s son did as he was bidden and as soon as ever he had
thrown the draught out of the window it began to rend the earth; and again
he never said a single word to his stepmother; so she still thought that he
was in the dark.

On the third day he went to the shop, and the stepmother again went to
the soothsayer. The old woman gave her an enchanted shirt. In the evening,
as he was going out of the shop, the merchant’s son went up to the foal, and
he saw that there stood his good horse on tip-toes and in tears. So he struck
him by the bridle and said, “Why do you weep, my good horse? Why your
counsel do you keep?”
Then the foal answered him, “Why should I not weep? Do I not know
that your stepmother is wishing to destroy you? Listen to what I say. When
you go home your stepmother will send you to the bath, and she will send
the boy to you with a shirt. Do not put on the shirt yourself, but put it on the
boy, and you will see yourself what will come of it.”
So the merchant’s son went up to his attic, and his stepmother came and
said to him, “Would you not like to have a steam bath? The bath is now
ready.”
“Very well,” said Iván, and he went into the bath, and very soon after the
boy brought him a shirt. As soon as ever the merchant’s son put it on the
boy he that very instant closed his eyes and fell on the floor, as though he
were dead. And when he took the shirt off him and cast it into the stove, the
boy revived, but the stove was split into small pieces.
The stepmother saw that she was doing no good, so she again went to the
old soothsayer and asked and besought her how she should destroy her
stepson. The old woman answered, “As long as the horse is alive nothing
can be brought about. But you pretend to be ill, and when your husband
comes back tell him, ‘I saw in my sleep that the throat of our foal must be
cut and the liver extracted, and I must be rubbed with the liver; then my
disease will pass away.’”
Some time after the merchant came back, and the son went out to meet
him.
“Hail, my son!” said the father. “Is all well with you at home?”
“All is well, only mother is ill,” he answered.
So the merchant unloaded his wares and went home, and he found his
wife lying in the bedclothes groaning, saying, “I can only recover if you
will fulfil my dream.”
So the merchant agreed at once, summoned his son and said, “Now, my
son, I want to cut the throat of your horse: your mother is ill, and I must

cure her.”
So Iván the merchant’s son wept bitterly and said, “Oh, father, you wish
to take away from me my last luck!” Then he went into the stable.
The foal saw him and said, “My beloved master, I have saved you from
three deaths—do you now save me from one. Ask your father that you may
go out on my back for the last time to fare in the open fields with your
companions.”
So the son asked his father for leave to go into the open field for the last
time on the horse, and the father agreed. Iván the merchant’s son mounted
his horse, leapt into the open field, and went and diverted himself with his
friends and companions. Then he sent his father a letter in this wise: “Do
you cure my stepmother with a twelve-tongued whip—this is the best
means of curing her illness.” He sent this letter with one of his good
companions, and himself went into foreign lands.
The merchant read the letter, and began curing his wife with a twelve-
tongued whip: and she very soon recovered.
The merchant’s son went out into the open field, into the wide plains, and
he saw horned cattle grazing in front of him.
So the good horse said, “Iván the merchant’s son, let me go free at will,
and do you pull three little hairs out of my tail: whenever I can be of service
to you burn a single hair, and I shall appear at once in front of you, like a
leaf in front of the grass. But you, good youth, go to the herd, buy a bull and
cut its throat; dress yourself in the bull’s hide, put a bladder on your head,
and wherever you go, whatever you are asked about, answer only this one
word, ‘Idonotknow.’”
Iván the merchant’s son let his horse go free, dressed himself in the bull’s
hide, put a bladder on his head, and went beyond the seas. On the blue sea
there was a ship a-sailing. The ship’s crew saw this marvel—an animal
which was not an animal, a man that was not a man, with a bladder on his
head and with fur all round him. So they sailed up to the shore in a light
boat and began to ask him and to inquire of him. Iván the merchant’s son
only returned one answer, “Idonotknow.”
“If it be so, then your name must be ‘Donotknow.’” Then the ship’s crew
took him, carried him on board the boat, and they sailed to their King.

May-be long, may-be short, they at last reached a capital city, went to the
King with gifts, and informed him of Donotknow. So the King bade the
portent be presented before his eyes. So they brought Donotknow into the
palace, and the people came up from all parts, seen and unseen, to gaze on
him.
Then the King began to ask him, “What sort of a man are you?”
“Idonotknow.”
“From what lands have you come?”
“Idonotknow.”
“From what race and from what place?”
“Idonotknow.”
Then the King put Donotknow into the garden as a scarecrow, to frighten
the birds from the apple trees, and he bade him be fed from his royal
kitchen.
Now this king had three daughters: the elder ones were beautiful, but the
younger fairer still. Very soon the son of the King of the Arabs began asking
for the hand of the youngest daughter, and he wrote to the King with threats
such as this, “If you do not give her to me of your good will, I will take her
by force.”
This did not suit the King at all, so he answered the Arab prince in this
wise, “Do you begin the war, and it shall go as God shall will.”
So the Prince assembled a countless multitude and laid siege.
Donotknow shook off his oxhide, took off his bladder, went into the open
fields, burnt one of the hairs, and cried out in a grim voice with a knightly
whistle. From some source or other a wondrous horse appeared in front of
him, and the steed galloped up, and the earth trembled. “Hail, doughty
youth, why do you want me so speedily?”
“Go and prepare for war!”
So Donotknow sat on his good horse, and the horse asked him, “Where
shall I carry you—aloft, under the trees, or over the standing woods?”
“Carry me over the standing woods.”
So the horse raised himself from the earth and flew over the hostile host.
Then Donotknow leapt upon the enemies, seized a warlike sword from one
of them, tore a golden helmet from another of them, and put them on

himself; covered his face with the visor, and set to slaying the Arab host.
Wherever he turned, heads flew: it was like mowing hay. The King and the
Princess looked on in amazement from the city wall: “What a mighty hero it
must be! Whence has he come? Is it Egóri the Brave who has come to help
us?”
But they never imagined that it was Donotknow whom the King had set
in the garden as a scarecrow. Donotknow slew many of that host, and even
more than he slew his horse trampled down, and he left only the Arab
Prince alive and ten men as a suite to see him home. After this great combat
he rode back to the town wall and said, “Your kingly Majesty, has my
service pleased you?” Then the King thanked him and asked him in as a
guest. But Donotknow would not come. He leapt into the open field, sent
away his good horse, turned back home, put on the bladder and the bull’s
hide, and began to walk about in the garden, as before, just like a scarecrow.
Some time went by, not too much, not too little, and the Arab Prince
again wrote to the King, “If you do not give me your youngest daughter’s
hand I will burn up all your kingdom and will take her prisoner.”
This also did not please the King, and so he wrote in answer that he
would await him with his host. Once again the Arab Prince collected a
countless host, larger than before, and he besieged the King from all sides,
having three mighty knights standing in front.
Donotknow learned of this, shook off the bull’s hide, took off the bladder,
summoned his good horse, and leapt to the field. One knight came to meet
him. They met in combat, greeted each other and set at each other with their
lances. The knight struck Donotknow so doughtily that he could hardly hold
on by one stirrup. Then he got up, flew like a youth, struck off the knight’s
head, seized him, and threw him over, saying, “This is how all of your
heads shall fly.” Then another knight came out, and it happened likewise
with him; and a third came, and Donotknow fought with him for one whole
hour. The knight cut his hand and drew blood, but Donotknow cut off his
head and threw it with the rest. Then all of the Arab host trembled and
turned back. Just then the King, with the Princesses, was standing on the
town wall; and the youngest Princess saw that blood was flowing from the
valiant champion’s hand, took a kerchief off her neck and bound up the
wound herself; and the King summoned him as a guest. “I will come one
day,” said Donotknow, “but not this time.” So he leapt into the open field,

dismissed his horse, dressed himself in his oxhide, put the bladder on his
head, and began walking up and down the garden like a scarecrow.
Some time went by, not much, not little, and the King gave his two elder
daughters away to famous Tsarévichi. He was making ready for a great
celebration, and the guests came to walk in the garden; and they saw
Donotknow and asked, “What sort of a monster is this?”
So the King said, “This is Donotknow: I am using him as a scarecrow: he
keeps the birds off my apple trees.”
But the youngest daughter looked at Donotknow’s hand and observed her
kerchief on it, blushed and never said a word. From that time she began to
walk into the garden and to gaze on Donotknow, and became thoughtful,
never giving heed to the festivals and to the merriment.
“Where are you always going, my daughter?” asked her father.
“Oh, father, I have lived so many years with you, I have so often walked
in the garden, and I have never seen such a delightful bird as I saw there
just now!”
Then she began to ask her father to give her his blessing and to wed her
to Donotknow. And for all the father might do to convince her, she insisted.
“If you will not give me to him, I will remain unmarried all my life and will
seek no other man.” So the father agreed and he betrothed them.
Soon afterwards the Arab Prince wrote to him for the third time and
asked for the hand of his youngest daughter. “If you will not consent, I will
consume all of your kingdom with fire, and I will take her by main force.”
Then the King answered, “My daughter is already promised: if you wish,
come yourself and you will see.” So the Prince came, and when he saw
what a monster was betrothed to the fair Princess he thought he would slay
Donotknow, and he summoned him to mortal combat.
Donotknow shook off his oxhide, took the bladder from his head,
summoned his good horse and rode out, so fair a youth as no tale can tell
and no pen can write.
They met in the open field, in the wide plains, and the list lasted long.
Iván the merchant’s son killed the Arab Prince. Then at last the King
recognised that Donotknow was not a monster but a splendid and handsome
knight, and he made him his heir. Iván the merchant’s son lived on in his

kingdom for good and lived all for happiness, took his own father to stay
with him, but consigned his stepmother to punishment.

