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Title: Russian Fairy Tales from the Skazki of Polevoi

Author: P. Polevoi

Illustrator: Charles M. Gere

Translator: R. Nisbet Bain

Release date: December 20, 2010 [eBook #34705]
Most recently updated: September 19, 2025

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RUSSIAN FAIRY TALES
FROM THE SKAZKI OF POLEVOI ***

Russian Fairy Tales.

The Golden Mountain.

Russian Fairy Tales

From the Skazki of Polevoi

By
R. Nisbet Bain
Illustrated by C. M. Gere

Third Edition
London
A. H. Bullen
18 Cecil Court, St. Martin’s Lane, W.C.
1901

Preface.
The existence of the Russian Skazki or Märchen was first made generally known to the
British Public some twenty years ago by Mr. W. R. S. Ralston in his Russian Folk Tales.
That excellent and most engrossing volume was, primarily, a treatise on Slavonic Folk-
Lore, illustrated with admirable skill and judgment, by stories, mainly selected from the
vast collection of Afanasiev, who did for the Russian what Asbjörnsen has done for the
Norwegian Folk-Tale. A year after the appearance of Mr. Ralston’s book, the eminent
Russian historian and archæologist, Peter Nikolaevich Polevoi (well known, too, as an
able and ardent Shaksperian scholar), selected from the inexhaustible stores of Afanasiev
some three dozen of the Skazki most suitable for children, and worked them up into a
fairy tale book which was published at St. Petersburg in 1874, under the title of
Narodnuiya Russkiya Skazki (Popular Russian Märchen). To manipulate these quaintly
vigorous old-world stories for nursery purposes was, as may well be imagined, no easy
task, but, on the whole, M. Polevoi did his work excellently well, and while softening
the crudities and smoothing out the occasional roughness of these charming stories,
neither injured their simple texture nor overlaid the original pattern.

It is from the first Russian edition of M. Polevoi’s book that the following selection has
been made. With the single exception of “Morozko,” a variant of which will be familiar
to those who know Mr. Ralston’s volume, none of these tales has seen the light in an
English dress before; for though both Ralston and Polevoi drew, for the most part, from
the same copious stock, their purposes were so different that their selections naturally
proved to be different also.

As to the merits of these Skazki, they must be left to speak for themselves. It is a
significant fact, however, that all those scholars who are equally familiar with the
Russian Skazki and the German Märchen, unhesitatingly give the palm, both for fun and
fancy, to the former.

R. N. B.

Contents.
Page
The Golden Mountain 1
Morozko 8
The Flying Ship 13
The Muzhichek-As-Big-As-Your-Thumb-with-Moustaches-Seven-Versts-Long
22
The Story of the Tsarevich Ivan, and of the Harp that Harped Without a Harper
34
The Story of Gore-Gorinskoe 56
Go I Know Not Whither—Fetch I Know Not What 64
Kuz’ma Skorobogaty 85
The Tsarevna Loveliness-Inexhaustible 94
Verlioka 111
The Frog-Tsarevna 118
The Two Sons of Ivan the Soldier 127
The Woman-Accuser 143
Thomas Berennikov 150
The White Duck 159
The Tale of Little Fool Ivan 165
The Little Feather of Fenist the Bright Falcon 188
The Tale of the Peasant Demyan 200
The Enchanted Ring 202
The Brave Labourer 220
The Sage Damsel 222
The Prophetic Dream 229
Two Out of the Knapsack 245
The Story of Marko the Rich and Vasily the Luckless 252

List of Illustrations.
The Golden Mountain Frontispiece.
Morosko To face page 9
The Tsarevna Loveliness-Inexhaustible To face page 103
The Princess and the Cunning Witch To face page 160
The Damsel Went on Further, and the Road Grew Lighter and Lighter To face
page 198
The Sage Damsel To face page 224

Russian Fairy Tales.

The Golden Mountain.
There was once upon a time a merchant’s son who squandered and wasted all his goods.
To such a pass did he come at last that he had nothing to eat. So he seized a spade, went
out into the market-place, and began waiting to see if any one would hire him as a
labourer. And behold, the merchant who was one in seven hundred1 came along that way
in his gilded coach; all the day-labourers saw him, and the whole lot of them
immediately scattered in every direction and hid themselves in corners. The merchant’s
son alone of them all remained standing in the market-place. “Do you want work, young
man?” said the merchant who was one in seven hundred; “then take hire from
me.”—“Right willingly; ’twas for no other reason that I came to the market-
place.”—“And what wage do you require?”—“If you lay me down one hundred roubles2
a day, ’tis a bargain.”—“That is somewhat dear!”—“If you think it dear, go and seek a
cheaper article; but this I know, crowds of people were here just now, you came, and—
away they all bolted.”—“Well, agreed! come to-morrow to the haven.” The next day,
early in the morning, our merchant’s son came to the haven; the merchant who was one
in seven hundred had already been awaiting him some time. They went on board ship
and went to sea. They sailed and sailed. In the midst of the sea an island appeared; on
this island stood high mountains, and on the sea-shore something or other was burning
like fire. “Can that which I see be fire?” said the merchant’s son. “Nay, that is my little
golden castle.” They drew near to the island; they went ashore; his wife and daughter
came forth to meet the merchant who was one in seven hundred, and the daughter was
beautiful with a beauty that no man can imagine or devise, and no tale can tell. As soon
as they had greeted one another they went on to the castle, and took the new labourer
along with them; they sat them down at table, they began to eat, drink, and be merry. “A
fig for to-day,” said the host; “to-day we’ll feast, to-morrow we’ll work.” And the
merchant’s son was a fair youth, strong and stately, of a ruddy countenance like milk and
blood, and he fell in love with the lovely damsel. She went out into the next room; she
called him secretly, and gave him a flint and steel. “Take them,” said she, “and if you
should be in any need, use them.” Next day the merchant who was one in seven hundred
set out with his servant for the high golden mountain. They climbed and climbed, but
they climbed not up to the top; they crawled and crawled, but they crawled not up to the
top. “Well,” said the merchant, “let’s have a drink first of all.” And the merchant handed
him a sleeping poison. The labourer drank and fell asleep. The merchant drew out his
knife, killed his wretched nag which he had brought with him, took out its entrails, put
the young man into the horse’s stomach, put the spade in too, sewed up the wound, and
went and hid himself among the bushes. Suddenly there flew down a whole host of black
iron-beaked ravens. They took up the carcase, carried it up into the mountain, and fell a-
pecking it; they began eating up the horse, and soon pierced right down to the
merchant’s son. Then he awoke, beat off the black crows, looked hither and thither, and

asked himself, “Where am I?” The merchant who was one in seven hundred bawled up
at him, “On the golden mountain; come, take your spade and dig gold.” So he digged
and digged, throwing it all down below, and the merchant put it on wagons. By evening
he had filled nine wagons. “That’ll do,” cried the merchant who was one in seven
hundred; “thanks for your labour. Adieu!”—“But how about me?”—“You may get on as
best you can. Ninety-nine of your sort have perished on that mountain—you will just
make up the hundred!” Thus spake the merchant and departed. “What’s to be done
now?” thought the merchant’s son; “to get down from this mountain is quite impossible.
I shall certainly starve to death.” So there he stood on the mountain, and above him
wheeled the black iron-beaked crows, they plainly scented their prey. He began to
bethink him how all this had come to pass, and then it occurred to him how the lovely
damsel had taken him aside and given him the flint and steel, and said to him herself
—“Take it, and if you are in need make use of it.”—“And look now, she did not say it in
vain. Let us try it.” The merchant’s son took out the flint and steel, struck it once, and
immediately out jumped two fair young heroes. “What do you want? What do you
want?”—“Take me from this mountain to the sea-shore.” He had no sooner spoken than
they took him under the arms and bore him carefully down from the mountain. The
merchant’s son walked about by the shore, and lo, a ship was sailing by the island. “Hi,
good ship-folk, take me with you!”—“Nay, brother, we cannot stop, such a stoppage
would lose us one hundred knots.” The mariners passed by the island, contrary winds
began to blow, a frightful hurricane arose. “Alas! he is plainly no simple man of our sort,
we had better turn back and take him on board ship.” So they returned to the island,
stopped by the shore, took up the merchant’s son, and conveyed him to his native town.
A long time and a little time passed by, and then the merchant’s son took his spade and
again went out into the market-place to wait for some one to hire him. Again the
merchant who was one in seven hundred passed by in his gilded carriage; the day-
labourers saw him and scattered in every direction, and hid them in corners. The
merchant’s son was the sole solitary little one left. “Will you take hire from me?” said
the merchant who was one in seven hundred. “Willingly; put down two hundred roubles
a day, and set me my work.”—“Rather dear, eh?”—“If you find it dear, go and seek
cheaper labour. You saw how many people were here, and the moment you appeared
they all ran away.”—“Well, then, done; come to-morrow to the haven.” The next
morning they met at the haven, went on board the ship, and sailed to the island. There
they ate and drank their fill one whole day, and the next day they got up and went
towards the golden mountain. They arrived there, the merchant who was one in seven
hundred pulled out his drinking-glass. “Come now, let us have a drink first,” said he.
—“Stop, mine host! You who are the chief ought to drink the first, let me treat you with
mine own drink.” And the merchant’s son, who had betimes provided himself with
sleeping poison, poured out a full glass of it and gave it to the merchant who was one in
seven hundred. He drank it off and fell into a sound sleep. The merchant’s son
slaughtered the sorriest horse, disembowelled it, laid his host in the horse’s belly, put the
spade there too, sewed up the wound, and went and hid himself among the bushes.
Instantly the black iron-beaked crows flew down, took up the carcase, carried it to the

mountain, and fell a-pecking at it. The merchant who was one in seven hundred awoke
and looked hither and thither. “Where am I?” he asked. “On the mountain,” bawled the
merchant’s son. “Take your spade and dig gold; if you dig much, I will show you how to
get off the mountain.” The merchant who was one in seven hundred took his spade and
dug and dug, he dug up twenty wagon loads. “Stop, that’s enough now,” said the
merchant’s son; “thanks for your labour, and good-bye.”—“But what about
me?”—“You? why, get off as best you can. Ninety-nine of your sort have perished on
that mountain, you can make up the hundred.” So the merchant’s son took all the twenty
wagons, went to the golden castle, married the lovely damsel, the daughter of the
merchant who was one in seven hundred, took possession of all her riches, and came to
live in the capital with his whole family. But the merchant who was one in seven
hundred remained there on the mountain, and the black iron-beaked crows picked his
bones.

1 I.e. the merchant who was seven hundred times richer than any one else.
2 1 rouble = about 3s. 4d.

Morozko.1
There was once a stepmother who, besides her stepdaughter, had a daughter of her own.
Whatever her own daughter might do, she looked kindly at her and said, “Sensible
darling!” but as for the stepdaughter, whatever she might do to please, it was always
taken amiss. Everything she did was wrong, and not as it should be. Yet, sooth to say, the
little stepdaughter was as good as gold; in good hands she would have swum in cheese
and butter, but, living with her stepmother, she bathed herself every day in tears. What
was she to do? The blast, though it blows, does not blow for ever, but a scolding old
woman it is not so easy to avoid. She will take anything into her head, even to combing
one’s teeth. And the stepmother took it into her head to drive her stepdaughter from the
house. “Take her, take her away, my old man, whithersoever you like, that mine eyes
may not see her, that my ears may not hear of her; but don’t take her to my own daughter
in the warm room, but take her into the bare fields to the bitter, biting frost.” The old
man began to lament and weep, but for all that he put his daughter in the sledge; he
would have liked to cover her with the horse-cloth, but even that he dared not do. So he
took the homeless one into the bare fields, threw her on a heap of snow, crossed himself,
and hastened home as fast as possible, that his eyes might not see his daughter’s death.

Morosko.

There the poor little thing remained on the fringe of the forest, sat down under a fir-tree,
shivered, and softly said her prayers. All at once she heard something. Morozko was
crackling in a fir-tree not far off, and he leaped from fir to fir and snapped his fingers.
And look! now he has come to that fir beneath which the girl was sitting; and he snapped
his fingers, and leaped up and down, and looked at the pretty girl. “Maiden, maiden, ’tis
I—Moroz-ruby-nose!”—“Welcome, Moroz! God must have sent thee to my poor sinful
soul.”—“Art thou warm, maiden?”—“Warm, warm, dear little father Morozushko2!”
Moroz began to descend lower, and crackle still more, and snap his fingers more than
ever, and again he began speaking to the girl. “Art thou warm, maiden? Art thou warm,
beauty?” The girl was scarce able to draw her breath, and yet she kept on saying, “Yes,

warm, Morozushko; warm, little father!” Morozko crackled more than ever, and snapped
his fingers harder and yet harder, and he said to the maiden for the last time, “Art thou
warm, maiden? Art thou warm, beauty? Art thou warm, sweet clover?” The girl was all
benumbed, and it was only in a voice scarcely audible that she could say, “Oh, yes!
warm, darling little pigeon mine, Morozushko!” Morozko quite loved her for her pretty
speeches. He had compassion on the girl; he wrapped her in furs, warmed her with warm
coverings, and brought her a coffer, high and heavy, full of bridal garments, and gave her
a robe all garnished with gold and silver. She put it on, and oh, how beautiful and stately
she looked! And she sat down and began to sing songs. And the stepmother was
preparing her funeral feast and frying pancakes. “Be off, husband, and bury your
daughter!” she cried. And off the old man went. But the little dog under the table said,
“Bow-wow! the old man’s daughter is going about in silver and gold, but the old
woman’s daughter no wooers will look at.”—“Silence, you fool! There’s a pancake for
you, and now say, ‘The wooers will take the old woman’s daughter, but there’s nothing
left of the old man’s daughter but her bones.’” The little dog ate the pancake, but again
he said, “Bow-wow! the old man’s daughter goes about in silver and gold, but the old
woman’s daughter no wooers will look at.” The old woman kept beating the dog and
giving him pancakes, but the little dog would have his way, and said, “The old man’s
daughter goes about in silver and gold, but the old woman’s daughter no wooers will
look at.”

The floors creaked, the doors flew open wide, and in they brought the high and heavy
coffer, and behind it walked the stepdaughter, in gold and silver, glittering like the sun.
The stepmother looked at her, and threw up her arms. “Old man, old man! put to a pair
of horses, and take my daughter at once. Put her in the selfsame field, in the selfsame
place.” And the old man took the daughter to the selfsame place. And Moroz-ruby-nose
came and looked at his guest, and began to ask her, “Art thou warm, maiden?”—“Be off
with you!” replied the old woman’s daughter, “or are you blind not to see that my arms
and legs are quite benumbed with cold?” Morozko began skipping and jumping, fair
words were not to be expected from that quarter. And he was angry with the
stepdaughter, and froze her to death.

“Old man, old man! go and fetch my daughter. Put to my swift horses, and don’t
overturn the sledge and upset the coffer.” But the little dog under the table said, “Bow-
wow! the wooers will wed the old man’s daughter, but they’ll bring home nothing of the
old woman’s daughter but a sack of bones.”—“Don’t lie! There’s a cake. Take it and say,
‘They’ll carry about the old woman’s daughter in gold and silver!’” And the doors flew
open, the nasty old woman ran out to meet her daughter, and instead of her she embraced
a cold corpse. She began to howl and cry; she knew then that she had lost her wicked
and envious daughter.

1 Caressing diminutive of Russian moroz (frost). Perhaps “Jack Frost” is the nearest English equivalent.
2 I. e. darling Moroz.

The Flying Ship.
There was once upon a time an old man and an old woman, and they had three sons; two
were clever, but the third was a fool. The old woman loved the first two, and quite
spoiled them, but the latter was always hardly treated. They heard that a writing had
come from the Tsar which said, “Whoever builds a ship that can fly, to him will I give
my daughter the Tsarevna to wife.” The elder brothers resolved to go and seek their
fortune, and they begged a blessing of their parents. The mother got ready their things
for the journey, and gave them something to eat on the way, and a flask of wine. And the
fool began to beg them to send him off too. His mother told him he should not go.
“Whither would you go, fool?” said she; “why, the wolves would devour you!” But the
fool was always singing the same refrain: “I will go, I will go!” His mother saw that she
could do nothing with him, so she gave him a piece of dry bread and a flask of water,
and quickly shoved him out of the house.

The fool went and went, and at last he met an old man. They greeted each other. The old
man asked the fool, “Whither are you going?”—“Look now!” said the fool, “the Tsar has
promised to give his daughter to him who shall make a flying ship!”—“And can you
then make such a ship?”—“No, I cannot, but they’ll make it for me somewhere.”—“And
where is that somewhere?”—“God only knows.”—“Well, in that case, sit down here;
rest and eat a bit. Take out what you have got in your knapsack.”—“Nay, it is such stuff
that I am ashamed to show it to people.”—“Nonsense! Take it out! What God has given
is quite good enough to be eaten.” The fool undid his knapsack, and could scarcely
believe his eyes—there, instead of the dry crust of bread, lay white rolls and divers
savoury meats, and he gave of it to the old man. So they ate together, and the old man
said to the fool, “Go into the wood, right up to the first tree, cross yourself thrice, and
strike the tree with your axe, then fall with your face to the ground and wait till you are
aroused. Then you will see before you a ship quite ready; sit in it and fly wherever you
like, and gather up everything you meet on your road.” So our fool blessed the old man,
took leave of him, and went into the wood. He went up to the first tree and did exactly as
he had been commanded; he crossed himself three times, struck the tree with his axe, fell
with his face to the ground, and went to sleep. In a little while some one or other awoke
him. The fool rose up, and saw the ship quite ready, and without thinking long about it,
he sat in it, and the ship flew up into the air. It flew and flew, and look!—there on the
road below, a man was lying with his ear to the damp earth. “Good-day,
uncle!”—“Good-day.”—“What are you doing?”—“I am listening to what is going on in
the world.”—“Take a seat in the ship beside me.” The man did not like to refuse, so he
sat in the ship, and they flew on further. They flew and flew, and look!—a man was
coming along hopping on one leg, with the other leg tied tightly to his ear. “Good-day,
uncle; what are you hopping on one leg for?”—“Why, if I were to untie the other I

should stride half round the world at a single stride.”—“Come and sit with us.” The man
sat down, and they flew on. They flew and flew, and look!—a man was standing with a
gun and taking aim, but at what they could not see. “Good-day, uncle; at what are you
aiming? Not even a bird is to be seen.”—“What! I am shooting at short range. I could hit
bird or beast at a distance of one hundred leagues. That’s what I call shooting!”—“Sit
down with us.” This man also sat with them, and they flew on further. They flew and
flew, and look!—a man was carrying on his back a whole sack-load of bread. “Good-
day, uncle; whither are you going?”—“I am going,” he said, “to get some bread for
dinner.”—“But you’ve got a whole sack-load on your back already!”—“That! Why I
should think nothing of eating all that at a single mouthful.”—“Come and sit with us.”
The Gobbler sat in the ship, and they went flying on further. They flew and they flew,
and look!—a man was walking round a lake. “Good-day, uncle; what are you looking
for?”—“I want to drink, but I can find no water.”—“But there’s a whole lake before you,
why don’t you drink of it?”—“That! Why that water would not be more than a mouthful
to me!”—“Then come and sit with us.” He sat down, and again they flew on. They flew
and flew, and look!—a man was walking in the forest, and on his shoulders was a bundle
of wood. “Good-day, uncle; why are you dragging about wood in the forest?”—“But this
is not common wood.”—“What sort is it then?”—“It is of such a sort that if you scatter
it, a whole army will spring up.”—“Sit down with us then.” He sat down with them, and
they flew on further. They flew and flew, and look!—a man was carrying a sack of straw.
“Good-day, uncle; whither are you carrying that straw?”—“To the village.”—“Is there
little straw in the village then?”—“Nay, but this straw is of such a kind that if you scatter
it on the hottest summer day, cold will immediately set in with snow and
frost.”—“Won’t you sit with us, then?”—“Thank you, I will.”

Soon they flew into the Tsar’s courtyard. The Tsar was sitting at table just then; he saw
the flying ship, was much surprised, and sent out his servant to ask who was flying on
that ship. The servant went to the ship and looked, and brought back word to the Tsar
that ’twas but a single, miserable little muzhik1 who was flying the ship. The Tsar fell a-
thinking. He did not relish the idea of giving his daughter to a simple muzhik, and began
to consider how he could rid him of this wretched son-in-law for a whole year. And so he
thought, “I’ll give him many grievous tasks to do.” So he immediately sent out to the
fool with the command to get him, by the time the imperial meal was over, living and
singing water. Now, at the very time when the Tsar was giving this command to his
servant, the first comrade whom the fool had met (that is to say, the one who was
listening to what was going on in the world) heard what the Tsar said, and told it to the
fool. “What shall I do now?” said the fool. “Why, if I search for a year, and for my
whole life too, I shall never find such water.”—“Don’t be afraid,” said Swift-of-foot to
him, “I’ll manage it for you.” The servant came and made known the Tsar’s command.
“Say I’ll fetch it,” replied the fool, and his comrade untied his other leg from his ear, ran
off, and in a twinkling he drew from the end of the world some of the living and singing
water. “I must make haste and return presently,” said he, and he sat down under a water-
mill and went to sleep. The Tsar’s dinner was drawing to a close, and still he did not turn

up though they were all waiting, so that those on board the ship grew uneasy. The first
comrade bent down to the earth and listened. “Oh ho! so you are asleep beneath the mill,
are you?” Then the marksman seized his gun, shot into the mill, and awoke Swift-of-foot
with his shooting. Swift-of-foot set off running, and in a moment he had brought the
water. The Tsar had not yet risen from the table, and his command could not therefore
have been more exactly fulfilled. But it was all to no purpose, another task had to be
imposed. The Tsar bade them say to the fool, “Come now, as you are so smart, show
what you’re made of! You and your comrades must eat at one meal twenty roast oxen
and twenty large measures of baked bread.” The first comrade heard and told this to the
fool. The fool was terrified, and said, “Why, I can’t eat even one whole loaf at one
meal!”—“Don’t be afraid,” said Gobbler, “that will be very little for me.” The servant
came and delivered the Tsar’s command. “Good!” said the fool, “let us have it and we’ll
eat it.” And they brought twenty roasted bullocks, and twenty measures of baked bread.
Gobbler alone ate it all up. “Ugh!” he said, “precious little! they might have given us a
little more.” The Tsar bade them say to the fool that he must now drink forty barrels of
wine, each barrel holding forty buckets. The first comrade of the fool heard these words,
and told them to him beforehand. The fool was horrified. “Why, I could not drink a
single bucketful,” said he. “Don’t be frightened,” said the Drinker, “I’ll drink for all; it
will be little enough for me.” They poured out the forty barrels of wine; the Drinker
came and drank the whole lot at one draught; he drank it right to the dregs, and said,
“Ugh! little enough, too! I should have liked as much again.” After that the Tsar
commanded the fool to get ready for his wedding, and go to the bath-room to have a
good wash. Now this bath-room was of cast-iron, and the Tsar commanded that it should
be heated hotter than hot, that the fool might be suffocated therein in a single instant. So
they heated the bath red-hot. The fool went to wash himself, and behind him came the
muzhik with the straw. “I must straw the floor,” said he. They locked them both in the
bath-room; the muzhik scattered the straw, and it became so cold that the fool was scarce
able to wash himself properly, the water in the bath froze so hard. He crept up on the
stove and there he passed the whole night. In the morning they opened the bath, and they
found the fool alive and well, lying on the stove and singing songs. They brought word
thereof to the Tsar. The Tsar was sore troubled, he did not know how to rid himself of the
fool. He thought and thought, and commanded him to produce a whole army of his own
devising. “How will a simple muzhik be able to form an army?” thought he; “he will
certainly not be able to do that.” As soon as the fool heard of this he was much alarmed.
“Now I am quite lost,” said he; “you have delivered me from my straits more than once,
my friends, but it is plain that nothing can be done now.”

“You’re a pretty fellow,” said the man with the bundle of wood; “why, you’ve clean
forgotten me, haven’t you?” The servant came and told the fool the Tsar’s command: “If
you will have the Tsarevna to wife, you must put on foot a whole army by morning.”

“Agreed. But if the Tsar, even after this, should refuse, I will conquer his whole Tsardom
and take the Tsarevna by force.” At night the fool’s companion went out into the fields,
took his bundle of wood, and began scattering the faggots in different directions—and

immediately a countless army appeared, both horse and foot. In the morning the Tsar
saw it, and was terrified in his turn, and in all haste he sent to the fool precious
ornaments and raiment, and bade them lead him to court and marry him to the Tsarevna.
The fool attired himself in these costly ornaments, and they made him look handsomer
than words can tell. He appeared before the Tsar, wedded the Tsarevna, received a large
wedding-gift, and became quite clever and witty. The Tsar and the Tsaritsa2 grew very
fond of him, and the Tsarevna lived with him all her life, and loved him as the apple of
her eye.

1 A peasant.
2 The consort of the Tsar.

The Muzhichek1-As-Big-As-Your-Thumb-with-
Moustaches-Seven-Versts2-Long.
In a certain kingdom, in a certain empire, there once lived a Tsar. At his royal court there
was a harness of golden rings. Now it fell out that this Tsar once dreamed that in this
harness was fastened a strange horse, not woolly white, but silvery bright, and on its
brow a glistening moon. On awaking in the morning the Tsar commanded the public
crier to cry abroad that whoever would interpret this dream, and discover this horse,
should have his daughter in exchange, and half his tsardom into the bargain. At this royal
proclamation a multitude of princes, boyards,3 and great lords came together, and
thought and thought, but not one of them could interpret the dream, not one of them
could discover the horse. At last they hunted up a little withered old grey-beard
Muzhichek,4 and he said to the Tsar, “Thy dream was not a dream, but real. On just such
a horse as thou didst see in thy dream, there came to thee in the night the Muzhichek-as-
big-as-your-thumb-with-moustaches-seven-versts-long, and he wants to steal away your
lovely little daughter out of the strong fortress.”—“I thank thee, good man, for thy
interpretation; and now wilt thou not tell me who can get me this horse?”—“I will tell
thee, my Lord Tsar. I have three sons, mighty men of valour. My wife bore me all three
of them in a single night; the eldest in the evening, the second at midnight, the third at
dawn of day, and so we called them Zor’ka,5 Vechorka,6 and Polunochka.7 They have
not their equals in this realm for strength or valour. Look now, my little father and
sovereign lord, send them forth that they may seek this strange horse for thee.”—“Let
them go, dear old friend. Let them take as much from my treasury as they need, nor will
I go back from my royal word; whichever of them brings me this horse, to him will I
give the Tsarevna and half my tsardom.”

The next day, early in the morning, the three brother-heroes, Zor’ka, Vechorka, and
Polunochka, arrived at the Tsar’s court; the first had the fairest face, the second the
broadest shoulders, the third the stateliest figure. They went in to the Tsar, prayed before
the sacred ikons, and bowed low on every side of them, but to the Tsar they bowed
lowest of all. “May our Sovereign Lord and Tsar live long in the land! We have come to
thee, not to feast with the festive, but to do a deed right hard and sore, for we have come
to fetch thee this strange horse from far away—that selfsame horse that appeared to thee
in thy dreams.”—“Success attend you, ye good youths! What provision do ye require for
your journey?”—“We want nothing, O Gosudar!8 Only do not neglect our good father
and mother. Provide for them in their old age and need.”—“If that be all, depart in God’s
name on your journey. I will bring your old parents to my court, and they shall be my
guests; I will give them to eat and drink from my own royal table, they shall be clothed

and shod from my own royal wardrobe, and they shall be filled full with all good
things.”

So the good youths departed on their long journey. They travelled that day, and the next,
and the third also, with nothing but the sky above their heads, and the broad steppe on
every side of them. At last they left the steppe and entered a dense forest, and rejoiced
greatly. On the very skirts of the forest stood a little hut, and beside the little hut a tiny
sheepfold full of sheep. “Look,” said they, “there we shall find some place to lay our
heads in, and rest from our journey.” They knocked at the hut—there was no answer;
they peeped into it—it was quite empty. The brothers entered in, made ready for the
night, prayed to God, and laid them down to sleep. In the morning Zor’ka and
Polunochka went into the wood to hunt, and said to Vechorka, “Stay at home and get
dinner ready for us.” The eldest brother agreed, put everything to rights in the hut, and
then went to the sheepfold, chose the fattest ram, cut it up, cleansed it, and roasted it for
dinner. He had no sooner laid the table, however, and had just sat down by the window
to await his brothers, when all at once there came a rumbling and a thundering from the
forest, the door was nearly torn off its hinges, and the Muzhichek-only-as-big-as-your-
thumb-but-with-moustaches-seven-versts-long entered the hut, with his moustaches
floating far down his back. On entering the hut he looked at Vechorka from beneath his
beetling brows, and shrieked with a terrible voice, “How dare you come into my hut as if
you were its lord and master? How dare you cut up my ram?” But Vechorka looked at
him and smiled. “You ought to grow a little bigger before you shriek like that,” said he.
“Be off, and don’t let me see you here again, or I’ll take a spoonful of cabbage soup, and
a little crumb of bread, and glue up your eyes for you.” The Muzhichek-no-bigger-than-
your-thumb-but-with-moustaches-seven-versts-long replied, “I see that you don’t know
that, though small, I am brave withal;” then, tearing the hero from the bench, he dragged
him from corner to corner, bumped his head well against the walls, and then threw him,
more dead than alive, beneath the bench. He himself took the roast ram from the table,
ate it, bones and all, and vanished. The brothers returned and asked, “What’s the matter?
Why have you bandaged your head?” But Vechorka was ashamed to say that such a
miserable little wretch had trounced him so soundly, and he said to his brothers, “I got a
headache from looking to the fire without you, so that I could neither roast nor boil.”

The next day Zor’ka and Vechorka went out to hunt, and Polunochka stayed behind to
get the dinner ready. No sooner had he finished cooking the dinner, than there was again
a rushing sound in the wood, and into the hut came the Muzhichek-no-bigger-than-your-
thumb-but-with-moustaches-seven-versts-long, knocked Polunochka about, maimed
him, pitched him under the bench, ate up the whole dinner, and vanished. Again the
brothers returned and asked, “What’s the matter, brotherkin? Why do you tie up your
head with rags?”—“I have got a headache from looking to the fire, my brothers,” replied
Polunochka, “so that my poor little head was quite splitting, and therefore I could not get
ready your dinner for you.”

On the third day the elder brothers went to hunt, and Zor’ka remained in the hut alone,
and thought to himself, “There’s something not quite right here. It is not for nothing that
my brothers have complained of the heat of the fire two days running.” So he began to
look all about, and to listen, in case any one should be coming to fall upon him
unawares. He chose a ram, killed and cut it up, cleansed it, roasted it, and placed it on
the table, and immediately there was a racket and a thundering in the wood, and in at the
door rushed the Muzhichek-no-bigger-than-your-thumb-but-with-moustaches-seven-
versts-long, with a rick of hay on his head, and in his hand a bucket of water. He put the
bucket of water in the midst of the courtyard, strewed the straw all over the courtyard,
and set about counting his sheep. He saw that there was yet another ram missing, flew
into a violent rage, stamped on the ground with his little feet, dashed into the hut, and
flung himself violently upon Zor’ka. But this Zor’ka was not like his brothers. He seized
the Muzhichek by his moustaches, and began to drag him about the hut and well towzle
him, and cried at the same time—

“If you don’t know the ford
Don’t step overboard.”9

The Muzhichek-no-bigger-than-your-thumb wriggled about from side to side, tore
himself out of Zor’ka’s iron paws, though he left the ends of his moustaches in his fists,
and ran away from him as hard as he could, Zor’ka after him—but whither, pray? He
flew up into the air like fluff, vanished from before his eyes, and was gone. Zor’ka
returned to the hut, and sat down by the window to await his beloved brothers. The
brothers arrived, and were quite astonished to find him hale and whole, and the dinner
ready. But Zor’ka drew out from his girdle the ends of the long moustaches which he
had torn from the monster, and said to his brothers, with a smile, “Look, my brothers, I
have twisted your headache that you caught from the fire10 round my girdle! I see now
that neither in strength nor stout-heartedness are ye fit comrades for me, so I will go on
alone to discover the wondrous steed, but you go back to the village and plough land.”
Then he took leave of his brothers, and went on his way.

Just as he was leaving the wood, Zor’ka came upon a crazy little hut, and in this crazy
little hut he heard some one crying dolorously, “Whoever will give me to eat and to
drink, him will I serve.” The good youth went into the hut, and saw that on the stove lay
an armless, legless one, piteously groaning, and begging for meat and drink. Zor’ka gave
him to eat and drink, and asked him who he was. “A hero was I, no whit worse than
thou, but lo! I ate one of the rams of the Muzhichek-no-bigger-than-your-thumb, and he
made me a cripple for the rest of my life. But because you have had compassion upon
me, and given me both to eat and to drink, I will show you how to get the wondrous
horse.”—“Show me, I pray, good man.”—“Go, then, to the river hard by, take a ferry-
boat on it, ferry people across it the whole year round, take money from none, and—
you’ll see what will happen.”

Zor’ka went to the river, took a ferry-boat, and a whole year round he ferried everybody
across gratis. And it befell him once that he had to ferry over three old pilgrims. The old
men got out on the bank, and began to undo their travelling purses, and the first pulled
out a whole handful of gold, the second a whole roll of pure pearls, and the third the
most precious stones. “There, that is for thy ferrying, good youth,” said the old men. “I
can take nothing from you,” said Zor’ka, “because I am here, according to promise, to
ferry every one across without taking money for it.”—“Then for what dost thou do
it?”—“I seek the wondrous horse which is not woolly white, but silvery bright, and I can
find it nowhere; so that is why good people have advised me to hire a ferry-boat here,
and they said, you shall see what will happen.”—“Well for thee, good youth, that thou
hast been true to thy word; we can equip thee for thy journey. Here is a little ring for thy
little finger, do but transfer it from finger to finger, and all thy wishes will be gratified.”
And the old men went on their way, but Zor’ka immediately put the ring on the other
hand and said—“Let me be at once in those places where the Muzhichek-no-bigger-
than-your-thumb lives and pastures his horse!” And immediately the tempest took him,
and before he could wink once he found himself in front of a deep chasm amongst the
gloomy rocks, and he saw that in this side of the chasm, but on the very edge of it, was
sitting the Muzhichek-no-bigger-than-your-thumb-but-with-moustaches-seven-versts-
long, and around him was pacing the wondrous horse that was not woolly white, but
silvery bright; on its brow shone a moon, and many stars were in its mane. “Welcome,
good youth!” screeched the monster to Zor’ka; “what brings you hither?”—“I am going
to take your horse away from you.”—“Nay, ’tis not for you nor for any one else to take
him from me. If I but seize him by the mane and lead him to the edge of this abyss,
nobody in the world can take him away from hence, though they strive for ever and
ever.”—“Well, then, let us exchange.”—“Willingly. I don’t mind exchanging with you.
You bring me hither the daughter of your Tsar, and I will give you my horse, and you
may lead him from field to field.”—“Good,” said Zor’ka, and he immediately began
considering how he might get the better of the monster. He transferred his ring from
finger to finger, and said, “Let the lovely Tsarevna immediately appear here before me.”
And in the twinkling of an eye the Tsarevna appeared before him, all pale and trembling,
and fell down on her knees before him, and begged and prayed him: “Good youth,
wherefore hast thou conjured me away from my father? Oh, spare my tender youth!” But
Zor’ka whispered her, “I want to get the better of that monster there. I’ll make believe to
exchange you for the horse, and leave you with the monster as his wife; but you take this
ring, and when you want to return home you have only to take it off one finger and put it
on the other, and say, ‘I want to turn into a little needle to stick it into Zor’ka behind his
collar,’ and you’ll see what will happen.” And as Zor’ka had said to the Tsarevna, so it
fell out. He gave the Tsarevna to the monster in exchange for the wondrous horse, put his
martial harness on the horse, mounted, and went on his way; but the Muzhichek-no-
bigger-than-your-thumb laughed and shouted after him, “’Tis well, good youth; thou hast
exchanged a lovely damsel for a horse.” Zor’ka had not gone two or three versts when
he felt something pricking him behind the collar. He put his hand there, and lo! there was
a needle. He pitched it on the ground, and before him stood a lovely damsel, who wept

and begged him to take her back to her dear father’s house. Zor’ka set her on the horse
beside him, and galloped off as only heroes can gallop. He arrived at the Tsar’s court,
and found the Tsar in an evil mood. The Tsar said to him, “I rejoice not at all, good
youth, in thy faithful service, nor do I require the steed thou hast gotten for me, nor will I
reward thee with aught according to thy merits.”—“And wherefore, pray, dear father
Tsar?”—“Because, good youth, my daughter went away without my leave.”—“Nay, but,
my Sovereign Lord and Tsar, it beseems thee not to trifle with me so: the Tsarevna was
only this instant greeting me from out of her stronghold.” Then the Tsar rushed into the
stronghold, where he still found his daughter, embraced her, and brought her out to the
good youth. “Here is thy reward and my delight.” And the Tsar took the horse, and gave
his daughter to Zor’ka to wife, and half his tsardom along with her into the bargain. And
Zor’ka still lives with his wife, and cannot love her enough, and he rejoices in his good
fortune without over-much boasting.

1 Lit. little peasant; but here, gnome or goblin.
2 A verst = 3500 English feet.
3 Magnates.
4 Little peasant.
5 Diminutive of Zorya, the Red Dawn.
6 Diminutive of Vecher, Evening.
7 Diminutive of Polunoch, Midnight.
8 Emperor.
9 I. e. caution’s the best policy.
10 Ugar, lit. the suffocating fire-smoke.

The Story of the Tsarevich Ivan, and of the Harp that
Harped Without a Harper.
Far, far behind the blue sea, behind the fiery abyss, in the void places, in the midst of the
pleasant meadows, stood a lofty city, and in this city ruled Tsar Umnaya Golova1 with
his Tsaritsa. There they lived a long time, and to their great delight a daughter was born
to them, a most lovely Tsarevna whom they called Neotsyenaya,2 and the next year there
was born to them another daughter just as lovely, and her they named the Tsarevna
Beztsyenaya.3 In his joy Tsar Umnaya Golova made merry and gladdened his heart, and
feasted and ate and drank to his heart’s content. He gave his voevods4 three hundred and
three buckets of mead to toast him in, and bade them regale his whole realm with beer
for three days. Whoever liked might drink, and good measure was meted out to him.
Now, when all the feastings and junketings were over, Tsar Umnaya Golova began to be
troubled with the thought how to feed and nourish and train up his beloved daughters,
and bring them under the golden crown.5 Great were the cares of the Tsar concerning his
daughters. They were only fed with gold spoons, they were laid to sleep on eider-down
beds, they were covered with sable coverlets, and three nurses took it in turn to drive
away the flies when the Tsarevnas laid them down to sleep. Tsar Umnaya Golova bade
them watch over his daughters, and take care that the lovely sun never looked into their
room with his bright rays, that the cold dew never fell on them, and that the truant wind
never dared to blow upon them. And for the defence and protection of his daughters, the
Tsar placed beside them seventy-seven nurses, and seventy-seven guardians—a certain
wise man advised him to do so.

Thus Tsar Umnaya Golova with his Tsaritsa and his two daughters lived and thrived
together. I know not how many years passed by, and the Tsarevnas began to grow up, fill
out, and become beautiful. Wooers already began to make their appearance at the Tsar’s
court, but Tsar Umnaya Golova was in no great haste to marry off his daughters. He
reflected that a destined wooer cannot be avoided even on a swift horse, while a wooer
that is not destined cannot be held fast by triple iron chains, and while he was thus
thinking and casting the matter over in his mind, he suddenly heard a great noise and
commotion. There was a scampering up and down and to and fro in his courtyard. The
outdoor nurses were crying, the indoor nurses were howling, and the guardians were
bawling with all their might. Tsar Umnaya Golova immediately rushed out and asked,
“What is the matter?” Then the seventy-seven male attendants, and the seventy-seven
female attendants all fell down on their knees before him. “We are guilty,” they cried;
“look now! the Tsarevnas Neotsyenaya and Beztsyenaya have been carried off by a
whirlwind!” A strange thing had happened. The Tsarevnas had gone out to walk in the
Tsar’s garden to pluck a few sweet-peas and wrench off a red poppy or two, and feast

upon a few ripe pippins. Suddenly a black cloud rose up above them (whence it came
nobody knew), blew right into the eyes of the nurses and guardians, and by the time they
had come to themselves and begun to rub their eyes, all trace of the Tsarevnas had
vanished, there was nothing for the eye to see or the ear to hear. Tsar Umnaya Golova
regularly flared up with rage. “I will deliver you all over to an evil death!” said he. “You
shall perish miserably in dungeons; I will bid them shoot at you with peas in the gates.
What! seven-and-seventy of you nurses, and seven-and-seventy of you guardians, could
not look after two Tsarevnas!”

And now Tsar Umnaya Golova was in sore trouble and affliction; he neither ate, nor
drank, nor slept; everything was a grief and a burden to him; banquets at his court there
were none, and the sound of the fiddle and the shawm was heard there no more. Only
sad grief sat beside him and sang her mournful dirge like the croaking of a crow of evil
omen.

But time passes and sorrow with it. The life of man is like a variegated tapestry,
interwoven with dark flowers and bright. Time moved onwards, and then another child
was born to the Tsar, but this time it was not a Tsarevna, but a Tsarevich. Tsar Umnaya
Golova rejoiced greatly; he called his son Ivan, and placed beside him old-men nurses,
foster-fathers, wise teachers, and valiant voevods. And the Tsarevich Ivan began to grow
and grow just as wheaten meal swells and swells when good yeast is put to it. He grew
not by the day but by the hour, and what wondrous beauty, what a stately figure was his!
One thing only weighed upon the heart of Tsar Umnaya Golova: good and beauteous
was the Tsarevich Ivan, but there was nothing in him of heroic valour or of knightly
skill. He did not tear off the heads of his comrades, nor break their arms and legs; he
neither loved to play with lances of damask steel, nor with swords of tempered metal; he
did not muster his strong battalions, nor hold converse with his voevods. Good and
beauteous was the Tsarevich Ivan; he amazed all men with his wit and wisdom, and his
sole delight was to play on the harp that needed no harper. And the Tsarevich Ivan
played so that all men forgot all else as they listened. The moment he placed his fingers
on the strings they sang and played with such a wondrous voice that the very dumb wept
for sympathy, and the very legless danced for joy. Beautiful songs they were, but they
did not replenish the Tsar’s treasure, nor defend the realm, nor smite the evil foe.

And one day Tsar Umnaya Golova bade them bring the Tsarevich Ivan before him, and
thus he spake to him: “My beloved son, good art thou and beauteous, and I am well
content with thee. One thing only grieves me. I do not see in thee the valour of a warrior,
or the skill of a champion. Thou dost not love the clash of steel lances and the tempered
blade has no charm for thee. Look now! I am growing old, and we have savage foes.
They will come to us, make our realm the spoil of war, put to death our boyars and
voevods, and lead captive me and my Tsaritsa, for thou canst not defend us.” The
Tsarevich Ivan listened to the words of Tsar Umnaya Golova, and thus he made answer:
“Dear Tsar-Gosudar and father! Not by strength but by craft are cities taken, not by
cudgels but by cunning will I prevail against the foe. Make trial of my martial strength,

make trial of my youthful valour. Look now! They tell me that I had two sisters,
Tsarevnas, and that the truant whirlwind carried them away, and that the rumour of them
vanished as if it were covered with snow. Call together now all thy princes, thy heroes,
thy stalwart voevods, and bid them do thee the service of finding out my sisters, the
Tsarevnas. Let them bring their damask blades, their iron lances, their glowing darts, and
their countless soldiery; and if any one of them shall do thee this service, give to him my
tsardom and bid me be unto him as a scullion, to lick his pots, and as a fool to make him
sport. But if they cannot render thee this service, then I will render it thee, and then thou
shalt see that my wisdom and my wit is sharper than a damask blade, and stronger than a
lance of steel.”

And the words of the Tsarevich pleased the Tsar. He called together his boyars, his
voevods, his strong and mighty champions, and he said to them: “Is there any one of
you, my boyars, voevods, strong and mighty champions, hero enough to go seek my
daughters? If so, to him will I give to choose which of my daughters he will to be his
love, and with her he shall have half my tsardom.” The boyars, the voevods, and the
champions looked one upon another, and hid one behind the other, but not one of them
dared to speak. Then the Tsarevich Ivan bowed low before his father and said—“Dear
Father-Gosudar! if none will take it upon him to render thee this paltry little service, give
me thy blessing on my journey. I will go, I will seek my sisters, nor have I need of any
royal gift from thee to enable me to do it.”—“Good!” replied Tsar Umnaya Golova; “my
blessing go with thee. Take also of my treasures, silver and gold and precious stones, and
if thou requirest soldiers, take a hundred thousand horse and a hundred thousand foot
also.” And the Tsarevich Ivan replied, “I need neither silver nor gold, neither horse nor
foot, neither the horse of the champion nor his sword and lance. I will take with me my
sweet-sounding harp that plays of its own accord, and nothing else. And thou, my
Sovereign Tsar, await me these three years, and if I come not again in the fourth year,
then choose thee my successor.” Then the Tsarevich Ivan received his father’s blessing
both in writing and by word of mouth, commended himself to God, took his harp under
his arm, and went straight on his way whither his eyes led him. Whither was he to go to
find his sisters? He went and went near and far, high and low. The tale of his going is
soon told, but the deed that he did is not soon done. The Tsarevich Ivan went straight
onwards, he went on and on, and as he went he played songs upon his harp; whenever
the morning broke he arose again and wended his way along; when night fell he laid him
down on the silky grass beneath the vast roof of the heavenly dome bright with stars.
And at last he came to a dense forest. The Tsarevich Ivan heard a great cracking in this
dense forest as if some one were smashing it, such a rumbling and a thundering was
there in this forest. “What is this?” thought the Tsarevich Ivan; “a man must die once
though no man can die twice.” And his eyes filled with terror, for he saw two wood
demons fighting. One was belabouring the other with an uprooted oak, and the other was
pitching into his comrade with a pine tree five fathoms long, and the pair of them were
fighting with all their devilish strength. The Tsarevich Ivan approached them with his
harp and struck up a dance. The demons stopped short, began to dance some devilish

dance, and kicked up their heels6 with such vigour that the very welkin rang. They
danced and they danced, they danced themselves off their legs and rolled on to the
ground, and the Tsarevich Ivan began to talk to them. “Come now! what are you
quarrelling for?” said he. “Ye, my children, are regular wood demons, and yet ye make
fools of yourselves as if ye were common people.” Then one of the wood demons said to
him, “Wherefore should we not fight? Hearken and judge betwixt us! We were going on
our way and we found something. I said, ’Tis mine; but he said, ’Tis mine—we tried to
divide it and we could not divide it.”—“And what then was it that you found?” asked the
Tsarevich Ivan.—“This is what it was: a little bread-and-salt table-cloth, self-moving
boots, and an invisible little cap. Dost thou want to eat and drink? Then spread out the
little table-cloth, and twelve youths and twelve maids will bring thee mead to drink and
sweetmeats as much as thou wilt! And if any one come that way, thou hast only to slip
on the self-walking boots and thou canst go seven versts at one stride; nay, thou canst go
even quicker than fourteen versts at one stride, so that no bird can fly level with thee and
no wind can overtake thee. But if some unavoidable calamity threaten thee thou hast but
to put on thy little invisible cap, and thou vanishest so completely that the very dogs
cannot scent out thy whereabouts.”—“What a thing to quarrel about! Will ye agree to
what I say if I divide what ye have found?” The wood demons agreed, and the Tsarevich
Ivan said, “Look now! Run towards that little path, and whichever of you reaches it, he
shall have the table-cloth, the boots, and the cap.”—“Ah, now!” cried the wood demons,
“that is common sense! Do thou hold the treasures and we will do the running.” So away
they went at full tilt, till nothing but their heels were visible and they disappeared in the
forest. But the Tsarevich Ivan did not wait for them, he put the boots on his feet, the cap
on his head, the little table-cloth under his arm, and made himself scarce as they call it.
The wood demons came running back, but could not find the place where the Tsarevich
had stood; but Ivan the Tsarevich, striding with great strides, got out of the wood and
saw the wood demons running round him and beyond him, and trying to scent him out,
but they could find nothing, and fell to wringing their hands.

Ivan the Tsarevich went on his way; he went on and on, he strode and strode, and he
came to the open plains. Three roads lay before him, and in the cross-way stood a
wretched little hut turning round and round on hen’s legs. And Ivan the Tsarevich said to
it, “Izbushka! izbushka!7 turn your back to the wood and your front to me!” Then Ivan
the Tsarevich stepped into the hut, and there in the hut was sitting Baba-Yaga8 bony-leg.
“Fie! fie! fie!” said Baba-Yaga, “up to this day a Russian soul has been a sight unknown
to my eyes and a sound unknown to my ears, and now a Russian soul appears before my
very eyes! For what hast thou come, good youth?”—“Oh, thou senseless Granny!” said
the Tsarevich Ivan to her, “thou shouldst feed me well first, and only after that shouldst
thou begin to ask questions.” Baba-Yaga leaped up in the twinkling of an eye, heated her
little stove, fed Ivan the Tsarevich, and then began to ask him, “Whither dost thou go,
good youth, and whither does thy way lie?”—“I go,” said Ivan the Tsarevich, “to seek
my sisters, the Tsarevna Neotsyenaya and the Tsarevna Beztsyenaya. But now, dear little
Granny, tell me, if thou knowest, what way must I go, and where shall I find them?”—“I

know where the Tsarevna Neotsyenaya lives!” said Baba-Yaga; “thou must take the
middle road to get to her, but she lives in the white stone palace of her old husband the
Forest Monster. The road thither is hard, far must thou go; and if thou gettest there ’twill
boot thee little, for the Forest Monster will devour thee.”—“Well, little Granny, perhaps
it will choke him. A Russian man is a bony morsel, and God will not give him over to be
eaten by a swine like that! Farewell! and thank you for your bread and salt!” And so the
Tsarevich Ivan strode away from her, and look!—there, right across the plain, shone
white and dazzling the stony palace of the Forest Monster. Ivan went up to it and saw the
gate, and on the gate sat a sort of little devil who said, “No admittance!”—“Open, my
friend!” replied Ivan the Tsarevich, “and I’ll give thee some vodka!”9 The little devil
took the vodka, but he didn’t open the gate for all that. Then Ivan the Tsarevich went
round about the palace and resolved to climb over the wall. He climbed up and along and
never observed the trap into which he was falling, for on the top of the walls wires were
spread all about, and the moment the Tsarevich Ivan touched one of these wires with his
foot all the bells fell a-ringing. Ivan the Tsarevich looked, and out upon the balcony
rushed his sister the Tsarevna Neotsyenaya and said, “Is it thou then that hast come, my
beloved brother, Ivan the Tsarevich?” And the brother and the sister embraced and kissed
each other. “Where shall I hide thee from the Monster of the Forest?” said the Tsarevna
Neotsyenaya, “for I believe he will be here at once.”—“Where indeed, for I am no
needle.” The brother and sister were still talking when suddenly there was the dull roar
of a tempest and whirlwind, all the palace trembled, and the Monster of the Forest
appeared; but Ivan the Tsarevich put on his little invisible cap and became invisible. And
the Forest Monster said, “Where then is thy guest who climbed over the wall?”—“I have
no guest here at all,” replied the Tsarevna Neotsyenaya, “but perhaps the sparrows have
been flying over it and stuck to it with their wings!”—“Sparrows indeed! Methinks I
smell the smell of a Russian soul here!”—“What are you dreaming about? You run about
the wide world and do nothing but harass souls, and now you would vex other souls
also!”—“Don’t be angry, Tsarevna Neotsyenaya, I do no harm to thy happiness, only I
have now a desire to eat, and I should like to eat up this unknown,” said the Forest
Monster. Ivan the Tsarevich, however, took off his invisible cap, bowed to the Forest
Monster, and said, “Why do you want to eat me? Don’t you see what a lean and bony
morsel I am! Rather let me regale you with a breakfast such as you have never eaten
since the day of your birth, only take care that you don’t swallow your tongue and all!”
Then Ivan the Tsarevich spread out his little bread-and-salt table-cloth, the twelve youths
and the twelve damsels appeared, and began to regale the Forest Monster with as much
as ever he could eat. The Forest Monster ate and ate and ate, then he drank, and then he
ate again, till he was unable to stir from the spot; he fell asleep in the very place where
he sat. “And now farewell, my beloved sister!” said the Tsarevich Ivan; “yet tell me, dost
thou not know the place where our sister the Tsarevna Beztsyenaya dwells?”—“I know
it,” replied the Tsarevna Neotsyenaya; “thou must go to her along the great sea Ocean,
there she dwells in the very whirlpool of the ocean with her old husband the Sea
Monster; but the way thither is hard. Far, very far must thou swim, and if thou gettest
there it will boot thee little, for he will devour thee!”—“Well,” said the Tsarevich Ivan,

“he may chew me perhaps, but he will find me a hard morsel to swallow. Farewell,
sister!” And Ivan the Tsarevich began to stride onwards, and he came to the great sea
Ocean. By the shore stood a boat such as the Russian people use when they go a-fishing;
the shrouds and gear were of linden bast, the sails of fine hair mats, and the boat itself
was not welded with nails, but sown fast with birch-bark. On this ship the mariners were
getting ready to go to sea, to sail to the Rock-Salt Island. “Won’t you take me with you?”
said the Tsarevich Ivan; “I will pay you nothing for my passage, but I will tell you tales
so that you will never notice how long the journey is.” The ship-folk agreed, and they
sailed away upon the great sea Ocean, they sailed past the Rock-Salt Island; the
Tsarevich Ivan told them tales, and they sailed and sailed. Suddenly, whence they knew
not, a tempest came flying up, the thunder began to growl, and the ship began to quake.
“Alas!” shrieked the ship’s folk, “to our own destruction have we listened to this fair
speaker, never shall we see our dear little homes again, we shall descend into the
whirlpools of Ocean! There is no help for it, we must pay tribute to the Monster of the
Sea; let us cast lots, it will fall upon the guilty!” They cast lots, and it fell upon the
Tsarevich Ivan. “It can’t be helped, my brothers!” said the Tsarevich Ivan. “I thank you
for your bread and salt; farewell, nor think amiss of me in time to come!” Then he took
with him his self-walking boots, his little bread-and-salt table-cloth, his little invisible
cap, and his harp that harped of its own accord, and they raised the good youth and
swung him right out into the whirlpools of Ocean. The sea became calm, the boat sped
on, and the Tsarevich Ivan went like a key to the bottom, and stood upright on his legs in
the halls of the Monster of the Sea, the wondrous flower-grown halls of ocean! The Sea
Monster was sitting on his throne with the Tsarevna Beztsyenaya by his side, and the Sea
Monster said, “’Tis a long time since I have eaten fresh flesh, and lo! it comes right into
my very hands! Welcome, friend! Come here, and let me see at which end of you I may
begin!” Then the Tsarevich Ivan began to say that he was the brother of the Tsarevna
Beztsyenaya, and that amongst good people one behaved not so badly as to eat another
up. “That is too much!” shrieked the Sea Monster; “he comes to force his own rules and
regulations upon the homes of other people!” Ivan the Tsarevich saw that things were
going badly, so he took out his harp that played of its own accord, and when he began
playing a plaintive air, the Sea Monster began to pull wry faces, then fell to sighing like
a blacksmith’s bellows, and wept and moaned just as if he had swallowed a needle; and
then, when the Tsarevich Ivan struck up the air, “Let the merry churochki10 go round the
little table!” why then indeed the very halls put their arms akimbo and fell a-dancing,
while the Sea Monster could not skip up and down enough, but stamped with his feet,
snapped with his fingers, rolled his eyes about, and pulled such faces that all the fishes
flocked round to see, and nearly died for laughter. The Monster of the Sea thoroughly
enjoyed himself. “Well!” said he, “’twould be a sin to eat such a youth. Stop here, stay
with us, sit down and be our guest, won’t you? Here are lots of herrings, pike, bream,
and perch! Come, sit down at table, eat, drink, and be merry, my dear guest!” So Ivan the
Tsarevich and the Tsarevna Beztsyenaya and the Sea Monster sat down, and ate and
drank and made merry. A whale danced a German dance in front of them, the herrings
sang glees, the carps performed on various instruments. After dinner the Sea Monster

went to sleep, and the Tsarevna Beztsyenaya said, “My beloved brother, I am glad to see
thee, dear guest; so far well, but ’twill not last for ever. When he awakes the Sea Monster
will eat thee if the evil humour takes him.”—“Tell me, darling sister,” said the Tsarevich
Ivan, “how I may save our sister Neotsyenaya from the Forest Monster, and thee from
the Monster of the Sea?”—“If you like you may try your luck, but you’ll find it, I think,
a ticklish business. Behind the great sea Ocean here lies a large tsardom, and there reigns
there not a Tsar but a Tsaritsa called the Tsar-Maiden. If thou makest thy way thither, and
gettest into her fenced garden, then the Tsar-Maiden will become thy consort, and she
only can free us and restore us to our father and mother. But the mischief of it is this—
she has a strict guard which will allow no one to cross the shore, a guard all bristling
with guns and lances, and fastened to each lance is a head, and all these poor little heads
are the heads of the youths who came to woo the Tsar-Maiden. There were tsars,
tsareviches, kings, kings’ sons, mightily strong warriors, and they came with hosts, and
they sailed with ships, and were able to do nothing; all of them were stuck upon
lances.”—“Look now!” said the Tsarevich Ivan, “what is there to fear? Terrible are the
threats of Heaven and manifold is the mercy of God. Tell me but how I may get to the
tsardom of the Tsar-Maiden.”—“But is it a wise thing to make thy way thither?
Nevertheless I’ll give thee my beloved sturgeon; sit upon him and go thy way, and my
swift runner the long-nosed sterlet shall swim before thee to show the way.” The brother
and sister then said farewell, the Tsarevich Ivan sat him on the sturgeon and sped away,
and the sterlet went on before to show the way. They fell in with some crabs, and they
saluted the Tsarevich Ivan with their moustaches, and beat the drums with their clippers,
and drove the little fishes out of the way. But the sea is not the same thing as the dry
land. There was neither hemp nor bramble to hold on by, the way was slippery, as
slippery as grease. The Tsarevich Ivan slipped and slipped. Then he put on his little
invisible cap and saw that the guards of the Tsar-Maiden were opening wide their eyes
and gazing afar off, and saw nothing that was going on beneath their noses, and they
were still whetting their swords and sharpening their spears. And the Tsarevich Ivan
came to the shore, the sturgeon set him safely on the quay, made an obeisance, and
jumped into the water again; but the Tsarevich Ivan went past the guard without bending
his knee, and entered the fenced garden as if he were the master there; he walked about,
he walked all over it, he diverted himself, and ate of the luscious and transparent apples
there.

And lo! the Tsarevich lingered and lingered there. And he saw twenty white doves flying
towards a pond. They lighted on the ground and became twenty maidens lovely as the
stars of heaven and as goodly as blood and milk. Amongst them the Tsar-Maiden was
walking like a peacock, and said, “My beloved friends, ’tis hot; ye see how the sun burns
like an oven. Let us bathe! No evil eye can see us here. So strong a guard stands on the
shore that not even a fly could pass by them.”—“A fly cannot pass them, eh! Look now
what a big fly has passed them,” said the Tsarevich Ivan, and he took off his little
invisible cap and bowed low to the Tsar-Maiden. The Tsar-Maiden and her comrades, as
maidens are wont to do, shrieked and moaned, thought of running away and didn’t, made

as though they wouldn’t look and looked all the same, and winked and blinked with their
eyes. “Tsar-Maiden, and ye, lovely damsels,” said the Tsarevich Ivan, “wherefore do ye
fear me? I am not a bear, I shall not bite you, I will take no one’s heart against her will;
but if my destined bride be here, then am I her destined bridegroom.” Then the Tsar-
Maiden turned as scarlet as the red poppy-flower, gave her white hand to the Tsarevich
Ivan, and said, “Welcome, good youth! Whether thou be tsar or tsarevich, king or king’s
son, I know not; but if thou hast come hither as a gentle guest, thy reception shall be as
beseemeth a dear friend. Many brutal wooers have come to me who would have taken
my virginal heart by force, such a thing as was never heard of since the beginning of the
world. Come into my white stone halls and into my crystal chambers!”

The whole nation heard that their Tsarevna, the Tsar-Maiden, had got her a bridegroom
after her own heart, and they came in swarms both of young and old, and shouted and
rejoiced with all their might. And the Tsar-Maiden commanded that the royal cellar
should be opened for them, and that they should be allowed to beat drums and guitars
and play fiddles; and the next day they played at the merry banquet and the wedding
feast. And there were banquets for three days and rejoicings for three weeks. And after
that the Tsarevich Ivan spoke to his consort about releasing his sisters, one from the
Monster of the Forest and the other from the Monster of the Sea. “My beloved consort,
Ivan the Tsarevich,” she replied, “what would I not do for thee! Send and fetch me my
hedgehog-lawyer and my sparrow-scribe, and let them send ukases to the Monster of the
Forest and the Monster of the Sea, bidding them give up the sisters of Ivan the Tsarevich,
or I will take them into custody and give them over to a cruel death.” So the hedgehog-
lawyer and the sparrow-scribe wrote out ukases and sent them off. And the Monster of
the Forest and the Monster of the Sea could do nothing, so they set free the Tsarevna
Neotsyenaya and the Tsarevna Beztsyenaya. And the Tsarevich Ivan wrote this letter to
his father, the Tsar Umnaya Golova: “Thou seest, O Sovereign Tsar, that not with
strength and valour only but with craft and wit also can one prevail over all. And the
self-playing harp is sometimes of as good service as the Damascus blade, although of
course one must not lash it with a whip. And now come to me, dear father, and be my
guest, and I will be with thee with my wife and my sisters. A goodly banquet is ready,
and I wish thee long years and many.” And so Ivan the Tsarevich lived a joyous life, and
waxed rich and prosperous. And he lived long and reigned gloriously, and feasted me
right royally, so I made up this merry tale about him.

1 Wise Head.
2 Not to be priced.
3 Without price.
4 Generals and high officials.
5 Crowns are put on the heads of Greek brides.
6 Lit. gave themselves up to a trepak. A trepak is a peculiarly wild popular dance.
7 Wretched little hut.
8 The witch of witches in Russian fairy tales.

9 Russian brandy.
10 Small glass or bowl for drinking spirits.

The Story of Gore-Gorinskoe.1
There once lived in a village two brothers, one of whom was rich, and the other poor.
With the rich man everything went swimmingly, in everything he laid his hand to he
found luck and bliss; but as for the poor man, slave and toil as he might, fortune flew
away from him. The rich man, in a few years, so grew out of bounds that he went to live
in the town, and built him the biggest house there, and settled down as a merchant; but
the poor man got into such straits that sometimes he had not even a crust of bread in the
house to feed a whole armful of children, small—smaller—smallest, who all cried
together, and begged for something to eat and drink. And the poor man began to repine
at his fate, he began to lose heart, and his dishevelled head began to sink deeper between
his shoulders. And he went to his rich brother in the town and said, “Help me! I am quite
worn out.”—“Why should I not?” replied the rich man. “We can well afford it, only you
must come and work it out with me all this week.”—“Willingly,” said the poor man; so
he set to work, swept out the yard, curried the horses, and split up firewood. At the end
of the week the rich brother gave him a grisenka2 in money and a large lump of bread.
“Thanks even for that,” said the poor man, and was about to turn away homewards,
when his brother’s conscience evidently pricked him, and he said, “Why dost thou slip
off like that? To-morrow is my name day; stay and feast with us.” And the poor man
stayed to his brother’s banquet. But, unfortunately for him, a great many rich guests
assembled at his brother’s—men of renown; and these guests his brother served most
zealously, bowing down low before them, and imploring them as a favour to be so good
as to eat and drink their fill. But he forgot altogether about his poor brother, who could
only look on from afar, and see all the good people eating and drinking, and enjoying
themselves, and making merry. At last the banquet was over, the guests arose, they began
to thank the host and hostess, and the poor man also bowed to his very girdle. The guests
also went home, and very merry they all were; they laughed, and joked, and sang songs
all the way. And the poor man went home as hungry as ever, and he thought to himself,
“Come, now, I will sing a song too, so that people may think that I too was not
overlooked or passed over on my brother’s name day, but ate to surfeit, and drank myself
drunk with the best of them.” And so the peasant began singing a song, but suddenly his
voice died away. He heard quite plainly that some one behind his back was imitating his
song in a thin piping voice. He stopped short, and the voice stopped short; he went on
singing, and again the voice imitated him. “Who is that singing? come forth!” shrieked
the poor man, and he saw before him a monster, all shrivelled up and yellow, with
scarcely any life in it, huddled up in rags, and girded about with the same vile rags, and
its feet wound round with linden bast. The peasant was quite petrified with horror, and
he said to the monster, “Who art thou?”—“I am Gore-Gorinskoe; I have compassion on
thee; I will help thee to sing.”—“Well, Gore, let us go together through the wide3 world
arm in arm; I see that I shall find no other friends and kinsmen there.”—“Let us go, then,

master; I will never desert thee.”—“And on what shall we go, then?”—“I know not what
you are going upon, but I will go upon you,” and flop! in an instant he was on the
peasant’s shoulders. The peasant had not strength enough to shake him off. And so the
peasant went on his way, carrying Woeful Woe on his shoulders, though he was scarce
able to drag one leg after the other, and the monster was singing all the time, and beating
time to it, and driving him along with his little stick. “I say, master, wouldst thou like me
to teach thee my favourite song?

I am Woe, the woefully woeful!
Girt about with linden bast rags,
Shod with beggars’ buskins, bark stript.
Live with me, then; live with Woe,
And sorrow never know.
If you say you have no money,
You can always raise it, honey;
Yet provide a hard-won penny
’Gainst the day thou’lt not have any.

And besides,” added Woe, “thou already hast this penny against an evil day, besides a
crust of bread; let us, then, go on our way, and drink and be merry.” So they went on and
on, and drank and drank, and so they got home. There sat the wife and all the children,
without food, weeping, but Woe set the peasant a-dancing. On the following day Woe
began to sigh, and said, “My head aches from drinking!” and again he called upon the
master to drink a thimbleful. “I have no money,” said the peasant.—“But didn’t I tell
thee thou canst always raise it, honey? Pawn thy harrow and plough, sledge and cart, and
let us drink; we’ll have a rare time of it to-day, at any rate.” What could he do? The
peasant could not rid himself of Woe, so painfully tight did he sit upon him by this time,
so he let himself be dragged about by Woe, and drank and idled away the whole day.
And on the next day Woe groaned still more, and even began howling, and said, “Come,
let us saunter about; let us drink away everything and pawn it. Sell thyself into slavery,
and so get money to drink with.” The peasant saw that ruin was approaching him, so he
had resort to subtlety, and he said to Woeful Woe, “I have heard our old men say that a
treasure was buried about here a long time ago, but it was buried beneath such heavy
stones that my single strength would be quite unable to raise it; now, if only we could
raise this treasure, darling little Woe, what a fine time of loafing and drinking we should
have together!”—“Come, then, and let us raise it; Woe has strength enough for
everything.” So they went all about the place, and they came to a very large and heavy
stone; five peasants together could not have moved it from the spot, but our friend and
Woe lifted it up at the first go. And lo! beneath the stone there was indeed a coffer dark
and heavy, and at the very bottom of this coffer something was sparkling. And the
peasant said to Woe, “You just creep into the coffer and get out the gold, and I’ll stand
here and hold up the stone.” So Woe crept into the coffer with great glee, and cried out,
“Hie, master, here are riches incalculable! Twenty jars choke-full of gold, all standing
one beside the other!” and he handed up to the peasant one of the jars. The peasant took

the jar into his lap, and, as at the same time he let the stone fall back into its old place, he
shut up Woeful Woe in the coffer with all the gold. “Perish thou and thy riches with
thee!” thought the peasant; “no good luck goes along with thee.” And he went home to
his own, and with the money he got from the jar he bought wood, repaired his cottage,
added live-stock to his possessions, and worked harder than ever, and he began to
engage in trade, and it went well with him. In a single year he grew so much richer, that
in place of his hut he built him a large wooden house. And then he went to town to invite
his brother and his wife to the house-warming. “What are you thinking of?” said his rich
brother, with a scornful smile. “A little while ago you were naked, and had nothing to
eat, and now you are giving house-warmings, and laying out banquets!”—“Well, at one
time, certainly, I had nothing to eat, but now, thank God, I am no worse off than you.
Come and see.”

The next day the rich brother went out into the country to his poor brother, and there on
the pebbly plain he saw wooden buildings, all new and lofty, such as not every town
merchant can boast of. And the poor brother who dwelt on the pebbles fed the rich
brother till he could eat no more, and made him drink his fill; and after that, when the
strings of his tongue were loosened, he made a clean breast of it, and told his brother
how he had grown so rich. Envy overcame the rich brother. He thought to himself, “This
brother of mine is a fool. Out of twenty kegs he only took one. With all that money Woe
itself is not terrible. I’ll go there myself, I’ll take away the stone, take the money, and let
Woe out from beneath the stone. Let him hound my brother to death if he likes.” No
sooner said than done. The rich man took leave of his brother, but, instead of going
home, he went to the stone. He pulled and tugged at it, and managed at last to push it a
little to one side, so as to be able to peep into the coffer, but before he could pull his head
back again, Woe had already skipped out, and was sitting on his neck. Our rich man felt
the grievous burden on his shoulders, looked round, and saw the frightful monster
bestriding him. And Woe shrieked in his ear, “A pretty fellow you are! You wanted to
starve me to death in there, did you? You shall not shake me off again in a hurry, I
warrant you. I’ll never leave you again.”—“Oh, senseless Woe!” cried the rich man,
“indeed ’twas not I who placed you beneath that stone, and ’tis not me, the rich man, you
should cleave to; go hence, and torment my brother.” But Woeful Woe would not listen
to him. “No,” it screeched, “you lie! You deceived me once, but you shan’t do it a
second time.” And so the rich man carried Woe home with him, and all his wealth turned
to dust and ashes. But the poor brother now lives in peace and plenty, and sings jesting
ditties of Woe the outwitted.