THE SEA TSAR AND VASILÍSA THE WISE

Once a Tsar lived with his Tsarítsa beyond thrice-nine lands in the thrice-
tenth kingdom. He liked to go hunting and shooting the wild beasts. One
day the Tsar went out hunting, and saw a young eagle sitting on an oak; and
he was just going to shoot him down, when the eagle begged him, “Do not
shoot me, Tsar my master, rather take me to yourself; and at some time or
other I shall be of service to you.” And the Tsar thought and thought, and he
said, “How can you be of any service to me?” And again he wanted to shoot
him. And the eagle said to him a second time, “Do not shoot, Tsar my
master, rather take me to yourself; and some day I shall be of service to
you.” And the Tsar thought and thought, and again he could not imagine
whatever service the eagle would be to him, and he still wanted to shoot
him. So for the third time the eagle spoke to him, “Do not shoot me, Tsar
my master, rather take me to yourself, and feed me for three years; and at
some time I shall be of service to you.”
So the Tsar was mollified, and took the eagle to himself, and he fed him
one year and another year, and the eagle ate up so much, ate up all the
cattle; and the Tsar had neither a sheep nor a cow left.
Then the eagle said to him, “Let me go free.” And the eagle tried his
wings, but no, he could not fly; and he asked him, “Now, Tsar my master,
you have fed me for two years, even as you said; now feed me one year
more. Only go on and feed me, and you will not lose.”
So the Tsar did this.
“Go and hire cattle and feed me; you will not lose.”
So the Tsar did this. From all countries round he went and hired cattle,
and every one helped him to feed the eagle. And afterwards he let him go
free at his own will.

Then the eagle rose higher and higher, and he flew and flew, and then he
came down to earth and said, “Now, Tsar my master, come and sit on me:
we will fly together.”
So the Tsar sat on the eagle and they flew on and on. Maybe much time
went by, maybe little, but they at last flew to the border of the blue sea.
Then the eagle shook the Tsar off himself, and he fell into the sea, and he
was wetted up to his knees, only the eagle did not let him drown, but
supported him on his wing, and asked, “Why, Tsar my lord, why are you
frightened?”
“I was frightened,” said the Tsar, “lest I should be drowned.”
And so once more they flew on, until they came to another sea. And the
eagle shook the Tsar off into the middle of the sea, and the Tsar was wetted
up to his waist, but the eagle supported him by his wing and asked him,
“Why, Tsar my master, why are you frightened?”
“I was frightened,” said the Tsar, “and I was thinking, it may be you are
never going to drag me out.”
And again they flew on, and they arrived at the third sea, and the eagle
threw the Tsar into the great depths, and he was immersed in the water up to
his very neck. Again, the third time the eagle held him by the wing and
asked him, “Why, Tsar my master, why are you frightened?”
“I was,” said the Tsar, “I was thinking if only you would rescue me!”
“Now, Tsar my master, you have learned the fear of death. All this shall
be for you in the past, and shall be an old tale. You may recollect how I was
sitting on the oak and you wished to kill me. Three times you took up your
gun to shoot me, but I asked you to spare me; and I was thinking in my
mind, may you not destroy me but have pity and take me to yourself!”
So he then flew across thrice-nine lands, for a very long flight. And the
eagle said, “Come and see, Tsar my master, what is over us and what is
under us.”
And the Tsar looked: “Over us,” he said, “is the sky, and under us the
earth.”
“Look once more: what is there on the left and right-hand sides?”
“On the right-hand side there is an open field and on the left-hand side
there is a house.”

“We will fly there,” said the eagle; “there my youngest sister lives.”
So they flew straight to the courtyard, and the sister came to meet them
and received her brother, seated him on an oaken table; but she would not
look on the Tsar—she left him outside in the courtyard and she let the fleet
dogs out to feed on him.
But the eagle was very angry, and he leaped up from the table, laid hold
on the Tsar and flew, yet farther. So they flew and flew, and the eagle said to
the Tsar, “Look, what is there behind us?”
So the Tsar turned round and looked, and said, “Behind us there is a
beauteous house.”
Then the eagle said to him, “It is the house of my youngest sister that
glitters: she would not receive you, but gave you for food to the fleet
hounds.”
So they flew and flew on, and the eagle asked him again, “Look, Tsar my
master, what is there over us, and what under us?”
“Over us the sky and under us the earth.”
“Look, what is there on the right-hand, and what is there on the left?”
“On the right-hand side there is the open field, and on the left-hand side
there stands a house.”
“There my younger sister lives; we will fly there and be her guests.”
So they came down to the open courtyard, and the younger sister came
and received her brother, and she seated him on an oaken stool, but she left
the Tsar in the courtyard, and she released the fleet hounds on him.
And the eagle was angry, leaped up from the table, laid hold on the Tsar
and flew with him yet farther; and they flew on and on, and the eagle said to
the Tsar, “Look, what is there behind us?”
“Behind us there is a beauteous house.”
“It is the house of my younger sister that glitters,” said the eagle. “Now
we will fly where my mother and eldest sister live.”
So they flew thither, and the mother and eldest sister were ever so glad to
see them, and they received the Tsar with honour and affection.
“Now, Tsar my master,” said the eagle, “come and rest with us, and
afterwards I will give you a ship, and I will repay you all I ate up whilst I
was with you; and go home with God’s aid.” So he gave the Tsar a ship and

two coffers, one was red and the other green. And he said, “Take heed, do
not open the coffers until you reach home: open the red coffer in the back
courtyard and the green coffer in the front courtyard.”
So the Tsar took the two coffers, bade farewell to the eagle, and went on
the blue sea: and he went on and he arrived at an island, where the ship
stopped. He got out on the shore, and he remembered the two coffers, and
began to wonder what was in them, and why the eagle had bidden him not
to open them; and he thought and thought, and his patience gave way. He so
badly wanted to know, and so he took the red coffer, put it on the ground
and opened it, and out of it all sorts of cattle came out, so many that the eye
could not count, and they almost filled the entire island. When the Tsar saw
this he was grieved, and began to weep and say, “Whatever shall I do now?
how shall I collect all of this herd into such a tiny coffer?”
And then he saw that out of the water came a man, who went up to him
and asked him, “Why are you weeping so bitterly, Tsar my master?”
“Why should I not weep?” answered the Tsar. “How can I put all this
great herd into this tiny coffer?”
“If you will I can aid you in your trouble; I will collect all this herd, only
on condition that you give me what you do not know of at home.”
So the Tsar began to ponder, “What do I not know of at home? It seems
to me that I know of everything.” So he thought, and he considered it, and
he said, “Go and collect them together, and I will give you what I do not
know of at home.”
Then the man collected all of the cattle into the box, and the Tsar went on
board and sailed on his own journey.
When he reached home he saw that a son had been born to him, the
Tsarévich, and he began to kiss him and to fondle him. But then he began to
weep bitter tears.
“Tsar my master,” said the Tsarítsa, “why do you weep such bitter tears?”
“Out of joy,” he said; for he feared to tell her the truth that he must give
up the Tsarévich.
So then he went into the courtyard and opened the red coffer, and out of
it oxen and kine, sheep and rams, came out. There was a multitude of all
sorts of cattle. All the barns and the folds were full. He then came to the
forecourt and he opened the green coffer, and in front of him a wonderful

garden spread out with every kind of tree in it, and the Tsar was so joyous,
and forgot to give his son up.
Many years went by: one day the Tsar wanted to take a walk, and he went
to the river; and just then that same man peered up out of the water and
said: “You are a very forgetful person, Tsar my master: you should recollect
your debts.”
Then the Tsar went home with grief in his groaning heart, and he told the
Tsarítsa and the Tsarévich all the real truth, and they were afflicted; and
they all wept together and resolved that something must be done, and that
they must give up the Tsarévich. So they took him to the seashore and left
him by himself.
And the Tsarévich looked round, and he saw a path, went on it, trusting
God might lead him aright. So he went on and on, and he lost his way in the
slumberous forest, and he saw a little izbá[41] in the forest, and in the izbá[41]
there lived the Bába Yagá. “I will go in,” thought the Tsarévich, and he went
into the izbá.[41]
“Good-day, Tsarévich,” said Bába Yagá:
“Is it work on your way,
Or for sloth do you stray?”

“Hey, bábushka, give me food and drink, and ask me afterwards.”
So she then gave him food and drink, and the Tsarévich told her all his
sorrow without any concealment—whither he was going and why.
Then Bába Yagá said to him, “Go, my child, to the sea; there you will
find twelve spoonbills flying in the air, they will turn into fair maidens, who
will bathe. You go and hide yourself, and seize the shirt of the eldest
maiden. When you have made friends with her, go to the Sea Tsar.”
The Tsarévich bade farewell to Bába Yagá, went to the spot she named on
the seashore, and he hid himself behind the bushes. Then twelve spoonbills
flew along, struck the grey earth, and turned into fair maidens, who began
bathing. The Tsarévich stole the maiden’s shirt, sat behind the bush, and
never stirred. The maidens came out of the sea and went on shore: eleven of
them struck the earth, turned into birds and flew home: one was left alone,
the eldest—Vasilísa the Wise. And when she saw that her sisters flew away
she said, “Do not seek me, my dear sisters, but fly home. I am myself to
blame; it is all my own fault; I did not look, and I must pay the cost.” So the