1 I. e. Woeful Woe.
2 Worth about 2½d.
3 Lit. white world.

Go I Know Not Whither—Fetch I Know Not What.
By the blue sea, in a certain empire, there dwelt once upon a time a king who was a
bachelor, and he had a whole company of archers, and the archers used to go a-hunting
with him and shoot the birds that flew about, and provided meat for their master’s table.
In this company served a youthful archer named Fedot, a clever marksman was he, never
missing his aim, wherefore the King loved him better than all his comrades. One day he
chanced to go a-hunting very early, even at break of day. He went into a dense, drear
forest, and there he saw a dove sitting on a tree. Fedot stretched his bow, took aim, fired
and broke one of the dove’s little wings, and the bird fell from the tree down upon the
damp earth. The marksman picked it up, and was about to twist its neck and put it in his
pouch, when the dove thus spoke to him: “Alas! young marksman! do not twist my poor
little silly neck; drive me not out of the white world. ’Twere better to take me alive, carry
me home, put me in thy little window, and lo! the moment that slumber comes over me,
at that very moment, I say, stroke me the wrong side down with thy right hand, and great
good fortune shall be thine!” The marksman was much amazed. “Why, what is this?”
thought he. “Mine eyes tell me ’tis a bird, and naught else, yet it speaks with a human
voice! Such a thing has never happened to me before.” So he took the bird home, placed
it in the window-sill, and waited and waited. ’Twas not very long before the bird laid its
head beneath its wing and began to doze. Then the marksman raised his right hand and
stroked it, quite lightly, the wrong side down. The dove instantly fell to the ground and
became a maiden-soul, and so beautiful that the like of it can only be told in tales, but is
neither to be imagined nor guessed at. And she spoke to the good youth who was the
royal archer, and said: “Thou hast had wit enough to win me, have also wit enough to
live with me. Thou art my predestined husband, I am thy pre-ordained wife.” They were
immediately of one mind. Fedot married, lived at home, and rejoiced in his young wife,
yet forgot not his service either. Every morning, before break of day, he took his weapon,
went into the forest, shot various kinds of wild beasts, and took them to the royal
kitchen. But it was plain that his wife was much tormented by these hunting expeditions,
and one day she said to him: “Listen, my friend! I am fearful for thee! Every blessed day
thou dost cast thyself into the forest, dost wander through fen and morass, and returnest
home wet through and through, and we are none the better for it. What sort of a trade
dost thou call this! Look now, I have a plan whereby thou also shalt profit by it. Get me
now a hundred or two of rubles, and I’ll manage all the rest.” Then Fedot hastened to his
comrades, and borrowed a ruble from one, and two rubles from another till he had
collected about two hundred rubles. These then he brought to his wife. “Now,” said she,
“buy me various kinds of silk with all this money!” The archer went and bought various
kinds of silk with the two hundred rubles. She took them and said: “Be not sorrowful!
Pray God and lay thee down to sleep, the morning is wiser than the evening!” So the
husband fell asleep, and the wife went out upon the balcony, opened her book of spells,

and immediately two invisible youths appeared before her and said: “What art thou
pleased to command?”—“Take this silk, and in a single hour weave me a carpet more
wondrous than anything to be found in the wide world, and let the whole kingdom be
embroidered on this carpet, with all its cities and villages and rivers and lakes.” Then
they set to work and wove the carpet, and it was wondrous to behold, wondrous above
everything. In the morning the wife handed the carpet to her husband. “There,” said she,
“take it to the market-place and sell it to the merchants; but look now! haggle not about
the price, but take whatever they offer thee for it.” Fedot took the carpet, turned it round,
hung it over his arm, and went to the market-place. A merchant saw him, ran up to him at
once, and said to him: “Hearken to me, honoured sir, wilt thou not sell me that
carpet?”—“Willingly!”—“And what then is the price?”—“Thou art a frequenter of the
marts, therefore will I leave the price to thee!” The merchant fell a-thinking and a-
thinking, he could not price the carpet—he was at his wits’ end. Another merchant came
running up, and after him a third and a fourth till a great crowd of them collected; they
looked at the carpet, marvelled at it, and could not fix the price. At that moment the royal
steward passed by that way, saw the crowd, and wanted to know what all the merchants
were talking about. So he went up to them and said, “What is the matter?”—“We cannot
price this carpet,” said they. The steward looked at the carpet, and he also was amazed.
“Hearken, archer!” said he, “tell me the real truth; where didst thou get this lordly
carpet?”—“My wife wrought it!”—“How much dost thou want for it?”—“I myself know
not the value of it; my wife bade me not to haggle over it, but to take whatever was
offered.”—“Then what dost thou say to 10,000 rubles?” The archer took the money and
gave up the carpet. Now this steward was always by the King, and ate and drank at his
table. So he went to dine with the King now also, and took the carpet with him. “Would
it please your Majesty to look at the carpet I have bought to-day?” The King looked, and
saw there his whole realm just as if it were on the palm of his hand, and he heaved a
great sigh. “Why, what a carpet is this! In all my life I have never seen such cunning
craft. Say now, what wilt thou take for this carpet?” And the King drew out 25,000
rubles and gave them into the hand of the steward, but the carpet they hung up in the
palace. “That is a mere nothing,” thought the steward, “I’ll make a much better thing out
of the second chance.” So he immediately went in search of the archer, sought out his
little hut, entered the dwelling-room, and the moment he saw the archer’s wife, at that
very instant he forgot all about himself and the errand on which he had come.
Nevertheless the steward manned himself with a great effort and turned sullenly
homewards. From henceforth he bungled over everything he took in hand, and whether
asleep or awake, he thought only of one thing, the wonderfully lovely little archeress.

The King observed the change in him, and asked him, “What ails thee? Has any great
grief befallen thee?”—“Alas! my king and father, I have seen the wife of the archer—
such a beauty the world knows not of nor has ever seen!” The King himself was seized
with a desire to fall in love with her, and he also went to the abode of the archer. He
entered the living-room, and saw before him a lady of a loveliness unspeakable. “Love’s
burning chilblain oppressed his heart.” “Why should I remain a bachelor any longer?”

thought he; “lo! now, I’ll marry this beauty, she’s too good for a mere archer. From her
birth she was evidently meant to be a Queen!”

The King returned to his palace and said to the steward, “Hearken! thou hast had wit
enough to show me the archer’s wife, that unspeakable beauty; thou must now have wit
enough to remove the husband out of the way. I want to marry her myself. And if thou
dost not remove him, look to thyself; although thou art my faithful servant, thou shalt be
hanged upon a gallows!” Then the steward went about much more afflicted than before,
and think as he would, he could not devise a method of getting rid of the archer. He
wandered about the broad market-places and the narrow lanes, and there met him one
day a miserable old hag. “Stay, thou King’s servant!” cried she. “I can see all thy
thoughts, thou wantest help against thy unavoidable woe.”—“Ah, help me, dear little
granny! I’ll pay thee what thou wilt!”—“Thou hast received the royal command to get
rid of Fedot the archer. The thing is not so very easy. He indeed is simple, but his wife is
frightfully artful. Well now, we’ll hit upon an errand which will not be accomplished so
speedily. Go to the King and say that he must command the archer to go I know not
whither, and fetch I know not what. Such a task as that he’ll never accomplish, though he
live for ever and ever; either he will vanish out of knowledge altogether, or if he does
come back, it will be without arms or legs.” The steward rewarded the old hag with gold,
and hastened back to the King, and the King sent and commanded the archer to be
brought before him. “Well, Fedot! thou art my young warrior, and the first in my corps
of archers. Render me then this service: Go I know not whither, and fetch me I know not
what! And mark me, if thou bring it me not back, ’tis I, the King, who say it to thee, thy
head shall be severed from thy shoulders.” The archer turned to the left, quitted the
palace, and came home very sad and thoughtful. And his wife asked him: “Why art thou
so sorrowful, darling; has any misfortune befallen thee?”—“The King has sent me I
know not whither to fetch I know not what. ’Tis through thy beauty that this ruin has
come upon us!”—“Yes, indeed! this service is no light one! It takes nine years to get
there, and nine years to get back again, eighteen years in all, and God only knows if it
can be managed even then!”—“What’s to be done then, and what will become of
me?”—“Pray God and lie down to sleep, the morning is wiser than the evening. To-
morrow thou wilt know all.” The archer lay down to sleep, and his wife sat watching till
midnight, opened her book of spells, and the two youths immediately appeared before
her. “What is thy pleasure, and what thy command?”—“Do ye know how one can
manage to go I know not whither, and fetch I know not what?”—“No, we do not know.”
She closed the book, and the youths disappeared from before her eyes. In the morning
the archeress awoke her husband. “Go to the King,” said she, “and ask for gold from the
treasury for thy journey. Thou hast a pilgrimage of eighteen years before thee. When
thou hast the money, come back to me to say farewell.” The archer went to the King,
received a whole purseful of money, and returned to say good-bye to his wife. She gave
him a pocket-handkerchief and a ball, and said: “When thou goest out of the town, throw
this ball in front of thee, and whithersoever it rolls, follow it. Here too is my pocket-
handkerchief; when thou dost wash thyself, wherever thou mayst be, always dry thy face

with this handkerchief.” The archer took leave of his wife and of his comrades, bowed
low on all four sides of him, and went beyond the barriers of the city. He threw the ball
in front of him; the ball rolled and rolled, and he followed hard after it.

A month or so passed away, and then the King called the steward and said to him: “The
archer has departed to wander about the wide world for eighteen years, and it is plain
that he will not return alive. Now eighteen years are not two weeks, and no little disaster
may have befallen him by the way; go then to the archer’s house and bring me his wife
to the palace!” So the steward went to the archer’s house, entered the room, and said to
the beautiful archeress: “Hail, thou wise woman! The King commands thee to present
thyself at court!” So to the court she went. The King received her with joy and led her
into his golden halls, and said to her: “Wilt thou be a Queen? I will make thee my
spouse!”—“Where was such a thing ever seen, where was such a thing ever heard of, to
take a wife away from her living husband? Though he be nothing but a simple archer, he
is for all that my lawful husband.”—“If thou come not willingly, I’ll take thee by force!”
But the beauty laughed, stamped upon the floor, turned into a dove, and flew out of the
window.

The archer passed through many countries and kingdoms, and the ball kept rolling ever
onwards. Whenever they came to a river the ball expanded into a bridge, and whenever
the archer wished to rest, the ball widened into a downy bed. Whether the time be long
or whether it be short the tale is quickly told, though the deed be not quickly done;
suffice it to say that at last the archer came to a vast and wealthy palace; the ball rolled
right up against the door and vanished. The archer fell a-thinking. “I had better go
straight on,” thought he, so he went up the staircase into a room, and there met him there
three lovely damsels. “Whence and wherefore hast thou come hither, good man?” said
they. “Alas! lovely damsels, ye ask me not to rest from my long journey, but ye begin to
torment me with questionings. First ye should give me to eat and drink and let me rest,
and then only should ye ask me of my tidings!” They immediately laid the table, gave
him to eat and drink, and made him lie down to rest. The archer slept away his
weariness, rose from his soft bed, and the lovely damsels brought him a washing-basin
and an embroidered towel. He washed himself in the clear spring-water, but the towel he
would not take. “I have my handkerchief wherewith to wipe my face,” said he, and he
drew out the handkerchief and began to dry himself. And the lovely damsels fell a-
questioning him. “Tell us, good man! whence hast thou got that handkerchief?”—“My
wife gave it to me.”—“Then thou must have married one of our kinswomen.” Then they
called their old mother, and she looked at the handkerchief, recognizing it the same
instant, and cried: “This is indeed my daughter’s handkerchief!” Then she began to put
all manner of questions to the archer. He told her how he had married her daughter, and
how the King had sent him I know not whither, to fetch I know not what. “Alas! my dear
son-in-law, not even I have heard of this marvel. But come now, perchance my servants
may know of it.” Then the old woman fetched her book of spells, turned over the leaves,
and immediately there appeared two giants. “What is thy pleasure, and what is thy
command?”—“Look now, my faithful servants, carry me together with my son-in-law to

the wide sea Ocean, and place us in the very centre of it—in the very abyss.”
Immediately the giants caught up the archer and the old woman, and bore them, as by a
hurricane, to the wide sea Ocean, and placed them in the centre of it—in the very abyss;
there they stood like two vast columns, and held the archer and the old woman in their
arms. Then the old woman cried with a loud voice, and there came swimming up to her
all the fish and creeping things of the sea, so that the blue sea was no longer to be seen
for the multitude of them. “Hark! ye fishes and creeping things of the sea. Ye who swim
everywhere, have ye perchance heard how to go I know not whither, to fetch I know not
what?” And all the fishes and creeping things exclaimed with one voice, “No, we have
never heard of it.” Suddenly a lame old croaking frog forced its way to the front and
said, “Kwa, kwa; I know where this marvel is to be found.”—“Well, dear, that is just
what I want to know,” said the old woman, and she took up the frog and bade the giants
carry her and her son-in-law home. In an instant they found themselves in their own
courtyard. Then the old woman began to question the frog. “How and by what road can
my son-in-law go?” And the frog answered, “This place is at the end of the world—far,
far away. I would gladly lead him thither myself, but I am so frightfully old, I can
scarcely move my legs. I could not get there in fifty years.” The old woman sent for a
big jar, filled it with fresh milk, put the frog inside, and said to her son-in-law, “Hold this
jar in thy hand and the frog will show thee the way.” The archer took the jar with the
frog, took leave of his mother-in-law and his sisters-in-law, and set out on his way. On
he went, and the frog showed him the way. Whether it be far or near, long or short,
matters not; suffice it that he came to the fiery river; beyond this river was a high
mountain, and on this mountain a door was to be seen. “Kwa, kwa,” said the frog, “let
me out of the jar, we must cross over this river.” The archer took it out of the jar and
placed it on the ground. “Now, my good youth, sit on me. More firmly. Don’t be afraid.
Thou wilt not smash me.” The youth sat on the frog and pressed it to the very earth. The
frog began to swell; it swelled and swelled till it was as large as a haystack. All that the
archer now thought of was the risk of falling off. “If I fall off it will be the death of me,”
thought he. The frog, when it had done swelling, took a leap and leaped with one big
bound right across the fiery stream, and again made itself quite little. “Now, good youth,
go through that door and I’ll wait for thee here; thou wilt come into a cavern, and take
care to hide thyself well. In a short time two old men will come; listen to what they are
saying, and see what they do, and when they are gone, say and do as they.” The archer
went into the mountain, opened the door, and in the cavern it was dark enough to put
one’s eyes out. He fumbled his way along and felt all about him with his arms till he felt
an empty chest, into which he got and hid himself. And now, after he had waited some
time, two old men entered and said: “Hi! Shmat-Razum!1 come and feed us.” At that
very instant—there’s no telling how—lightning-flashes lit candelabras, it thundered
plates and dishes, and various wines and meats appeared upon the table. The old men ate
and drank, and then they commanded—“Shmat-Razum! take it all away.” And
immediately there was nothing, neither table, nor wine, nor meats, and the candelabras
all went out. The archer heard the two old men going out, crept out of the chest, and
cried: “Hi! Shmat-Razum!”—“What is your pleasure?”—“Feed me.” Again everything

appeared. The candelabras were lighted, the table was covered, and all the meats and
drinks appeared upon it. The archer sat down at the table and said, “Hi! Shmat-Razum.
Come, brother, and sit down with me, let us eat and drink together. I can’t stand eating
all alone.” And an invisible voice answered him: “Alas! good man, whence hath God
sent thee? ’Tis thirty years since I have served right trustily the two old men here, and
during all that time they have never once asked me to sit down with them.” The archer
looked about him and was amazed. He saw nobody, yet the meats disappeared from the
dishes as if some one was sweeping them away, and the wine bottles lifted themselves
up, poured themselves into the glasses, and in a trice the glasses were empty. Then the
archer went on eating and drinking, but he said: “Hearken, Shmat-Razum! Wilt thou be
my servant? Thou shalt have a good time of it with me.”—“Why should I not? I have
long been growing weary here, and thou, I see, art a good man.”—“Well, get everything
ready and come with me.” The archer came out of the cave, looked around him, and
there was nothing. “Shmat-Razum, art thou there?”—“I am here. Fear not. I’ll never
desert thee.” “Right,” replied the archer, and he sat him on the frog. The frog swelled out
and leaped across the fiery stream; he placed it in the jar, and set off on his return
journey. He came to his mother-in-law and made his new servant regale the old woman
and her daughters right royally. Shmat-Razum feasted them so bountifully that the old
woman very nearly danced for joy, and ordered the frog three jars of fresh milk every
nine days for its faithful services. The archer then took leave of his mother-in-law and
wended his way homewards. He went on and on till he was utterly exhausted, his swift
feet trembled beneath him, and his white arms sank down by his side. “Alas!” said he,
“Shmat-Razum, dost thou not see how weary I am? My legs fail me.”—“Why didst thou
not tell it me long ago? I will bring thee to the place alive and well.” And immediately
the archer was seized by a whirlwind and carried through the air so quickly that his hat
fell from his head. “Hi! Shmat-Razum! Stop a minute. My hat has fallen from my
head.”—“Too late, master. Thou canst not get it. Thy cap is now 5000 miles behind
thee.” Towns and villages, rivers and forests, melted away beneath the feet of the archer.

And now the archer was flying over the deep sea, and Shmat-Razum said to him: “An
thou wilt let me, I would make a golden bower on this sea, and thou wilt be able to rest
and be happy!”—“Do so then,” said the archer, and straightway they began descending
towards the sea. Then, for a moment, the waves splashed high, and then an islet
appeared, and on the islet was a golden pleasure-house. Shmat-Razum said to the archer:
“Sit in this pleasure-house and rest and look out upon the sea; three merchant vessels
will sail by and stop at the islet. Thou must invite the merchants hither, hospitably
entertain them, and exchange me for three wondrous things which the merchants will
bring with them. In due time I will return to thee again.” The archer kept watch, and lo!
from the west three ships came sailing up, and the merchantmen saw the islet and the
golden pleasure-house. “’Tis a marvel!” said they; “how many times have we not sailed
hither, and nothing was to be seen but the sea! and now, behold! a golden pleasure-house
is here. Come, friends, let us put to shore and feast our eyes upon it!” So immediately
they lowered the sails and cast the anchor, three of the merchants sat them in a light

skiff, and they came to the shore. “Hail, good man!”—“Hail, ye wayfaring merchants, ye
men of many marts! be so good as to turn in to me, stroll about at your ease, make merry
and repose; this pleasure-house was built expressly for guests that come by sea!” The
merchants entered the bower and sat them down on footstools. “Hi! Shmat-Razum!”
cried the archer; “give us to eat and drink.” The table appeared, and on the table was
wine and savoury meats; whatever the soul desired was there with the wishing. The
merchants sighed for envy. “Come,” said they, “let us make an exchange. Thou give us
thy servant, and take from us what marvels thou likest best.”—“But what marvels have
ye then?”—“Look and see!” And one of the merchants drew out of his pocket a little
casket, and he had no sooner opened it than a lovely garden spread out all over the island
with fragrant flowers and pleasant paths; but when he shut the casket the garden
immediately disappeared. The second merchant drew from beneath the folds of his
garment an axe, and began to tap with it: “Rap-tap!” out came a ship. “Rap-tap!” out
came another ship. A hundred times he rapped, and made a hundred ships with sails and
guns and crews complete; the ships sailed, the sailors stood by the guns and took orders
from the merchant. The merchant gloried in it for a while, but then he concealed his axe
and the ships vanished out of sight just as if they had never been. The third merchant
produced a horn, blew into one end of it, and immediately an army appeared, both horse
and foot, with cannons and banners, and through all the ranks went the roll of martial
music, and the armour of the warriors flashed like fire in the sunlight. The merchant
rejoiced in it all, then he took his horn and blew into the other end of it, and there was
nothing to be seen, the whole of that martial might was no more.

“Your marvels are well enough, but they are of no use to me,” said the archer; “your
hosts and your fleets would do honour to a Tsar, but I am only a simple archer. If you
would change with me, then must you give me all your three wonders in exchange for
my one invisible servant.”—“But won’t that be too much?”—“Know ye that I’ll make
no other exchange.” The merchants considered amongst themselves: “What’s the use of
this garden, these ships, and these hosts to us? ’Twill be better to make the exchange; at
any rate we shall always be able to eat and drink our fill without the least trouble.” So
they gave the archer their wonders, and said: “Well, Shmat-Razum, we’ll take thee with
us; wilt thou serve us well and loyally?”—“Why should I not serve you? ’Tis all one
with me with whom I live.” The merchants returned to their ships and regaled all their
crews right royally. “Hi! Shmat-Razum! bestir thyself!” And every one on board ate and
drank his fill and lay down and slept heavily. But the archer sat in his golden bower and
grew pensive, and said: “Alas! my heart yearns after my faithful servant, Shmat-Razum.
I wonder where he is now!”—“I am here, master!” The archer was glad. “Is it not time
for us to hasten home?” And he had no sooner spoken than a whirlwind as it were seized
him and bore him into the air.

The merchants awoke from their sleep and wanted to drink away the effects of their
carouse: “Hi! Shmat-Razum, give us some more drink by way of a pick-me-up!” But no
one answered, no one rendered them that service. Order and shout as they might, things
remained precisely as they were. “Well, gentlemen! this sharper has befooled us! The

devil take him, and may the island vanish and the golden bower perish.” Thus the
merchants lamented and lamented, then they spread their sails and departed whither their
business called them.

The archer flew back to his country, and descended in a waste place by the blue sea. “Hi,
Shmat-Razum, can we not build us a little castle here?”—“Why not? It shall be ready
immediately.” And immediately the castle sprang up, more beautiful than words can tell,
’twas twice as good as a royal palace. The archer opened his casket and a garden
immediately appeared round the castle with pleasant country paths and marvellous
flowers. There sat the archer at the open window, and quite fell in love with his garden.
Suddenly a dove flew in at the window, plumped down upon the ground, and turned into
his lovely young wife. They embraced and greeted each other. And the wife said to the
archer, “Ever since thou didst leave the house I have been flying as a blue dove among
the woods and groves. How happily we will now live together for evermore!”

Early the next morning the King came out on his balcony and looked towards the blue
sea, and behold! on the very shore stood a new castle, and round the castle was a green
garden. “Who then is this presumptuous stranger who builds on my land without my
leave?” Then his couriers ran thither, asked questions, and came back and told him that
this castle was built by the archer, and he himself dwelt in this castle and his wife with
him. The King was more angry than ever, and he bade them assemble a host and go to
the shores of the sea, root up the garden, smash the castle into little bits, and bring the
archer and his wife to him. The archer saw the King’s army coming against him, and it
was very strong; then he seized his axe quickly and rapped with it, “Rap-tap!” Out came
a ship. He rapped one hundred times, and made one hundred ships. Then he seized his
horn and blew once, and a host of footmen rolled out. He blew in the other end, and a
host of horse rolled out. The commanders of all the corps came rushing up to him, and
asked him for orders. The archer bade them begin the battle. The music struck up, the
drums rolled, the regiments moved forwards against the royal host. The infantry, like a
solid wall, broke down their centre, the horse cut them off at the wings and took them
captive, and the guns from the fleet played upon the capital. The King saw that all his
host was flying, rushed forward to stop them—but how? He could not do it, and in a
moment he was swept from his horse in the midst of the fierce fight and trampled
underfoot. When the fight was over the people assembled together and begged the archer
to accept the whole realm from their hands. To this he gave his consent, and ruled that
kingdom peaceably all the days of his life.

1 Rogue-Reason, is perhaps the nearest equivalent.

Kuz’ma Skorobogaty.1
There was once a peasant and his wife, and they had one son, and he, though good, was
a block-head, and no good at all for working in the fields. “Husband mine,” said the
mother, “there is not much wit in our son, and he will eat us out of house and home; send
him away, let him live by himself, and make his own way in the world.” So they sent
away their son; they gave him a most wretched little nag, a tumble-down hut in the
wood, and a cock with five hens. And little Kuz’ma lived alone, all alone in the dark
wood.

The little she-fox scented out the fowls that were right under her very nose in the wood,
and determined to pay a visit to Kuz’ma’s hut. One day little Kuz’ma went out to hunt,
and no sooner had he left the hut than the little fox, who was on the watch all the time,
ran up, killed one of the hens, roasted it, and ate it up. Little Kuz’ma returned, and
behold! one of the hens was gone. And he thought: “I suppose the vulture must have
pounced down on it!” The next day he again went out hunting. He happened to fall in
with the fox, and she asked him: “Whither away, little Kuz’ma?”—“I am going a-
hunting, little fox!”—“Well, good-bye!” And immediately she scampered off to his hut,
killed another hen, cooked it, and ate it. Little Kuz’ma came home and counted his hens,
and another was missing. And it occurred to him: “What if the little fox has tasted of my
hens!” On the third day he nailed up the door and window of his hut strongly, so
strongly, and went about his business as usual. And the fox turned up from somewhither
and said to him: “Whither away, little Kuz’ma?”—“I go a-hunting, little fox!”—“Well,
good-bye!” Off she ran to Kuz’ma’s hut, and he followed her track back too. The fox ran
all round the hut, and saw that the door and window were nailed up strongly, oh so
strongly; how was she to get into the hut? So up she climbed and disappeared down the
chimney; then up came Kuz’ma and caught the fox. “Ah-ha!” cried he; “look what a
thief pays me visits! Wait a bit, my little lady; you shall not get out of my hands alive.”
Then the little fox began to implore Kuz’ma: “Don’t kill me! I’ll get thee betrothed to a
rich bride. Only please roast me one more fowl, the fattest, with lots of nice oil!” Little
Kuz’ma fell a-thinking, and then he killed one more fowl for the little fox: “There, eat,
little fox, and much good may it do thee!” The fox ate it up, licked her chaps, and said:
“Behind this wood is the tsardom of the great and terrible Tsar Ogon,2 his wife is the
Tsaritsa Molnya,3 and they have a daughter, a most beauteous Tsarevna; I’ll marry thee
to her.”—“Who would take a poor fellow like me?”—“Silence! that’s not thy business.”
And the little fox set off to Tsar Ogon and the Tsaritsa Molnya. She ran all the way to
them, entered their palace, made a low obeisance, and said: “Hail, mighty, potent Tsar
Ogon, and terrible Tsaritsa Molnya!”—“Hail to thee, fox! What nice little piece of good
news hast thou brought us?”—“Well, I have come to you as a match-maker. You have
the bride and I have the young bridegroom, Kuz’ma Skorobogaty.”—“Where is he

buried that he does not come himself?”—“He cannot quit his principality. He rules over
the wild beasts, and takes his pleasure with them.”—“So that’s the sort of bridegroom
you present us with! Well, go back to him and say that he must send us forty forties of
gray wolves, and then we’ll accept him as the bridegroom.” Then the little fox ran to the
meadows which lay beneath this very wood and began rolling about in these meadows.
A wolf came running up and said: “I see, gossip, that you’ve had a good feed somewhere
or you would not roll about like that.”—“I wish I wasn’t so full; I’ve been at a banquet
with the Tsar and the Tsaritsa. Do you mean to say that you’ve not been invited there,
gossip? Impossible! Why, all the wild beasts were there, and as for the sables and
ermines there was no end to them! The bears were still sitting there when I left, and
eating like anything!” The wolf began to beg the fox humbly: “Little fox, can’t you take
me to the Tsar’s banquet!”—“Why not! Hearken! Go you and collect by to-morrow forty
forties of your brethren, the gray wolves, and I’ll lead the whole lot of you thither.” On
the following day the wolves assembled and the fox led them to the Tsar’s white stone
palace, placed them all in rows, and announced to the Tsar: “Mighty and potent Tsar
Ogon and terrible Tsaritsa Molnya, thy destined son-in-law has sent thee gifts; lo! a
whole herd of gray wolves does obeisance to you, and the number of them is forty
forties.” The Tsar bade them drive all the wolves into the enclosure, and said to the fox:
“If my destined son-in-law is able to send me wolves as a present, let him now also send
me just as many bears.” The little fox ran to little Kuz’ma and bade him roast another
fowl, ate her fill of it, and ran off again to the fenced meadows of the Tsar. Thither she
went and fell a-rolling about under the selfsame wood. And out of the wood came
running a shaggy bear and looked at the fox. “Well, gossip fox,” said he, “you have
plainly had your fill, or what has come over you to make you roll about in the grass so
merrily?”—“Had my fill! I should think so. Why I’ve been to the Tsar’s banquet; there
was a whole lot of us beasts there, and of sables and ermines no end. The wolves are
eating there now, and a nice dinner they are making of it.” Bruin straightway began to
beg the fox to let him go: “Little fox, won’t you lead me also to the Tsar’s
banquet?”—“Very well; hearken. Bring together by to-morrow forty forties of black
bears, and I’ll lead you thither with pleasure, for of course the Tsar’s cooks would not
make ready for you alone.” Old bandy-legs wandered all about the woods, proclaimed
the news to all the bears, and got together as many bears as the fox had commanded, and
she led them to the Tsar’s white stone palace, arranged them in rows, and announced:
“Mighty and potent Tsar Ogon, and terrible Tsaritsa Molnya, your destined son-in-law
salutes you with a present of forty forties of black bears.” The Tsar bade them drive the
bears also into the enclosure, and said to the fox: “If my destined son-in-law can send me
so many bears and wolves as a gift, let him now send us also just as many martens and
sables.” The fox again hastened off to Kuz’ma, bade him roast the last hen, together with
the cock, and when she had eaten them in his honour she went again to the fenced
meadows of the Tsar, and began rolling about in the grass. A sable and a marten came
running by. “Where have you been feeding so fatly, sly Mrs. Foxy?” they asked. “What!
ye live in the wood and yet don’t know that I am held in great honour by the Tsar? This
day I have conducted the wolves and the bears to his banquet; by this time they will be

unable to tear themselves away from the Tsar’s tit-bits; never have they had such a feed
from the day of their birth.” Then the sable and the marten also began wheedling the fox.
“Dear little dovey gossip! wilt not thou lead us to the Tsar? We will only look on afar off
while the others eat.”—“If ye will bring together forty forties of your sables and martens
a dinner shall be got ready for the whole lot of you. But a couple of you all alone would
not even be admitted into the courtyard.” The next day the sables and the martens came
together, and the fox led them to Tsar Ogon, made obeisance to him on behalf of his
future son-in-law, and presented him with the forty forties of sables and martens. The
Tsar accepted the gift, and said: “Thanks! Tell my destined son-in-law to come to me
himself; we want to have a look at him, and it is time he saw his bride.”

The next day the little fox again came running to court. The Tsar asked her: “Where,
then, is our destined son-in-law?” The little fox replied: “He bade me bow low before
you and say that to-day he cannot manage to come anyhow!”—“How so?” “Well, he is
frightfully busy; he is getting together all his things to come to you, and just now he is
counting up his treasures. So now he begs you to lend him a corn-measure, he must
measure his silver money; his corn-measures are all choke-full of gold.” The Tsar,
without more ado, gave the fox the corn-measure, but he said to himself: “Well done,
fox! This is something like a son-in-law that has fallen to our lot. He actually measures
his gold and silver with corn-measures!” The next day the fox again came running to
court and returned the Tsar his corn-measure (but she had stuck little silver pieces all
about the corners of it), and said: “Your destined son-in-law, Kuz’ma Skorobogaty, bade
me bow low to you and say that to-day he’ll be with you with all his riches.” The Tsar
was delighted, and bade them have everything ready for the reception of the precious
guest. But the little fox set off for Kuz’ma’s hut, and there, for the last two days, Kuz’ma
had been lying on the stove—hungry, oh! so hungry, and waiting. The fox said to him:
“Why dost thou lie down like that? I have got thee a bride from Tsar Ogon and the
Tsaritsa Molnya. Let us come to them as guests and celebrate the wedding!”—“Why,
fox! art thou out of thy wits? How can I go when I haven’t even clothes to cover
me?”—“Go! saddle thy nag, I say! and don’t bother thy head about that!” Kuz’ma
brought out his sorry jade from beneath the shed, covered it with a mat, put on the reins,
jumped on its back, and set off after the fox at a light trot. They were already drawing
near to the palace, when they came across a little bridge directly in their path. “Jump off
thy horse!” said the fox to Kuz’ma, “and saw through the buttresses of this bridge.” So
little Kuz’ma fell a-sawing with all his might, and sawed through the buttresses of the
bridge. Down came the bridge with a crash. “Now, strip thyself naked, throw thy horse
and all thy clothes into the water, and roll about in the sand, and wait for me!” That’s
what the fox said; and then off she ran to the Tsar and the Tsaritsa, and cried to them
from afar: “Hi, dear little father! Such an accident! Help, help!”—“What’s the matter,
dear little foxy?” asked the Tsar.—“Why, this; the bridges in your tsardom are not strong
enough. Your destined son-in-law was coming to you with all his riches, and this
precious bridge broke down beneath the weight of them, and all his wealth and all his
people have fallen in, and he himself is lying on the bridge more dead than alive!” The

Tsar made a great to-do, and shrieked at his servants, and cried: “Haste ye, haste ye! as
quickly as ye can, and take of my royal robes for Kuz’ma Skorobogaty, and save him
from mortal harm!” And the envoys of the Tsar ran as fast as they could to the bridge,
and there they saw little Kuz’ma rolling about in the sand. They picked him up, washed
and dried him all over, arrayed him in the royal robes, curled his hair, and led him
respectfully to the palace. The Tsar, full of joy that his destined son-in-law had been
delivered from such peril, bade them ring all the bells, fire all the guns, and celebrate the
wedding at once. So they crowned Kuz’ma as the groom of the Tsarevna, and he dwelt
with his father-in-law, and sang songs all day; and the fox was held in high honour at
court till life at court ceased to bore her, and she had no longer any desire to return to the
woods.

1 Quick-rich.
2 Fire.
3 Lightning.

The Tsarevna Loveliness-Inexhaustible.
A long time ago, far from our days, in a certain tsardom in a certain Empire lived a
famous Tsar Afron Afronovich, and he had three youthful sons: the eldest the Tsarevich
Dimitry, the second the Tsarevich Vasily, and the youngest the Tsarevich Ivan. The sons
of Afron were all grown up; the youngest had reached his seventeenth year, while Tsar
Afron himself had left sixty years behind him. And once, as Tsar Afron fell a-thinking
and looked at his sons, his heart grew sad: “Look now!” thought he, “life is a good thing
to these youths, and they rejoice in God’s fair world; but, as for me, I feel old age
drawing nigh, and divers diseases begin to afflict me, and the wide world has now but
little delight for me. How will it be with me henceforth? How shall I escape old age?”
Thus he thought and thought, and so he fell asleep. And a vision appeared to the Tsar.
Somewhere or other beyond lands thrice-nine, in the Empire of Thrice-ten, dwelt the
Tsarevna Loveliness-Inexhaustible, the daughter of three mothers, the granddaughter of
three grandmothers, the sister of nine brothers; and under the pillow of this Tsarevna was
preserved a flask of living-water, and whoever drank of this water instantly became
thirty years younger. No sooner did the Tsar Afron awake from his sleep, than he called
together his children and the wise men of his realm, and said to them: “Interpret me this
dream, ye my sages and cunning counsellors. What shall I do, and how can I discover
this Tsarevna?” The sages were silent. The cunning counsellors stroked their long gray
beards, looked up and down, scratched their heads, and thus they answered the Tsar
Afron: “Oh, Sovereign Tsar! though we have not seen this thing with our eyes, yet our
ears have heard of this Tsarevna Loveliness-Inexhaustible; but how to find her, and
which way to get at her, that we know not.” No sooner did the three Tsarevichs hear this,
when with one voice they thus implored their father the Tsar: “Dear father Tsar! give us
thy blessing, and send us to the four corners of the earth, that we may see people and
show ourselves and discover the Tsarevna Loveliness-Inexhaustible.” The father agreed,
gave them provision for the journey, took leave of them tenderly, and sent them off to the
four corners of the earth. When the two elder brothers got beyond the city gates they
turned to the right, but the youngest brother, the Tsarevich Ivan, turned to the left. The
elder brothers had got only a hundred miles and no more from home, when they met an
old man, and he asked them: “Whither are ye going, young men? Is your journey far?”—
But the Tsareviches replied: “Take yourself off, old rogue! What business is it of yours?”
The old man said nothing but went on his way. The Tsareviches went on and on, all that
day and the next and a whole week, and they came to such a wilderness that they could
see neither earth nor sky, nor any living being, nor any habitation; and in the deepest
depth of this wilderness they met another old man, even older than the first. “Hail, good
youths!” said he to the Tsareviches. “Are ye truants and rest, or are ye in
quest?”—“Why, we are in quest of something, of course. We are going in search of the
Tsarevna Loveliness-Inexhaustible, with her flask of living-water!”—“Nay, my good

youths!” said the aged stranger, “’twere better ye did not try to get thither.”—“And why,
pray?”—“I’ll tell you. Three rivers cross this road—rivers large and broad. On these
rivers are three ferries. At the first ferry they’ll cut off your right arm, at the second your
left, but at the third they’ll cut off your head!” The brother Tsareviches were sore
distressed, their giddy pates hung down below their sturdy shoulders, and they thought
to themselves: “Ought we not to have some regard for our father’s head and our own
heads also? ’Twill be much better to return home alive and well, and wait for fine
weather by the sea.” And they turned back; and when they were a twenty-four hours’
journey from home, they resolved to rest in the fields; and they spread their tents, with
the golden tent-poles, let their horses out to graze, and said: “Here we’ll stop and await
our brother, and while away the time in idleness.”

Tsarevna Loveliness Inexhaustible.