sisters, the fair maidens, struck the grey earth and turned into spoonbills,
spread their wings, and flew far away. Vasilísa the Wise was left by herself,
and she looked round and said: “Whoever he be who now has my shirt, let
him come here: if he be an old man, he shall be as my own father; if he be a
middle-aged man, he shall be as my beloved brother; if he be of my age, he
shall be my lover.”
As soon as he heard this, Iván Tsarévich came out of his lurking-place.
So she gave him a golden ring and said, “Iván Tsarévich, how long you
have been in coming! The Sea Tsar is wroth with you. That is the road
which leads to the kingdom under the sea; come on it boldly. There you will
find me as well, for I am Vasilísa the Wise, the daughter of the Sea Tsar.”
Then Vasilísa the Wise, the eldest, struck the earth, turned into a spoonbill,
and flew away from the Tsarévich.
Then Iván went into the under-seas, and he saw light there as it is above,
fields and meadows and green arbours; and the sun was hot. Then he came
to the Sea Tsar, and the Sea Tsar shrieked out at him: “Why have you been
so long? You have been guilty, and you must do me this service: I have a
piece of waste ground thirty versts long and broad, and there is nothing on it
except ditches, ravines and sharp stones. By to-morrow morning all this
must be as smooth as the palm of my hand; rye must be sown and grow so
high that a jackdaw might be hidden in it. But if you fail, your head shall
roll off your shoulders.”
Iván Tsarévich left the Sea Tsar and wept a sea of tears. Out of the
window of her room, from a lofty turret, Vasilísa the Wise saw him and
asked, “Hail, Iván Tsarévich! why are you weeping?”
“How should I not weep?” answered Iván. “The Sea Tsar has bidden me
in a single night level the ravines and clear the stones from a piece of land
thirty versts long and broad, and grow rye on it so high that a jackdaw
might hide in it.”
“That is easy enough: this is no trouble—trouble is still ahead. Come and
lie down in peace; the morning is wiser than the evening. All shall be
ready.”
So Iván Tsarévich went and lay down, and Vasilísa the Wise went to a
little window and cried in a thunderous voice, “Hail, my faithful servants,
go and level the deep ravines, take away the sharp stones, sow the ground

with full-eared rye, so that in the morning it shall grow so high that a
jackdaw might hide in it.”
In the morning Iván Tsarévich awoke, and when he looked out it was all
done: there were no ravines and no crevasses, and the field was as flat as
the palm of his hand, and the rye on it was red and so lofty that a jackdaw
might hide in it. And he went to report his prowess to the Sea Tsar.
“Thank you,” said the Sea Tsar. “You have been able to fulfil me this
service. Here is your second work. I have thirty hayricks, and each hayrick
contains as much as thirty piles of white-eared barley. Thresh me all the
barley clean, quite clean to the last grain, and do not destroy the hayricks
nor beat down the sheaves. If you do not do this, your shoulders and your
head will part company.”
“I will obey your Majesty,” said Iván Tsarévich, and again he went to the
courtyard and was lost in tears.
“Why are you weeping, Iván Tsarévich, so bitterly?” Vasilísa the Wise
asked him.
“Why should I not weep? The Sea Tsar has bidden me thresh clean thirty
hayricks of barley without destroying a hayrick or a single sheaf, and all in
a single night.”
“That is an easy task. Harder tasks are to come. Sleep in peace, for the
morning is wiser than the evening.”
So Iván Tsarévich went and lay down.
Vasilísa went to her window and cried out in a threatening voice, “Hail,
ye creeping ants, as many as there be of you in the white world, all creep
here and pick out all the corn of my father’s hayricks quite cleanly.”
In the morning the Sea Tsar asked Iván Tsarévich if he had done this
service.
“I have, your Majesty.”
“Let us go and see.”
So they went to the barn floor, and there all the hayricks stood
untouched; and they went to the granary, and all the lofts were filled to the
top with corn.
“Thank you, brother,” said the Sea Tsar. “Now you must make me a
church out of white wax, to be ready to-night, and this shall be your last

task.”
Once again Iván Tsarévich went to the courtyard and began to weep.
“Why are you weeping, Iván Tsarévich?”
“Why should I not weep? The Sea Tsar has bidden me in a single night
build a church of white wax.”
“That is an easy task: harder tasks are near at hand. Lie down in peace,
for the morning is wiser than the evening.”
So Iván Tsarévich went to sleep.
Then she went to her window and called to her all the bees in the white
world, “Hail, ye bees my servants, do ye build me a church of your white
wax, and let it be finished before the morning.”
In the morning Iván got up, looked, and saw the church stood there made
of clean wax, and he went to the Sea Tsar and reported.
“Thank you, Iván Tsarévich: of all the servants I have had, none of them
have been able to do as well as you. Now be my heir and the preserver of
my kingdom. Now select yourself a bride out of my twelve daughters. They
are all alike, face for face, hair with hair, clothing with clothing. If you
guess three times the same one, she shall be your bride; if you do not, you
shall suffer.”
Vasilísa the Wise learned of this, chose her opportunity, and said to the
Tsarévich, “The first time I will wave my dress, the second time I will
smooth my dress, and the third time there shall be a fly buzzing round my
head.” Thus he was able to guess Vasilísa all three times. And they were
betrothed, and there was a merry feast for three days.
Time went by, may-be little, may-be much. Iván Tsarévich grew anxious
to see his father and mother, and he wished to go back to Holy Russia.
“Why are you so grieved, Iván Tsarévich?”
“O Vasilísa the Wise, I am afflicted for my father and my mother, and
desire to behold Holy Russia.”
“If we go away there will be a mighty chase after us. The Sea Tsar will be
wroth, and will give us over to death. We must be cunning.” So Vasilísa spat
in three corners, and the doors of her room opened, and she, with Iván
Tsarévich, ran into Sacred Russia. On the second day, very early, an
embassy came from the Sea Tsar to catch the young couple and to summon

them into the palace, and they knocked on the door: “Wake up, get up from
your sleep; your father is calling you.”
“It is yet early: we have not yet had our sleep; come later on,” one pool
answered.
Then the ambassadors retired, and they waited one hour and another
hour, and they knocked again: “This is not the time and season to sleep; this
is the time and season to get up.”
“Have a little patience, we will get up; we are dressing,” the second pool
answered.
And the third time the envoys came, saying that the Sea Tsar was angry:
“Why are you so long making ready?”
“We will be down soon,” answered the third pool.
So the messengers waited and waited, and then again knocked. Then
there was no answer and no reply, so they broke in the door, and all was
empty. Then they went and sent word to the Sea Tsar that the young folk
had run away. He was very angry, and he set a mighty hunt after them.
But Vasilísa the Wise, with Iván Tsarévich, was already very far ahead:
they were leaping on swift horses without staying, without taking breath.
“Now, Iván Tsarévich, bend your head down to the grey earth and listen. Is
there no noise of a hunt from the Sea Tsar?”
Iván Tsarévich leapt down from his horse, put his ear to the ground, and
said, “I hear the talk of people, and the tramp of horses.”
“This is the hunt after us,” said Vasilísa the Wise. And she at once turned
the horses into a green meadow, Iván Tsarévich into an old shepherd, and
herself into a brooding lamb.
The hunt passed by.
“Ho, old man, have you seen a doughty youth with a fair maiden
galloping by?”
“No, good folk, I have not seen them,” said Iván Tsarévich. “It is forty
years I have been pasturing on these fields; not one bird has ever flown by,
not one wild beast has ever rambled by.”
So they returned home.
“Your Imperial Majesty, we saw no one on the road; we only saw a
shepherd feeding a little sheep.”

“Why did you not take it? That was themselves!” said the Sea Tsar. And
he sent out a second hunt.
But Iván Tsarévich and Vasilísa the Wise were leaping far off on their
swift steeds. “Now, Iván Tsarévich, put your head to the grey earth and
listen whether there is no hunt from the Sea Tsar.”
Iván Tsarévich leapt off his horse, put his ear to the grey earth and said,
“I hear the talk of people and the hoppety-hop of horses.”
“This is the chase, that is the steeds,” said Vasilísa the Wise; and she
turned herself into a church, and Iván Tsarévich into an elderly pope and the
horses into trees.
So the hunt went by.
“Ho, bátyushka, have you seen a shepherd with a little lamb passing by?”
“No, good people, I have not. I have been working for forty years in this
church; not one bird has flown by, not one beast has rambled by.”
So the hunt went back and reached home.
“Your Imperial Majesty, we could not find the shepherd with the little
lamb: the only thing we saw on the road was a church and an old man as
pope.”
“Why did you not break down the church and capture the pope? That was
themselves!” the Sea Tsar exclaimed, and he himself leapt out to hunt after
Iván Tsarévich and Vasilísa the Wise.
So they went far, and again Vasilísa the Wise said, “Iván Tsarévich, put
your ear to the ground; can you hear any hunt?”
Then the Tsarévich leapt down, put his ear to the grey earth, and said, “I
hear the talk of people and the thunder of horses’ hooves faster than
before.”
“This is the Sea Tsar himself who is galloping.”
So Vasilísa the Wise turned the horses into a mere, Iván Tsarévich into a
drake, and herself into a duck. The Sea Tsar came up to the lake and he
instantly guessed who were the duck and the drake, so he struck the grey
earth and turned into an eagle. The eagle wanted to smite them to death, and
it might well have been; but, as soon as ever he struck at the drake, it dived
into the water, and whenever he struck at the duck the duck dived into the
water, and whatever he might do was all in vain.

So the Sea Tsar galloped back to his own kingdom under the seas, and
Vasilísa the Wise with Iván Tsarévich waited a while and then returned to
Sacred Russia. It may-be long, it may-be short, at last they came into the
thrice-ninth realm. When they arrived home his father and mother were
overjoyed to see Iván Tsarévich, for they had given him up as lost. And they
made a great feast and celebrated the marriage.

I was there, I drank mead and wine: it flowed up to my beard, but it never
entered my mouth.

THE ANIMALS’ WINTER QUARTERS

Once an Ox was wandering in the wood, and a Ram met him. “Where are
you going, Ram?” asked the Ox.
“I am seeking summer in winter,” answered the Ram.
“Come with me.”
So they went together. And they met a Pig.
“Where are you going, Pig?” asked the Ox.
“I am seeking summer in winter.”
“Come with us.”
So they all went together. And they then met a Goose.
“Where are you going, Goose?” said the Bull.
“I am seeking summer in winter,” said the Goose.
“Well, come with us.”
So the Goose came with them. So they went on, and they met a Cock.
“Where are you going, Cock?” asked the Bull.
“I am seeking summer in winter.”
“Then come with us,” said the Bull again.
So they went on their road and way, and began speaking amongst each
other. “What shall we do, brothers and comrades? the cold time is
approaching: how shall we have warmth?”
So the Ox said, “We will build an izbá,[42] and we shall not freeze during
the winter.”
Then the Ram said: “My shúba is very warm; I will pass the winter in
this fashion.”

Then the Pig said, “I do not mind any frost whatsoever: I will burrow into
the ground and do without any izbá.”[43]
Then the Goose said, “I will sit in the middle of this spruce, lie on one
wing, and cover myself over with the other, and the cold cannot touch me.
That is how I shall pass the winter.”
Then the Cock said, “I shall do the same.”
Then the Ox saw he could not do any good: every man must do as he
likes. “Well,” he said, “as you wish. I am going to build an izbá.”[43]
So he built himself an izbá,[43] and he lived in it.
Then the cold time came, and earth began to feel the frosts. And the Ram,
who could not help himself, came to the Bull and said, “Brother, let me in.”
“No, Ram, you have a warm shúba; that is how you are going to pass the
winter! I shall not let you in.”
“But if you do not let me in, I shall run up and will dislodge the joists of
the izbá,[43] and you will feel much colder.”
So the Bull thought, and on second thoughts said, “Very well, I will let
you in. Otherwise I might freeze.” And he let the Ram in.
Soon the Pig felt frozen, and came to the Bull and said, “Brother, let me
in.”
“No, Pig, I will not let you in. You need only burrow down in the ground:
that is how you are going to pass the winter!”
“But if you will not let me in, with my snout I will drill all of your
uprights and will knock your izbá[43] down.”
Well, there was no help for it, and the Bull had to let Piggy in.
Then the Goose and the Cock came to the Bull and said, “Brother, we
want to come in and warm ourselves.”
“No, I will not let you in: both of you have two wings. One of them you
put under you, and the other you put over you: that is how you pass the
winter.”
“But if you do not let us in,” said the Goose, “I will pluck away all the
moss from the walls, and you will be much colder!”
“What! won’t you let me in?” said the Cock. “I will fly on to the garret
and I will scatter all the earth from the roof, and you will be much colder.”

Well, the Bull was beaten, and he was forced to admit the Goose and the
Cock. In the warm hut the Cock crowed and began singing merry songs.
Now the Fox heard the Cock singing merry songs, and thought he would
like to make such a dainty acquaintance, only he did not know how to.
So the Fox bethought himself of his wiles, and ran up to the Bear and the
Wolf and said, “Now, my dear kinsmen, I have found food for all of us: a
Bull for you, Mr. Bear, a Ram for you, Mr. Wolf, and a Cock for myself.”
“What a capital fellow you are, Mr. Fox!” said the Bear and the Wolf.
“We shall never be oblivious of your services: let us kill and eat them.”
So the Fox led them up to the little izbá.[44] When they reached the hut,
the Bear said to the Wolf: “You go first.”
But the Wolf said, “That would be altogether wrong—you must go first.”
So then the Bear and the Wolf said to the Fox, “You must go first.”
As the Fox went in, the Bull gored him with his horns to the wall, and the
Ram sat on his flanks, and the Pig tore him to atoms, whilst the Goose flew
on to him and picked out his eyes. But the Cock went and flew up to the
girder and crowed, “Do come in, oh do, do, do!”
“Why is the Fox such a long time at work with the Cock?” said the Wolf:
“Unlock the door, Mikháylo Ivánovich,[45] and I will come in.”
“Very well, come in!” So the Bull opened the door and the Wolf leapt
into the izbá.[46]
As the Wolf went in the Bull gored him to the wall with his horns, the
Ram sat on his sides and the Pig tore him to atoms, while the Goose flew on
to him and picked out his eyes. The Cock flew up to the girders and began
shouting, “Come along here, come along here!”
But the Bear got tired of waiting so long: “What a long job he is making
of that Ram!” he thought. “I must go in.” So he also went into the hut, and
the Bull gave him the same royal welcome.
He burst out by sheer force and galloped away at full speed, and never
once looked round.

THE STORY OF THE BRAVE AND DOUGHTY
KNIGHT ILYÁ MÚROMETS AND THE
NIGHTINGALE ROBBER

Once in the famous city of Múrom[47] in the village of Karachárovo, a
peasant lived who was called Iván Timoféyevich; he had one beloved son,
Ilyá Múromets. And he sat down in a house as a stay-at-home for thirty
years, and after the thirty years had gone by he began to walk on his feet
mightily, and he gained great strength. Then he made himself the trappings
of war and a lance of steel, and got himself a good steed, a knightly horse;
he then went up to his mother and father and asked their blessing. “Ye, my
masters, my mother and father, let me go into the famous city of Kíev, to
pray to God and to do homage to our prince at Kíev.”
The mother and father gave him their blessing, and made him swear a
mighty oath, and they enjoined a mighty service upon him. And they spake
in this wise: “Do you go straight to the city of Kíev, straight to the city of
Chernígov, and on your journeying do no one any hurt, spill no Christian
blood vainly.”
Ilyá Múromets took the blessing of his father and mother, prayed to God,
bade farewell to his father and mother, and set forth on his way and road.
And he journeyed far in the dark woods, and lighted on a camp of robbers.
Those robbers saw Ilyá Múromets, and were envious in their robber-like
hearts for his knightly horse, and began to speak amongst themselves how
they might take that horse; for steeds so fine were not seen in those parts,
and now some unknown man was passing by on one. So they set on Ilyá
Múromets, ten at once and then by twenties. And Ilyá Múromets stopped
his knightly horse, took a tempered dart and set it on his strong bow. He let
the tempered dart fall on the earth, and it tore into the earth fifty feet.

And seeing this, the robbers were afraid, and collected in a circle, fell on
their knees and prayed him, “Master, our father, youth mighty of prowess,
we are guilty in thine eyes; and, for this our guilt, as it pleaseth thee, inflict
on us a fine as much as is fit, whether it be coloured clothes or droves of
horses.”
Ilyá smiled at them and said: “I need no garments, but, if ye wish to
enjoy your life, henceforth take no more hazards.”
And he went on his road to the famous city of Kíev. And Ilyá Múromets
set out on the road; when he came under the walls of the city of Sébezh he
saw three Tsarévichi from foreign parts, who had a host of thirty thousand
men; they wished to capture the city of Sébezh and to take the Tsar of
Sébezh prisoner. So Ilyá Múromets set out after the three Tsarévichi, and he
pursued them down to the seashore and slew all the rest of the army, but
captured the Tsarévichi alive and returned to the city of Sébezh, and the
citizens saw him and gave news of this to their Tsar.
When he arrived at the city of Chernígov, under the walls of the city of
Chernígov there was a Saracen host too many to count besieging the city of
Chernígov: they were going to sack it and to set God’s churches aflame, and
to take captive the Prince, the Duke of Chernígov. And at that mighty host
and fray, Ilyá Múromets was afraid, but he placed himself at the will of the
Saviour, and thought how he would sacrifice his head for the Christian
faith. Then Ilyá Múromets began to lay low the Saracen host with his lance
of steel, and he routed all of the pagan host and took the Tsarévich of the
Saracens captive and led him into the city of Chernígov. As he entered, all
the citizens of the city of Chernígov met him and gave him honour, and the
Prince and Duke of Chernígov himself came out to receive the doughty
youth with honour and to give thanks to the Lord God for sending such
unexpected succour to the city and not letting them all perish helplessly
before the mighty Saracen host. They received him into their palace and
they gave him a great feast, and set him on his way.
Ilyá Múromets went to the city of Kíev straight from Chernígov on the
road by the village of Kutúzovo, which the Nightingale Robber had been
oppressing for thirty years, not letting any man pass, whether on horseback
or on foot, and assailing them not with any weapon, but only with his
robber’s whistle. Ilyá Múromets rode into the open field and saw the
scattered bones of knights and warriors. He rode over them and arrived at

the Bryánski woods,[48] the miry swamp, to the hazel-tree bridges, and to the
Smoródina river. The Nightingale Robber heard his end approaching, and
felt a foreboding of a terrible ill; and before Ilyá Múromets had advanced
twenty versts, he whistled with his powerful robber’s whistle. But the
valorous heart of Ilyá was not afraid, and before ever he had advanced ten
versts more the Nightingale Robber whistled more terribly than before, and
the horse of Ilyá Múromets stumbled at the sound.
At last Ilyá arrived at the nest, which was spread above twelve oaks, and
the Nightingale Robber was sitting in the nest, saw the white Russian knight
approaching, and began to whistle with all of his might, essaying to smite
Ilyá Múromets to death. Ilyá Múromets took out his strong bow, put a
tempered dart to it, and shot it at the nest of the Nightingale Robber; it fell
into his right eye and went beyond. And the Robber-Nightingale fell down
from his nest like a sheaf of oats. Ilyá Múromets took the Robber-
Nightingale, tied him strongly to his steel stirrup and rode to the famous
city of Kíev.
On his way he passed the palace of the Nightingale Robber, and as soon
as he came up to the Robber’s palace the windows were opened and out of
these windows the Nightingale Robber’s three daughters were looking. The
youngest daughter saw him, and cried out to her sisters: “Here is our father
coming back with booty: he is bringing us a man tied to his steel stirrup.”
But the elder sister looked out and cried bitterly: “That is not our father;
some unknown man is coming along and is dragging our father after him.”
Then they cried out to their husbands, “Masters, do ye go and meet that
man and slay him for the slaying of our father, lest our name be disgraced.”
Then their husbands, mighty warriors, set out to face the white Russian
knight. They had good horses, sharp lances, and they wished to hoist Ilyá
aloft on their lances.
The Nightingale Robber saw them, and said, “My beloved sons, do not
dishonour nor take such a bold knight, and so all receive your death from
him; it would be better to ask his forgiveness in humbleness and to ask him
into my house to have a goblet of green wine.”
So at the invitation of the sons-in-law Ilyá returned home and received no
evil of them.