But with the Tsarevich Ivan it fared far otherwise on his journey. There met him the
same old man who had encountered his brothers, and this old man asked him the self-
same question: “Whither art thou going, young man? Is thy journey far?” And the
Tsarevich Ivan answered him: “What is that to thee? I want to have nothing to say to
thee!”—But afterwards, when he had gone on a little further, he bethought him of what
he had done. “Why did I answer the old man so rudely? Old people are full of ideas!
perchance he might have advised me well.” So he turned his horse, overtook the old
man, and said: “Stay, my father! I did not quite hear what thou saidst to me.”—“I asked

thee whether thy journey was far?”—“Well, my father, the fact is, I am in search of the
Tsarevna Loveliness-Inexhaustible, the daughter of three mothers, the granddaughter of
three grandmothers, the sister of nine brothers. I want to get from her the living-water for
my dad the Tsar.”—“Well,” said the old man, “’tis well for thee, good youth, that thou
hast answered courteously, and therefore I will put thee in the right way. But thou wilt
never get there on an ordinary horse.”—“Then whence shall I get me an extraordinary
horse?”—“I’ll tell thee. Return home, and bid your grooms drive all thy father’s horses
down to the blue sea, and whichever horse breaks away from the others and goes right
into the sea up to his neck, and begins to drink till the blue sea begins to rise and dash
from shore to shore—him seize and mount.” “I thank thee for thy good words, my
father.” The Tsarevich did as the old man bade him. He chose the most valiant charger
from among his father’s horses, watched all through the night, and when on the
following morning he went out and mounted into the saddle, the horse spoke to him,
with a man’s voice: “Tsarevich Ivan, dismount! I will buffet thee thrice, to give thee the
muscles of a hero.” He buffeted once, he buffeted twice, but the third time he buffeted
not at all. “I see,” cried he, “that if I were to buffet thee a third time, the whole land
would not be able to hold us both.” Then the Tsarevich Ivan sat on the horse, put on
knightly armour, took out of the armoury of his father’s palace an old heroic, trusty
blade, and set out upon his quest. He went for a day and for a night, for a month, and for
two months, and three; and so he came to a place where his horse was in water up to the
knees, and in grass up to the breast, while he, poor youth, had nothing to eat. And in the
midst of this wilderness the Tsarevich Ivan found a miserable hut; this hut stood upon
fowl’s legs, and in it was the Baba-Yaga; the bony-legged witch was lying down, and her
legs stretched from corner to corner. The Tsarevich went into the hut and cried: “Hail,
Granny!”—“Hail to thee, Tsarevich Ivan; hast come to rest, or art thou in quest?”—“I
am in quest of something, Granny. I am off beyond lands thrice-nine, to the Empire of
Thrice-ten, I seek the Tsarevna Loveliness-Inexhaustible. I want to get from her the
living-water for my dad, the Tsar.” The Baba-Yaga answered: “Though I have not seen it
with my eyes, I have heard of it with my ears; but thou wilt never get
there.”—“Wherefore?”—“Because there, there are three ferries; at the first they’ll cut off
thy right hand, at the second thy left, and at the third thy head.”—“Well, Granny, one
single head is not such a great matter. I’ll go—and God’s will be done!”—“Alas, O
Tsarevich Ivan! ’twere much better to turn back; thou art still young and tender, thou
hast never been in dangerous places, thou hast never run great terrors.”—“Nay, Granny!
He who tugs at the rope must not cry, I’m broke!”1 So he took leave of the Baba-Yaga
and went on further, and he came at last to the first ferry, and he saw the ferrymen on the
other side, lying down asleep. The Tsarevich Ivan stood on the bank and thought to
himself: “If I call to them, I shall deafen them for ever, and if I whistle with all my
might, I shall upset the ferry-boat.” So he whistled a half whistle, and immediately the
ferrymen started from their slumber and rowed him across the stream. “What do ye want
for your labours, my friends?” asked the Tsarevich Ivan.—“Well, what’s the use of
haggling? Give us your right arm!” cried the ferrymen, with one voice.—“Nay, nay; I
want my arm for myself!” cried the Tsarevich Ivan; and drawing forth his stout blade, he

struck to the right and to the left, and beat all the ferrymen till they were half dead, and
then went on further. And in this way he crossed the other two fords also. At last he came
to the Empire of Thrice-ten, and on the borders of it stood a wild man, in stature like a
tree of the forest, as thick-set as a haystack; there he stood, and in his hand he held a club
of oak. And the Giant said to the Tsarevich Ivan: “Whither art thou going, oh
worm?”—“I am going to the realm of the Tsarevna Loveliness-Inexhaustible, to get the
living-water for my father, the Tsar.”—“What, thou pigmy! I’ve been guarding her realm
here these hundred years. I have had my fill of heroes—not like thee were the youths
who came hither, yet they all fell beneath my hand, and their bones all lie over there. But
as for thee, thou art a mere worm!” The Tsarevich saw that he could not overcome the
giant, so he turned his horse aside. He went on and on till he came to the very depths of
the forest, till he came upon a hut, and in this hut sat a very old, old woman. The
moment she saw the good youth she cried: “Hail! Tsarevich Ivan, why hath God sent
thee hither?” The Tsarevich told her all his secrets. The old woman had pity on him, and
drew from her stove a magic poisonous weed and a little ball. “Go into the open plain,”
said she, “rake up a fire, and throw this magic poisonous weed into it. But mark me now;
stand thou at the back of the blast, lest the smoke from the fire blow upon thee. This
blast will cause the giant to be overcome by a deep sleep; then do thou cut off his head,
but roll the ball before thee and follow whithersoever it rolls. The ball will lead thee to
those very places where reigns the Tsarevna Loveliness-Inexhaustible. The Tsarevna
walks about there for nine days, and on the tenth day after that she will refresh herself
with the sleep of heroes in her own place. But look to it that thou dost not enter in by the
gate, but leap right over the wall with all thy might, and do not stick in the strings at the
top of the wall, lest thou arouse the whole empire, when thou wilt not escape alive. But
the moment thou hast leaped over the wall, go straight into the palace—into the back-
chamber; open the door very, very softly, and draw out the flask of living-water from
beneath the pillow of the Tsarevna. But when thou hast got the flask, hasten back as
quickly as thou camest, nor look for an instant upon the beauty of the Tsarevna, lest it be
too much for thee, good youth!” The Tsarevich Ivan thanked the old woman, and did
everything she bade him. As soon as he had lit the fire, he threw the weed into it so that
the smoke spread in the direction where the wild man was standing on guard; the eyes of
the giant grew dim, he began to yawn and stretch, he laid him on the damp earth and
began to sleep soundly—very soundly. The Tsarevich Ivan cut off his head, rolled the
little ball along, and went on further. He went on and on, and far away the golden palace
began to gleam amidst the green of the forest. All at once a column of dust came out of
the palace and along the road, and the gleam of lances and cuirasses was visible through
the dust, and there was a sound as of the trampling of many warlike chargers. The little
ball rolled out of the road a little on one side; the Tsarevich Ivan, following after it, also
turned from the path, went among the bushes, and let his horse out to grass. And from
his place in the bushes he saw approaching the Tsarevna Loveliness-Inexhaustible, and
she diverted herself with her warriors in the green meadows. And the whole of the
Tsarevna’s array consisted of maidens alone, each one more beautiful than her
neighbour. But the most lovely of them all was the inexhaustibly lovely Tsarevna. She

pitched her tent in the meadows, and for nine days she and her maidens diverted
themselves with divers pastimes. But the Tsarevich, like a hungry wolf, looked out from
his hiding-place at the Tsarevna, he could not take his eyes from her, and look as he
might he could not look his fill. At last, on the tenth day, when every one in the
Tsarevna’s golden courts was asleep, he, spurring his horse with all his might, leaped
right over the wall into the garden-court of the ladies, fastened his horse to a wooden
post, and stealthily as a thief made his way into the palace, right into the very cabinet
where, extended on her downy bed, with her fair locks scattered all about, lay the
Tsarevna Loveliness-Inexhaustible, sleeping an unwakable heroic sleep. The Tsarevich
drew from under her pillow the flask with the living-water, and was about to run off as
quickly as he could, but it was too much for his youthful heart, and leaning over the
Tsarevna, he kissed her thrice on her lips, which were sweeter than sugar. And by the
time he had got out of the chamber, mounted his horse, and leaped across the wall, she
awoke from his kisses. Loveliness-Inexhaustible leaped on her swift-flying mare, and
hastened after the Tsarevich Ivan. The Tsarevich urged on his good steed, pulled at the
silken reins, and lashed its sides with his whip. And the horse spoke to him with a man’s
voice: “Wherefore dost thou beat me, Tsarevich Ivan? Neither the fowls of the air nor the
beasts of the forest can escape or hide from that mare. She runs so that the earth
trembles, she leaps across swift rivers from shore to shore, hills and dales vanish away
beneath her feet!” And it had only time to speak these words when the Tsarevna
overtook the good youth, struck him with her swinging blade, and pierced him full in the
breast. Down fell the Tsarevich Ivan from his horse on the moist ground; his bright eyes
closed, his red blood flowed. Loveliness-Inexhaustible gazed into his eyes, and a great
sorrow overcame her; she saw that such a lovely youth as that was not to be found in the
wide world. And she placed her white hand on the wound, washed it with living-water
out of her flask, and immediately the wound healed up, and the Tsarevich Ivan arose
well and unharmed.—“Wilt thou take me to wife?”—“That I will, Tsarevna!”—“Then
return to thy kingdom, and if after three years thou hast not forgotten me, I will be thy
wife, and thou shalt be my husband.” And the destined bridegroom took leave of his
bride, and they parted in different directions. The Tsarevich Ivan went on and on for a
long time, and saw many things, and at last he came upon a tent on a mountain, with a
golden tent-pole, and round the tent two good horses were feeding on white summer-
wheat and drinking mead, and in the tent were lying his two elder brothers, eating and
drinking and diverting themselves with manifold diversions. And the elder brothers
began to ask the younger one: “Hast thou got the living-water for our father?”—“I have
got it!” replied the Tsarevich Ivan simply, for he always spoke out his secrets, happen
what might. The elder brothers invited him to feast with them, made him drunk, drew the
flask of living-water out of his bosom, and threw him down a precipice. The Tsarevich
Ivan flew down and down, and at last he fell into the Realm-beneath-the-Earth. “And
now,” thought he, “irretrievable ruin has come upon me! I can never find the ways that
lead from hence!” So he went about in the Realm-beneath-the-Earth. He went on and on,
and saw that the day grew shorter and shorter till it was like night; and at last he came to
a place that was not a desert, and by the sea stood a castle that was a town, and a hut that

was a mansion. The Tsarevich went up a flight of steps into a barn, and from the barn he
went into the hut, prayed to God, and begged for a good night’s rest. But in the hut sat an
old woman—an old, a very old woman; she was all wrinkled and gray. “Good youth,”
cried she, “thou mayest sleep there and welcome; but say! how didst thou get
hither?”—“Thou art an old person, granny, but thy way of asking is not wise. Thou
shouldst first give me to eat and drink, and let me lie down to sleep, and after that ask me
concerning my tidings.” The old woman gave the Tsarevich to eat and drink, let him lie
down to sleep, and then asked him again. And the Tsarevich Ivan said to her: “I have
been in the Kingdom of Thrice-ten, as the guest of the Tsarevna Loveliness-
Inexhaustible, and now I am returning home to my father the Tsar Afron, but I have
wandered from my path. Canst thou not show me the way home?”—“I do not know it
myself, Tsarevich. Here have I been living nine-tenths of my life on this earth, and I
have never heard of the Tsar Afron. Come now! sleep in peace, and to-morrow I will
bring together my messengers, perhaps one of them may know.” The next day the
Tsarevich got up very early, washed himself quite white, and went out with the old
woman on the balcony, and the old woman cried with a piercing voice: “Hi, hi! ye
swimming fish of the sea, and ye creeping reptiles of the earth, my faithful servants,
assemble here to the very last one of you!” And immediately the blue sea was disturbed
and all the fishes assembled, both small and great, and all the reptiles assembled; they all
came to the shore under the water. “Does any one know where in all the world dwells the
Tsar Afron, and by what way one can get to his kingdom from here?” And all the fishes
and reptiles answered with one voice: “We have neither seen it with our eyes, nor heard
it with our ears.” Then the old woman turned to the other side and screeched: “Hi! ye
wandering beasts of the forest, and ye fowls that fly in the air, my trusty servants,
assemble hither, and fly and run hither all of you, down to the very last one!” And the
beasts of the forest came running in bands and bands, and the fowls of the air came
flying in flocks and flocks, and the old woman began to ask them about Tsar Afron; and
they all with one voice exclaimed to the old woman: “We have neither seen it with our
eyes, nor heard it with our ears.”—“Well, Tsarevich, there’s nobody else to ask now,
we’ve asked them all.” They were just about to go into the hut again, when there was a
whistling and a roaring sound in the air, and the bird Mogol came flying along; he hid
the light of day with his wings, and lighted on the ground close to the hut. “Where hast
thou been, and why art thou come so late?” screeched the old woman. “I have been
flying a long way off, in the realm of Tsar Afron, at the uttermost end of the wide
world.”—“Well thou art just the one I want; render me now true and loyal service: carry
thither the Tsarevich Ivan.”—“I shall be glad to carry him, but I shall want heaps and
heaps of food; it takes three years to fly thither.”—“Take as much as thou dost want.”
And the old woman made provision for the journey of the Tsarevich Ivan. She placed
upon the bird a hogshead of water, and on the top of it a wicker basket full of meat, and
put into his hands an iron pole. “There,” said she, “when thou fliest on the bird Mogol
and she turns round and looks at thee, immediately plunge thy pole into the basket and
give her a piece of beef.” The Tsarevich Ivan said “thank you” to the old woman, sat on
the bird, and immediately she rose with him and bore him up in the air like a whirlwind.

She flew and flew, she flew for a long, long time, and whenever she looked round at the
Tsarevich he fed her with beef off the pole. And at last the Tsarevich Ivan saw that the
basket was getting empty, so he said to the bird Mogol: “Look now, thou bird Mogol!
thou hast now but little food left; light upon the moist earth, and I’ll get thee another
basketful of divers meats.” But the bird Mogol answered and said: “Art thou mad,
Tsarevich Ivan? Beneath us now is a forest dark and drear, muddy and boggy; if we
lighted down there, thou and I would never get out again so long as the world lasts.” And
now the Tsarevich had dispensed all the meat from the basket, and sent the basket and
the hogshead flying off the bird; but the bird Mogol still kept on flying and turning its
head for food. What was to be done now? The Tsarevich Ivan cut off the calves of his
legs, put them on the pole, and gave them to the bird Mogol. She swallowed them up,
and descended with the Tsarevich Ivan into a green meadow, upon silky grass with azure
flowers. As the Tsarevich Ivan leaped off her on to the ground, the bird Mogol coughed
up his calves again, fastened them on to his legs, moistened them with her spittle, and
the Tsarevich went on his way well and strong. He came to the capital of Tsar Afron, his
own father, and saw that something amiss was going on in the town. Crowds of people
were wandering about the streets from end to end, the Tsar’s cunning counsellors were
strolling aimlessly about the city, asking something from every one they met, and
shaking their gray heads as if they were out of their wits. And the Tsarevich asked one of
the people he met: “What’s the meaning of all this commotion in the city?” And the good
people answered him: “The Tsarevna Loveliness-Inexhaustible is sailing against our
kingdom; she is bringing a countless host with her in forty ships, and she demands that
the Tsar should surrender to her the Tsarevich Ivan who disturbed her sleep three years
ago by kissing her on her lips, which are sweeter than sugar; and if we do not surrender
him she will destroy our kingdom utterly with fire and sword.”—“Well, it seems to me I
have come just in time. I want this Tsarevna just as much as she wants me.” And he
immediately went on board the Tsarevna’s ship. Here they embraced and fondled each
other, and received their bridal crowns in the church of God, and after that they went to
the Tsar Afron and told him all. The Tsar Afron drove his elder sons from Court,
deprived them of their inheritance, and lived with his younger son, and lived happily and
increased in all riches.

1 He who has said A, must say B also.

Verlioka.
There was once upon a time an old man and an old woman, and they had
two orphan grandchildren so lovely, gentle, and good, that the old man and
the old woman could not love them enough. The old man once took it into
his head to go out into the fields with his grandchildren to look at the peas,
and they saw that their peas were growing splendidly. The old man rejoiced
at the sight with his grandchildren, and said: “Well, now, you won’t find
peas like that in the whole world! By and by we’ll make kisel1 out of it, and
bake us some pea-cakes.” And next morning the grandfather sent the eldest
grandchild, and said: “Go and drive away the sparrows from the peas!” The
grandchild sat down beside the peas, shook a dry branch, and kept on
saying, “Whish! whish! sparrows, ye have pecked at grandfather’s peas till
you’re quite full!” And all at once she heard a rumbling and a roaring in the
wood, and Verlioka came, huge of stature, with one eye, a hooked nose,
ragged stubbly hair, moustaches half an ell long, swine’s bristles on his
head, hobbling on one leg, in a wooden boot, leaning on a crutch, grinding
all his teeth, and smiling. He went up to the pretty little grandchild, seized
her and dragged her away with him behind the lake. The grandfather waited
and waited, but there was no grandchild, and he sent his young grandson
after her. Verlioka walked off with him also. The grandfather waited and
waited, and said to his wife: “How very late our grandchildren are! I
suppose they are running about there and idling their time away, or catching
starlings with some lads or other, and meanwhile the sparrows are looting
our peas! Go along, old woman, and teach them sense!” The old woman
rose from the stove, took her stick from the corner, gave the pasties another
turn, went away—and never came back. As soon as Verlioka saw her in the
field, he cried: “What dost thou want here, old hag? Hast thou come hither
to shell peas? Then I’ll make thee stand here among the peas for ever and
ever!” Then he set to work belabouring her with his crutch, till little by little
her very soul oozed out of her, and she lay upon the field more dead than
alive.

The grandfather waited in vain for his grandchildren and his old wife, and
began to scold at them: “Where on earth have they got to!” said he; “’tis a
true saying that a man must expect no good from his ribs.” Then the old
man himself made his way to the peas, and saw the old woman lying on the
ground in such a battered condition that he scarcely knew her, and of his
grandchildren there was no trace. The grandfather cried aloud, picked up
the old woman, dragged her home by degrees, gradually brought her to with
a little cold water, and she opened her eyes at last and told the grandfather
who it was that had beaten her so, and dragged her grandchildren away
from the field. The grandfather was very wroth with Verlioka, and said:
“This is too much of a joke! Wait a bit, friend, we also have arms of our
own! Look to thyself, Verlioka, and take care that I don’t twist thy
moustaches for thee! Thou hast done this thing with thy hand, thou shalt
pay for it with thy head!” And as the old grandmother did not hold him
back, the grandfather seized his iron crutch and went off to seek Verlioka.

He went on and on till he came to a little pond, and in the pond was
swimming a bob-tailed drake. He saw the grandfather and cried: “Tak, tak,
tak!2 Live for a hundred years, old grandad! I have been waiting here for
thee a long time!”—“Hail to thee also, drake! Why hast thou been awaiting
me?”—“Well I know that thou art in quest of thy grandchildren, and art
going to Verlioka to settle accounts with him!”—“And how dost thou come
to know of this monster?”—“Tak, tak, tak!” screeched the drake, “I have
good cause to know him, ’twas he who docked my tail!”—“Then canst thou
show me his dwelling?”—“Tak, tak, tak!” screeched the drake; “here am I
but a little tiny bird, but I’ll have my tail’s worth out of him, I
know!”—“Wilt thou go on before and show me the way? I see thou hast a
good noddle of thy own, though thou art bob-tailed!” Then the drake came
out of the water and climbed up on the bank, waddling from side to side.

They went on and on, and they came upon a little bit of cord lying in the
road, and it said, “Hail, little grandad wise-pate!”—“Hail, little
cord!”—“Where dost thou dwell, and whither dost thou wander?”—“I live
in such and such a place; I am going to pay off Verlioka; he has beaten my
old woman and carried off my two grandchildren, and such splendid
grandchildren too!”—“Take me that I may help!” The grandfather thought:
“I may as well take it, it will do to hang Verlioka with.” Then he said to the

little cord: “Come along with us, if thou dost know the way.” And the little
cord wriggled after them just as if it were a little tapering snake.

They went on and on, and they saw lying in the road a little water-mill, and
it said to them: “Hail, little grandad wise-pate!”—“Hail, little water-
mill!”—“Where dost thou dwell, and whither dost thou wander?”—“I live
in such and such a place, and I am going to settle accounts with Verlioka.
Just fancy! he has beaten my old woman and carried off my grandchildren,
and such splendid grandchildren too!”—“Take me with thee that I may
help!” And the grandfather thought: “The water-mill may be of use too.”
Then the water-mill raised itself up, pressed against the ground with its
handle, and went along after the grandfather.

Again they went on and on, and in the road lay an acorn, and it said to them
in a little squeaky voice: “Hail, grandad long-nose!”—“Hail, oakey
acorn!”—“Whither art thou striding away like that?”—“I am going to beat
Verlioka; dost know him?”—“I should think I did; take me with thee to
help!”—“But how canst thou help?”—“Don’t spit in the well or thou wilt
have to drink up the water thyself!” The grandfather thought to himself: “I
may as well let him go!” So he said to the acorn: “Roll on behind then!”
But that was a strange rolling, for the acorn leaped to its feet and frisked
along in front of them all.

And they came into a thick forest, a forest most drear and dreadful, and in
the forest stood a lonely little hut—oh! so lonely. There was no fire burning
in the stove, and there stood there a furmenty-pottage for six. The acorn,
who knew what he was about, immediately leaped into the pottage, the little
cord stretched itself out on the threshold, the grandfather placed the little
water-mill on the bench, the drake sat upon the stove, and the grandfather
himself stood in the corner. Suddenly he heard a crashing and a trembling in
the wood, and Verlioka came along on one leg, in a wooden boot, leaning
on his crutch and smiling from ear to ear. Verlioka came up to the hut, threw
down some fire-wood on the floor, and began to light the fire in the stove.
But the acorn who was sitting in the pottage fell a-singing—

“Pee, pee, pee!
To beat Verlioka come we!”

Verlioka flew into a rage and seized the pot by the handle, but the handle
broke, and all the pottage was scattered over the floor, and the acorn leaped
out of the pot and flipped Verlioka in his one eye so that it was put out
entirely. Verlioka fell a-shrieking, fought about the air with his arms, and
would have made for the door; but where was the door? he could not see it!
Then the little cord wound itself about his legs and he fell on the threshold,
and the little water-mill on the top of him off the bench. Then the
grandfather rushed out of the corner and pitched into him with his iron
crutch, and the drake on the top of the stove screeched with all its might:
“Tak, tak, tak! Pitch into him! pitch into him!” Neither his wrath nor his
strength was of any good to Verlioka. The grandfather beat him to death
with his iron crutch, and after that, destroyed his hut and laid bare the
dungeon beneath it, and out of the dungeon he drew his grandchildren, and
dragged all Verlioka’s riches home to his old woman. And so he lived and
prospered with his old woman and his grandchildren, and plucked and ate
his peas in peace and quietness. So there’s a skazka3 for you—and I deserve
a cake or two also.

1 A sourish meat-pottage.
2 So, so, so.
3 Fairy-tale.

The Frog-Tsarevna.
In a certain kingdom, in a certain Empire, there lived a Tsar with his
Tsaritsa, and he had three sons, all of them young, valiant, and unwedded,
the like of whom is not to be told in tales nor written by pens, and the
youngest of them was called the Tsarevich Ivan. And the Tsar spoke these
words to them: “My dear children, take unto you your darts, gird on your
well-spanned bows, and go hence in different directions, and in whatsoever
courts your arrows fall, there choose ye your brides!” The elder brother
discharged his arrow and it fell into a boyar’s1 court, right in front of the
terem2 of the maidens. The second brother discharged his arrow, and it flew
into the court of a merchant and remained sticking in a beautiful balcony,
and on this balcony was standing a lovely young maiden soul, the
merchant’s daughter. The youngest brother discharged his arrow, and the
arrow fell in a muddy swamp, and a quacking-frog seized hold of it.

The Tsarevich Ivan said to his father: “How can I ever take this quacker to
wife? A quacker is not my equal!”—“Take her!” replied his father, “’tis thy
fate to have her!” So the Tsareviches all got married—the eldest to the
boyar’s daughter, the second to the merchant’s daughter, and the youngest
to the quacking-frog. And the Tsar called them to him and said: “Let your
wives, to-morrow morning, bake me soft white bread.” The Tsarevich Ivan
returned home, and he was not happy, and his impetuous head hung down
lower than his shoulders. “Qua, qua! Ivan the Tsarevich! wherefore art thou
so sad?” asked the Frog. “Or hast thou heard unpleasant words from thy
father the Tsar?”—“Why should I not be sad? my father and sovereign lord
hath commanded thee to bake soft white bread to-morrow.”—“Do not
afflict thyself, O Tsarevich! lie down and rest, the morning is wiser than the
evening.” She made the Tsarevich lie down and rest, cast her frog-skin, and
turned into a maiden soul, Vasilisa Premudraya,3 went out upon her
beautiful balcony, and cried with a piercing voice: “Nurseys—nurseys!
assemble, set to work and make me soft white bread such as I myself used
to eat at my dear father’s!” In the morning the Tsarevich Ivan awoke, the
frog had got the bread ready long ago, and it was so splendid that the like of

it is neither to be imagined nor guessed at, but is only to be told of in tales.
The loaves were adorned with various cunning devices, royal cities were
modelled on the sides thereof, with moats and ditches. The Tsar praised the
Tsarevich Ivan greatly because of his bread, and gave this command to his
three sons: “Let your wives weave me a carpet in a single night.” The
Tsarevich Ivan returned home, and he was sad, and his impetuous head
hung lower than his shoulders. “Qua! qua! Tsarevich Ivan! wherefore art
thou so sad? Or hast thou heard cruel, unfriendly words from thy father the
Tsar?”—“Have I not cause to grieve? My father and sovereign lord
commands thee to weave him a silk carpet in a single night!”—“Fret not,
Tsarevich! come, lay thee down and sleep, the morning is wiser than the
evening!” Then she made him lie down to sleep, threw off her frog-skin,
and turned into the lovely maiden soul, Vasilisa Premudraya, went forth
upon her beautiful balcony, and cried with a piercing voice: “Nurseys—
nurseys! assemble, set to work and weave me a silk carpet such as I was
wont to sit upon at my dear father’s!” No sooner said than done. In the
morning the Tsarevich Ivan awoke, and the frog had had the carpet ready
long ago, and it was such a wondrous carpet that the like of it can only be
told of in tales, but may neither be imagined nor guessed at. The carpet was
adorned with gold and silver and with divers bright embroiderings. The Tsar
greatly praised the Tsarevich Ivan for his carpet, and there and then gave the
new command that all three Tsareviches were to appear before him on the
morrow to be inspected together with their wives. Again the Tsarevich Ivan
returned home and he was not happy, and his impetuous head hung lower
than his shoulders. “Qua! qua! Tsarevich Ivan! wherefore art thou grieved?
Or hast thou heard words unkind from thy father the Tsar?”—“Have I not
cause to be sad? My father and sovereign lord has commanded me to appear
before him with thee to-morrow! How can I show thee to people?”—“Fret
not, Tsarevich! Go alone to the Tsar and pay thy visit, and I will come after
thee. The moment you hear a rumbling and a knocking, say: ‘Hither comes
my dear little Froggy in her little basket!’” And behold the elder brothers
appeared, to be inspected with their richly-attired and splendidly-adorned
consorts. There they stood and laughed at the Tsarevich Ivan and said:
“Why, brother! why hast thou come hither without thy wife? Why thou
mightest have brought her with thee in a kitchen clout. And where didst
thou pick up such a beauty? I suppose thou didst search through all the
swamps fairly?” Suddenly there was a great rumbling and knocking, the

whole palace shook. The guests were all terribly frightened and rushed from
their places, and knew not what to do with themselves, but the Tsarevich
Ivan said: “Fear not, gentlemen! ’tis only my little Froggy coming in her
little basket!” And then a golden coach drawn by six horses flew up to the
steps of the Tsar’s balcony, and out of it stepped Vasilisa Premudraya; such
a beauty as is only to be told of in tales, but can neither be imagined nor
guessed at. The Tsarevich Ivan took her by the hand and led her behind the
oaken table, behind the embroidered table-cloth. The guests began to eat
and drink and make merry. Vasilisa Premudraya drank wine, but the dregs
of her cup she poured behind her left sleeve; she ate also of the roast swan,
but the bones thereof she concealed behind her right sleeve. The wives of
the elder brothers watched these devices, and took care to do the same.
Afterwards when Vasilisa Premudraya began dancing with the Tsarevich
Ivan, she waved her left hand and a lake appeared; she waved her right hand
and white swans were swimming in the water; the Tsar and his guests were
astonished. And now the elder brides began dancing. They waved their left
hands and all the guests were squirted with water; they waved their right
hands and the bones flew right into the Tsar’s eyes. The Tsar was wroth, and
drove them from court with dishonour.

Now one day the Tsarevich Ivan waited his opportunity, ran off home,
found the frog-skin, and threw it into a great fire. Vasilisa Premudraya duly
arrived, missed her frog-skin, was sore troubled, fell a-weeping, and said to
the Tsarevich: “Alas! Tsarevich Ivan! what hast thou done? If thou hadst but
waited for a little, I should have been thine for ever more, but now farewell!
Seek for me beyond lands thrice-nine, in the Empire of Thrice-ten, at the
house of Koshchei Bezsmertny.”4 Then she turned into a white swan and
flew out of the window.

The Tsarevich Ivan wept bitterly, turned to all four points of the compass
and prayed to God, and went straight before his eyes. He went on and on,
whether it was near or far, or long or short, matters not, when there met him
an old, old man. “Hail, good youth!” said he, “what dost thou seek, and
whither art thou going?” The Tsarevich told him all his misfortune. “Alas!
Tsarevich Ivan, why didst thou burn that frog-skin? Thou didst not make,
nor shouldst thou therefore have done away with it. Vasilisa Premudraya
was born wiser and more cunning than her father; he was therefore angry

with her, and bade her be a frog for three years. Here is a little ball for thee,
follow it whithersoever it rolls.” Ivan the Tsarevich thanked the old man,
and followed after the ball. He went along the open plain, and there met
him a bear. “Come now!” thought the Tsarevich Ivan, “I will slay this
beast.” But the bear implored him: “Slay me not, Tsarevich Ivan, I may
perchance be of service to thee somehow.” He went on further, and lo!
behind them came waddling a duck. The Tsarevich bent his bow; he would
have shot the bird, when suddenly she greeted him with a human voice:
“Slay me not, Ivan Tsarevich! I also may befriend thee!” He had
compassion on her, and went on further, and a hare darted across their path.
The Tsarevich again laid an arrow on his bow and took aim, but the hare
greeted him with a human voice: “Slay me not, Tsarevich Ivan! I also will
befriend thee!” Ivan the Tsarevich had pity upon him, and went on further
to the blue sea, and behold! on the beach lay gasping a pike. “Alas!
Tsarevich Ivan!” sighed the pike, “have pity on me and cast me into the
sea.” And he cast it into the sea, and went on along the shore. The ball
rolled a short way, and it rolled a long way, and at last it came to a
miserable hut; the hut was standing on hen’s legs and turning round and
round. The Tsarevich Ivan said to it: “Little hut, little hut! stand the old way
as thy mother placed thee, with thy front to me, and thy back to the sea!”
And the little hut turned round with its front to him, and its back to the sea.
The Tsarevich entered in, and saw the bony-legged Baba-Yaga lying on the
stove, on nine bricks, and grinding her teeth.—“Hillo! good youth, why
dost thou visit me?” asked the Baba-Yaga.—“Fie, thou old hag! thou call’st
me a good youth, but thou shouldst first feed and give me to drink, and
prepare me a bath, then only shouldst thou ask me questions.” The Baba-
Yaga fed him and gave him to drink, and made ready a bath for him, and the
Tsarevich told her he was seeking his wife, Vasilisa Premudraya. “I know,”
said the Baba-Yaga, “she is now with Koshchei Bezsmertny. ’Tis hard to get
thither, and it is not easy to settle accounts with Koshchei. His death
depends upon the point of a needle, that needle is in a hare, that hare is in a
coffer, that coffer is on the top of a high oak, and Koshchei guards that tree
as the apple of his eye.” The Baba-Yaga then showed him in what place that
oak grew; the Tsarevich Ivan went thither, but did not know what to do to
get at the coffer. Suddenly, how who can tell, the bear rushed at the tree and
tore it up by the roots, the coffer fell and was smashed to pieces, the hare
leaped out, and with one bound had taken cover. But look! the other hare

bounded off in pursuit, hunted him down and tore him to bits; out of the
hare flew a duck and rose high, high in the air, but the other duck dashed
after her, and struck her down, whereupon the duck laid an egg, and the egg
fell into the sea. The Tsarevich Ivan, seeing the irreparable loss of the egg,
burst into tears, when suddenly the pike came swimming ashore holding the
egg between its teeth. He took the egg, broke it, drew out the needle and
broke off its little point. Then he attacked Koshchei, who struggled hard,
but wriggle about as he might he had to die at last. Then the Tsarevich Ivan
went into the house of Koshchei, took out Vasilisa Premudraya, and
returned home. After that they lived together for a long, long time, and were
very, very happy.

1 Nobleman.
2 The women’s apartments.
3 Super-sapient cross-gentian.
4 The deathless skeleton.

The Two Sons of Ivan the Soldier.
There once dwelt in a certain kingdom a peasant. The time came when they
enlisted him as a soldier; he had to quit his wife, and as he bade her good-
bye, he said to her, “Hearken, wife! live honestly; flout not good people; do
not let our little hut fall to pieces, but keep house wisely, and await my
return. If God permit it, I will come back and leave the service. Here are
fifty rubles!—whether a little son or a little daughter be born to thee matters
not; keep the money till the child grows up. If it be a daughter, wed her to
the bridegroom whom God may provide; but if God give thee a son, and he
arrive at years of discretion, this money will be of no little help to him.”
Then he took leave of his wife, and went to the wars whither he was bidden.
Three months passed, and the wife gave birth to twin sons, and she called
them the sons of Ivan the soldier. The youngsters grew up betimes; like
wheaten dough mixed with yeast they shot up broad and high. When they
reached their tenth year their mother gave them instruction, and they
quickly learned their letters, and the children of the boyars and the children
of the merchants could not hold a candle to them; no one could read aloud,
or write, or answer questions so well as they. The two sons of Ivan the
soldier thus grew up, and they asked their mother, “Mother, dear! did not
our father leave us some money? If there be any, let us have it, and we’ll
take it to the fair and buy us a good horse apiece.” Their mother gave them
the fifty rubles, twenty-five to each brother, and said to them, “Hearken,
children, as ye go to the town, give a bow to every one you come
across.”—“Good, dear mother.”

So the brothers hied them off to the town, and went to the horse-market.
There were many horses there, but they chose none of them, for they were
not good enough mounts for the good brothers. So one of the brothers said
to the other: “Let us go to the other end of the square; look how the people
are all running together there. There is something strange going on.”
Thither they went and joined the crowd; and there stood two mares tied to
stout oaken posts with iron clamps; one with six clamps, and the other with
twelve clamps. The horses were tugging at their chains, gnawing their bits,

and digging up the ground with their hoofs. No one was able to go near
them. “What is the price of thy mares?” asked Ivan, the soldier’s son, of the
owner. “Don’t thrust thy nose in here, friend!—such mares are not for the
like of thee. Ask no more about them!”—“How dost thou know what I am?
Maybe I’ll buy them, but I must first look at their teeth.” The horse-dealer
smiled: “Look out for your heads, that’s all!” One of the brothers then drew
near to the mare that was fastened by six clamps, and the other brother to
the mare that was fastened by twelve. They tried to look at the horses’ teeth,
but how was it to be done? The mares rose on their hind legs and pawed the
air. Then the brothers struck them in the breast with their knees; the chains
which held the horses burst, and the mares flew up into the air five fathoms
high, and fell down with their legs uppermost. “Well!” cried the brothers,
“that’s not much to boast of. We would not take such horses at a gift.” The
crowd cried “Oh!” and was amazed. “What strong and stalwart heroes are
these?” The horse-dealer was almost in tears. The mares galloped all over
the town, and made off over the wide steppe; nobody dared approach them,
and nobody knew how to catch them. The sons of Ivan the soldier were
sorry for the horse-dealer. They went out into the open steppe, cried with a
piercing voice and whistled lustily, and the mares came running back and
stood in their proper place as if they had been nailed there. Then the good
youths put the iron chains upon them again, and tied them to the oaken
posts, and bound them tightly. This they did, and then they went
homewards. As they were going along there met them an old graybeard.
They forgot what their mother had told them, and passed him by without
greeting him. Suddenly one of them recollected himself and cried: “Oh,
brother! what have we done? We never gave that old man a bow; let us run
after him and bow to him!” They ran after the old man, took off their little
caps, bowed to the very girdle, and said, “Forgive us, dear little father, for
passing thee by without a greeting. Our mother straightly charged us to pay
honour to every one we met in the way.”—“Thanks, good youths! whither
is God leading you?”—“We have been to the town fair; we wanted to buy
us a good horse apiece, but there are none there which please us.”—“Why,
how’s that? Suppose now that I were to give you a little nag
apiece?”—“Ah! little father, we would then always pray to God for
thee!”—“Well, come with me.”—The old man led them to a huge
mountain, opened two cast-iron doors, and brought out two horses of heroic
breed. “Here, take your horses and depart in God’s name, good youths, and

may ye prosper with them!” They thanked him, mounted and galloped
home; reached the courtyard, bound their horses to a post, and entered the
hut. Their mother then began, and asked them: “Well, my dear children,
have you bought yourselves a little nag apiece?”—“We have not bought
them with money, but got them as a gift.”—“Where have you left
them?”—“We put them beside the hut.”—“Alas! my children, look if any
one has taken them away.”—“Nay, dear mother, such horses are not taken
away. No one could lead them, and there’s no getting near them!” The
mother went out, looked at the horses, and burst into tears. “Well, my dear
sons, ye are surely never those whom I have nourished.”