The eldest daughter raised an iron storm-board of chains for him to
stumble against; but Ilyá saw her on the gates, struck at her with his lance,
and he smote her to death.
When Ilyá arrived at the city of Kíev, he went straight to the Prince’s
courtyard, entered the white stone palace, prayed to God and did homage to
the Prince.
The Prince of Kíev asked him, “Say, doughty youth, how do they call
thee? Of what city art thou?”
And Ilyá Múromets returned answer: “My lord, they call me Ílyushka,
and by my father’s name Ivánov; I live in the city of Múrom in the village
of Karachárovo.”
Then the Prince asked him, “By what road didst thou come?”
“From Múrom by the city of Chernígov, and under the walls of
Chernígov I routed a Saracen host too many to count, and I relieved the city
of Chernígov. And from there I went straight and I took the mighty
Nightingale Robber alive and dragged him along at my steel stirrup.”
Then the Prince was angry and said, “Why art thou telling such tales?”
When the knights Alyósha Popóvich and Dobrýnya Nikítich heard this,
they dashed out to look, and assured the Prince that this was really so.
Then the Prince bade a goblet of green wine be given to the doughty
youth. The Prince, however, wished to hear the whistle of the Robber-
Nightingale. Ilyá Múromets put the Prince and Princess into a sable shúba,
seized them under the arm, called in the Nightingale Robber and bade him
whistle like a nightingale with only half his whistle; but the Nightingale
Robber whistled with all his robber’s whistle, and he deafened all of the
knights, so that they fell to the ground, and as a punishment for this was
slain by Ilyá Múromets.
Ilyá Múromets swore blood brotherhood with Dobrýnya Nikítich, then
they saddled their good horses and rode forth on the open fields; and they
journeyed on for about three months and found no opponent worthy of their
steel: they had only gone in the open field. Then they met a passer-by, a
beggar singing psalms. His shirt weighed fifteen pud, and his hat ten pud,
and his stick was ten sazhéns long. Ilyá Múromets set on him with his
horse, and was going to try his mighty strength on him.

Then the passing beggar saw Ilyá Múromets and said: “Hail, Ilyá
Múromets! Do you recollect? I learned my letters with you in the same
school, and now you are setting your horse on me, who am only a beggar,
as though I were an enemy, and you do not know that a very great
misfortune has befallen the city of Kíev. The infidel knight, the mighty
man, the dishonourable Ídolishche, has arrived. His head is as big as a beer
cauldron, and his shoulders a sazhén broad. There is a span length between
his brows, and between his ears there is a tempered dart. And he eats an ox
at a time and he drinks a cask at a time. The Prince of Kíev is very
aggrieved with you that you have left him in such straits.”
So Ilyá Múromets changed into the beggar’s dress and rode straight back
to the palace of the Prince, and cried out in a knightly voice: “Hail to thee,
Prince of Kíev! give me, a wandering beggar, alms.”
And the Prince saw him and spoke in this wise: “Come into my palace,
beggar. I will give you food and drink and will give you gold on your way.”
So the beggar went into the palace and stood at the stove and looked
round.
Ídolishche asked to eat, so they brought him an entire roasted ox and he
ate it to the bones; then Ídolishche asked for drink, so they brought him a
cauldron of beer; and twenty men had to bring it in. And he held it up to his
ears and drank it all through.
Ilyá Múromets said, “My father had a gluttonous mare; it guzzled until its
breath failed.”
Ídolishche could not stand this affront, and said, “Hail, wandering
beggar! Do you dare me? I could take you in my hands; if it had been Ilyá
Múromets I would even have braved him.”
“Well,” said Ilyá Múromets, “that is the kind of man he was!” And he
took off his cap and struck him lightly on the head, and he nearly knocked
through the walls of the palace, took Ídolishche’s trunk and flung it out.
And in return the Prince honoured Ilyá Múromets, praised him highly, and
placed him amongst the mighty knights of his court.

NIKÍTA THE TANNER

One day, somewhere near Kíev, a dragon appeared, who demanded heavy
tribute from the people. He demanded every time to eat a fair maiden: and
at last the turn came to the Tsarévna, the princess. But the dragon would not
eat her, she was too beautiful. He dragged her into his den and made her his
wife. When he flew out on business, he used to pile logs of wood in front of
the den to prevent the Tsarévna escaping. But the Tsarévna had a little dog
that had followed her all the way from home. When she wrote a letter to her
father and mother she used to tie it to the neck of her little dog, which
would run all the way home and bring an answer back. One day her parents
wrote to her: “Try to discover any one who is stronger than the dragon.”
The Tsarévna got every day on more intimate terms with her dragon in
order to discover who was stronger. At last he owned that Nikíta, the tanner
at Kíev, was the stronger. So the Tsarévna at once wrote to her father:
“Look for Nikíta, the tanner at Kíev, and send him on to me to deliver me
from my imprisonment.”
So the Tsar looked for Nikíta, and went to him himself to beg him to
release the land from the cruelty of the dragon and redeem the princess.
Just then Nikíta was tanning skins. He was just enfolding twelve hides in
his hands. But when he saw the Tsar come to see him, his hands so trembled
for fear that he rent the twelve hides. But, however much the Tsar and the
Tsarítsa asked him, he would not set out against the dragon. Then the Tsar
assembled five thousand children, who were to mollify the tanner with their
bitter tears. The little ones came to Nikíta and begged him to go and fight
the dragon. And when he saw them weep, Nikíta the tanner himself almost
felt the tears flowing. He took thirty puds of hemp, tarred it, and swathed
himself in it in order that the dragon might find him a hard morsel, and then

set out. But the dragon locked himself up in his den and would not come to
view.
“Come with me into the open field, otherwise I will shatter your den to
pieces!” said the tanner, and began clattering at the doors.
Then the dragon, seeing his doom approach, came out into the open.
Nikíta the tanner fought the grisly worm some time, maybe long, maybe
short, and at last got him under.
Then the dragon besought Nikíta the tanner: “Do not beat me to death.
Stronger than us two there is nothing in the white world. Let us divide the
earth. You may live on the one half and I on the other.”
“Very well!” said Nikíta, “only we must delimit frontiers.”
So the tanner took the plough, which weighed three hundred puds, and
harnessed to it the dragon, and drew the harrow all the way from Kíev to
the Caspian Sea.
“Now we have divided the entire earth,” said the dragon.
“Yes, we have divided the earth, but not the sea; we must also divide the
sea, otherwise you would say I was taking your share of the water.” So they
then set out into the middle of the sea, and there Nikíta slew the dragon and
drowned him.
The trench may still be seen: it is two fathoms deep. They plough all
round it; but never touch the bottom: those who do not know whence came
this trench call it a battlement.
When Nikíta had done this feat, he demanded no reward for it, but went
home and went on tanning.

THE SINGING-TREE AND THE SPEAKING-
BIRD

Once upon a time there was a very inquisitive King who spent all his
time eavesdropping at the window. There was also a merchant, who had
three daughters, and one day they were talking to their father, and one said:
“If only the King’s bread-bearer would marry me!” The second one said: “If
only the King’s valet would cast his eyes upon me!” But the third said: “I
want the King himself: I would bear him two sons and one daughter.”
Now the King was listening to all this conversation; and after a few days
he did exactly as they had wished: the eldest married the King’s bread-
bearer, the middle one the King’s valet, but the youngest married the King
himself.
The King married very happily, and after some time his Queen was about
to bear him a child. He was sending for the midwife of the town, but the
elder sisters asked him why he should; they would act as midwives. As soon
as the Queen had born him a son, the midwives took him away and told the
King his wife had born a pup; and they put the new-born babe into a box
and threw it into a big pond in the King’s garden.
At this the King was very angry, and wanted to have his wife blown to
bits at the cannon’s mouth; but—it so happened—some other princes were
on a visit, and persuaded him to forgive a first offence. So the King
pardoned her for the nonce, and gave her a second chance.
One year went by, and the Queen bore him another son, and the sisters
again took it away, and told him she had born a kitten. The King was angry
at first, this time he was sore enraged, and was agog to punish his wife, but
once more he was won over.

So he gave her a third chance. This time the Queen bore a very beautiful
daughter, and the sisters took it and told the King she had born an unheard-
of monster. Oh! there were no bounds to his fury now; he ordered the
hangman in and bade him hang his wife on the spot; but once more some
visiting princes overruled him and said: “Would it not be better to put an
oratory up near the church and put her into it, and let every one who goes to
Mass spit into her eyes?” So he did; but, so far from being spat upon by
every passer-by, every one brought her fine loaves and pasties.
But, when her three children had been thrown into the pond in the King’s
garden, they were not drowned, for the King’s gardener took them home
and brought them up. They were fine children; you could see them growing
up, not by years, but months, not by days, but by hours. The King’s sons
shot up, youths no men could imagine, guess, or draw, or paint; and the
Tsarévna was such a beauty! Almost terribly beautiful! One day, when they
were older, they asked the gardener to let them build themselves a little
home behind the town. The gardener consented, and they erected a big,
splendid house, and led a merry life in it. The brothers used to go hunting
hares, and one day they went off and left their sister alone at home.
A visitor knocked at the door: the sister opened the door and saw an old
hag, who said: “You have a pretty little place here; three things are lacking.”
“What are they? I always thought we had everything!”
The hag replied: “You still need the Talking-Bird, the Singing-Tree, and
the Water of Life.”
And then the sister was left all alone once more; when her brothers came
home, she said: “Brothers, we lack nothing save three things.”
“What are they?”
“We haven’t a Talking-Bird, a Singing-Tree, and the Water of Life!”
The elder brother said: “Sister, give me your blessing, and I’ll go and
discover you these marvels. If I die, or am killed, you will know by this
knife dripping blood. There it is, stuck into the wall.”
So he went, and wandered away, far, far away into the forest. At last he
came to a gigantic oak-tree; and on the tree there was an old man sitting,
whom he asked how he was to procure the “Talking-Bird, a Singing-Tree,
and the Water of Life.”

The old man replied: “Possible it is, but not easy; many go, but few
return.”
But the young man persisted and left the old man. The old man gave him
a rolling-pin, and told him to let it roll on in front of him, and follow
wherever it went. The pin rolled on, and after it walked the Prince: it rolled
up to a steep hill, and was lost. Then the Prince went up the hill, went half-
way up; and, as he went along, he heard a voice: “Hold him, seize him, grip
him!” He looked round and was turned into stone.
That very same hour blood began to drip from the knife in the cottage,
and the sister told the younger brother that the elder was dead.
So he answered: “Now I will go, sister mine, and capture the Talking-
Bird, the Singing-Tree, and the Water of Life!”
So she blessed him, and he went on and on for very many weary miles,
and met the old man on the tree, who gave him another rolling-pin: and the
pin rolled up to the mountain; and both were lost, pin and Prince!
The sister waited for many years, but he never came back, and she
thought he, too, must have died. So she set out to find the Talking-Bird,
Singing-Tree, and Water of Life. She arrived at last at that same oak-tree,
saw the old man sitting on it, greeted him, and shaved his head and brows,
as she brought scissors and a mirror with her.
“Look,” she said, “what a change it makes in you!” He looked into the
mirror: “Yes,” he said; “I am quite a fine man now. I’ve sat here thirty
years: never a soul cut my hair, you guessed my need.”
Then she asked him: “Grandfather, how can I get the Talking-Bird, the
Singing-Tree, and the Water of Life?”
He answered: “How can you get them? Cleverer folk than you have been
after them, and they have all been lost.”
But she persisted: “Please tell me!”
So he gave her another rolling-pin, and told her to follow it: she would
hear cries of “Catch her: scotch her,” but she must not look round, for fear
of being turned into stone. “At the top you will see a well and the Talking-
Bird. As you come back, you will see lofty stones standing upright; sprinkle
them all with the Water of Life.”
So on she went: the pin rolled on, far or near, long or short, it reached a
steep mountain; and the girl climbed up and heard cries: “Where are you

going? We shall kill you! We shall eat you up!”
But still she went on and on, reached the summit, and there she found a
well and the Talking-Bird. She took it and asked it: “Tell me how to get the
Singing-Tree and the Water of Life.”
The Bird replied: “Go straight by this path.”
She did, and came upon the Singing-Tree, and in it all sorts of birds were
singing. She broke off a sprig, pulled up a water-lily, and put some of the
Water of Life into the cup of the flower, and turned back homewards.
As she clomb downhill, she saw boulders standing upright, and sprinkled
them with the Water of Life; and her brothers jumped up alive and said:
“Oh, what a long sleep we have had!”
“Yes, my brothers, but for me you would have slept on for ever. And look
here; I have got you the Talking-Bird, the Singing-Tree, and the Water of
Life!”
The brothers were overjoyed, went home and planted the Singing-Tree in
the garden; it overspread the whole garden, and all kinds of birds began
singing.
One day they were out hunting and the King met them by chance. He fell
in love with the gay huntsmen, and invited them home. They said they
would ask their sister, and come at once if she consented.
So they went back home. The sister met them and greeted them, and the
brothers said: “Please, sister, may we go and dine with the King? He has
asked us in.”
She said “Yes,” and they went. At the banquet, the King gave them the
place of honour, and they begged he would honour them with a visit. Some
days later the King went. They gave him a rich spread, and showed him the
Singing-Tree and the Talking-Bird.
He was amazed and said: “I am the King, and have nothing as good!”
Then the King looked at them and said: “Who is your father?”
They said: “We do not know.” But the Talking-Bird broke in and said:
“They are your children.”
Then the King looked at the maiden and wanted to marry her. Again the
Talking-Bird said: “You may not; she is your daughter.”

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

AT THE BEHEST OF THE PIKE

Once there lived a poor peasant; and, however much he might toil and
moil, he got nothing out of it. “Oh,” he thought to himself, “mine is a sorry
lot; I spend all my days on my fields; and then, when I look, I am starving,
whilst my neighbour is lying all day long on his back, and then he has a big
estate and all the profits swim into his pockets. Evidently I have not pleased
God. I will get up in the morning and pray until evening, and perhaps the
Lord may have mercy on me.”
So he began to pray to God, and went hungry for days on days; and he
still went on praying.
At last Easter Day came, and the bells rang for Mass. So the poor peasant
thought, “All good folks are getting ready to break the fast, and I have not a
crust of bread. Well, if I bring water, I can sip it like soup.” So he took a
small can, went to the well, and as soon as he dipped it into the water a big
pike fell into it. Then the peasant was very glad. “Here is something for
supper; I will cook it and make fish soup of it, and shall have a fine supper.”
Then the pike said to him in a human voice: “Let me go free, good man,
go free. I will make you happy; whatever your soul may desire you shall
possess. You need only say:
At the pike’s good pleasure,
By God’s good measure—

let this or that appear! and you will get it at once.”
So the peasant put the pike back into the water, went to his hut, sat down
at the table and said:
“At the pike’s good pleasure,
By God’s good measure—

let the table be covered and my dinner ready.”
Then from somewhere or other all sorts of dishes and drinks appeared on
the table, enough to please a Tsar, and a Tsar would not have been ashamed
of it. So the poor man crossed himself, said “Glory be to Thee, O Lord! now
I can break the fast.” So he went to the church, attended Matins and Mass,
turned back and again broke his fast, ate and drank as well, went outside the
door and sat at the counter.
Just about then the Princess had an idea that she would go abroad in the
streets, and she went with her attendants and maids of honour, and for the
sake of the holy festival went to give alms to the poor; she gave to them all
but forgot the poor peasant. Then he said to himself:
“At the pike’s good pleasure,
Of God’s good treasure—

let the Tsarévna bear a child.” And at the word that very instant the
Tsarévna became pregnant, and in ten months she bore a son.
Then the Tsar began to ask her, “Do acknowledge with whom you have
been guilty.”
Then the Tsarévna wept and swore in every way that she had been guilty
with nobody. “I do not know myself,” she said, “why the Lord has chastised
me.”
The Tsar asked, but found nothing out.
Soon a boy was born who grew not by days but by hours; and at the end
of a week he could already talk. So the Tsar summoned all the boyárs and
the senators from every part of the kingdom to show them the youth, but
none of them acknowledged that he was the father.
“No,” the boy answered, “none of them is my father.”
Then the Tsar bade the maids of honour and attendants take him up to
every courtyard, through all the streets, and to show him to all manner of
people. So the attendants and maids of honour took the youth through all
the courtyards, through all the streets they went. But the boy said nothing.
At last they came to the poor peasant’s hut. As soon as the boy saw that
peasant, he at once stretched out his little hands and said “Tyátya, Tyátya!”
Then they told the Emperor of this, and they summoned the poor man into

the palace, and the Tsar began to inquire of him, “Acknowledge on oath, is
this your boy?”
“No, he is God’s son.”
Then the Tsar was angry and married the poor man to the Princess, and
after the wedding he set them both with the child in a big tub, smeared it
with tar, and sent it out into the open sea. So the tub sailed on the open sea,
and the boisterous winds carried and bore it to a distant shore. When the
poor man heard that the water no longer moved under them, he said:
“At the pike’s good pleasure,
At God’s good measure—

let the barrel rest on a dry spot.”
So the barrel turned round and got on to a dry spot, and they went on,
following their eyes. And they went on and on, on and on, and they had
nothing to eat or drink. The Princess was utterly exhausted and had pined
away to a shadow, and she could hardly stand on her legs.
“Now,” said the poor man, “do you know what hunger and thirst are?”
“Yes, I do,” said the Princess.
“Well, this is what the poor have to endure. Yet you would not give me
alms on Easter Day.” Then the poor man said:
“At the pike’s good pleasure,
Of God’s good treasure—

let there be here a rich palace, the finest in all the world, with gardens and
ponds and all sorts of pavilions.”
As soon as he had spoken a rich palace appeared; faithful henchmen ran
out of it and carried them in their hands, led them into the white stone
rooms, and they sat down at the oaken tables with chequered linen on them.
It was marvellously decorated, was this palace. On the table everything was
ready, wine and sweets and made dishes. The poor man and the Tsarévna
ate and drank at their will, rested them, and went for a walk into the garden.
“Everything is beautiful here,” said the Princess; “the only thing still
lacking is to see the birds upon our ponds.”
“Wait, you shall have birds as well,” answered the poor man, and he said
at once:

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

let twelve ducks and one drake swim on the pond, and let them have one
feather of gold and another of silver, and let the drake have a diamond tuft
on his forehead!” And lo and behold, on the water there were twelve ducks
and one drake swimming; one feather was of gold and one feather was of
silver, and the drake had a diamond tuft on his forehead.
So there the Princess and her husband lived without grief or moil, and
their son grew up a big lad and began to feel in himself a giant’s strength.
And he asked leave of his father and mother to go out into the white world
and to seek himself a bride. They gave him leave to go, and said, “Go, my
son.”
So he saddled his knightly horse and set out on his road and way. And as
he journeyed on he met an old woman who said, “Hail, Russian prince,
where do you wish to go?”
“I am going, bábushka,[49] to seek a bride, but I do not know where I am
to find her.”
“Stay, I will tell you, my child. Do you go beyond the ocean into the
thrice-tenth kingdom; there there is a king’s daughter so fair, that, if you go
through all the world, you will never find any one more beautiful.”
So the good youth thanked the woman, went to the seashore, hired a boat,
and sailed to the thrice-tenth land. He sailed, maybe far, maybe near, maybe
long, maybe short—the tale is soon told but the deed is not soon done—and
he at last arrived at that kingdom, and appeared before the king of it, and
asked for his daughter’s hand in marriage.
Then the King said to him, “You are not the only suitor for my daughter;
there is another suitor, a mighty knight. If I refuse him he will destroy all of
my kingdom.”
“But, if you decline my offer, I will ravage your kingdom.”
“What will you?—you had better measure your strength with him: to
whichever of you conquers I will give my daughter.”
“Very well; summon all the Tsars and Tsarévichi, all the Kings and
Korolévichi, to see us wage an honourable holmgang to win your daughter.”
So then hunters were sent out to all cities, and one year had not gone by
before from all the neighbouring parts all the Tsars and Tsarévichi, all the