The next day the sons begged their mother to let them go into the town to
buy them a sword apiece. “Go, my children!” Then they got them ready,
went to the smith’s, entered the master’s house, and said: “Make us a couple
of swords!”—“Why should I make them when they are ready made? Take
whichever you like best.”—“No, friend, we want swords which weigh ten
puds1 each.”—“What are you thinking of? Who would be able to wield a
machine like that? You’ll find such swords nowhere.” So there was nothing
for the good youths to do but return homewards with hanging heads. As
they were on their way the same old man met them again. “Hail, young
men!”—“Hail, dear little father!”—“Whence do you come?”—“From town,
from the smith’s. We wanted to buy two Damascus blades, and there were
none that suited our hands.”—“How stupid! Suppose now I were to give
you a sword apiece?”—“Ah, dear little father, in that case we would pray to
God for thee for evermore.” The old man led them to the huge mountain,
opened the cast-iron door, and drew out two heroic swords. The brothers
took them, thanked the old man, and their hearts were merry and joyful.
They came home, and their mother asked them: “Well, my children, have
you bought yourselves a sword apiece?”—“We have not bought them for
money, but got them as a gift.”—“And what have you done with
them?”—“We have placed them beside the hut.”—“Take care lest some one
take them away.”—“Nay, dear mother, nobody will take them away, for it is
impossible to even carry them.” The mother went out into the courtyard and
looked; the two heavy, heroic swords were leaning against the wall, the hut
was scarce able to bear the weight of them. The old woman burst into tears
and said: “Well, my dear sons, ye are surely never those whom I have
nourished.”

The next morning the sons of Ivan the soldier saddled their good horses,
took their heroic blades, went into the hut, prayed to God, and took leave of
the mother who bore them. “Bless us, dear little mother, for a long journey
is before us.”—“My irremovable, motherly blessing be upon you. Go, in
God’s name. Show yourselves, and see the world. Offend none without
cause, and follow not evil ways.”—“Be not afraid, dear mother; our motto
is, ‘When I eat I don’t whistle, and when I bite I don’t let go.’” Then the
good youths mounted their horses and rode off. Whither they went, near or
far, long or short, the tale is soon told, but the deed is not soon done;
anyhow, they came to a cross-way where stood two pillars. On one pillar
was written, “Who goes to the right will become a Tsar,” and on the other
pillar was written, “Who goes to the left will become a corpse.” The
brothers stood still, read the inscriptions, and fell a-thinking: “Whichever
way shall we go? If we both go to the right, there will not be honour and
glory enough for the heroic strength and youthful prowess of us both; but
nobody wants to go to the left and die.” And one brother said to the other:
“Look now, dear brother, I am stronger than thou; let me go a little on the
left to see how death can get hold of me. But thou go to the right, and
perchance God will make thee a Tsar.” Then they took leave of each other,
and each gave to the other a little piece of cloth, and they made this
compact—each was to go his own way and place posts along the road, and
write on these posts everything concerning himself as a mark and guide;
every morning each of them was to wipe his face with his brother’s cloth,
and if blood appeared on the cloth it would mean that death had befallen his
brother, and in such a calamity he was to hasten back to seek his dead. So
the good youths parted in different directions. He who turned his horse to
the right came to a splendid kingdom. In this kingdom dwelt a Tsar and his
Tsaritsa, and they had a daughter called the thrice-beautiful Tsarevna
Nastasia. The Tsar beheld the son of the soldier Ivan, loved him for his
knightly valour, and without beating about the bush, gave him his daughter
as a consort, called him the Tsarevich Ivan, and bade him rule over the
whole kingdom. The Tsarevich Ivan lived right merrily, loved his wife
dearly, gave good laws to his kingdom, and diverted himself with the
pleasures of the chase.

But his brother, Ivan the soldier’s son, who had taken the road to the left,
went on day and night without rest. A month, and a second month, and a

third passed by, and he found himself in an unknown empire, in the midst of
the capital. In this empire there was great mourning, the houses were
covered with black cloth, and the people crept about as if they were
dreaming. He hired him a lodging at a poor old woman’s, and began to ask
her, “Tell me, old mother, why are all the people in this empire of thine so
full of woe, and all the houses covered with black cloth?”—“Alas, good
youth! a great grief weighs upon us; every day there comes out of the blue
sea, from beyond the gray rock, a twelve-headed serpent and eats up a man
every time, and now it has come to the turn of the Tsar’s own house. He has
three most lovely Tsarevnas; at this very time they are escorting the
youngest of them to the sea-shore to be devoured by the monster.” Ivan the
soldier’s son mounted his horse and rode off to the blue sea, to the gray
rock; on the shore stood the thrice-lovely Tsarevna, tied to an iron chain.
She saw the hero and said to him, “Depart hence, good youth. The twelve-
headed serpent will soon be here; I shall perish, nor wilt thou escape death;
the cruel serpent will devour thee also.” “Fear not, lovely maiden. Perhaps
it may be overcome.” And Ivan the soldier’s son went up to her, burst the
chain with his heroic hand, and broke it into little bits as if it were rotten
rope; then he lit a large fire all round the rock and nourished it with the
trunks of uprooted oaks and pines, piled them up into a huge pyre, and then
went back to the lovely maiden, laid his head on her knee, and said to her,
“I must rest, but thou look seawards, and as soon as a cloud arises, and the
wind begins to blow, and the sea to leap and roar, awaken me, young
maiden.” So he spake, and fell into a deep sleep, and the lovely maiden
watched over him, and sat and looked out upon the sea. Suddenly a cloud
rose above the horizon, and the wind began to blow, and the sea to leap and
roar; the serpent was coming forth from the blue sea, and raised itself
mountains high. The Tsarevna tried to awake Ivan the soldier’s son; she
shook him and shook him; it was of no use, he heard her not; then she burst
into tears, and her burning tear-drops fell upon his cheeks. At this the hero
awoke, ran to his horse, and the good horse had already ploughed up half a
fathom of earth with his hoofs. The twelve-headed serpent rushed straight at
him, belching forth fire; it looked upon the hero and cried, “Goodly art thou
and comely, fair youth, but thy last hour has come. Say farewell to the wide
world, and gallop down my throat as quickly as thou canst.”—“Thou liest,
cursed serpent; surrender!” Then they fell to mortal combat. Ivan the
soldier’s son struck so deftly and sturdily with his sword that it grew red-

hot, there was no holding it in his hand. Then he cried to the Tsarevna:
“Save me, lovely maiden! Take out thy fair kerchief, dip it in the blue sea,
and wrap it round my sword.” The Tsarevna immediately moistened her
kerchief in the sea, and gave it to the good youth. He wrapped it round his
sword and again fell fiercely on the serpent, but he found that he could not
despatch the serpent with his sword. Then he snatched a burning pine-brand
from the pyre and burnt out the serpent’s eye, and then he hewed off all its
twelve heads, placed them beneath the rock, cast the body into the sea, and
then trotted home, ate and drank, and laid him down to sleep for thrice four-
and-twenty hours.

And in the meantime the Tsar called his water-carrier and said to him: “Go
to the sea-shore and collect the bones of the Tsarevna, if haply ye find
them.” The water-carrier went down to the sea-shore, and lo! the Tsarevna
was in no way hurt. He placed her on the cart and drove her into the drear
forest—far into the forest he drove her—drew his knife from his girdle, and
began to sharpen it. “What art thou doing?” asked the Tsarevna. “I am
sharpening my knife. I mean to slay thee. Tell thy father that I slew the
serpent, and I’ll have mercy on thee.” He terrified the lovely maiden, and
she took an oath to speak according to his words. Now this daughter was
the Tsar’s favourite, and when the Tsar saw that she was alive, and in no
way hurt, he wished to reward the water-carrier, and gave him his youngest
daughter to wife; and the rumour of it went through the whole realm. Ivan
the soldier’s son heard also that a marriage was being celebrated at the
Tsar’s, and straight to court he went. There a great banquet was proceeding;
the guests were eating and drinking, and diverting themselves with divers
pastimes. The youngest Tsarevna looked at Ivan the soldier’s son, and saw
his sword wrapped round with her costly kerchief, whereupon she leaped
from her chair, seized his hand, and cried: “My dear father and sovereign
lord, lo! here is he who saved us from the cruel serpent and from violent
death. The water-carrier can only sharpen his knife and say—’I am
sharpening my knife. I mean to kill thee.’” The Tsar was wroth, and he bade
them hang the water-carrier, and gave the Tsarevna to Ivan the soldier’s son
as his consort, and there was great rejoicing. And the young couple lived
together, and their life was happy and prosperous.

Not a very long time passed away, and then this thing befell the Tsarevich
Ivan, the other son of Ivan the soldier.

One day he was going a-hunting, and he started a swift-footed stag. The
Tsarevich Ivan put spurs to his horse and pursued the stag. On and on he
sped, and he came to a vast meadow. Here the stag vanished from before his
eyes. Ivan looked about him and considered—“Whither does my way lie
now?” And, lo, in that meadow a little stream was flowing, and on the water
two gray ducks were swimming. He took aim at them, fired, and slew the
ducks, dragged them out of the water, put them into his knapsack, and went
on further. He went on and on till he saw a palace of white stone,
dismounted from his horse, fastened it to a post, and went into the rooms.
They were all empty, not a living soul was to be seen, only in one room was
there a lighted stove, a pan for a meal of six stood there, and the table was
already laid; there were plates and glasses and knives. The Tsarevich Ivan
pulled the ducks from his pocket and drew them, put them in the pan,
cooked them, placed them on the table, and began carving and eating them.
Suddenly, whence I know not, a lovely damsel appeared to him, so lovely
that the like of her cannot be told of in tales or written with pens, and she
said to him: “Bread and salt, Ivan the Tsarevich.”—“I cry thy pardon,
lovely damsel, sit down and eat with me.”—“I would sit down with thee,
but I am afraid. Thou hast an enchanted horse.”—“Nay, lovely damsel, thou
art ill-informed. I have left my magic horse at home, and am riding on a
common one.” No sooner did the lovely damsel hear this than she began to
swell out and swell out till she became a frightful lioness, opened wide her
jaws, and swallowed up the Tsarevich Ivan whole. She was not an ordinary
damsel, but the very sister of the serpent who had been slain by Ivan the
soldier’s son.

And it fell about this time that the other Tsarevich Ivan bethought him of his
brother, drew his kerchief out of his pocket, dried his face with it, and saw
that the whole kerchief was covered with blood. Sorely grieved was he.
“What’s the matter?” he cried. He took leave of his wife and father-in-law,
and went forth on his heroic horse to seek his brother. He went near and far,
and long and short, and at last he came to the same realm where his brother
had lived. He asked about everything, and learnt that the Tsarevich had
indeed gone hunting and disappeared—not a trace of him could be found.

Ivan went a-hunting the selfsame way, and there met him a swift-footed
stag. The hero pursued after it; he came out into the vast meadow, and the
stag vanished from before his eyes. In the meadow he saw a little stream
flowing, and two gray ducks were swimming on the water. Ivan the
soldier’s son shot the ducks, came to the white stone palace, and went into
the rooms. They were all empty, only in one room was a stove lighted and a
pan for a meal for six was upon it. He roasted the ducks, went out into the
courtyard, sat on the steps, and began carving them up and eating. Suddenly
a lovely damsel appeared before him. “Bread and salt, good youth, why
dost thou eat in the courtyard?” Ivan the soldier’s son answered: “In the
rooms it is not to my mind; in the courtyard ’twill be more pleasant. Sit
down with me, fair damsel!”—“I would sit down gladly, but I fear thy
enchanted horse.”—“No need, damsel. I am riding on an ordinary nag.”
Like a fool she believed him, and began to swell out, and swelled into a
frightful lioness, and would have swallowed up the good youth, when his
magic horse ran up and seized her round the body with its heroic feet. Ivan
the soldier’s son drew his sharp sword and cried with a piercing voice:
“Stand, accursed one. Hast thou not swallowed my brother, the Tsarevich
Ivan? Give him back to me, or I’ll cut thee into little bits.” The red lioness
turned back again into a most lovely damsel, and began to beg and pray:
“Spare me, good youth. Take the two phials from that bench full of healing
and living water, follow me into the underground chamber, and revive thy
brother.”

The Tsarevich Ivan followed the lovely damsel into the underground
chamber, and saw his brother lying there torn to bits. He sprinkled his
brother with the healing water; the flesh and fat grew together again. He
sprinkled him with the living water, and his brother stood up and spoke:
“Ah! how long have I slept?” Ivan the Tsarevich said, “Thou wouldst have
slept for ever but for me.” And the brothers returned to court, made a three
days’ feast, and then took leave of each other. Ivan the soldier’s son
remained with his wife, and lived with her in love and harmony and
enduring bliss. But the Tsarevich returned to his realm, and I met him on his
way; three days he drank and diverted himself with me, and ’twas he who
told me all this tale.

1 Four hundred pounds.

The Woman-Accuser.
There was once upon a time an old man and an old woman. The old woman
was not a bad old woman, but there was this one bad thing about her—she
did not know how to hold her tongue. Whatever she might hear from her
husband, or whatever might happen at home, she was sure to spread it over
the whole village; she even doubled everything in the telling, and so things
were told which never happened at all. Not unfrequently the old man had to
chastise the old woman, and her back paid for the faults of her tongue.

One day the old man went into the forest for wood. He had just got to the
border of the forest, when his foot, in treading on a certain place, sank right
into the ground. “Why, what’s this?” thought the old man. “Come, now, I’ll
dig a bit here; maybe I shall be lucky enough to dig out something.” He dug
several times, and saw, buried in the ground, a little cauldron quite full of
silver and gold. “Look, now, what good luck has befallen me! But what am
I to do with it? I cannot hide it from that good wife of mine at home, and
she will be sure to blab to all the world about my lucky find, and thou wilt
repent the day thou didst ever see it.”

For a long time the old man sat brooding over his treasure, and at last he
made up his mind what to do. He buried the treasure, threw a lot of wood
over it, and went to town. There he bought at the bazaar a live pike and a
live hare, returned to the wood, and hung the pike upon a tree, at the very
top of it, and carried the hare to the stream, where he had a fish-basket, and
he put the hare into it in a shallow place.

Then he went off home, whipped up his little nag for pure lightness of heart,
and so entered his hut. “Wife, wife,” he cried, “such a piece of luck has
befallen me that I cannot describe it!”—“What is it, what is it, hubby
darling? Why dost thou not tell me?”—“What’s the good, when thou wilt
only blab it all about?”—“On my word, I’ll say nothing to anybody. I swear
it. I’ll take the holy image from the wall and kiss it if thou dost not believe
me.”—“Well, well, all right. Listen, old woman!” and he bent down

towards her ear and whispered, “I have found in the wood a cauldron full of
silver and gold.”—“Then why didst thou not bring it hither?”—“Because
we had both better go together, and so bring it home.” And the old man
went with his old woman to the forest.

They went along the road, and the peasant said to his wife, “From what I
hear, old woman, and from what people told me the other day, it would
seem that fish are now to be found growing on trees, while the beasts of the
forest live in the water.”—“Why, what art thou thinking about, little hubby?
People nowadays are much given to lying.”—“Lying, dost thou call it?
Then come and see for thyself.” And he pointed to the tree where the pike
was hanging. “Why, what marvel is this?” screamed the old woman.
“However did that pike get there? Or have the people been speaking the
truth to thee after all?” But the peasant stood there, and moved his arms
about, and shrugged his shoulders, and shook his head, as if he could not
believe his own eyes. “Why dost thou keep standing there?” said the old
woman. “Go up the tree, rather, and take the pike; ’twill do for supper.” So
the peasant took the pike, and then they went on further. They passed by the
stream, and the peasant stopped his horse. But his wife began screeching at
him, and said, “What art gaping at now? let us make haste and go
on.”—“Nay, but look! I see something struggling about all round my fish-
basket. I’ll go and see what it is.” So he ran, looked into the fish-basket, and
called to his wife. “Just come and look here, old woman! Why, a hare has
got into our fishing-basket!”—“Then people must have told thee the truth
after all. Fetch it out quickly; it will do for dinner on the feast-day.” The old
man took up the hare, and then went straight towards the treasure. He
pitched away the wood, digged wide and deep, dragged the cauldron out of
the earth, and they took it home.

The old man and the old woman grew rich, they lived right merrily, and the
old woman did not improve; she went to invite guests every day, and gave
such banquets that she nearly drove her husband out of the house. The old
man tried to correct her. “What’s come to thee?” he cried. “Canst thou not
listen to me?”—“Don’t order me about,” said she. “I found the treasure as
well as thou, and have as much right to make merry with it.” The old man
put up with it for a very long time, but at last he said to the old woman
straight out, “Do as best thou canst, but I’m not going to give thee any more

money to cast to the winds.” But the old woman immediately fell foul of
him. “I see what thou art up to,” screeched she; “thou wouldst keep all the
money for thyself. No, thou rogue, I’ll drive thee whither the crows will
pick thy bones. Thou wilt have no good from thy money.” The old man
would have chastised her, but the old woman thrust him aside, and went
straight to the magistrate to lay a complaint against her husband. “I have
come to throw myself on thy honour’s compassion, and to present my
petition against my good-for-nothing husband. Ever since he found that
treasure there is no living with him. Work he won’t, and he spends all his
time in drinking and gadding about. Take away all his gold from him,
father. What a vile thing is gold when it ruins a man so!” The magistrate
was sorry for the old woman, and he sent his eldest clerk to him, and bade
him judge between the husband and wife. The clerk assembled all the
village elders, and went to the peasant and said to him, “The magistrate has
sent me to thee, and bids thee deliver up all thy treasure into my hands.”
The peasant only shrugged his shoulders. “What treasure?” said he. “I know
nothing whatever about any treasure.”—“Not know? Why, thy old woman
has just been to complain to the magistrate, and I tell thee what, friend, if
thou deniest it, ’twill be worse for thee. If thou dost not give up the whole
treasure to the magistrate, thou must give an account of thyself for daring to
search for treasures, and not revealing them to the authorities.”—“But I cry
your pardon, honoured sirs! what is this treasure you are talking of? My
wife must have seen this treasure in her sleep; she has told you a pack of
nonsense, and you listen to her.”—“Nonsense!” burst forth the old woman;
“it is not nonsense, but a whole cauldron full of gold and silver!”—“Thou
art out of thy senses, dear wife. Honoured sirs, I cry your pardon. Cross-
examine her thoroughly about the affair, and if she proves this thing against
me, I will answer for it with all my goods.”—“And dost thou think that I
cannot prove it against thee? Thou rascal, I will prove it. This is how the
matter went, Mr. Clerk,” began the old woman; “I remember it, every bit.
We went to the forest, and we saw a pike on a tree.”—“A pike?” roared the
clerk at the old woman; “or dost thou want to make a fool of me?”—“Nay, I
am not making a fool of thee, Mr. Clerk; I am speaking the simple
truth.”—“There, honoured sirs,” said the old man, “how can you believe her
if she goes on talking such rubbish?”—“I am not talking rubbish, yokel! I
am speaking the truth—or hast thou forgotten how we found a hare in thy
fishing-basket in the stream?”—All the elders rolled about for laughter;

even the clerk smiled, and began to stroke down his long beard. The peasant
again said to his wife, “Recollect thyself, old woman; dost thou not see that
every one is laughing at thee? But ye, honoured gentlemen, can now see for
yourselves how far you can believe my wife.”—“Yes,” cried all the elders,
with one voice, “long as we have lived in the world, we have never heard of
hares living in rivers, and fish hanging on the trees of the forest.” The clerk
himself saw that this was a matter he could not get to the bottom of, so he
dismissed the assembly with a wave of his hand, and went off to town to the
magistrate.

And everybody laughed so much at the old woman that she was forced to
bite her own tongue and listen to her husband; and the husband bought
wares with his treasure, went to live in the town, and began to trade there,
exchanged his wares for money, grew rich and prosperous, and was as
happy as the day was long.

Thomas Berennikov.
Once upon a time there lived in a village a miserably poor peasant called
Tommy Berennikov. Thomas’s tongue could wag right well, and in mother-
wit he was no worse than his neighbours, but he was anything but
handsome to look at, and for working in the fields he was not worth a
button. One day he went into the field to plough. The work was heavy and
his nag was a wretched hack, quite starved and scarce able to drag along the
plough, so at last Tom quite gave way to woe, sat down on a little stone, and
immediately whole swarms of blow-flies and gad-flies fell upon his poor
knacker from every quarter and stuck fast. Thomas seized a bundle of dry
twigs and thwacked his horse about the back with all his might; the horse
never stirred from the spot, and the blow-flies and gad-flies fell off him in
swarms. Thomas began to count how many he had killed, eight gad-flies,
and there was no numbering the slain of the other flies. And Thomas
Berennikov smiled. “That’s something like!” said he, “we’ve killed eight at
a blow! And there’s no counting the smaller fry! What a warrior I am, what
a hero! I won’t plough any more, I’ll fight. I’ll turn hero, and so seek my
fortune!” And he took his crooked sickle from his shoulders, hung up his
bast-basket by his girdle, placed in this basket his blunt scythe, and then he
mounted his hack and wandered forth into the wide world.

He went on and on till he came to a post on which passing heroes had
inscribed their names, and he wrote with chalk on this post, “The hero
Thomas Berennikov has passed by this way, who slew eight at one blow,
and of the smaller fry without number.” This he wrote and went on further.
He had only got a mile from this post when two stalwart young heroes came
galloping up to it, read the inscription, and asked one another, “What
unheard-of hero is this? Whither has he gone? I never heard of his gallant
steed, and there is no trace of his knightly deed!” They followed hard upon
Thomas, overtook him, and were amazed at the sight of him. “What sort of
a horse is the fellow riding on?” cried they; “why, ’tis a mere hack! Then all
this prowess cannot be in the horse, but in the hero himself.” And they both
rode up to Thomas and said to him quite humbly and mildly, “Peace be with

thee, good man.” Thomas looked at them over his shoulder, and without
moving his head, said, “Who are you?”—“Ilia Muromets and Alesha
Popovich; we would fain be thy comrades.”—“Well, maybe you’ll do.
Follow behind me pray.”

They came to the realm of the neighbouring Tsar and went straight into his
preserves; here they let their horses out to graze, and laid themselves down
to rest beneath their tent. The neighbouring Tsar sent out against them a
hundred horsemen of his guard, and bade them drive away the strangers
from his preserves. Ilia Muromets and Alesha Popovich said to Thomas,
“Wilt thou go against them, or wilt thou send us?”—“What, forsooth! do
you think I’d soil my hands by going against such muck! No; go thou, Ilia
Muromets, and show thy prowess.” So Ilia Muromets sat him on his heroic
steed, charged the Tsar’s horsemen, swooped down upon them like a bright
falcon on a flock of doves, smote them, and cut them all down to the very
last one. At this the Tsar was still more wroth, collected all of his host that
was in the town, both horse and foot, and bade his captains drive the
wandering strangers out of his preserves without ceremony. The Tsar’s
army advanced on the preserves, blew with their trumpets, and columns of
dust arose in their path. Ilia Muromets and Alesha Popovich came to
Thomas and said to him, “Wilt thou go thyself against the foe, or wilt thou
send one of us?” But Thomas, who was lying on his side, did not so much
as turn him round, but said to the heroes, “The idea of my coming to blows
with this rabble!—the idea of my soiling my heroic hands with the like of
them! No! Go thou, Alesha Popovich, and show them our style of fighting,
and I’ll look on and see if thy valour be of the right sort.” Alesha rushed
like a whirlwind upon the Tsar’s host, his armour rattled like thunder, he
waved his mace from afar, and shouted with a voice more piercing than the
clang of clarions, “I will slay and smash all of you without mercy!” He flew
upon the host and began crushing it. The captains saw that every one took
to his heels before him, and there was no way of stopping them, so they
blew a retreat with the trumpets, retired towards the town, and came
themselves with an apology to Alesha, and said: “Tell us now, strong and
potent hero, by what name we must call thee, and tell us thy father’s name
that we may honour it. What tribute must we give thee that thou mayst
trouble us no more, and leave our realm in peace?”—“’Tis not to me you
must give tribute!” answered Alesha; “I am but a subordinate. I do what I

am bidden by my elder brother, the famous hero Thomas Berennikov. You
must reckon with him. He will spare you if he pleases, but if he does not
please, he will level your whole kingdom with the ground.” The Tsar heard
these words, and sent Tommy rich gifts and an honourable embassy of
distinguished persons, and bade them say: “We beg the famous hero
Thomas Berennikov to come and visit us, to dwell in our royal court, and
help us to war against the Khan of China. If, O hero, thou dost succeed in
smiting utterly the countless Chinese host, then I will give thee my own
daughter, and after my death thou shalt have the whole realm.” But Tommy
put on a long face and said, “What’s that? Well, well, I don’t mind! I
suppose I may as well consent to that.” Then he mounted his hack,
commanded his heroic younger brethren to ride behind him, and went as a
guest to the neighbouring Tsar.

Tommy had not yet thoroughly succeeded in testing the quality of the Tsar’s
kitchen, he had not yet thoroughly rested from his labours, when there came
a threatening embassy from the Khan of China, demanding that the whole
kingdom should acknowledge him as its liege lord, and that the Tsar should
send him his only daughter. “Tell your Khan,” replied the Tsar, “that I fear
him no longer; I now have a firm support, a sure defence, the famous hero
Thomas Berennikov, who can slay eight at one blow of his sword, and of
the lesser fry without number. If life is not pleasant to your Khan and your
Chinese brethren, come to my empire, and you shall have cause to
remember Thomas Berennikov.” In two days a countless Chinese host
surrounded the city of the Tsar, and the Chinese Khan sent to say, “I have
here an unconquerable hero, the like of whom the world knows not; send
out against him thy Thomas. If thy champion prevails I’ll submit and pay
thee a tribute from my whole Khanate; but if mine prevails, thou must give
me thy daughter, and pay me a tribute from thy whole kingdom.” So now it
was the turn of Thomas Berennikov to show his prowess! And his heroic
younger brothers, Ilia Muromets and Alesha Popovich, said to him:
“Mighty and potent hero, our elder brother, how wilt thou fight against this
Chinaman without armour? Take our martial armour, choose the best of our
heroic horses!” Thomas Berennikov answered thus: “How then? Must I
hide myself in armour from this shaven pate? Why, I could finish off this
Chinaman with one hand quite easily! Why, you yourselves when you first
saw me said, ’Tis plain that we must not look at the horse, but at the

warrior!” But Thomas thought to himself: “I’m in a pretty pickle now! Well,
let the Chinaman kill me if he likes—I’ll not be put to shame over the
business anyhow!” Then they brought him his hack: he mounted it in
peasant style, struck it with his bunch of twigs, and went into the open plain
at a gentle amble.

The Chinese Khan had armed his champion like a fortress; he clothed him
in armour twelve puds (480 lbs.) in weight, taught him the use of every
weapon, put in his hands a battle-axe eighty pounds in weight, and said to
him just before he set out, “Mark me, and recollect my words! When a
Russian hero cannot prevail by force, he will overcome by cunning, so lest
thou should get the worst of it, take care and do everything the Russian hero
does.” So the champions went out against each other into the open field,
and Thomas saw the Chinese hero advancing against him, as big as a
mountain, with his head like a beer-cask, and covered with armour like a
tortoise in its shell, so that he was scarcely able to move. So Tommy had
recourse to artifice. He got off his horse and sat down on a stone and began
to sharpen his scythe. The Chinese hero when he saw that, got off his horse
immediately, fastened it to a tree, and began to whet his axe against a stone
also. When Thomas had finished sharpening his scythe, he marched up to
the Chinaman and said to him, “We two are mighty and potent heroes, we
have come out against each other in mortal combat; but before we pitch into
each other we ought to show each other proper respect, and salute one
another after the custom of the country.” And he saluted the Chinaman with
a low, a very low bow. “Oh, oh!” thought the Chinaman, “here’s some piece
of trickery, I know. I’ll bow yet lower.” And he bowed himself to the very
ground. But before he could raise himself up again in his heavy armour,
Thomas rushed at him, tickled him once or twice in the neck, and so cut his
throat through for him. Then he leaped upon the heroic horse of the
Chinaman, scrambled on the top of it somehow, flourished his birch of
twigs, tried to grasp the reins, and quite forgot that the horse was tied to a
tree. But the good horse, as soon as he felt a rider on his back, tugged and
pulled till he tore the tree up by the roots, and off he set at full gallop
towards the Chinese host, dragging after him the big tree as if it had been a
mere feather. Thomas Berennikov was terribly frightened, and began
bawling, “Help, help!” But the Chinese host feared him more than a
snowstorm, and it seemed to them as if he were crying to them, “Run, run!”

so they took to their heels without once looking back. But the heroic horse
plunged into the midst of them, trampled them beneath its feet, and the huge
tree-trunk scattered them in all directions. Wherever it plunged it left a wide
road behind it.

The Chinese swore that they would never fight with Thomas again, and this
resolution was lucky for Thomas. He returned to the town on his own hack,
and they were all amazed at his strength, valour, and success. “What dost
thou require of me?” said the Tsar to Thomas, “one half of my golden
treasures and my daughter into the bargain, or one half of my glorious
kingdom?” “Well, I’ll take half your kingdom if you like, but I wouldn’t
turn up my nose either at your daughter with half your golden treasure for a
dowry. And look now, when I get married, don’t forget to invite to the
wedding my younger brothers, Ilia Muromets and Alesha Popovich!”

And Thomas married the thrice-lovely Tsarevna, and they celebrated the
wedding so gloriously that the heads of all the guests ached for more than
two weeks afterwards. I too was there, and I drank mead and ale and got
rich gifts, and so my tale is told.

The White Duck.
A powerful and mighty Prince married a thrice-lovely Princess, and he had
not yet had time to look upon her, he had not yet had time to speak to her,
he had not yet had time to listen to her, when he was obliged to depart from
her on a far journey, and leave his young wife in the hands of strangers. The
Princess wept much, and the consolations of the Prince were also many, and
he advised her not to leave her lofty terem,1 not to have anything to do with
bad people, not to listen to evil tongues, and not to consort with strange
women. All this the Princess promised to do. The Prince departed, and she
shut herself up in her own room. There she sat, and never went out.

Whether it was after a long time or after a short time matters not, but one
day she was sitting by her little window, bathed in tears, when a woman
passed by the window. In appearance she was simple and kindly, and she
leaned her elbows on her crutch, rested her chin on her hands, and said to
the Princess in a wheedling, caressing voice: “How’s this, darling little
Princess, thou art for ever fretting? Prythee come now out of thy terem and
have a peep at God’s fair world, or come down into thy little garden among
the sweet green things and drive away thy woe!” For a long time the
Princess refused, she did not even care to listen to the woman’s words, but,
at last, she thought, “There can be no harm in going into the garden,
crossing the brook is another matter.” But she did not know that this woman
was a witch, and had come to ruin her because she envied her her bliss. So
the Princess went with her into the garden, and listened to her cunning,
wheedling words. And in the garden from beneath the mountain trickled a
stream of crystalline water. “What dost thou say now,” said the woman, “the
day is very hot, the sun is burning with all its might, but this darling little
stream is so cold, so refreshing, and hark how it babbles—why should we
not have a bath here?” “Ah, no, no! I won’t,” said the Princess; but she
thought to herself, “But why not? There can be no harm in having a bath!”
So she slipped off her little sarafan,2 and bounded into the water, and no
sooner had she bathed than the witch struck her on the shoulder and said,
“Swim about now as a white duck!” But the witch immediately dressed

herself in the Princess’s robes, tired and painted herself, and sat in place of
the Princess in the terem to await the Prince. And as soon as the little dog
began to bark and the little bell fell a-tinkling, she rushed out to meet him,
threw herself upon his neck, and kissed and fondled him. The Prince was so
overjoyed that he was the first to stretch out his arms towards her, and never
noticed that it was not his wife, but an evil witch who stood before him.

The Princess and the cunning Witch.

Meanwhile the poor duck, dwelling in the bright stream, laid eggs and
hatched its young; two were fair, but the third was still-born, and her babies
grew up into little children. She brought them up, and they began to walk
along the stream, and catch gold-fish, and collect bits of rags, and sew them

coats, and run up the banks, and look at the meadows. But the mother said:
“Oh! don’t go there, my children. There dwells the evil witch. She ruined
me, and she will ruin you!” But the children didn’t listen to their mother,
and one day they played in the grass, and the next day they ran after ants,
and went further and further, and so got into the Prince’s courtyard. The
witch knew them by instinct, and ground her teeth for rage; but she made
herself so nice, called the little children into the out-house, gave them a
good feed, and a good drink, and made them lie down to sleep, and bade her
people light a fire in the courtyard, and put a kettle on it, and sharpen their
knives. The two brothers went to sleep, but the still-born one whom the
mother had bade the others carry in their bosom that he might not catch
cold, the still-born one did not sleep at all, but listened and saw everything.
In the night the witch came to their door and said: “Are you asleep, little
children, or not?” Then the still-born one answered instead of his brothers:
“We do not dream in dreams, but think in our thoughts that you want to cut
up the whole lot of us!—the pyres of maple-branches are blazing, the
kettles are seething, and the knives of steel are sharpening.”—“They are not
asleep,” said the witch, and she went away from the door, walked about and
walked about, and then went to the door again: “Are you asleep, children,
or are you not?” And the still-born again screeched from beneath the pillow
instead of his brethren: “We do not dream in dreams, but think in our
thoughts that you want to cut up the whole lot of us; the pyres of maple-
branches are blazing, the kettles are seething, and the knives of steel are
sharpening.” “How is it that it is always one and the same voice?” thought
the witch; “I’ll just have a peep.” She opened the door very, very softly,
looked in, and saw both the brothers sleeping soundly. Then she killed the
pair of them.

In the morning the white duck began seeking and calling her children, but
her darling children did not come to her calling. Her heart had a foreboding
of evil. She shuddered and flew off to the Prince’s courtyard. In the Prince’s
courtyard, as white as little white kerchiefs, as cold as little cold split fish,
lay the brothers all in a row. She flew down, threw herself upon them,
fluttered her little wings, flew round and round her little ones, and cried
with a mother’s voice:

“Kra, kra, my darling loveys!

Kra, kra, my little doveys!
I brought you up in woe and fears,
I nourished you with grief and tears,
Dark night it brought no sleep to me,
No food was sweet because of ye.”

And the Prince heard the lament, called the witch to him, and said: “Wife,
hast thou heard this thing, this thing unheard of?”—“Thou dost only fancy
it! Hi! my serving-men, drive me this duck out of the courtyard!” They
began driving her out, but she flew round and round, and again said to her
children:

“Kra, kra, my darling loveys!
Kra, kra, my little doveys!
The old, old witch your bane hath been,
The old, old witch, that cruel snake,
That cruel snake that lurks unseen;
Your father from you she did take,
Your father dear, my husband true;
Us in the running stream she threw.
She changed us into ducks so white,
And prospers as if wrong were right!”

The Prince felt that there was something wrong here, and he cried: “Bring
me that white duck hither!” They all hastened to fulfil his command, but the
white duck flew round in a circle, and none could catch her. At last the
Prince himself went out on the balcony, and she flew upon his hands, and
fell at his feet. The Prince took her carefully by her little wing, and said:
“White birch-tree stand behind me, and fair damsel stand before me!” Then
the white duck turned into her former shape of thrice-lovely Princess,
taught them how to get a little bladder of living and speaking water in a
magpie’s nest, sprinkled her children with the living water, and they
shuddered; then she sprinkled them with the speaking water, and they began
to speak. And the Prince suddenly saw himself surrounded by his family all
alive and well, and they all lived together, and lived happily, and chose
good and avoided evil.

But the witch, by the Prince’s command, was fastened to the tail of a horse
and dragged away over the open steppe. The fowls of the air picked her
flesh, and the wild winds of heaven scattered her bones, and there remained
not a trace or a memorial of her behind.

1 The women’s apartments.
2 A long, sleeveless upper garment.

The Tale of Little Fool Ivan.
Far, far away, in a certain kingdom, in a certain Empire, stood a city, and in
this city reigned Tsar Gorokh,1 and the Tsaritsa Morkovya.2 They had many
wise Boyars, rich Princes, strong and mighty heroes, and of the common
run of warriors 100,000 at least. All manner of people dwelt in this city,
worshipful, well-bearded merchants, cunning open-handed sharpers,
German mechanics, Swedish beauties, drunken Russians; and in the suburbs
beyond the town dwelt peasants who tilled the earth, sowed corn, ground it
into meal, took it to the bazaar, and drank away their hard earnings.