Kings and Korolévichi came together, as also the Tsar who had put his own
daughter into the barrel and sent her out into the sea.
On the day appointed all the knights made ready for a bloody holmgang.
They fought and fought, and the earth groaned at their blows, the forests
bowed down and the rivers rose in waves. The Tsarévna’s son first
overcame his opponent and cut off his turbulent head.
Then all the royal boyárs ran up, took the doughty youth into their hands
and led him into the palace. Next day he was married to the Korolévna. And
after they had feasted at the wedding he set about inviting all the Tsars and
Tsarévichi, the Kings and the Korolévichi as his guests to his father and
mother. So they all came together, and they got their ships ready and sailed
on the sea. The Tsarévna with her husband received her guests with honour,
and they began to celebrate banquets and to be joyous. The Tsars and the
Tsarévichi, the Kings and the Korolévichi, gazed at the palace and the
gardens and wondered. They had never seen such wealth. Then some of
them wondered when they saw the ducks and drakes, every one of them
worth half a kingdom.
So the guests were fed and bethought themselves of going home, but
before ever they had got to the haven, swift hunters precursed them, saying,
“Our master bids you turn back again; he wishes to hold secret counsel with
you.”
So the Tsars and Tsarévichi, the Kings and Korolévichi, were turning
back, when the master came to meet them and said: “Oh ye good folk, one
of my ducks has gone: has any one of you taken it?”
“Why are you making a vain quest?” the Tsars and Tsarévichi, the Kings
and Korolévichi answered; “this would be an unguestly act. Search us all
over. If you find the duck on any one of us do with him what you will; if
you do not, let your own head pay for it.”
“I will,” said the master. And he placed them all in a row and searched
them; and, as soon as he had come to the father of the Tsarévna, he said
quietly:
“At the pike’s good pleasure,
At God’s good measure—

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

was of gold, one was of silver.
Then all the Tsars and Tsarévichi, Kings and Korolévichi cried out
fiercely, “Ho! ho! ho! what a deed! are Tsars turning into thieves?”
Then the Tsarévna’s father swore by everything holy that as to thieving
there had never been such an idea in his head. And he had no idea how the
duck had come to him.
“That is a fine tale; it was found on you; you must be guilty.”
Then the Tsarévna came out, burst upon her father, and acknowledged
that she was his daughter whom he had given away to the poor peasant in
marriage and had put into a barrel. “Bátyushka,”[50] she said, “you would not
then believe my words, and now you have acknowledged yourself that it is
possible to be guilty without guilt.”
And she told him how it had all arisen. And after that they began to live,
and lived all together and lived all for good and forgot bygones.

THE JOURNEY TO JERUSALEM

An archimandrite one day got up for matins; and, whilst laving his hands,
saw an unclean spirit in the Holy Water, seized him and crossed him.
The devil besought him: “Let me go, Father, I will do you any service I
can; I will, I will!”
So the Archimandrite said: “Will you take me to Jerusalem between High
Mass and matins?”
The Archimandrite released him, and after matins was transported to
Jerusalem, and was back in time for High Mass. Then inquiries were set
going how this might be, and every one was astonished how he could get to
Jerusalem and back so fast. They asked him about it, and he told them the
story.

VAZÚZA AND VÓLGA

The Vólga and the Vazúza had a long argument whether who was the
wiser and the stronger and the more honourable of the two. They contended
and quarrelled, and could not decide it. So they resolved at last: “Let us
both go to sleep at the same time, and the one which wakes up earlier and
first reaches the Khvalýnsk Sea is wiser and stronger and the more
honourable.”
So the Vólga went to sleep, and so did the Vazúza.
But at night the Vazúza got up quietly and ran away from the Vólga; she
took the next nearest way and flowed off.
When the Vólga woke up she went neither hurriedly nor lagging, but in
an ordinary fashion. At Zubtsov she overtook the Vazúza, and looked so
threatening that the Vazúza was frightened, and owned she was the younger
daughter, and begged the Vólga to take her in her arms into the Sea of
Khvalýnsk.
And, to this day, the Vazúza wakes up in the spring before the Vólga, and
wakes the Vólga up out of her winter sleep.

THE ENCHANTED TSARÉVICH

Once upon a time there was a merchant who had three daughters: it so
happened he had one day to go to strange countries to buy wares, and so he
asked his daughters, “What shall I bring you from beyond the seas?”
The eldest asked for a new coat, and the next one also asked for a new
coat; but the youngest one only took a sheet of paper and sketched a flower
on it: “Bring me, bátyushka,[51] a flower like this!”
So the merchant went and made a long journey to foreign kingdoms, but
he could never see such a flower. So he came back home, and he saw on his
way a splendid lofty palace with watch-towers, turrets, and a garden. He
went a walk in the garden, and you cannot imagine how many trees he saw
and flowers, every flower fairer than the other flowers. And then he looked
and he saw a single one like the one which his daughter had sketched.
“Oh,” he said, “I will tear off and bring this to my beloved daughter:
evidently there is nobody here to watch me.” So he ran up and broke it off,
and as soon as he had done it, in that very instant a boisterous wind arose
and thunder thundered, and a fearful monster stood in front of him, a
formless, winged snake with three heads.
“How dared you play the master in my garden!” cried the snake to the
merchant. “Why have you broken off a blossom?”
The merchant was frightened, fell on his knees and besought pardon.
“Very well,” said the snake, “I will forgive you, but on condition that
whoever meets you first, when you reach home, you must give me for all
eternity; and, if you deceive me, do not forget, nobody can ever hide
himself from me: I shall find you wherever you are.”
The merchant agreed to the condition and came back home.

And the youngest daughter saw him from the window and ran out to meet
him. Then the merchant hung his head, looked at his beloved daughter, and
began to shed bitter tears.
“What is the matter with you? why are you weeping, bátyushka?”
He gave her the blossom and told what had befallen him.
“Do not grieve, bátyushka,” said the youngest daughter, “it is God’s gift:
perhaps I shall fare well. Take me to the snake.”
So the father took her away, set her in the palace, bade farewell, and set
out home.
Then the fair maiden, the daughter of the merchant, went in the different
rooms, and beheld everywhere gold and velvet; but no one was there to be
seen, not a single human soul.
Time went by and went by, and the fair damsel became hungry and
thought, “Oh, if I could only have something to eat!” But before ever she
had thought, in front of her stood a table, and on the table were dishes and
drinks and refreshments: the only thing that was not there was birds’ milk.
Then she sat down to the table, drank and ate, got up, and it had all
vanished.
Darkness now came on, and the merchant’s daughter went into the
bedroom, wishing to lie down and sleep. Then a boisterous wind rustled
round and the three-headed snake appeared in front of her.
“Hail, fair maiden! put my bed outside this door!”
So the fair maiden put the bed outside the door and herself lay on the
bedstead.
She awoke in the morning, and again in the entire house there was not a
single soul to be seen. And it all went well with her: whatever she wished
for appeared on the spot.
In the evening the snake flew to her and ordered, “Now, fair maiden, put
my bed next to your bedstead.”
She then laid it next to her bedstead, and the night went by, and the
maiden awoke, and again there was never a soul in the palace.
And for the third time the snake came in the evening and said, “Now, fair
maiden, I am going to lie with you in the bedstead.”

The merchant’s daughter was fearfully afraid of lying on a single bed
with such a formless monster. But she could not help herself, so she
strengthened her heart and lay down with him.
In the morning the serpent said to her, “If you are now weary, fair
maiden, go to your father and your sisters: spend a day with them, and in
the evening come back to me. But see to it that you are not late. If you are
one single minute late I shall die of grief.”
“No, I shall not be late,” said the maiden, the merchant’s daughter, and
descended the steps; there was a barouche ready for her, and she sat down.
That very instant she arrived at her father’s courtyard.
Then the father saw, welcomed, kissed her, and asked her, “How has God
been dealing with you, my beloved daughter? Has it been well with you?”
“Very well, father!” And she started telling of all the wealth there was in
the palace, how the snake loved her, how whatever she only thought of was
in that instant fulfilled.
The sisters heard, and did not know what to do out of sheer envy.
Now the day was ebbing away, and the fair maiden made ready to go
back, and was bidding farewell to her father and her sisters, saying, “This is
the time I must go back: I was bidden keep to my term.”
But the envious sisters rubbed onions on their eyes and made as though
they were weeping: “Do not go away, sister; stay until to-morrow.”
She was very sorry for her sisters, and stayed one day more.
In the morning she bade farewell to them all and went to the palace.
When she arrived it was as empty as before. She went into the garden, and
she saw the serpent lying dead in the pond! He had thrown himself for sheer
grief into the water.
“Oh, my God, what have I done!” cried out the fair maiden, and she wept
bitter tears, ran up to the pond, hauled the snake out of the water, embraced
one head and kissed it with all her might. And the snake trembled, and in a
minute turned into a good youth.
“I thank you, fair maiden,” he said. “You have saved me from the
greatest misfortune. I am no snake, but an enchanted Prince.”
Then they went back to the merchant’s house, were betrothed, lived long,
and lived for good and happy things.