In one of these suburbs stood an old hut, and in this hut dwelt an old man
with his three sons, Pakhom, Thomas, and Ivan. The old man was not only
sage, he was cunning, and whenever he chanced to come across the Devil,
he would have a chat with him, make him drunk, and worm many and great
secrets out of him, and then would go away and do such wonders that his
neighbours called him a wizard and a magician, while others honoured him
as a shrewd fellow who knew a thing or two. The old man certainly did
great wonders. If any one were being consumed by the flames of hopeless
love, he had only to pay his respects to the wizard and the old man would
give him some sort of little root which would draw the fickle fair one at
once. If anything were lost he would manage to get it back from the thief,
however it might be hidden, by means of charmed water and a fishing-net.

But wise as the old man was, he could not persuade his sons to walk in his
footsteps. Two of them were great gad-abroads, not because they were wise,
but because they were thorough feather-brains; they never knew when to
run forward or when to hold back. And they married and had children. The
third son was not married, but the old man did not trouble about him,
because his third son was a fool, quite a natural in fact, who couldn’t count
up to three, but could only eat and drink and sleep and lie on the stove.
What was the good of bothering about a fellow like that?—he can manage
to jog along of his own accord much better than a man of sense. And
besides, Ivan was so mild and gentle that butter would not melt in his

mouth. If you asked him for his girdle, he would give you his kaftan3 also;
if you took away his gloves, he would beg you to accept his cap into the
bargain; therefore they all liked Ivan and called him dear little Ivan, or dear
little fool; in short he was a fool from his birth, but very lovable for all that.

So our old man lived and lived with his sons till the hour came when he was
to die. Then the old man called to him his three sons and said to them: “My
dear children, my mortal hour has come, and you must fulfil my wish; each
of you must come with me into my tomb and there pass a night with me;
thou first, Thomas; then thou, Pakhom; and thou third, dear little fool Ivan.”
The two elders, like sensible people, promised to obey his words, but the
fool promised nothing, but only scratched his head.

The old man died. They buried him. They ate pancakes and honey-cakes,
they drank well, and on the first night it was for his eldest son Thomas to go
into his tomb. Whether it was laziness or fear I know not, but he said to
little fool Ivan: “To-morrow I have to get up early to grind corn; go thou
instead of me into our father’s tomb.”—“All right!” answered little fool
Ivan, who took a crust of bread, went to the tomb, lay down, and began to
snore. So it struck midnight, the tomb began to move, the wind blew, the
midnight owl hooted, the tombstone rolled off, and the old man came out of
his tomb and said: “Who’s there?”—“I,” answered little fool Ivan.
—“Good!” answered the old man; “my dear son, I’ll reward thee for
obeying me!” Scarcely had he said these words when the cocks crew and
the old man fell back into the tomb. Little fool Ivan went home and threw
himself on the top of the stove, and his brother asked him: “Well, what
happened?”—“Nothing at all!” said he; “I slept the whole night through,
only I am very hungry, and want something to eat.”

The next night it was the turn of Pakhom, the second son, to go to the tomb
of his father. He fell a-thinking and a-thinking, and at last he said to little
fool Ivan: “I must get up very early to-morrow morning to go to market; go
thou instead of me to my father’s tomb.”—“All right!” replied little fool
Ivan, who took a cake and some cabbage-soup, went to the tomb, and lay
down to sleep. Midnight approached—the tomb began to shake, the tempest
began to howl, a flock of ravens flew round and round it, the stone fell from
the grave, the old man got out of the tomb and asked: “Who’s there?”—“I,”

answered little fool Ivan.—“Good, my beloved son!” replied the old man,
“I’ll not forget thee because thou hast not disobeyed me!” Scarcely had he
uttered these words when the cocks began to crow, and the old man fell
back in his tomb. Little fool Ivan awoke, made himself snug on his stove,
and his brother asked him: “Well, what happened?”—“Nothing at all!”
answered little Ivan. On the third night the brothers said to little fool Ivan:
“Now ’tis thy turn to go to our father’s tomb. A father’s wish must be
fulfilled.”—“By all means!” answered little fool Ivan, who took a fritter,
put on his blouse, and went to the tomb. And at midnight the gravestone
was torn from the tomb, and the old man came out and asked: “Who’s
there?”—“I,” said little fool Ivan. “Good, my obedient son,” answered the
old man, “not in vain hast thou obeyed my will—thou shalt have a reward
for thy faithful service!” And then he shouted with a monstrous voice and
sang with a nightingale’s piping voice: “Hi! thou! sivka-burka, vyeshchy
kaurka4! Stand before me like the leaf before the grass!” And it seemed to
little fool Ivan as if a horse were running, the earth trembled beneath it, its
eyes burned like fire, clouds of smoke poured out of its ears; it ran up, stood
still as though it had taken root in the ground, and said with a human voice:
“What dost thou require?” The old man got into one of its ears, cooled
himself, washed himself, dressed himself finely, and came out of the other
ear so young and handsome that there’s no guessing or imagining it, for no
pen can write nor tale can tell the like of it. “There, my dear son,” said he,
“thou hast my valiant steed; and thou, O horse! my good steed, serve him as
thou hast served me!” He had scarcely uttered these words when the
crowing cocks of the village flapped their wings and sang their morning
song, the magician sank back into his grave, and the grass grew over it.
Little fool Ivan went home step by step; he got home, stretched himself in
his old corner, and snored till the walls trembled. “What is it?” asked his
brothers, but he never answered a word, but only waved his hand.

And so they went on living together, the elder brothers like wise men, the
younger like a fool. Thus they lived on and on, day by day, and just as a
woman rolls thread into a ball, so their days rolled on till it came to their
turn to be rolled. And one day they heard that the captains of the host were
going all about the realm with trumpets and clarions and drums and
cymbals, and they blew their trumpets and beat their drums, and proclaimed
in the bazaars and public places the Tsar’s will, and the will of the Tsar was

this. Tsar Gorokh and Tsaritsa Morkovya had an only daughter, the
Tsarevna Baktriana, the heir to the throne, and so lovely that when she
looked at the sun, the sun was ashamed, and when she regarded the moon,
the moon was abashed. And the Tsar and the Tsaritsa thought to themselves:
To whom shall we give our daughter in marriage that he may govern our
realm, defend it in war, sit as judge in the royal council, help the Tsar in his
old age, and succeed him at the end of his days? The Tsar and the Tsaritsa
sought for a bridegroom who was to be a valiant young warrior, a handsome
hero, who was to love the Tsarevna, and make the Tsarevna love him. But
the love part of the business was not so easy, for there was this great
difficulty: the Tsarevna loved nobody. If her father the Tsar began talking to
her of any bridegroom, she always gave one and the same answer: “I don’t
love him!” If her mother the Tsaritsa began talking to her about any one,
she always answered: “He is not nice!” At last Tsar Gorokh and Tsaritsa
Morkovya said to her: “Dear daughter and darling child, more than thrice
lovely Tsarevna Baktriana, it is now time for thee to choose a bridegroom.
Look now, pray! the wooers, the royal and imperial ambassadors, are all
here at our court; they have eaten all the cakes and drained our cellars dry,
and still thou wilt not choose thee the beloved of thy heart!” Then the
Tsarevna said to them: “My sovereign papa and my sovereign mamma, I am
sorry for your sorrow, and would feign obey your will, but let fate decide
who is to be my intended. Build me a terem5 thirty-two storeys high with a
little bow-window at the top of it. I, the Tsarevna, will sit in this terem just
beneath the window, and you make a proclamation. Let all people come
hither—Tsars, Kings, Tsareviches, Princes, mighty champions, and valiant
youths; and whoever leaps up as high as my little window on his fiery steed
and exchanges rings with me, he shall be my bridegroom, and your son and
successor.” The Tsar and the Tsaritsa followed out the words of their sage
daughter. “Good!” said they. They commanded to be built a costly terem of
two-and-thirty layers of oak beams; they built it up and adorned it with
curious carvings, and hung it all about with Venetian brocade, with pearly
tapestries and cloth of gold, and made proclamations and sent forth carrier-
pigeons, and despatched ambassadors to all kingdoms, summoning all men
to assemble together in the empire of Tsar Gorokh and Tsaritsa Morkovya,
and whoever leaped on his proud steed as high as the two-and-thirty oaken
beams and exchanged rings with the Tsarevna Baktriana, he was to be her
bridegroom and inherit the kingdom with her, whether he were a Tsar or a

King, or a Tsarevich or a Prince, or even nothing but a free, bold-handed
Cossack with neither birth nor ancestry.

The day was fixed. The people crowded into the meadows where the
Tsarevna’s terem was built as if sewn with stars, and the Tsarevna herself
sat beneath the window arrayed in pearls and brocade, and lace, and the
most precious of precious stones. The mob of people surged and roared like
the great sea Ocean. The Tsar and the Tsaritsa sat on their throne, and
around them stood their grandees, their Boyars, their captains, and their
heroes. And the wooers of the Tsarevna Baktriana came and pranced and
galloped, but when they saw the terem their hearts died away within them.
The youths tried their best; they ran, they bounded, they leaped, and fell
back on the ground again like sheaves of barley, to the amusement of the
crowd.

In those days when the valiant wooers of the Tsarevna Baktriana were
trying their best to win her, the brothers of little fool Ivan took it into their
heads to go thither and see the fun. So they got them ready, and little fool
Ivan said: “Take me with you too!”—“What, fool!” answered his brother;
“sit at home and look after the fowls! What hast thou got to do with
it!”—“You’re right!” said he, and he went to the fowl-house and lay down
there. But when his brethren had departed, little fool Ivan went into the
open plain, on to the wide steppe, cried with a warrior’s voice, and whistled
with a heroic whistle: “Hi! thou! sivka-burka, vyeshchy kaurka! Stand
before me like the leaf before the grass!” And lo! the valiant charger came
running up, the earth trembled, flames shot out of his eyes, and clouds of
smoke from his ears, and it said with a human voice: “How can I serve
thee?” Little fool Ivan crept into one ear, washed and combed himself, and
crept out of the other ear so young and handsome, that books cannot
describe it, nor the eye of man bear the sight of it. And he sat him on his
good horse, and struck its sturdy ribs with a whip of Samarcand silk, and
his horse chafed and fumed, and rose from the earth higher than the
standing woods, but lower than the moving clouds, and when it came to the
large streams it swam them, and when it came to the little streams it
brushed them away with its tail, and opened wide its legs for the mountains
to pass between them. And little fool Ivan leaped up to the terem of the
Tsarevna Baktriana, rose like a bright falcon, leaped over thirty of the two-

and-thirty beams of oak, and dashed along like a passing tempest. The
people roared: “Hold him, stop him!” The Tsar leaped up, the Tsaritsa cried
“Oh!” The people were astonished.

The brothers of little fool Ivan returned home and said to each other: “That
was something like a hero; he only missed two storeys.” “Why, that was I,
brothers!” said little fool Ivan. “Thou indeed! Hold thy tongue, fool, and lie
on the stove and eat cinder cakes!”

The next day the brothers of little fool Ivan again assembled at the Tsar’s
sports, and little fool Ivan said to them: “Take me with you!”—“Take thee,
fool!” said the brothers; “just sit at home and keep the sparrows from the
peas instead of a scarecrow! What hast thou to do with it!”—“That’s true!”
said he, went among the peas, sat down, and scared away the sparrows. But
when his brothers had gone, little fool Ivan shuffled off into the open plain,
into the wide steppe, and roared with a martial voice, and whistled shrilly
with a heroic whistle: “Hi! thou! sivka-burka, vyeshchy kaurka! Stand
before me like the leaf before the grass!” And lo! his valiant steed came
running, the earth trembled, sparks flew from beneath his prancing hoofs, a
fire burned in his eyes, and smoke rolled in clouds from his ears. He said
with a human voice: “What dost thou require?” Little fool Ivan crept into
one of the horse’s ears, and crept out of the other so young and comely that
the like of it was never heard of in tales or seen in reality, and he sat on his
brave horse and beat its iron ribs with a Circassian whip. And his horse
chafed and fumed, and rose from the earth, higher than the standing woods,
lower than the moving clouds; at one bound it went a league of the ancient
measure: at the second bound it whizzed across the broad river; and at the
third bound it reached the terem. It rose into the air like an eagle into the
sky, leaped as high as thirty-one of the two-and-thirty oaken beams, and
flew past like a passing whirlwind. The people cried: “Hold him, stop him!”
The Tsar leaped from his seat, the Tsaritsa cried “Oh!” The Princes and the
Boyars stood there with gaping mouths.

The brothers of little fool Ivan returned home and said to each other: “Why,
that young warrior of to-day was even better than the warrior of yesterday;
there was only one oak beam he could not get as high as!”—“Why,

brothers, that was I!” said little fool Ivan.—“Hold thy tongue! Thou indeed!
Lie on the stove, and don’t talk bosh!”

On the third day the brothers of little fool Ivan again made them ready to go
to the great spectacle, but little fool Ivan said: “Take me with you!”—“A
fool like thee!” replied his brethren; “just stay at home and mix the slush in
the trough for the pigs. What art thou thinking of!”—“As you please!” said
he, and went into the backyard, and began to feed the swine, and grunt
along with them. But when his brothers had gone, little fool Ivan shambled
off to the open plain, to the wide steppe, and howled with a martial voice,
and whistled as only heroes can whistle: “Hi! thou! sivka-burka, vyeshchy
kaurka! Stand before me like the leaf before the grass!” And lo! the valiant
charger came running, the earth trembled; where it touched the ground with
its foot springs gushed forth, and where it struck the ground with its hoof
lakes appeared, and flames came from its eyes, and clouds of smoke welled
from its ears. It cried with a human voice: “What dost thou require?” Little
fool Ivan crept into one of his horse’s ears, and crept out of the other a
youthful warrior, so handsome that no lovely maiden ever dreamed the like
of him in her dreams, and a hundred sages meditating for a hundred years
could not have imagined it. He struck his horse on the backbone, drew tight
the rein, sat in the saddle, and rushed away so swiftly that the fleeting wind
could not overtake him, and the dear little house-swallow would not vie
with him. He flew like a cloud of the sky, his silver harness hissed and
gleamed, his yellow locks floated in the wind; he flew towards the
Tsarevna’s terem, struck his horse about the ribs, and his horse leaped like a
cruel serpent, and leaped as high as the two-and-thirty oaken beams. Little
fool Ivan caught the Tsarevna Baktriana in his heroic hands, kissed her
sugary lips, exchanged rings with her, and was borne as by a whirlwind into
the meadow, overturning all that met him or stood in his way. The Tsarevna
only just succeeded in fastening a diamond star on his forehead—and the
mighty warrior had vanished. Tsar Gorokh leaped to his feet, the Tsaritsa
Morkovya said “Oh!” The Tsar’s councillors wrung their hands one after
another, but spake never a word.

The brothers of little fool Ivan returned home and began to talk about and
discuss the matter: “Well, the hero of to-day was the best of all; he is now
the bridegroom of our Tsarevna. But who is he?”—“Why, brothers, it was

I,” said little fool Ivan.—“Hold thy tongue! Thou indeed! Go and eat cinder
cakes and toad-stools, but keep thy tongue well between thy teeth!” But
Tsar Gorokh commanded them to surround the city with a strong watch, and
let in every one, but let out no one, and proclaim that all people, under pain
of death, from the eldest to the youngest, were to come into the Tsar’s
courts and do homage, that it might appear on whose forehead was the
diamond star which the Tsarevna had fastened to her bridegroom. From
very early in the morning the people came crowding together. They looked
at everybody’s forehead, but there was no star, and no trace of a star. It was
now dinner-time, yet not a single table in the halls of the Tsar was yet laid
for dinner. The brothers of little fool Ivan also came thither to show their
foreheads at the Tsar’s command, and Ivan said to them: “Take me with
you!”—“Take thee!” said the brothers; “sit in thy corner and catch flies! But
why hast thou tied thy forehead round with rags, or hast thou damaged
it?”—“Yesterday, when you went out, as I was gaping about, I struck my
forehead against the door, the door took no hurt, but a big lump sprang out
on my forehead!” As soon as his brothers had gone, little fool Ivan passed
right below the little window where the Tsarevna was sitting troubled at
heart. The soldiers of the Tsar saw him, and asked: “Why hast thou bound
up thy forehead? Show it! Is there not a star on thy forehead?” Little fool
Ivan would not let them look, and withstood them. The soldiers began to
make a to-do, the Tsarevna heard it, and bade them bring little fool Ivan to
her, took the clouts from his forehead—and behold! there was the star. She
took little fool Ivan by the hand, led him to Tsar Gorokh, and said: “Look,
dear sovereign papa! this is my intended bridegroom, and thy son-in-law
and successor!” There was nothing more to be said. The Tsar commanded
the banquet to be made ready; they married little fool Ivan and the Tsarevna
Baktriana; for three days they ate and drank and made merry, and amused
themselves with all manner of amusements. The Tsar made the brothers of
little fool Ivan captains of his host, and gave them a village and a large
house apiece.

The tale of it is soon told, but the deed thereof is not soon done. The
brethren of little fool Ivan were wise, and when they grew rich it is not
strange that all men gave them out for wise men at once. And when the
brethren of little fool Ivan became great people, they began to be proud and
haughty, would not suffer men of low degree to come into their courtyards

at all, and made even the old voevods and Boyars, when they came to see
them, take off their caps on the stairs. So the Boyars came to Tsar Gorokh
and said: “Sovereign Tsar! the brethren of thy son-in-law boast that they
know where the apple tree grows that hath silver leaves and golden apples,
and they want to get this apple tree for thee!” The Tsar sent for the brethren
of little fool Ivan, and told them that they might fetch for him this apple tree
with the silver leaves and the golden apples; and as they had nothing to say
they were obliged to go. The Tsar bade them take horses from the royal
stables for their journey, and they set out on their journey to find the apple
tree with the silver leaves and the golden apples. And in those days little
fool Ivan arose, took his old hack of a horse, sat on it with his face to the
tail, and rode out of the city. He went into the open plain, seized his jade by
the tail, threw it into the open field, and said: “Come, ye crows and kites,
here’s a breakfast for you.” Then he called his good horse, crept in at one
ear and out at the other, and his horse carried him to the East where grew
the apple tree with silver leaves and golden apples, on the silver waters, by
the golden sands, and he pulled it up by the roots, went back, and before he
got to the town of Tsar Gorokh, he pitched his tent with its silver tent-pole
and laid him down to rest. Now his brethren were going along by this road,
their noses hung down, and they did not know what to say to the Tsar by
way of excuse, and they saw the tent and the apple tree beside it, and they
awoke little fool Ivan, and they began to bargain with him for it, and offered
him three cart-loads of silver. “The apple tree is mine, gentlemen; it was not
sold and purchased, but bequeathed by will,” said little fool Ivan to them.
“Yet a will is no great matter: cut off a toe from the right foot of each one of
you, and I’ll say done!” The brothers laid their heads together, but there was
nothing for it but to agree. So little fool Ivan cut off one of their toes apiece
and gave them the apple tree, and they brought it to the Tsar and boasted
mightily. “Behold, O Tsar!” said they, “we have travelled far, we have
suffered many hardships, but we have performed thy will.” Tsar Gorokh
was overjoyed. He made a great feast, bade them beat the drums, and play
on the trumpets and pipes, and he rewarded the brothers of little fool Ivan,
and gave them a city apiece, and praised their faithful service.

Then the other voevods and Boyars said to him: “It is not a very great
service to bring the apple tree with silver leaves and golden apples. The
brothers of thy son-in-law boast that they would go to the Caucasus and

fetch thee the swine with golden bristles, and silver teeth, and twenty
sucking-pigs.” Tsar Gorokh sent for the brothers of little fool Ivan, and told
them to bring him the swine with the golden bristles, and the silver teeth,
and the twenty sucklings; and as they had nothing to say for themselves,
they dared not disobey. So they went on their way to find for the Tsar’s
pleasure the little pig with the golden bristles, and the silver teeth, and the
twenty sucklings. And at that very time little fool Ivan arose and saddled his
cow, and sat upon it with his face to the tail, and went out of the city. He
went into the open plain, seized his cow by the horn, threw her into the
field, and cried: “Gallop along, ye gray wolves and pretty little foxes!
Here’s a dinner for you!” Then he called his good horse, and crept in at one
ear and out at the other, and his horse bore him to lands of the South, and
bore him into a dreary wood where the little swine with the golden bristles
was rooting up roots with its silver tusks, and twenty sucking-pigs were
running after her. Little fool Ivan threw a silk lasso over the little swine,
strapped the sucklings to his saddle, turned back, and when he was not very
far from the city of Gorokh, pitched his tent with the golden tent-pole, and
lay down to rest. Now his brothers were coming along that same way, and
were thinking what they could say to the Tsar. Suddenly they saw the tent,
and close by it tied by the silken lasso the little swine with the golden
bristles, and the silver tusks, and the twenty sucklings. They awoke little
fool Ivan, and began to bargain with him for the swine. “We’ll give thee
three sacks of precious stones,” they cried. “The little swine is mine,
gentlemen,” said little Ivan the fool; “it is not sold or purchased, but
bequeathed by will; but a will is no great matter; let each of you cut me off
a finger from his hand, and I’ll cry done!” The brothers laid their heads
together and talked the matter over: “People can live without brains, why
not without fingers also?” thought they. So they let little fool Ivan cut off a
finger from each of them, and he gave them the swine, which they took to
the Tsar, and they praised themselves more than ever. “Tsar!” said they, “we
have been beyond the distant sea, beyond the impenetrable woods, beyond
the shifting sands; we have suffered cold and hunger, but we have fulfilled
thy commands.” The Tsar was overjoyed to have such faithful servants,
gave a great banquet to all the world, rewarded the brethren of little fool
Ivan, made them great Boyars, and could not praise their services
sufficiently.

Then the other voevods and Boyars came to him and said: “’Tis not such a
very great service, O Tsar! to bring thee the little swine with the golden
bristles, and the silver tusks, and the twenty sucklings. A swine’s a swine all
the world over, though it has got golden tusks! But the brethren of thy son-
in-law boast that they can do a yet greater service; they say they can get
thee from the stables of the Serpent Goruinich,6 the golden-maned horse
with the diamond hoofs.” Tsar Gorokh sent for the brethren of little fool
Ivan, and bade them fetch him from the stables of the Serpent Goruinich,
the golden-maned mare with the diamond hoofs. Then the brothers of little
fool Ivan began protesting that they had never said such words. But the Tsar
would not listen to a word of it. “Take of my treasures without tale or
count,” said he, “and of my host as much as you will. Bring me hither the
golden-maned mare. Ye are the first in my realm, but if you bring her not, I
will again degrade you into ragamuffins.” So these good warriors, these
useful heroes, departed, scarce able to drag one foot after another, and not
knowing whither they were going. And in the self-same time little fool Ivan
arose, sat astride his little stick, went out into the open plain, into the wide
steppe, called his good horse, crept into one ear and out at the other, and his
horse took him into the west country, towards the great island where the
Serpent Goruinich guarded in his iron stable, behind seven bolts, behind
seven doors, the golden-maned mare with the diamond hoofs. The horse
went on and on, near and far, high and low, and little fool Ivan arrived at the
island, fought three days with the Serpent till he killed it, spent three days
more in bursting the locks and breaking the doors, took out the golden-
maned mare by the mane, went back, and had not gone many miles when he
stopped, pitched his tent with the diamond tent-pole, and laid him down to
rest. And behold his brethren were coming along by the same way, and
knew not what they should say to Tsar Gorokh. All at once they felt the
ground tremble—’twas the neighing of the golden-maned mare! They
looked about them, and there was a little light like a candle burning in the
dark distance—’twas the golden mane which burned like fire. They
stopped, awoke little fool Ivan, and began to bargain with him for the mare;
they said they would each give him a sack of precious stones. “The mare is
mine, gentlemen, ’tis not for purchase or sale, but was bequeathed by will,”
said little fool Ivan. “However, a will is not such a great matter; let each of
you cut him an ear off, and I’ll cry done!” The brothers did not say him nay,
but they let little fool Ivan cut off an ear from each one of them, and he

gave them the mare with the golden mane and the diamond hoofs, and they
puffed themselves out and talked big, and lied boastingly till it made your
ears ache to hear them. “We went,” said they to the Tsar, “beyond lands
thrice-ten, beyond the great sea Ocean, we strove with the Serpent
Goruinich, and look! he bit off our ears, but for thy sake we reck not of life
or goods, but would swim through rivers of blood, and would sacrifice limb
and substance in thy service.” In his joy Tsar Gorokh measured them out
riches without number, made them the first of his Boyars, and got ready
such a feast that the royal kitchens were not big enough for it, though they
cooked and roasted there three days, while the royal wine-cellars ran dry,
and at the banquet Tsar Gorokh placed one of the brethren of little fool Ivan
at his right hand, and the other at his left. And the feast proceeded right
merrily, and the guests had eaten themselves half full, and drank themselves
half full, and were humming and buzzing like bees in a hive, when they saw
entering the palace a gallant warrior, little fool Ivan, in just the same guise
as when he had leaped as high as the two-and-thirty oaken beams. And
when his brothers saw him, one of them nearly choked himself with a drop
of wine from his beaker, and the other nearly suffocated himself with a bit
of roast swan, and they wrung their hands, rolled their eyes, and could not
utter a word. Little fool Ivan bowed low to his father-in-law, the Tsar, and
told how he had got the apple tree with the silver leaves and the golden
apples, and after that the swine with the golden bristles and the silver tusks
and the twenty sucklings, and after that the golden-maned mare with the
diamond hoofs; and he drew out the fingers, and the toes, and the ears for
which he had sold them to his brethren.

Then Tsar Gorokh was very wroth, and stamped with his feet, and bade
them drive out the brothers of little fool Ivan with broomsticks, and one of
them he sent to tend his swine in the cattle-yard, and the other he sent to
look after the turkeys in the poultry-yard.

But little fool Ivan he set beside himself, and made him the chief over the
Boyars, and the captain of the captains. And long did they feast together in
gladness of heart, till everything was eaten and everything was drunk up.
And little fool Ivan began to rule the realm, and his rule was wise and
terrible, and on the death of his father-in-law he took his place. His children
were many, and his subjects loved him, and his neighbours feared him, but

the Tsarina Baktriana was just as beautiful in her old age as when she was
young.

1 Pea.
2 Carrot.
3 Coat.
4 Grizzled, dark-brown, red-brown, knowing steed.
5 The women’s apartments in old Russian houses.
6 Dweller in the mountains.

The Little Feather of Fenist the Bright Falcon.
Once upon a time there was an old widower who lived with his three
daughters. The elder and the middle one were fond of show and finery, but
the youngest only troubled herself about household affairs, although she
was of a loveliness which no pen can describe and no tale can tell. One day
the old man got ready to go to market in the town, and said: “Now, my dear
daughters, say! what shall I buy for you at the fair?”—The eldest daughter
said: “Buy me, dear dad, a new dress!”—The middle daughter said: “Buy
me, dear dad, a silk kerchief!”—But the youngest daughter said: “Buy me,
dear dad, a little scarlet flower!”—The old man went to the fair; he bought
for his eldest daughter a new dress, for his middle daughter a silk kerchief,
but though he searched the whole town through he could not find a little
scarlet flower. He was already on his way back when there met him a little
old man, whom he knew not, and this little old man was carrying a little
scarlet flower. Our old man was delighted, and he asked the stranger: “Sell
me thy little scarlet flower, thou dear little old man!”—The old man
answered him: “My little scarlet flower is not for sale, ’tis mine by will, it
has no price and cannot be priced, but I’ll let thee have it as a gift if thou
wilt marry thy youngest daughter to my son!”—“And who then is thy son,
dear old man?”—“My son is the good and valiant warrior-youth Fenist the
bright falcon. By day he dwells in the sky beneath the high clouds, at night
he descends to the earth as a lovely youth.”—Our old man fell a-thinking; if
he did not take the little scarlet flower he would grieve his daughter, and if
he did take it there was no knowing what sort of a match he would be
making. He thought and thought, and at last he took the little scarlet flower,
for it occurred to him that if this Fenist the bright falcon, who was thus to
be wedded to his daughter, did not please him, it would be possible to break
the match off. But no sooner had the strange old man given him the little
scarlet flower than he vanished from before his eyes just as if he had never
met him at all. The old man scratched his head and began to ponder still
more earnestly: “I don’t like the look of it at all!” he said, and when he got
home he gave his elder daughters their things, and his youngest daughter
her little scarlet flower, and said to her: “I don’t like thy little scarlet flower

a bit, my daughter; I don’t like it at all!”—“Wherefore so vexed at it, dear
father?” quoth she. Then he stooped down and whispered in her ear: “The
little scarlet flower of thine is willed away; it has no price, and money could
not buy it me—I have married thee beforehand for it to the son of the
strange old man whom I met in the way, to Fenist the bright falcon.” And he
told her everything that the old man had told him of his son. “Grieve not,
dear father!” said the daughter; “judge not of my intended by the sight of
thine eyes, for though he come a-flying, we shall love him all the same.”
And the lovely daughter shut herself up in her little gabled chamber, put her
little scarlet flower in water, opened her window, and looked forth into the
blue distance. Scarcely had the sun settled down behind the forest when,
whence he came who knows, Fenist the bright falcon darted up in front of
her little window. He had feathers like flowers, he lit upon the balustrade,
fluttered into the little window, flopped down upon the floor, and turned
into a goodly young warrior. The damsel was terrified, she very nearly
screamed; but the good youth took her tenderly by the hand, looked
tenderly into her eyes, and said: “Fear me not, my destined bride! Every
evening until our marriage I will come flying to thee; whenever thou placest
in the window the little scarlet flower I’ll appear before thee. And here is a
little feather out of my little wing, and whatever thou mayest desire, go but
out on the balcony and wave this little feather—and immediately it will
appear before thee.” Then Fenist the bright falcon kissed his bride and
fluttered out of the window again. And he found great favour in her eyes,
and from henceforth she placed the little scarlet flower in the window every
evening, and so it was that whenever she placed it there the goodly warrior-
youth, Fenist the bright falcon, came down to her.

Thus a whole week passed by, and Sunday came round. The elder sisters
decked themselves out to go to church, and attired themselves in their new
things, and began to laugh at their younger sister. “What art thou going to
wear?” said they; “thou hast no new things at all.” And she answered: “No,
I have nothing, so I’ll stay at home.” But she bided her time, went out on
the balcony, waved her flowery feather in the right direction, and, whence I
know not, there appeared before her a crystal carriage and stud-horses and
servants in gold galloon, and they brought for her a splendid dress
embroidered with precious stones. The lovely damsel sat in the carriage,
and went to church. When she entered the church, every one looked at her,

and marvelled at her beauty and her priceless splendour. “Some Tsarevna or
other has come to our church, depend upon it!” the good people whispered
among themselves. When the service was over, our beauty got into her
carriage and rolled home; got into the balcony, waved her flowery feather
over her left shoulder, and in an instant the carriage and the servants and the
rich garments had disappeared. The sisters came home and saw her sitting
beneath the little window as before: “Oh, sister!” cried they, “thou hast no
idea what a lovely lady was at mass this morning; ’twas a thing marvellous
to behold, but not to be described by pen or told in tales.”

Two more weeks passed by, and two more Sundays, and the lovely damsel
threw dust in the eyes of the people as before, and took in her sisters, her
father, and all the other orthodox people. But on the last occasion, when she
was taking off her finery, she forgot to take out of her hair her diamond pin.
The elder sisters came from church, and began to tell her about the lovely
Tsarevna, and as their eyes fell upon her hair they cried with one voice:
“Ah! little sister, what is that thou hast got?” The lovely damsel cried also,
and ran off into her little room beneath the gables. And from that time forth
the sisters began to watch the damsel, and to listen of a night at her little
room, and discovered and perceived how at dawn Fenist the bright falcon
fluttered out of her little window and disappeared behind the dark woods.
And the sisters thought evil of their younger sister. And they strewed pieces
of broken glass on the window-sill of their sister’s little dormer chamber,
and stuck sharp knives and needles there, that Fenist the bright falcon when
he lit down upon the window might wound himself on the knives. And at
night Fenist the bright falcon flew down and beat vainly with his wings, and
beat again, but could not get through the little window, but only wounded
himself on the knives and cut and tore his wings. And the bright falcon
lamented and fluttered upwards, and cried to the fair damsel: “Farewell,
lovely damsel! farewell, my betrothed! Thou shalt see me no more in thy
little dormer chamber! Seek me in the land of Thrice-nine, in the empire of
Thrice-ten. The way thither is far, thou must wear out slippers of iron, thou
must break to pieces a staff of cast-iron, thou must fret away reins of stone,
before thou canst find me, good maiden!” And at the self-same hour a
heavy sleep fell upon the damsel, and through her sleep she heard these
words yet could not awaken. In the morning she awoke, and lo! knives and
needles were planted on the window-sill, and blood was trickling from

them. All pale and distraught, she wrung her hands and cried: “Lo! my
distresses have destroyed my darling beloved!” And the same hour she
packed up and started from the house and went to seek her bright-white
love, Fenist the shining falcon.

The damsel went on and on through many gloomy forests, she went through
many dreary morasses, she went through many barren wildernesses, and at
last she came to a certain wretched little hut. She tapped at the window and
cried: “Host and hostess, shelter me, a poor damsel, from the dark night!”
An old woman came out upon the threshold: “We crave thy pardon, lovely
damsel! Whither art thou going, lovey-dovey?”—“Alas! granny, I seek my
beloved Fenist the bright falcon. Wilt thou not tell me where to find
him?”—“Nay, I know not, but pray go to my middle sister, she will show
thee the right way; and lest thou shouldst stray from the path, take this little
ball; whithersoever it rolls, thither will be thy way!” The lovely damsel
passed the night with the old woman, and on the morrow, when she was
departing, the old woman gave her a little gift. “Here,” said she, “is a silver
spinning-board and a golden spindle; thou wilt spin a spindle full of flax
and draw out threads of gold. The time will come when my gift will be of
service to thee.” The damsel thanked her, and followed the rolling ball.
Whether ’twere a long time or a short matters not, but the ball rolled all the
way to another little hut. The damsel opened the door and the second old
woman opened it. The old woman asked her questions and said to her:
“Thou hast still a long way to go, damsel, and it will be no light matter to
find thy betrothed. But look now! when thou comest to my elder sister she
will be able to tell thee better than I can. But take this gift from me for thy
journey—a silver saucer and a golden apple. The time will come when they
will be of use to thee.” The damsel passed the night in the hut, and then
went on further after the rolling ball; she went through the woods further
and further, and at every step the woods grew blacker and denser, and the
tops of the trees reached to the very sky. The ball rolled right up to the last
hut; an old woman came out upon the threshold and invited the lovely
damsel to take shelter from the dark night. The damsel told the old woman
whither she was going and what she sought. “Thine is a bad business, my
child!” said the old woman; “thy Fenist the bright falcon is betrothed to the
Tsarevna over sea, and will shortly be married to her. When thou gettest out
of the wood on to the shores of the blue sea, sit on a little stone, take out thy

silver spinning-board and thy golden spindle and sit down and spin, and the
bride of Fenist the bright falcon will come out to thee and will buy thy
spindle from thee, but thou must take no money for it, only ask to see the
flowery feathers of Fenist the bright falcon!” The damsel went on further,
and the road grew lighter and lighter, and behold! there was the blue sea;
free and boundless it lay before her, and there, far, far away above the
surface of the sea, bright as a burning fire, gleamed the golden summits of
the marble palace halls. “Surely that is the realm of my betrothed which is
visible from afar!” thought the lovely damsel, and she sat upon the little
stone, took out her silver spinning-board and her golden spindle, and began
spinning flax and drawing golden thread out of it. And all at once, she saw
coming to her along the sea-shore, a certain Tsarevna, with her nurses and
her guards and her faithful servants, and she came up to her and watched
her working, and began to bargain with her for her silver spinning-board
and her golden spindle. “I will give them to thee for nothing, Tsarevna, only
let me look on Fenist the bright falcon!” For a long time the Tsarevna would
not consent, but at last she said: “Very well, come and look at him when he
is lying down to rest after dinner, and drive the flies away from him!” And
she took from the damsel the silver spinning-board and the golden spindle
and went to her terem, made Fenist the bright falcon drunk after dinner with
a drink of magic venom, and then admitted the damsel when an unwakable
slumber had overpowered him. The damsel sat behind his pillow, and her
tears flowed over him in streams. “Awake, arise, Fenist the bright falcon!”
said she to her love; “I, thy lovely damsel, have come to thee from afar; I
have worn out slippers of iron, I have ground down a staff of steel, I have
fretted away reins of stone; everywhere and all times have I been seeking
thee, my love.” But Fenist the bright falcon slept on, nor knew nor felt that
the lovely damsel was weeping and mourning over him. Then the Tsarevna
also came in, and bade them lead out the lovely damsel, and awoke Fenist
the bright falcon. “I have slept for long,” said he to his bride, “and yet it
seemed to me as if some one has been here and wept and lamented over
me.”—“Surely thou hast dreamt it in thy dreams?” said the Tsarevna; “I
myself was sitting here all the time, and suffered not the flies to light on
thee.”

The Damsel went on further, and the road grew lighter and lighter, and behold!
there was the blue sea.

The next day the damsel again sat by the sea, and held in her hands the
silver saucer and rolled the little golden apple about on it. The Tsarevna
came out walking again, went up to her, looked on and said, “Sell me thy

toy!”—“My toy is not merchandise, but an inheritance; let me but look once
more on Fenist the bright falcon, and thou shalt have it as a gift.”—“Very
well, come again in the evening, and drive the flies away from my
bridegroom!” And again she gave Fenist the bright falcon a drink of magic
sleeping venom and admitted the lovely damsel to his pillow. And the
lovely damsel began to weep over her love, and at last one of the burning
tears fell from her eyes upon his cheeks. Then Fenist the bright falcon
awoke from his heavy slumbers and cried, “Alas! who was it who burned
me?”—“Oh, darling of my desires!” said the lovely damsel, “I, thy maiden,
have come to thee from afar. I have worn out shoes of iron, I have worn
down staves of steel, I have gnawed away wafers of stone, and have sought
thee everywhere, my beloved! This is the second day that I, thy damsel,
have sorrowed over thee, and thou wokest not from thy slumber, nor made
answer to my words!” Then only did Fenist the bright falcon know his
beloved again, and was so overjoyed that words cannot tell of it. And the
damsel told him all that had happened, how her wicked sisters had envied
her, how she had wandered from land to land, and how the Tsarevna had
bartered him for toys. Fenist fell in love with her more than ever, kissed her
on her sugary mouth, and bade them set the bells a-ringing without delay,
and assemble the Boyars and the Princes and the men of every degree in the
market-place. And he began to ask them, “Tell me, good people, and answer
me according to good sense, which bride ought I to take to wife and shorten
the sorrow of life: her who sold me, or her who bought me back again?”
And the people declared with one voice, “Her who bought thee back
again!” And Fenist the bright falcon did so. They crowned him at the altar
the same day in wedlock with the lovely damsel. The wedding was joyous
and boisterous and magnificent. I also was at this wedding, and drank wine
and mead, and the bumpers overflowed, and every one had his fill, and the
beard was wet when the mouth was dry.

The Tale of the Peasant Demyan.
Whether it is a long time ago or a short time ago I cannot say, but I know
that once upon a time, in a certain village, dwelt a peasant who was
headstrong and hot-tempered, and his name was Demyan. He was austere
and hard and stern, always seeking an occasion to quarrel, and dealing
hardly with whom-soever he fell out. Whatever any one said or did to him,
he was always ready with his fists. He would invite a neighbour to be his
guest, for instance, and force him to eat, and if the neighbour hung back a
bit for bashfulness or courtesy, our peasant would pitch into him at once
and cry, “In a strange house obey thy host!”

Now this is what happened one day. A smart, sturdy young fellow came to
little Demyan as a guest, and our peasant regaled him finely, and filled the
table with meat and drink. The young fellow pulled everything towards
himself, dish after dish, and munched away in silence with both cheeks
crammed full. Our peasant stared and stared, and at last he took off his
cloak and said, “Take off thy blouse, and put on my cloak!” But he thought
to himself, “He is sure to refuse, and then I’ll show him something!” But
the youth put on the cloak, tied it round with his girdle, bowed low and
said, “Well, little father! I thank thee for thy gift. I dare not refuse, for in a
strange house one must obey the host.”

The host was furious; he wanted to pick a quarrel with him now at any
price, so he ran into the stable, got out his best horse, and said to the youth,
“Nothing is too good for thee! Here, mount my horse, and take it away as
thine own!” But he thought, “He’ll be sure to refuse, and then I’ll teach him
a lesson.” But the youth again said, “In a strange house we must always
obey the host!” Only when he was fairly mounted did he turn round to the
peasant Demyan and cry, “Farewell, mine host! Nobody pushed thee, but
thou didst fall into the ditch of thine own self!” and he trotted out of the
courtyard right away.

But the host looked after him, shook his head, and said, “The scythe has
struck upon a stone!”1

1 I. e. I’ve met my match at last.

The Enchanted Ring.
In a certain kingdom in a certain empire, there lived, once upon a time, an
old man and an old woman, and they had a son called little Martin. Time
went on, the old man fell ill and died, and though he had worked hard all
his days, the only inheritance he left behind him was two hundred rubles.1
The old woman did not want to waste this money, but what was to be done?
There was nothing to eat, so she had to have recourse to the pot containing
the patrimony. The old woman counted out a hundred rubles, and sent her
son to town to buy provision of bread for a whole year. So Martin the
widow’s son went to town. He went past the meat market, and saw crowds
of people gathered together, and his ears were deafened by the din and noise
and racket. Little Martin went into the midst of the throng and saw that the
butchers had caught a terrier, and had fastened it to a post, and were beating
it unmercifully. Little Martin was sorry for the poor dog, and said to the
butchers, “My brothers! why do you beat the poor dog so
unmercifully?”—“Why should we not beat him, when he has spoiled a
whole quarter of beef?”—“Yet, beat him not, my brothers! ’Twere better to
sell him to me!”—“Buy him if you like then!” said the butchers, mockingly,
“but for such a treasure as that we could not take less than a hundred
rubles.”—“Well, one hundred rubles is only one hundred rubles after all!”
replied little Martin, and he drew out the money and gave it for the dog. But
the dog’s name was Jurka.2 Martin then went home, and his mother asked
him, “What hast thou bought?”—“Why look, I have bought Jurka!” replied
her son. His mother fell a-scolding him, and reproached him bitterly: “Art
thou not ashamed? Soon we shall not have a morsel to eat, and thou hast
gone and thrown away so much money on a pagan dog.” The next day the
old woman sent her son into the town again, and said to him, “Now there is
our last one hundred rubles, buy with it provision of bread. To-day I will
collect together the scrapings of the meal-tub and bake us fritters, but to-
morrow there will not even be that!” Little Martin got to town and walked
along the streets and looked about him, and he saw a boy who had fastened
a cord round a cat’s neck and was dragging it off to drown it. “Stop!”
shrieked Martin, “whither art thou dragging Vaska?”3—“I am dragging him

off to be drowned!”—“Why, what has he done?”—“He is a great rascal. He
has stolen a whole goose.”—“Don’t drown him, far better sell him to
me!”—“I’ll take nothing less than one hundred rubles!”—“Well, one
hundred rubles is only one hundred rubles after all; here! take the money!”
And he took Vaska from the boy. “What hast thou bought, my son?” asked
his mother when he got home.—“Why the cat Vaska!”—“And what
besides?”—“Well, perhaps there’s some money still left, and then we can
buy something else.”—“Oh, oh, oh! what a fool thou art!” screeched the old
woman. “Go out of the house this instant and beg thy bread from the
stranger!”

Martin dared not gainsay his mother, so he took Jurka and Vaska with him
and went into the neighbouring village to seek work. And there met him a
rich farmer. “Whither art thou going?” said he. “I want to hire myself out as
a day-labourer.”—“Come to me then. I take labourers without any contract,
but if thou serve me well for a year thou shalt not lose by it.” Martin agreed,
and for a whole year he worked for this farmer without ceasing. The time of
payment came round. The farmer led Martin into the barn, showed him two
full sacks, and said, “Take which thou wilt.” Martin looked; in one of the
sacks was riches, in the other sand, and he thought to himself, “That’s not
done without a reason; there’s some trickery here. I’ll take the sand;
something will come of it no doubt.” So Martin put the sack of sand on his
back, and went to seek another place. He went on and on, and strayed into a
dark and dreary wood. In the midst of the wood was a field, and on the field
a fire was burning, and in the fire a maiden was sitting; and it was such a
lovely maiden that it was a delight to look at her. And the Beauty said to
him, “Martin the widow’s son, if thou wishest to find happiness, save me.
Extinguish this flame with the sand which thou hast gotten for thy faithful
service.”—“Well, really,” thought Martin, “why should I go on dragging
this load about on my shoulders? Far better to help a body with it.” So he
undid his sack and emptied all the sand on the fire. The fire immediately
went out, but the lovely damsel turned into a serpent, bounded on to the
bosom of the good youth, wound itself round his neck, and said, “Fear me
not, Martin the widow’s son. Go boldly into the land of Thrice-ten, into the
underground realm where my dear father rules. Only mark this; he will
offer thee lots of gold and silver and precious stones; thou, however, must
take none of them, but beg him for the little ring off his little finger. That

ring is no common ring; if thou move it from one hand to the other twelve
young heroes will immediately appear, and whatever thou dost bid them do
they will do it in a single night.”

Then the young man set out on his long, long journey, whether ’twere a
long time or a short I know not, but at last he drew nigh to the kingdom of
Thrice-ten, and came to a place where a huge stone lay across the way. Here
the snake leaped from his neck, lit on the damp ground, and turned into the
former lovely damsel. “Follow me,” said she to Martin, and showed him a
little hole beneath the stone. For a long time they went through this
underground way, and came into a wide plain beneath the open sky; and in
this plain a castle was built entirely of porphyry, with a roof of golden fish-
scales, with sharp-pointed golden pinnacles. “That’s where my father lives,
the Tsar of this underground region,” said the lovely damsel to Martin.

The wanderers entered the castle, and the Tsar met them kindly and made
them welcome. “My dear daughter,” said he to the lovely damsel, “I did not
expect to see thee here. Where hast thou been knocking about all these
years?”—“Dear father, and light of my eyes, I should have been lost
altogether but for this good youth, who saved me from an unavoidable
death!” The Tsar turned, looked with a friendly eye at Martin, and said to
him, “I thank thee, good youth. I am ready to reward thee for thy good
deeds with whatever thou desirest. Take of my gold and silver and precious
stones as much as thy soul longs for.”—“I thank thee, Sovereign Tsar, for
thy good words. But I want no precious stones, nor silver, nor gold; but if
thou of thy royal grace and favour wouldst indeed reward me, then give me,
I pray, the ring from the little finger of thy royal hand. Whenever I look
upon that ring I’ll think of thee; but if ever I meet with a bride after mine
own heart I will give it to her.” The Tsar immediately took off the ring, gave
it to Martin, and said, “By all means, good youth, take the ring, and may it
be to thy health! But mark this one thing: tell no one that this ring of thine is
no common ring, or it will be to thy hurt and harm!”

Martin the widow’s son thanked the Tsar and took the ring, and returned by
the same way through which he had reached the underground realm. He
returned to his native place, sought out his old widowed mother, and lived
and dwelt with her without either want or care. Yet for all the good life he

led, Martin seemed sorrowful; and why should he not? for Martin wanted to
marry, and the bride of his choice was not his like in birth, for she was a
king’s daughter. So he consulted his mother, and sent her away as his
matchmaker, and said to her, “Go to the King himself, and woo for me the
thrice-lovely Princess.”—“Alas! my dear son,” said his old mother,
“’twould be far better for thee if thou wert to chop thine own wood.4 But
what art thou thinking of? How can I go to the King and ask him for his
daughter for thee? ’Twould be as much as thy head and my head were
worth.”—“Fear not, dear mother! If I send thee, thou mayest go boldly. And
mind thou dost not come back from the King without an answer.”

So the old woman dragged herself to the royal palace. She went into the
royal courtyard, and without being announced she went right up to the very
staircase of the King. The guards shook their arms at her as a sign that
nobody was allowed to go there, but she didn’t trouble her head about that
one bit, but kept on creeping up. Then all the royal lacqueys came running
up, and took the old woman under the arms and would have quite gently led
her down again; but the old woman made such a to-do and fell a-shrieking
so loudly that it pierced through everything, and the King himself in his
lofty carved palace heard the noise, and looked out of his little window into
the courtyard, and saw his servants dragging an old woman down the
staircase, and preventing her from entering the royal apartments, while the
old woman was resisting and shrieking with all her might. “I won’t go out! I
have come to the King on a good errand!” The King commanded them to
admit the old woman. The old woman entered the carved palace, and saw
sitting in the front corner, on the high carved throne, on cushions of purple
velvet, the King in state, holding a council in the midst of his grandees and
his councillors. The old woman invoked the aid of the holy ikons,5 and
bowed very low before the King. “What hast thou to say, old woman?”
asked the King.—“Now, lo! I have come to your Majesty—be not wroth at
my words—I have come to your Majesty as a matchmaker!”—“Art thou in
thy senses, old woman?” cried the King, and his brow was wrinkled with a
frown.—“Nay, O father-king! pray do not be angry; pray give me an
answer. You have the wares—a little daughter, a beauty; I have the
purchaser—a young man, so wise, so cunning, a master of every trade, so
that you could not find a better son-in-law. Tell me, therefore, straight out,
won’t you give your daughter to my son?” The King listened and listened to

the old woman, and at first his frown was blacker than night, but he thought
to himself, “Does it become me, a king, to be wroth with a silly old
woman?” And the royal councillors were amazed, for they saw the wrinkles
on the King’s forehead smoothing out, and the King looked at the old
woman with a smile. “If thy son is so cunning, and a master of every trade,
let him build me within twenty-four hours a palace more gorgeous than my
own, and let him hang a crystal bridge between this palace and my palace,
and let luxuriant apple trees grow up all along this bridge, and let them bear
silver and golden pippins, and let birds of paradise sing within these apple
trees. And on the right-hand side of this crystal bridge let him build a
cathedral five storeys high, with golden pinnacles, where he may receive
the wedding crown with my daughter, and where the marriage may be
celebrated. But if thy son fulfil not all this, then for thy and his presumption
I will have you both smeared with tar and rolled in feathers and down, and
hanged up in cages in the market-place as a laughing-stock to all good
people.” And the King condescended to smile still more pleasantly, and his
grandees and his councillors held their sides, and rolled about the floor for
laughter, and they began with one voice to praise his wisdom and thought
amongst themselves, “What fun it will be to see the old woman and her son
hung up in cages! ’Tis as plain as daylight; a beard will sooner grow out of
the palm of his hand than he be able to accomplish so shrewd a task.” The
poor old woman was near to swooning. “What!” said she to the King, “is
this thy final sovereign word? Is this what I must say to my son?”—“Yes,
thus must thou say: if he accomplish this task, I will give him my daughter;
if he does not accomplish it, I will put you both into cages.”

The poor old woman went home more dead than alive. She staggered from
side to side, and shed floods of scalding tears. When she saw Martin, she
began screeching at him from afar. “Did not I tell thee, my son, to go and
chop thine own wood? Now thou seest that our poor little heads are lost.”
And she told her son all about it. “Cheer up, mother,” said little Martin,
“pray to God and lie down to sleep, the morning is always wiser than the
evening.” But he himself went out of the hut, took his little ring from one
hand and put it on the other, and the twelve youths immediately appeared
before him and said, “What dost thou require?” He told them of the royal
task, and the twelve youths answered, “To-morrow, everything will be
ready.”

The King awoke next morning, and lo! right in front of his palace towered
another palace, and a crystal bridge led from one to the other. Along the
sides of the bridge stood luxuriant apple trees, and upon them hung golden
pippins, and birds of paradise were singing in the trees; and on the right
hand of the bridge, blazing like fire in the sun, stood the cathedral with its
golden pinnacles; and the bells of the cathedral were ringing and pealing in
all directions. The King had to keep his word. He raised his son-in-law high
in rank, gave him a rich inheritance with his daughter, and he took her to
wife. Great was the wedding-feast. The wine flowed in streams, and they
drank of mead and beer till they could drink no more.

So Martin lived in his palace, and he ate of the best and drank of the best,
and his life went as smoothly as cheese with butter. But the Princess did not
love him at heart, and when she reflected that they had not married her to
the son of a tsar, or the son of a king, or even to a prince from across the
sea, but to simple Martin the widow’s son, her wrath waxed hot within her.
And she fell a-thinking by what means she might best rid herself of a
husband she hated. So she took care to caress him, and flatter him, and
waited upon him herself, and made him comfortable, and when they were
quite alone she would ask him what it was that made him so wise and
clever. And it happened one day that when he had been the King’s guest,
and had drunk and made merry with all his lords one after another, and had
returned home and laid him down to rest, that the Princess came to him and
caressed him, and coaxed him with wheedling words, and made him drunk
with strong mead, and in that way found out what she wanted to know, for
Martin told her all about his enchanted ring, and showed her how to turn it.
And no sooner was little Martin asleep and snoring, than the Princess took
off the enchanted ring from his little finger, went forth into the broad
courtyard, moved the ring from one finger to the other, and the twelve
youths immediately appeared before her. “What is thy pleasure, and what is
thy desire?”—“That to-morrow morning there may be neither palace, nor
bridge, nor cathedral on this spot, but only a wretched little hut as
heretofore, and cast this drunkard into it, but remove me far from him into
the Empire of Thrice-ten.”—“It shall be done,” replied the twelve youths
with one voice.

In the morning, when the King awoke, he felt inclined to go and pay a visit
to his son-in-law and his daughter, so he went out upon the balcony, and lo!
there was neither palace, nor bridge, nor cathedral, nor garden. In place of
them stood a wretched old hut, leaning on one side, and scarce able to stand
at all. The King sent for his son-in-law, and began asking him what it all
meant; but little Martin could only stare blankly at him without uttering a
word. And the King bade them sit in judgment on his son-in-law for
deceiving him by magic, and destroying his daughter, the thrice-lovely
Princess, and they condemned Martin to be put on the top of a lofty stone
column with nothing to eat or drink; there he was to be left to die of hunger.

Then it was that Jurka and Vaska remembered how little Martin had saved
them from an evil death, and they came and laid their heads together about
it. Jurka growled and snarled, and was ready to tear every one to bits, for
his master’s sake; but Vaska purred and hummed and scratched himself
behind the ear with his velvet paw, and began to think the matter over. And
the artful cat hit upon a plan, and said to Jurka, “Let us go for a walk about
the town, and as soon as we meet a roll-baker with a tin on his head, you
run between his legs and knock the tin off his head, and I’ll be close behind
and immediately seize the rolls, and take them to master.” No sooner said
than done. Jurka and the cat took a run into the town, and they met a roll-
baker. He was carrying a tin on his head, and he looked about him on all
sides and cried with a loud voice, “Hot rolls, hot rolls, fresh from the oven!”
Jurka ran between his legs, the baker stumbled, the tin fell, and all the rolls
were scattered about. But while the angry baker was chasing Jurka, Vaska
hid all the rolls in the hedges. Then the cat and Jurka ran to the tower where
Martin was placed, dragged with them the stores of bread, and Vaska
scrambled up to the top, looked in at the little window, called to his master,
and said, “Alive, eh?”—“Scarcely alive!” replied little Martin; “I am quite
exhausted from want of food, and it will not be long before I die of
hunger.”—“Don’t grieve; wait a bit, and we’ll feed you,” said Vaska, and he
began to drag the food up from below—rolls and cakes, and all kinds of
bread, till he had dragged up for his master a large store. Then he said,
“Master, Jurka and I will go to the kingdom of Thrice-ten, and get you back
your enchanted ring. Take care to make the bread last till we return.” Then
they both took leave of their master, and departed on their long journey.

They ran on and on, and they smelt out the scent everywhere and followed
it; paid great attention to what people told them; carefully made friends
with all the other dogs and cats they met; asked about the Princess, and
found out at last that they were not far from the kingdom of Thrice-ten,
whither she had told the twelve youths to carry her. They ran into the
kingdom, went to the palace, and made friends with all the dogs and cats
there, asked them all about the Princess’s ways, and turned the conversation
to the subject of the enchanted ring; but no one could give them certain
information about it. But one day it happened that Vaska went a-hunting in
the royal cellars. There he waylaid a big fat mouse, threw himself upon it,
dug his cruel claws into it, and was going to begin with its head, when the
big mouse spoke to him: “Dear little Vaska, don’t hurt me, don’t kill me.
Perhaps I may be of service to you. I’ll do all I can for you. But if you kill
me, the Mouse-Tsar, all my mousey tsardom will fall to pieces.”—“Very
well,” said Vaska; “I’ll spare you; but this is the service you must do me. In
this palace dwells the Princess, the wicked wife of our master; she has
stolen from him his wonder-working ring; till you have got me that ring, I
will not let you out of my claws under any pretence whatever.”—Agreed,”
said the Mouse-Tsar, “I’ll try”; and he piped and whistled all his people
together. A countless multitude of mice assembled, both small and great,
and they sat all round the cat Vaska, and waited to hear what the Mouse-
Tsar would say to them from beneath Vaska’s claws. And the Mouse-Tsar
said to them: “Whichever of you shall get the wonder-working ring from
the Princess, he will save me from a cruel death, and I will raise him to the
highest place about my person.” Then a little mouse rose up and said: “I
have often been in the Princess’s bed-chamber, and I’ve noticed that the
Princess’s eye rests more often on a certain little ring than on anything else.
In the daytime she wears it on her little finger, but at night she stuffs it into
her mouth behind her cheeks. If you wait a bit, I’ll get you that ring.” And
the little mouse ran into the Princess’s bed-chamber and waited till night,
and as soon as ever the Princess was asleep, it wriggled into her bed, picked
the down out of her swan-feathered bolster, and strewed it all about under
her nose. The fine down went up the Princess’s nose and into her mouth,
she sprang up and began to sneeze and cough, and spat out the enchanted
ring on to the counterpane. The little mouse immediately snatched it up, and
ran off with it to save the life of the Mouse-Tsar.

Vaska and Jurka set off to bring their master the wonder-working ring.
Whether they took a long time or a short time matters not, but they arrived
at last, and ran to the tower in which Martin was put to die from starvation.
The cat immediately climbed up to the window, and called to its master,
“Art thou alive, Martin the widow’s son?”—“I am scarce able to keep body
and soul together. This is the third day I have been sitting here without
bread.”—“Well, thy woes are over now. There will be a feast in your street
now6; we have brought you your ring.” Martin was overjoyed, and began to
stroke the cat, and the cat rubbed itself against him, and began purring its
own little songs through its nose; but at the bottom of the tower Jurka was
leaping and whining and barking for joy, and leaping high in the air. Martin
took the ring and turned it from one hand to the other. The twelve youths
immediately appeared: “What is thy pleasure, and what thy
command?”—“Give me to eat and drink till I can eat and drink no more,
and let cunning music be played on the top of this tower to me all day.”
When the music began to play, the good folks hastened to the King, and
told him that little Martin was up to no good in the tower there. “He ought
to have ceased to be among the living long ago,” they said, “and yet he is
having such a merry time of it on the top of the tower. They are stamping
with their feet, and knocking their plates, and clashing their glasses, and
such splendid music is playing, that you can’t help listening to it.” The King
sent an express messenger to the tower, and there he stood and listened to
the music; the King sent his highest officer, and there they all remained
standing, and opened wide their ears. The King himself went to the tower,
and the music seemed to turn him into a statue. But little Martin again
called his twelve youths, and said to them, “Restore my old palace, as it was
before; throw a crystal bridge across from it to the royal palace; let the
former five-storeyed cathedral stand by the side of the palace; and let my
faithless wife also be found in the palace.” And while he was yet expressing
the wish, the whole thing was done. And he went out of the tower, took his
father-in-law the King by the hand, led him into the palace, led him up to
the sleeping-chamber, where the Princess, in fear and trembling, awaited an
evil death, and said to the King, “My dear little father-in-law, a great deal of
trouble and anguish has befallen me from living with thy daughter; what
shall we sentence her to?”—“My dear son-in-law, let mercy prevail over
justice; exhort her with good words, and live with her as heretofore.” And
Martin listened to his father-in-law, upbraided his wife for her treachery,

and to the end of his life he never parted with the ring, nor with Jurka and
Vaska, and saw no more misery.

1 Twenty pounds.
2 Growler.
3 Pussy.
4 I.e. go about thine own errand.
5 Pictures of the Saints.
6 I.e. It will be your turn to triumph now.

The Brave Labourer.
A young fellow entered the service of a miller. The miller sent him to throw grain on the
scoop, but the labourer, not knowing how to set about it, went and strewed the wheat on
the mill-stone. The mill-wheel went round, and all the grain was scattered about. The
master miller, when he came to the mill, and saw the scattered grain, sent the workman
about his business. The workman went home and thought to himself, “Well, I haven’t
been very long working at the mill.” So he went on his way thinking to himself, and so
he missed the way to his own village. He strayed among the bushes, and wandered and
wandered about till he came to a stream, and on the stream stood an empty mill, and in
this mill he resolved to pass the night.

The dumb midnight hour approached; the labourer could not sleep in the empty mill; he
listened to every rustling sound, and suddenly it was as though he heard some one
approaching the mill. The poor labourer started up more dead than alive, and hid himself
in the scoop. Three men entered the mill. Judging from their appearance they were no
good people, but robbers. They lit a fire in the mill, and began to divide amongst
themselves a rich booty. And one of the robbers said to the others, “I will lay my portion
underneath the mill.” The second said, “I’ll shove mine underneath the wheel.” But the
third said, “I’ll conceal my goods in the scoop.” But our labourer was lying in the scoop,
and he thought, “No man can die twice, but every man must die once. I wonder now if I
can frighten them. Let us try.” And he roared at the top of his voice: “Denis, you come
down there; and you, Phocas, look on that side; and you, little one, look there, and I’ll be
here. Stop them, don’t let them go, and beat them without mercy.” The robbers were
terrified, threw down their booty, took to their heels straightway, and the labourer took
their booty and returned home richer than rich.

The Sage Damsel.
An old man and an old woman died, and left behind them a son young in years, who was
rich neither in wits nor goods. His uncle took him home, gave him to eat and drink, and
when he grew up sent him to watch the sheep. And one day he sent for his kinsman and
resolved to test his wits; so he said to him: “Here thou hast a flock of sheep, drive them
to market and make profit out of them in such a way that both thou and the sheep shall
get fat upon it, and the sheep be all brought back whole, and yet all, to the very last one,
be sold for ready money.”

“How is that to be managed?” thought the orphan, who drove the sheep into the open
field, sat by the roadside, and fell a-thinking. A lovely damsel passed by that way, and
she said to him: “Of what art thou thinking, good youth?”

“Why should I not be thinking? My uncle has taken a spite at last against me, a poor
orphan; he has given me a task to do, and cudgel my brains as I may I cannot see how it
is to be done.”

“What task has he given thee?”

“Well, look here; he says, ‘Go to market, drive those sheep thither and make a profit out
of them, but so that thou and the sheep shall grow fat upon it, and the sheep be brought
back whole, all down to the last one, and yet be sold for ready money.’”

“Well, that’s no very tricky task,” replied the damsel. “Shear the sheep, take the fleeces
to market and sell them, then thou wilt make a profit out of them, and the sheep will
remain whole, and thou wilt be able to feed thyself on the profits.”

The youth thanked the damsel and did as she said. He sheared the sheep, sold their
fleeces at the market, drove home the flock, and gave the money he had made out of
them to his uncle. “Good,” said the uncle to the nephew; “but I am sure thou didst not
work this out with thine own wits, eh? Didn’t some one or other teach it thee?” The
youth confessed: “Well, I certainly did not do it by my own wits, but a lovely damsel
came by and taught me.”—“Well, then, thou must take this sage young damsel to wife.
’Twill be a very good thing for thee, for here art thou an orphan with neither stick nor
stone of thy own, and nothing much in the way of wits either!”—“I don’t mind if I do
marry her,” said the nephew to his uncle.—“All right, but thou must render me this one
service. Take corn to town to the bazaar. According as thou dost sell it and return again,
I’ll wed thee to this damsel.”

The Sage Damsel.

So the nephew went to town to sell the uncle’s corn, and on the way he met a rich miller.
—“Why art thou off to town?” said the miller.—“I am going to the bazaar to sell my
uncle’s corn.”—“Then we’ll go to town together.”—So they went along the road
together, the miller in his gig with his plump brown horse, and the orphan in his little
cart with his thin gray mare. They encamped side by side in the open field to pass the
night there, took out the horses, and themselves lay down to sleep. And it happened that
self-same night the gray mare dropped a foal. The rich miller woke earlier than the
orphan, saw the foal, and drove him beneath his gig. When the orphan awoke a hot
dispute arose between them. The orphan said: “It is my foal, because my mare dropped
it.” The covetous miller said: “No, ’tis mine, because thy mare dropped it beneath my
gig.” They wrangled and wrangled till they resolved to go to law about it, and when they
arrived in town they went to the court to fight the matter out there. And the judge said to
them: “In our town we have introduced this custom into the tribunals, that whoever
wants to go to law must first of all guess four riddles. So tell me now: what is the
strongest and swiftest thing in the world; what is the fattest thing in the world; and what
is the softest and what the sweetest of all?” The judge gave them three days to guess, and
said: “If you guess my riddles, I will judge betwixt you according to law; but if not,
don’t be angry if I drive you away.”

The rich miller went to his wife and told her how the matter stood, and what riddles the
judge had given him to guess. “All thy riddles are but simple ones,” replied the miller’s

wife; “if they ask thee what is the strongest and swiftest thing in the world, tell them that
my father has a dark-brown horse so strong and nimble that it can run down a hare. And
if they ask thee what is the fattest thing in the world, dost thou not know that in our stall
we are fattening up a two-year-old boar, and he’s getting so fat that his very legs won’t
be able to hold him up? And as for the third riddle, what is the softest thing in the world,
why it’s quite plain that that’s a down pillow; thou canst not imagine anything softer
than that. And if they ask thee what is the sweetest thing in the world, say: ‘Why, what
sweeter thing can a man have than the wife of his bosom?’”

But the orphan went out of the town into the fields and sat by the roadside and racked his
brain. He sat and thought of his misery; and along the road, close to him, passed the self-
same lovely damsel. “Why art thou so racking thy brains again, good youth?”—“Why,
look here, the judge has given me four such riddles to guess that I shall never be able to
guess them all my days,” and he told the damsel all about it. The damsel laughed, and
said to him: “Go to the judge and say to him, that the strongest and swiftest thing in the
world is the wind; that the fattest of all is the earth, for she feeds everything that lives
and grows upon her; the softest of all is the palm of the hand, for however soft a man
may lie he always puts his hand beneath his head; and there’s nothing sweeter in the
whole world than sleep.” The poor little orphan bowed to the very girdle to the damsel,
and said to her: “I thank thee, thou sagest of maidens, for thou hast snatched me from
very ruin.”

When the three days had passed, the miller and the orphan appeared in court, and told
the court the answers to the riddles. Now the Tsar chanced to be on the bench at that
time, and the answers of the orphan so pleased him that he ordered that the cause
between them should be given in his favour, and that the miller should be driven with
shame from the court. After that the Tsar said to the orphan: “Didst thou hit upon these
answers thyself, or did some one else tell thee?”—“To tell the truth, they are not my
own; the lovely damsel taught me these answers.”—“She has taught thee well too, sage
indeed must she be. Go to her and tell her in my name that if she be so wise and sensible
she must appear before me to-morrow: neither on foot nor on horseback, neither naked
nor clothed, and with a present in her hand that is no gift. If she accomplish this I will
reward her as becomes a Tsar, and make her higher than the highest.” Again the orphan
went out of the town, and again he fell a-fretting, and he said to himself: “Why, I don’t
even know how and have no idea where to find this lovely damsel; what sort of a task is
this that I am bidden to give her?” No sooner had he thought this than the sage and
lovely damsel again passed by that way. The orphan told her how his guesses had
pleased the Tsar, and how he wanted to see the damsel himself and have proof of her
wisdom, and how he had promised to reward her. The damsel thought a bit, and then said
to the orphan: “Fetch me a long-bearded billy-goat, and a big net for catching fish, and
catch me a pair of sparrows. To-morrow morning we’ll meet here, and if I get a reward
from the Tsar, I’ll share it equally with thee.”

The orphan carried out the orders of the damsel, and waited for her next morning at the
roadside. The damsel appeared, stripped off her sarafan,1 and wound herself in the long
fishing-net from head to foot; then she sat on the goat, took a sparrow in each hand, and
bade the orphan lead the way to town. The young man brought her to the Tsar at court,
and she bowed low to the Tsar and said: “Behold, O sovereign Tsar! I come to thee
neither on foot nor on horseback, neither naked nor clothed, and I have brought a present
in my hand which is no gift.”—“Where is it?” asked the Tsar. “Here!” and she gave the
Tsar the live sparrows, and he was about to take them from her hands when the sparrows
wriggled out and flew away. “Well,” said the Tsar, “I see thou canst vie even with me in
wit. Stay at my court, and look after my children, and I’ll give thee a rich
recompense.”—“Nay, my sovereign lord and Tsar, I cannot accept thy gracious favour; I
have promised this good youth to share my reward with him for his services.”—“Look
now! thou art witty and wise; but in this matter thy head is turned, and thou dost not
judge according to reason. I offer thee a high and honourable place with a great
recompense; why then canst thou not share this reward with this youth?”—“But how can
I share it then?”—“How, thou sage damsel? Why if this good youth be dear to thee,
marry him; for honour and recompense, and labour and sorrow and bright-faced joy are
shared by husband and wife half and half.”—“Thou too art wise, I see, O sovereign Tsar,
and I’ll gainsay thee no longer,” said the lovely damsel. So she took the orphan for her
husband, and though the orphan had no very great mind, his heart was simple and good,
and he lived with his sage wife all his life in contentment and happiness.

1 A long dress without sleeves.

The Prophetic Dream.
There was once upon a time a merchant, and he had two sons, Dmitry and Ivan. Once
the father bade his sons good-night, sent them off to bed, and said to them: “Now,
children, whatever you see in your dreams, tell it all to me to-morrow morning, and
whichever of you hides his dream from me, no good thing will befall him.” In the
morning the eldest son came to his father and said: “I dreamed, dear father, that my
brother Ivan flew high into the sky on twenty eagles.”—“Very good!” said the father;
“and what didst thou dream, Vania?”1—“Well, such rubbish, father, that it is impossible
to tell it.”—“What dost thou mean? Speak!”—“No, I’ll not!”—“Speak, sir, when I bid
thee!”—“No, I won’t speak, I won’t.” The father was very angry with his youngest son,
and resolved to punish him for his disobedience, so he sent for his overseers and bade
them strip Ivan naked and tie him to a post at the crossways as tightly as possible. No
sooner said than done. The overseers seized hold of him, dragged him far, far away from
home to the crossways, where seven roads crossed, tied him by the hands and feet to the
post, and left him alone to his fate. The poor youth fared very badly. The sun scorched
him, the gnats and flies sucked his blood, hunger and thirst tortured him. Fortunately for
Ivan, a young Tsarevich happened to be going along one of these seven roads; he saw the
merchant’s son, had compassion on him, and bade his attendants untie him from the
post, dressed him in his own clothes, and saved him from a cruel death. The Tsarevich
took Ivan to his court, gave him to eat and drink, and asked him who had tied him to the
post. “My own father, who was angry with me.”—“And wherefore, pray? Surely thy
fault was not small?”—“Well, in fact, I would not obey him; I would not tell him what I
saw in my dreams.”—“And for such a trifle as that he condemned thee to so cruel a
punishment! The villain! But surely he has outgrown his wits! But what then didst thou
see in thy dream?”—“I saw what I cannot even tell unto thee, O Tsarevich!”—“What!
Not tell? Not tell me? me, the Tsarevich? What! I saved thee from a cruel death, and thou
wilt not do this trifle for me in return? Speak immediately, or it will not be well with
thee!”—“Nay, Tsarevich! I stick to my word. I haven’t told my father, and I’ll not tell
thee.”—The Tsarevich boiled over with unspeakable rage, and shrieked to his servants
and attendants, “Hi! my faithful servants, take this good-for-nothing boor, put heavy
irons on his hands, weld grievous fetters to his legs, and cast him into my deep
dungeon!” The servants did not think twice about their master’s commands; they seized
Ivan the merchant’s son, loaded his hands and feet with fetters, and put him as God’s
slave in the stone sack. A little and a long time passed by, and the Tsarevich thought of
marrying the thrice-wise Helena, the first maiden in the whole earth for beauty and
wisdom, so he made ready and went into the strange country far away to marry this
thrice-wise Helena. Now it happened that the day after he had gone, his sister the
Tsarevna went walking in the garden hard by the very same dungeon in which Ivan the
merchant’s son had been put. He saw the Tsarevna through the little grated window, and

cried to her with a lamentable voice: “Dear mother Tsarevna, thy brother will never be
married without my help.”—“Who art thou?” answered the Tsarevna. Ivan named his
name and added: “I suppose thou hast heard, O Tsarevna, of the trickeries and the
cunning wiles of the thrice-wise Helena? I have heard not once nor twice that she has
expedited many wooers into another world; believe me that thy brother also will not be
able to marry her without me!”—“And thou art able to help the Tsarevich?”—“Able and
willing, but the falcon’s wings are bound, and no way for him is found.”—The Tsarevna
bade them release Ivan from his dungeon, and gave him full liberty to do what was in his
mind so long as he only helped the Tsarevich to marry. And then Ivan the merchant’s son
chose him comrades first of all, one by one, and added youth to youth, and they were all
as like to each other as if they had been born brothers. He dressed them in mantles of one
kind, sewn in one and the same fashion; he mounted them on horses of one colour, and
like each other to a hair, and they all mounted and rode away. Twelve was the number of
the young comrades of Ivan the merchant’s son. They rode for one day, they rode for
another day, and on the third day they entered a gloomy forest, and Ivan said to his
comrades: “Stay, my brothers, there is here, on the verge of the precipice, an old tree; a
hollow, branchless tree; I must look into its hollow trunk and find my fortune there.” So
he went to the tree he had described and plunged his hand into the hollow trunk, and
drew out of it an invisible cap, hid it in his bosom, and returned to his comrades.