THE SNAKE PRINCESS

A Cossack was going on his road and way, and he arrived in the sleepy
forest, and in that forest, in a glade, stood a hayrick. So the Cossack stood
in front just to have a little rest, lay down in front of the hayrick and
smoked his pipe, went on smoking, smoking, and never saw that a spark
had fallen into the hay. After his rest he again mounted his horse and went
on his road.
But he had gone only some dozen paces, when a flame blazed out and lit
up the wood. Then the Cossack looked back steadily, and saw the hayrick
burning, and in the middle of the flame a fair maiden standing, saying in a
threatening voice, “Cossack, good man, save me from death!”
“How shall I save you? I see flames all around and cannot get up to you.”
“Thrust your pike into the flame: I will jump out on to it.”
So the Cossack thrust his pike into the flame and leapt to avoid the great
heat. Then the fair maiden turned into a snake, crept on to the pike, crawled
round the Cossack’s neck, coiled herself round his neck three times and put
her tail between her mouth. The Cossack was frightened and had no notion
what he should do or what should come to him.
Then the snake spoke to him in a human voice: “Do not be frightened,
good youth; bear me on your neck for seven years, and go to seek the
Kingdom of Tin: when you arrive in that kingdom stay there and live there
seven years more, and do not ever leave it: if you serve this service you
shall be happy.”
So the Cossack went to look for the Kingdom of Tin; much time went by,
much water flowed in the river, and at the end of the seventh year he at last
reached a steep mountain, and on that mountain stood a castle of tin, and
around the castle was a lofty white stone wall. So he climbed up the

mountain, and the wall opened in front of him, and he arrived at a broad
courtyard. At that same instant the snake disentangled herself from his neck,
struck the grey earth, and turned into the maiden of his soul, vanished from
his eyes as though she had never been there.
The Cossack stabled his horse, went into the palace, and began looking at
the rooms: there were looking-glasses all about, silver and velvet, but never
a soul of a man to be seen. “Ah!” thought the Cossack, “Wherever have I
got to? Who will give me food and drink? I must here die of thirst and
hunger.” And whilst he was thinking this, lo and behold! in front of him
stood a covered table, and on the table was food and drink, enough for all.
So he tasted what he would, drank what he would, strengthened his body,
and thought of mounting on his horse to survey. He went into the stable,
and the horse was standing in the stall and was eagerly devouring oats.
Well, this affair had turned out very well after all; possibly he might go
on living without any suffering. So the Cossack stayed for a very, very long
time in the tin castle, until he became wearied unto death: it might be a
joke, but he was always alone and could never exchange as much as a
whisper with anybody. So, from sheer grief, he drank himself drunk and
thought he would go out into the free world. But wherever he ventured forth
there were lofty walls, with neither an entrance nor an exit. So he grew very
angry, and the doughty youth took his cudgel, went into the palace and
began knocking about the looking-glasses and mirrors, tearing up the
velvet, breaking the chairs, shattering the silver. Possibly, he thought, the
owner might come and let him free. But no, never a soul appeared!
Then the Cossack lay down to sleep. Next day he woke up, went for a
walk and a saunter, and he thought he would like to have some food, and he
looked around: there was nothing to be had. “Ah!” he thought, “The slave
rains on herself the blows if unfaithfully she mows. I smoked to death
yesterday, and to-day I must starve.” He had despaired. And that very
instant food and drink stood ready for him.
Three days went by: the Cossack slept in the morning, and then looked
out of the window, and his good horse stood saddled at the steps. What did
that mean? So he washed and dressed, prayed to God, took his long pike
and went into the open courtyard.
Suddenly, from somewhere or other, the fair maiden appeared and said,
“Health to you, good youth: the seven years are over. You saved me from

my perdition and my end. Now, listen to me: I am a king’s daughter;
Koshchéy the Deathless fell in love with me, took me away from my father
and from my mother, wished to marry me, but I always laughed at him.
Then he grew angry, and he turned me into a wild snake: I thank you for
your long service. We will fare forth to my father’s court; he will wish to
reward you with gold from his treasury and with precious stones: but do
you take nothing of them. Simply ask for the keg which is lying in his
cellar.”
“But what is the use of that?”
“If you turn that keg to the right a palace appears forthwith, if you turn it
to the left, it vanishes.”
“Very well,” said the Cossack.
So he mounted his steed, set himself and the fair princess on it, and the
lofty walls moved away from before him, and they set out on their road and
way. May be long, may be short, at last they arrived at the kingdom named:
the king saw his daughter and was overjoyed, began expressing his thanks
and gave the Cossack sacks full of gold and pearls: but the doughty youth
answered him, “I desire neither gold nor pearls, give me as a remembrance
of you simply the keg which is lying in your cellar.”
“You ask for a great gift, brother; but I must do what you say, for my
daughter is dearer to me than all else that I have here. I do not regret the
barrel; take it and go with God.”
So the Cossack took the royal gift and set out to roam through the white
world. He went on and on, and he met an ancient old man on the way: the
old man answered him, “Give me food and drink, good youth!”
So the Cossack leapt from his horse, undid the keg, turned it to the right,
and a miraculous palace appeared on the spot: both of them went into the
painted rooms and sat on covered chairs. “Ho, ye my faithful servants!”
cried out the Cossack, “give food and drink to this guest.” Before ever the
words were uttered, the servants brought an entire ox and three casks of
beer.
The old man set to and gourmandised, making the best of it. He ate the
entire ox, and he drank the three casks of beer, croaked and said, “That was
a small gift: still I cannot help it. I thank you for the bread and salt.” Then

they went out of the palace, and the Cossack turned his keg to the left, and
there was no sign of the palace.
“Let us exchange,” said the old man to the Cossack. “I will give you a
sword, and you give me the keg: what is the use of the keg to you? This is a
sword which slays of itself: you need only wave it, and however
incalculable the force may be it will slay them all in front of it. You see that
forest? Shall I show you what it can do?” Then the old man drew his sword
and said to it, “Set to work, self-slaying sword, and despoil all the dreamy
forest.” So the sword flew out of his hands, cut down the trees, and laid
them all down in regular boards. Then, after it had cut them down, it came
back to its master.
So the Cossack did not long bethink him, but gave the old man his keg
and took the self-slaying sword, waved the sword, and killed the old man.
Then he tied the keg to his saddle, mounted his horse, and thought he would
go back to the King. But just then a terrible enemy was besieging the capital
city of that King, and the Cossack saw an incalculable host and array,
waved his sword and said, “Self-slaying sword, serve me a service and spill
the hostile host.” And then there was a fine sight—heads flying about,
blood flowing freely—and within one hour all the field was covered with
corpses.
Then the King came out, kissed him, and decided to give him the fair
princess to wife.

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

BEER AND BREAD

In a certain kingdom, in a certain State, there once lived a rich peasant,
and he had much money and bread; he used to lend money on interest to the
poor husbandmen of his village. And, if he gave corn, then it had to be
returned in full in the summer; and in addition to that, for every three pecks
the debtor had to work two days on the lord’s field.
And one day it happened that there was a festival in the Church, and the
peasants began brewing beer for the feast. But in this village there was a
peasant who was so poor that there was no poorer to be found. And there he
sat in the evening with his wife on the eve of the festival in his little hut. He
was thinking: “What shall I do? All the good folk are now gadding about
making merry, and we have not a crust of bread in our house. I might have
gone to the rich man and asked him for a loan; but he would not trust me.
Now what shall I do, I am so woebegone!” And he thought and thought, and
he left the bench and stood in front of the icon, and sighed a heavy sigh.
“Lord,” he said, “have forgiveness on my sins, for I cannot buy any oil with
which to fill the lamp in front of Thy icon for Thy feast.”
And after a little while, an old man came into the hut.
“Hail, master,” he said. “Hail, old man! Can I stay the night here?”
“If you will. Stay the night if you like. But, Gossip, I have not a crust of
bread in my house, and I cannot feed you.”
“Never mind, master, I have three crusts of bread, and meat: give me a
ladle of water. I will take a taste of the loaf and a sup of the water, and we
shall be satisfied.”
So the old man sat down on the bench, and spoke.
“Why are you so sad, master? What has made you melancholy?”

“Old man,” the master answered, “why should I not be heavy?—it is
God’s gift. We were so looking forward to the feast. All the good folk are
making merry and rejoicing, but we are clean swept out. All around me and
within there is emptiness.”
“Well, be of good cheer,” said the old man; “go to the rich peasant and
ask whatever you require of him as a debt.”
“No, I cannot go, for he will not give it.”
“Go,” the old man insisted. “Fear nothing. Ask him for three pecks of
malt, and we will brew the beer together.”
“But it is so late. How shall we brew beer?—the feast is to be to-
morrow.”
“Do what I say. Go to the rich peasant and ask for the three pecks of
malt. He will give it you at once. No, he cannot refuse it. And to-morrow
you shall have beer so good at the feast—better than any you shall find
throughout the village.”
What could the poor man say? He got up, took his sack under his arm,
and went up to the rich peasant.
He went into the rich man’s izbá,[52] bowed down, besought him by his
name and his father’s name, and asked him for the loan of three pecks of
malt, as he wanted to brew beer for the festival.
“Why did you not think of it sooner?” the rich man replied. “How can
you do it now, for this is the eve of the festival?”
“Never mind, Gossip,” the poor man replied; “if you will be so good, I
and my wife will still brew something together, and can drink together and
celebrate the festival.”
The rich man gave him three pecks of malt and poured them into his
sack. The poor man lifted the sack on to his shoulders and went home and
recounted how things had gone.
“Now, master,” his old guest said, “you shall have a feast. Is there a well
at your door?”
“There is,” said the peasant.
“Well, we will go to your well and brew the beer. Bring your sack and
follow me.”
So they went out to the courtyard up to the well.