And they came to the realm of the thrice-wise Helena, went straight into the capital,
sought out the Tsarevich, and begged him: “Take us into thy service, O Tsarevich; we
will serve thee with a single heart.” The Tsarevich thought the matter over and said:
“How can I help taking such gallant youths into my service? perhaps in a strange land
they may be of service to me.” And to each of them he assigned his post; he made one
his equerry, another his cook, but Ivan he bade never to depart from his side.

The next day the Tsarevich attired himself in festal raiment, and went forth to woo the
thrice-wise Helena. She received him courteously, regaled him with all manner of rich
meats and drinks, and then she said to the Tsarevich: “I don’t at all mind being thy wife,
but first of all thou must accomplish these tasks. If thou do them I will be thy faithful
wife, but if not, thy haughty head shall wag no more on thy stalwart shoulders.”—“Why
be afraid before the time? tell me thy tasks, thrice-wise Helena!”—“This then is my first
task for thee: I shall have ready by to-morrow what I will not tell thee, and for what
purpose I do not know; show thy wit, then, and bring me the fellow of it, of thine own
devising.” The Tsarevich went home from the court by no means happy; his haughty
head hung lower than his stalwart shoulders. And Ivan met him and said: “Halve thy
grief with me, O Tsarevich, and it will be better for thee.”—“Well, look now,” said the
Tsarevich, “Helena has set me a task that not a single wise man in the world could do”—
and he told Ivan all about it. “Well,” said Ivan, “’tis not such a great matter after all!
Pray to God and lie down to sleep; the morning is wiser than the evening—to-morrow
we’ll consider the matter.” The Tsarevich lay down to sleep, but Ivan the merchant’s son
put on his invisible cap, went as swiftly as possible to the palace, ran through all the
chambers, and made his way right into the bedchamber of the thrice-wise Helena. And

then he heard her giving these orders to her favourite servant: “Take this cloth-of-gold to
my shoemaker, and let him make me shoes for my feet as soon as possible.” The servant
ran with all her might, and behind her ran Ivan. The cobbler set to work; the work
seemed to burn his fingers, so quickly did he do it; he beat the stuff with his little
hammer and stitched it with his needle; a little shoe was quickly ready, and he put it on
the little window-sill. Ivan the merchant’s son took the little shoe and hid it in his bosom.
The shoemaker was in great consternation: what was the meaning of it? His work had
vanished from before his eyes. He searched and searched. He rummaged in every corner,
but it was all in vain. “What marvel is this?” thought he; “can the unclean spirit2 be
playing his tricks with me?” There was no help for it. He set to work again with his awl,
finished the other slipper, and sent it by the servant-maid to the thrice-wise Helena. But
Ivan was after her again, crept like a shadow into the palace in his invisible cap, stood
behind the shoulders of the thrice-wise Helena, and saw that she sat behind her little
table and began to cover the slipper with gold, embroider it with large pearls, and set it
thickly with precious stones. Ivan the merchant’s son drew his own slipper out of his
bosom and began to do the like with it; whenever she took up a little gem, he chose out
just such another; wherever she threaded a pearl, he took another and sewed that on too.
The thrice-wise Helena finished her work, looked at the slipper, and couldn’t admire it
enough. She smiled, and thought to herself: “We will see what the Tsarevich will present
himself with to-morrow morning.” But Ivan the merchant’s son awoke the Tsarevich
very early next morning, took the slipper from his bosom, and gave it to him. “Go to thy
lady and show her this slipper,” said he; “there thou hast her first task!” The Tsarevich
washed and dressed himself, hastened to his lady, and found her apartments full of
Boyars and Grandees, and her Councillors were all assembled there down to the very last
one. There was a noise of melody, there came a crash of lively music, the doors of the
inner chambers were thrown open, and out came the thrice-wise Helena, sailing along
like a white swan. She bowed on all sides, but particularly to the Tsarevich: then she
drew out of her pocket the shoe, set with large pearls and adorned with precious stones,
and she looked at the Tsarevich with a mocking smile, and all the Boyars, the Grandees,
and the Councillors who were in the palace looked intently at the Tsarevich. And the
Tsarevich said to the thrice-wise Helena: “Thy slipper is very fine, but ’tis no good at all
unless it have a fellow. Well, here it is, and I give thee the other, which is exactly like it.”
And he drew out of his pocket the slipper, and placed it by the side of the other one. The
whole palace heaved a great “Oh!” The Boyars, Grandees, and Councillors exclaimed
with one voice: “Thou art indeed worthy, O Tsarevich, to wed our Tsarevna, the thrice-
wise Helena.”—“Not so quick, please,” cried the Tsarevna; “let us see what he’ll make
of the second task. I shall await thee to-morrow in this self-same place, Tsarevich, and
this is my task for thee: I shall have an unexplainable somewhat disguised in feathers
and in stones; bring thou also just such another unknown, somewhat disguised in just
such feathers and stones.” The Tsarevich bowed and went out, looking much blacker
than the evening before. “Well,” thought he, “now indeed my shoulders will not support
my head very much longer.” And again Ivan the merchant’s son met him and consoled
him with a friendly smile: “Come, Tsarevich, wherefore grieve? Pray to God and lie

down to sleep, the morning is wiser than the evening.” Ivan made the Tsarevich lie
down, then he quickly took his invisible cap, darted into the palace, and arrived just in
time to hear the Tsarevna give this command to her favourite servant: “Go into the fowl-
yard and bring me hither a duck.” Off went the servant to the fowl-yard and Ivan after
her; she put a duck under her arm, but Ivan hid a drake in his bosom, and they came back
the same way. The thrice-wise Helena again sat down at her little table, took the duck,
adorned its wings with ribands and its little tail with amethysts, and fastened a necklace
of pearls round its neck; and Ivan saw it all, and did just the same to his drake.

The next day the Tsarevich again went up to the palace, and again all the Boyars and
Grandees were assembled there; again there was a crash of music, and the doors of the
inner chambers opened, and the thrice-wise Helena came forth strutting along like a pea-
hen. Behind her came the maids of honour bearing a golden dish, and they all saw that
upon this dish beneath the white cloth some living thing was moving about. Softly, very
softly, the Tsarevna raised the cloth from the dish, took out the duck, and said to the
Tsarevich: “Well, didst thou guess my riddle?”—“How could I help guessing it?” replied
the Tsarevich, “there’s nothing so very knowing in such a task as that,” and forthwith he
put his hand into his cap and drew out his dressed-up drake.

All the Boyars and Grandees cried “Oh!” and with one voice exclaimed: “Well done,
young hero Tsarevich! Thou art indeed worthy to take Helena the thrice-wise to wife.”
But Helena the thrice-wise knit her brows and said: “Stop a bit! Let him first fulfil my
third task. If he be such a hero, let him fetch me three hairs from the head, and three
hairs from the beard, of my grandfather, the Sea-king, and then I am ready to be his
wife.” The Tsarevich returned home gloomier than an autumn night: he would look at
nothing and speak to nobody. “Don’t fret, Tsarevich!” whispered Ivan the merchant’s son
in his ear, and he seized his invisible cap, and was in the palace in a trice, and saw the
thrice-wise Helena sitting in her state-coach and preparing to drive to the blue sea. And
our Ivan, in his invisible cap, took his seat in the very carriage, and the fiery horses of
the Tsar carried them in hot haste to the blue sea.

So the thrice-wise Helena arrived at the blue sea, sat under a rock by the shore on a large
stone, turned her face to the blue sea, and began to call her dear grandad the Sea-king.
The blue sea boiled as in a storm, and despite a great calm, the depths of the sea were
disturbed by a huge wave; a crest of silvery foam worked its way up, rolled along the
shore as if caressing it, broke up gradually on the golden beach, scattering crystal jets
and pearly shells on the shore, and there rose out of the water, up to the waist, the old,
old grandfather. On his head heaps and heaps of gray locks sparkled like silver in the
sun, dripping wet, and great tufts of hair hung over his brows; but his face was covered
with a thick, thick golden beard like moss; he rode up to the breast in a broad big wave
which swept over his shoulders and hid his body to the waist. The ocean grandfather
leaned against a stone with his goose-like paws, looked with his green eyes into the eyes
of the thrice-wise Helena, and cried: “Hail, granddaughter of my desires. ’Tis a long
time since I have seen thee; ’tis a long time since thou hast visited me. And now, please,

comb my little head for me.” And he leaned his unkempt head against the knee of his
granddaughter, and dozed off into a sweet sleep. But the thrice-wise Helena began
smoothing her grandfather’s hair and winding his gray locks round her fingers to curl
them, and whispering soft words in her grandfather’s ear, and lulling him to sleep with
gentle songs; and as soon as she saw that her grandfather was asleep she tugged three
silver hairs out of his head. But Ivan the merchant’s son, slipping his hand below hers,
wrenched out a whole handful. The grandfather awoke, looked at his granddaughter, and
said sleepily: “Art thou mad? It hurts me horribly!”—“Pardon, dear grandfather,” said
the thrice-wise Helena, “but it’s such a long time since I did thy hair, that it is quite
tangled.” But the grandfather did not hear her to the end; he was already snoring, and
shortly afterwards the Tsarevna pulled three golden hairs out of his beard. Ivan the
merchant’s son thought, “I must have some of that too,” seized the grandfather by the
beard, and tore out a good piece of it. The sea-grandfather roared aloud, awoke from his
sleep, and dived into the depths like a bucket—only bubbles remained behind.

Next day the Tsarevna entered the palace and thought: “The Tsarevich really will fall
into my clutches now.” And she showed the Tsarevich the three golden hairs and the
three silver ones: “Well, Tsarevich, hast managed to pick up such wonderful things as
these?”—“Well, Tsarevna, that’s a lot to boast of, I must say! Why, I’ll give thee whole
handfuls of such rubbish if thou wilt.” And the whole palace resounded with cries of
amazement when the Tsarevich drew from his breast the grandfather’s hairs. The thrice-
wise Helena was very wroth; she rushed off to her bedroom, looked into her magic
books, and saw that it was not the Tsarevich who was so knowing, but his favourite
servant, Ivan the merchant’s son. She returned to her guests and said in soft and
wheedling tones: “Thou hast not guessed my riddles and done my tasks of thine own self
alone, Tsarevich, but thy favourite servant Ivan has helped thee. I should like to look at
the good youth. Bring him to me quickly.”—“I have not one servant but twelve servants,
Tsarevna.”—“Then bring him hither whose name is Ivan!”—“They are all called
Ivan.”—“Then let them all come,” said she, but she thought to herself: “I’ll pick out the
guilty party, I know.” The Tsarevich sent for his servants, and the twelve youths
appeared at court. They were all of one face and one stature; their voices were all alike,
and there was not a hair’s difference between them. “Which among you is the biggest?”
And they all cried with a loud voice: “I am the biggest, I am the biggest!”—“Well,”
thought Helena, “I can’t catch you this way, but I’ll manage it somehow.” And she bade
them bring eleven common drinking-cups, but the twelfth of pure gold; she filled the
drinking-cups full with good wine, and gave them to the good youths to drink. But not
one of them would look at the common cups, and all stretched out their hands towards
the golden cup, so in struggling for it they only made a great clamour, and all the wine
was spilled. The Tsarevna perceived that her artifice had failed, so she invited all the
servants of the Tsarevich to pass the night at the palace. All the evening she gave them as
much as they could eat and drink, and then she gave them soft downy beds to lie upon.
And when all the good youths were sound asleep, then the thrice-wise Helena came to
them in their bedroom, looked into her magic book, and immediately discovered which

of them was Ivan the merchant’s son. Then she drew out her penknife and cut off the
lock of hair over his left temple, and she thought to herself: “By that mark I shall know
you in the morning and have you punished.” But in the morning, Ivan the merchant’s son
awoke before them all, clapped his hand to his head, and saw that he was shorn of his
lock. He immediately rose from his bed and awoke all his comrades: “Quick, my
brothers! take your knives and shear off your locks.” In an hour’s time they were
summoned to the presence of the thrice-wise Helena. The Tsarevna looked and saw that
all of them had their locks shorn off. Full of rage, she seized her magic book, pitched it
into the fire, called the Tsarevich to her, and said to him: “I’ll be thy wife, make ready
for the wedding!” And the Tsarevich sent for his good youths, and said to Ivan: “Go to
my sister and bid her make ready everything for the wedding.” Ivan went to the
Tsarevna, told her of her brother, and gave her his command. “I thank thee, thou good
youth and faithful servant, for thy services,” said the Tsarevich’s sister to Ivan, “but say
now, how shall I reward thee?”—“How shalt thou reward me?” answered Ivan the
merchant’s son; “why, bid them put me again in my old dungeon.” And do what the
Tsarevna would to persuade him, he insisted upon it.

The Tsarevich and his bride arrived, and the Boyars, the Grandees, and the festal guests
came out to meet them, wished them health and happiness, and presented them with
bread and salt, and there were so many people pressed together that you could have
walked on their heads. “But where is my faithful servant Ivan?” asked the Tsarevich;
“how is it I do not see him here?” The Tsarevna answered him: “Thou thyself hadst him
put into a dungeon because of a certain dream.”—“What! surely this is never the same
person!”—“It’s the very same; I only let him out for a time to go and help thee.” The
Tsarevich bade them bring Ivan to him, threw himself on his neck, burst into tears, and
begged him not to think evil of him. “But dost thou know, O Tsarevich,” said Ivan, “that
I did not tell thee this dream of mine because I saw beforehand in my slumbers all that
has now happened to thee. Judge now thyself and tell me, wouldst thou not have thought
me half mad if I had told thee all?” And the Tsarevich rewarded Ivan, and made him the
greatest in the realm after himself; but Ivan wrote to his father and his brother, and they
all lived together and had no end of good things, and lived happily ever after.

1 The short of Ivan, like Jack from John.
2 I. e. the devil.

Two Out of the Knapsack.
There was once an old man whose wife was exceedingly quarrelsome. The old man had
no rest from her day or night; she nagged and nagged at him at every little trifle, but if
the old man ventured to gainsay her in anything, she immediately caught up a
broomstick, or something else, and chased him out of the kitchen. The old man had only
one consolation; he would leave his old woman and go into the fields to set snares and
bird-traps, hang them up on the branches of all the trees, and entice into his snares every
bird that God has made, and so he would bring home a great booty, and give his old
woman enough to last her for a whole day, or even two, and then he would for once
enjoy a day in peace.

One day he went out into the fields and set his snares, and caught in them a crane. “What
a stroke of luck!” thought the old man; “when I take home this crane to my old woman
and we kill and roast it, she won’t row me for a long time.” But the crane guessed his
thoughts, and said to him with a human voice: “Don’t take me home and kill me, but let
me go and live at liberty as before; thou shalt be dearer to me than my own father, and I
will be as good as a son to thee.” The old man was amazed at these words and let the
crane go.

But when he returned home with empty hands, the old woman nagged at him so
frightfully that he dared not go into the house, but passed the night in the courtyard
beneath the staircase. Very early in the morning he went out into the fields, and was just
about to lay his snares when he saw the crane of the evening before coming towards him,
holding in its long beak a sort of knapsack. “Yesterday,” said the crane, “thou didst set
me free, and to-day I bring thee a little gift. Say ‘thanks’ for it. Just look at it!” It placed
the knapsack on the ground and cried: “Two out of the knapsack!” And whence I know
not, but out of the knapsack leaped two youths, brought oaken tables, covered them with
dishes, and on them was flesh and fowl of every description. The old man ate his fill of
such delicacies as it had never been his luck to see all his life even from afar; he ate and
drank without stopping, and would only rise from the table when the crane cried: “Two
into the knapsack!” And the tables with all the flesh and fowl were as if they had never
been. “Take this knapsack,” said the crane, “and give it to thy old woman.” The old man
thanked him and went home. But all at once the desire seized him to brag about his
booty to his godmother. So he went to his godmother, inquired after the healths of
herself and her three daughters, and said: “Give me a little supper, according as God has
blessed thee!” The godmother put before him what was on the stove, curtseyed, and bade
him fall to. But the godson turned up his nose and said to the godmother: “Thine is sorry
fare! Why I have as good as that when I’m on the road. I’ll stand treat to thee.”—“Very
well, do so.” The old man immediately brought out his knapsack, placed it on the

ground, and the moment he cried: “Two out of the knapsack!” two youths, whence they
came I know not, leaped out of the knapsack, placed the oaken tables, covered them with
carved dishes, and placed upon them all sorts of flesh and fowl, such as the godmother
had never seen from the day of her birth. The godmother and her daughters ate and drank
their fill, and her thoughts were not good; she meant to deprive her godson of his
knapsack by subtlety. And she began flattering her godson, and said to him: “My dear
little dovey godson, thou art tired to-day, wilt thou not stop and have a bath? We have
everything handy to warm the bath-room for thee.” The godson did not say no to a bath,
hung up his knapsack in the hut, and went into the bath-room to bathe. But the
godmother immediately bade her daughters sew together in hot haste just such another
knapsack as the old man’s, and when they had finished it, she foisted her knapsack on
the old man, and took his knapsack for herself. The old man noticed nothing, and went
home cheerily-cheerful; he sang songs and whistled all the way, and no sooner did he get
home than he cried to his old woman: “Wife, wife, congratulate me upon the gift which I
have got from the son of the crane!” The old woman looked at him and thought: “You’ve
been drinking somewhere to-day, I know; I’ll give you a lesson!” The old man when he
got into the hut immediately placed his knapsack in the middle of the floor and cried:
“Two out of the knapsack!” But out of the knapsack came nobody at all. A second time
he cried: “Two out of the knapsack!” And again there was nobody. The old woman when
she saw this let loose the full flood of her abuse upon him, flew at him like a whirlwind,
caught up a wet mop on her way, and it was as much as he could do to escape from her
and dash out of the hut.

The poor fellow fell a-weeping, and went to the self-same spot in the fields, thinking:
“Perhaps I may meet the crane and get another such knapsack from him!” And indeed
the crane was there, and was waiting for the old man with just such another knapsack.
“Here is just such another knapsack, and it will be of as good service as the former one.”
The old man bowed to the very girdle and ran off home at full speed. But on the way a
doubt occurred to him: “If now this knapsack be not quite the same as the other one, I
shall get into a mess again with my old woman—and this time I shall not be able to hide
my head from her even under the ground. Come along then: ‘Two out of the knapsack!’”
Immediately two young men leaped out of the knapsack with long sticks in their hands
and began to belabour him, crying: “Don’t go to thy godmother; don’t be fooled by
honeyed words!” And they kept on beating the old man till he bethought himself to say:
“Two into the knapsack!” Then the young men hid themselves in the knapsack. “Well,”
thought the old man, “I cracked up the other knapsack to my godmother like a fool, but I
shall not be a fool if I crack up this to her also. I wonder if she would like to filch this
one from me also? She’d thank me on the other side of her mouth.” So he went quite
cheerily to his godmother, hung up the knapsack on the wall, and said: “Pray, heat me a
bath, godmother.”—“With pleasure, godson.” The old man got into the bath and had a
good wash, staying as long as he could. The godmother called her daughters, placed
them behind the table, and said: “Two out of the knapsack.” And out of the knapsack
leaped the young men with the long sticks and began beating the godmother and crying:

“Give the old man back his knapsack.” The godmother sent her eldest daughter to the
old man and said: “Call our godson out of the bath; say that these two are beating me to
death.” But the godson replied out of the bath: “I have not finished bathing yet!” The
godmother sent her youngest daughter, but the godson replied out of the bath: “I have
not washed my head yet!” But the two youths kept beating the godmother all the time
and saying: “Give back the old man’s knapsack!” The godmother’s patience was quite
tired out, and she bade her daughters bring the stolen knapsack, and throw it to the old
man in the bath-room. Then the old man got out of his bath and cried: “Two into the
knapsack!” And the young men with the long sticks were no more.

Then the old man took both the knapsacks and went home. He approached the house and
again began crying: “Congratulate me, wife, on the gifts I have got from the son of the
crane!” The old woman flared up at once and got her broom ready. But the old man
when he came in, cried: “Two out of the knapsack!” and immediately the tables appeared
before the old woman, and the two young men placed on the tables flesh and fowl in
abundance. The old woman ate and drank her fill, and became quite mild and tender.
“Well, dear little hubby, I’ll thwack thee no more.” But the old man after dinner took this
knapsack and put it away, and unexpectedly got out the other, and placed it on the bench
in the hut. The old woman wanted to see for herself how the old man’s knapsack set to
work, so she cried: “Two out of the knapsack!” Immediately the two young men with the
long sticks popped out, and fell to beating the old woman, crying all the time: “Don’t
beat thy old man! Don’t curse thy old man!” The old woman screeched with all her
might, and called to her old man to help her. The old man took pity on her, came into the
hut, and said: “Two into the knapsack!” and the two disappeared into the knapsack.

From henceforth the old man and the old woman lived together in such peace and
quietness that the old man is always praising his old woman to the skies, and so this
story ends.

The Story of Marko the Rich and Vasily the Luckless.
Not in our time, but a long time ago, in a certain realm, lived a very rich merchant,
Marko by name, and surnamed the Rich. Cruel and hard was he by nature, greedy of
lucre and unmerciful to the poor. Whenever the lowly and the needy came begging
beneath his window he sent his servants to drive them away, and let loose his dogs upon
them. There was only one thing in the world he loved, and that was his daughter, the
thrice-fair Anastasia. To her only he was not hard, and though she was only five years
old, he never gainsaid her one of her wishes, and gave her all her heart’s desire.

And once on a cold frosty day, three gray-haired men came under the window and asked
an alms. Marko saw them, and ordered the dogs to be let loose. The thrice-fair Anastasia
heard of it, and implored her father and said: “My own dear father, for my sake don’t
drive them away, but let them pass the night in the cattle-stall.” The father consented,
and bade them let the poor old beggar-men into the cattle-stall for the night. As soon as
every one was asleep Anastasia rose up, made her way on tiptoe to the stall, climbed up
into the loft, and looked at the beggars. The old beggar-men were crouching together in
the middle of the stall, leaning on their crutch-staves with their wrinkled hands, and over
their hands flowed their gray beards, and they were talking softly among themselves.
One of the old men, the oldest of them all, looked at the others and said: “What news
from the wide world?” The second one immediately replied: “In the village Pogoryeloe,1
in the house of Ivan the Luckless, a seventh son is born; what shall we call him, and with
what inheritance shall we bless him?” And the third old man, after meditating a little,
said: “We’ll call him Vasily, and we’ll enrich him with the riches of Marko the Rich,
under whose roof we are now passing the night.” When they had thus said they prepared
to depart, bowed low to the holy ikons, and with soft footsteps prepared to depart from
the stall. Anastasia heard all this, went straight to her father, and told him the words of
the old men.

Marko the Rich thought deeply over it. He thought and thought, and he went to the
village Pogoryeloe. “I’ll find out for certain,” thought he, “whether such a babe really
has been born there.” He went straight to the priest and told him all about it. “Yes,”
replied the priest, “yesterday we had a babe born here, the son of our poorest serf; I
christened him Vasily, and luckless he certainly is; he is the seventh son in the family,
and the eldest son of the family is only seven years old; the sons of this poor peasant are
wee, wee little things; there is next to nothing to eat and drink there; and such hunger
and want is in the house that there’s none in the village who will even stand sponsor.” At
this news the heart of Marko the Rich began to ache. Marko thought of the unhappy
youngster, declared he would be godfather, asked the priest’s wife to be godmother, and

bade them make ready a rich table; and they brought the little fellow, christened him, and
sat down and feasted.

At the banquet Marko the Rich spoke friendly words to Ivan the Luckless, and said to
him: “Gossip, thou art a poor man, and cannot afford to bring up thy son; give him to
me; I will bring him up among well-to-do people, and I will give into thy hand at once
for thine own maintenance one thousand rubles.” The poor man thought the matter over,
and then shook hands upon it. Marko gave gifts to his fellow-sponsor, took the child,
wrapped him in fox furs, put him in his carriage, and drove homewards. They had got
some ten versts from the village when Marko stopped the horses, took up the child, went
to the brink of a great precipice, whirled the child over his head, and pitched it down the
precipice, exclaiming: “There you go, and now take possession of my goods if you can!”

Shortly after that some merchants from beyond the sea chanced to be travelling by the
self-same road; these merchants brought with them twelve thousand rubles which they
owed to Marko the Rich. They passed along by the side of the precipice, and they heard
within the precipice the crying of a child. They stopped their horses, went to the
precipice, and looked amongst the snowdrifts of the green meadows, and on a meadow a
little child was sitting and playing with flowers. The merchants took up the child,
wrapped him round with furs, and went on their way. They came to the house of Marko
the Rich, and told him of their strange discovery. Marko immediately guessed that the
matter concerned his own little serf boy, and he said to the merchants: “I should very
much like to look at your foundling; if you will give him to me out and out I’ll forgive
you your debt to me.” The merchants agreed, gave the child to Marko, and departed. But
Marko that same night took the child, put it in a little cask, tarred it all over, and threw it
into the sea.

The cask sailed and sailed along, and at last it came to a monastery. The monks
happened to be on the shore just then; they were spreading out their fishing-nets to dry,
and all at once they heard the crying of a child. They guessed that the crying came from
the cask, and they immediately seized the cask, broke it open, and there was the child.
They took the child to the abbot, and as soon as the abbot heard that the child had been
cast upon the shore in a cask, he decided that the youngster’s name should be Vasily, and
that he should be surnamed the Luckless. And henceforth Vasily lived in the monastery
till he was sixteen years old, and he grew up fair of face, soft of heart, and strong in
mind. The abbot loved him because he learned his letters so quickly that he was able to
read and sing in the church better than all the others, and because he was deft and skilful
in affairs. And the abbot made him sacristan.

And it happened that once Marko the Rich was travelling on business, and came to this
very monastery. The monks treated him with honour as a rich guest. The abbot
commanded the sacristan to run and open the church; the sacristan ran at once, lit the
candles, and remained in the choir, and read and sang. And Marko the Rich asked the
abbot if the young man had dwelt there long, and the abbot told him all about it. Marko

began to think, and it struck him that this could be no other than his serf-boy. And he
said to the abbot: “Would that I could lay my hands upon such a smart young fellow as
your sacristan, I would place all my treasures beneath his care; I would make him the
chief overseer of all my goods, and you know yourselves what goods are mine.” The
abbot began to make excuses, but Marko promised the monastery a donation of ten
thousand rubles. The abbot wavered; he began to consult the brothers, and the brothers
said to him: “Why should we stand in Vasily’s way? let Marko the Rich take him and
make him his overseer.” So they deliberated, and agreed to send away Vasily the
Luckless with Marko the Rich.

But Marko sent Vasily home in a ship, and wrote to his wife this letter: “When the bearer
of this letter reaches thee, go with him at once to our soap-works, and when thou dost
pass the great boiling cauldron, shove him in. If thou dost not do this I will punish thee
severely, for this youth is my prime enemy and evil-doer.” Vasily duly arrived in port
and went on his way, and there met him in the road three poor old men, and they asked
him: “Whither art thou going, Vasily the Luckless?”—“Why, to the house of Marko the
Rich, I have a letter for his wife.”—“Show us the letter,” said the old men. Vasily took
out the letter and gave it them. The old men breathed on the letter and said: “Go now,
and give the letter to the wife of Marko the Rich—God will not forsake thee.”

Vasily came to the house of Marko the Rich and gave the letter to his wife. The wife read
Marko’s letter, and called her daughter, for she could not believe her own eyes, but in the
letter was written as plain as plain could be: “Wife, the next day after thou dost receive
this my letter, marry my daughter, Anastasia, to the bearer, and do so without delay. If
thou doest it not thou shalt answer to me for it.” Anastasia looked at Vasily, and Vasily
stared at her. And they dressed Vasily in rich attire, and the next day they wedded him to
Anastasia.

Marko the Rich came home from the sea, and his wife with his daughter and son-in-law
met him on the quay. Marko looked at Vasily, fell into a furious passion with his wife,
and said to her: “How darest thou wed our daughter away without my consent?” But the
wife replied: “I dared not disobey thy strict command!” and she gave the threatening
letter to her husband. Marko read the letter, and saw that the handwriting was his own if
the intention was not, and he thought to himself: “Good! thrice hast thou escaped ruin at
my hands, but now I will send thee where not even the ravens shall pick thy bones.”

Marko lived for a month with his son-in-law and treated him and his daughter most
kindly; from his face nobody could have thought that he nourished evil thoughts against
him in his heart. One day Marko called Vasily to him and said to him: “Go to the land of
Thrice-nine, in the Empire of Thrice-ten, to Tsar Zmy2; twelve years ago he built a
palace on my land. Thou therefore take rent from him for all the twelve years, and get
news from him concerning my twelve ships, which have been wrecked about his
kingdom for the last three years, and have left no trace behind them.” Vasily dared not

gainsay his father-in-law, but prepared for his journey, took leave of his young wife, took
a sack of sweetmeats as provision by the way, and set out.

He went on and on, and whether it was long or short, far or near, matters not, but
anyhow at last he heard a voice which said: “Vasily the Luckless, whither art thou
going? is thy journey far?”—Vasily looked around him on all sides and answered: “Who
called me? speak!”—“’Tis I, the old leafless oak, and I ask thee whither art thou going,
and is thy journey far?”—“I am going to Tsar Zmy to collect arrears of rent for the last
twelve years.” And again the oak said to him: “If thou arrivest in time, think of me and
ask him: here the old leafless oak has been standing all these three hundred years, and is
withered and rotten to the very root—how much longer must he be tormented in this
wide world?” Vasily listened attentively, and then went further. He came to a river and
sat in the ferry-boat, but the old ferryman looked at him and said: “Is thy journey before
thee a long one, Vasily the Luckless?”—Vasily told him. “Well,” said the ferryman, “if
thou art in time, remember me, and say to him I have been ferrying here all these thirty
years; how much longer, I should like to know, shall I have to go backwards and
forwards?”—“Good!” said Vasily, “I will say so.”

He went on to the straits of the sea, and across the straits a whale-fish was lying
stretched out, and a road marked out by posts went across its back, and people passed to
and fro there. When Vasily stepped on to the whale, the whale-fish spoke to him with a
man’s voice and said: “Whither art thou going, Vasily the Luckless, and is thy journey
far?” Vasily told it everything, and the whale-fish said again: “If thou art in time,
remember me; the poor whale-fish has been lying across this sea these three years, and a
road marked out by posts goes across its back, and horse and foot trample into its very
ribs, and it has no rest night or day; how much longer, pray, is it to lie here?”—“Good!”
said Vasily, “I will say so,” and went on further.

Vasily went on and on, and he came to a broad green meadow. In the meadow stood a
gigantic palace; the white marble walls glistened, the roof shone like a rainbow, and was
covered with mother-of-pearl, and the crystal windows burned like fire in the sun. Vasily
entered the palace; he went from room to room, and marvelled at the indescribable
wealth of them. He went into the last room of all, and saw a lovely damsel sitting on a
bed. When she saw Vasily, she cried: “Is it Vasily the Luckless that has fallen into this
accursed place?” Vasily told her everything, and why he had come, and what had
befallen him in the way. And the damsel said to Vasily: “Not to take tribute wast thou
sent here, but as food for the serpent, and to thine own destruction.” Scarcely had she
spoken these words than the whole palace trembled, and there was clanging and a
banging in the courtyard. The damsel shoved Vasily into a coffer beneath the floor,
locked him in, and whispered: “Listen to what I say to the Serpent.” And with that she
went to meet Tsar Serpent.

A monstrous serpent rolled into the room, and straightway got on to the bed and said: “I
have been flying over the Russian land; I’m frightfully tired, and I want to go to sleep.”

The lovely damsel flattered him and said: “Everything is known to thee, O Tsar, and
without thee I cannot interpret a very hard dream I have dreamed: wilt thou interpret it
for me?”—“Well, out with it, quick!”—“I dreamt I was going along a road, and an oak
tree cried to me, ‘Ask the Tsar how long I am to stand here’!”—“It will stand till some
one comes and kicks it with his foot, and then it will be rooted out and fall, and beneath
it is a great quantity of gold and silver: Marko the Rich himself has not got as
much.”—“But then I dreamed that I came to a river, and the ferryman on the ferry-boat
said to me: ‘Shall I ferry here long’?”—“’Tis his own fault. Let him put the first who
comes to him on the ferry-boat, and push him with the ferry-boat away from the shore,
and he will change places with him, and ferry for evermore.”—“And after that I came in
my dreams to the sea, and crossed over it on a whale-fish, and it said to me: ‘Ask the
Tsar how long I am to be here!’”—“He must lie there till he has cast up the twelve ships
of Marko the Rich, then he may go into the water, and his body will grow again.”

All this the serpent said, and then turned over on its other side and fell a-snoring so
loudly that all the crystal windows in the palace rattled. Then the damsel let Vasily out of
the coffer, opened the garden-gate for him, and showed him the way. Vasily thanked her,
and began his return journey.

He came to the straits of the sea where the whale-fish lay, and the whale-fish asked: “Did
he say anything about me?”—“Take me over to the other side, and I’ll tell thee.” When
he had crossed over, he said to the whale-fish: “Thou must bring up again the twelve
ships of Marko the Rich, which thou swallowed three years ago.” The whale-fish cleared
its throat and brought up again all the ships quite whole and not a bit hurt, and in its joy
leaped about so in the water that Vasily the Luckless, who was standing on the bank,
suddenly found himself up to his knees in the sea. He went on further and came to the
ferry. “Hast thou spoken about me to Tsar Serpent?” asked the ferryman. “I have; ferry
me over first, and I’ll tell thee.” And as soon as he had crossed over, he said to the
ferryman: “Whoever comes to thee after me, seat him in the ferry-boat and shove him
from the bank, and he will have to ferry in thy place for ever and ever, but thou wilt be
as free as the air.” After that, Vasily came to the old leafless oak, kicked it with his foot,
and the oak rolled over and the roots sprang out of the ground, and beneath the roots and
beneath the stump there was gold and silver and precious stones without number. Vasily
looked about him, and lo! up to the very place were sailing the twelve ships of Marko
the Rich, the selfsame which the whale-fish had brought up; and in the foremost ship, in
the very stern, stood the selfsame old men who had met Vasily when he had the letter to
Marko the Rich, and saved him from destruction. And the old men said to Vasily: “Dost
thou not see, Vasily, how the Lord has blessed thee?” And they got off the ship and went
their way. And the sailors put all the gold and silver in the ships, and went home by sea.

Marko the Rich was more furious than ever. He bade them saddle his horse, and
hastened off to Tsar Serpent to the land of Thrice-ten; he wanted to arrange matters with
Tsar Serpent himself. When he came to the river, he got on to the ferry-boat, but the
ferryman pushed him away from the shore, and there Marko remained as ferryman ever

after, and there he is ferrying still. But Vasily the Luckless lived with his wife and
mother-in-law, and was happy and prosperous and kind to the poor, and gave them meat
and drink and clothed them, and disposed of all the wealth of Marko the Rich.

The End.

1 Burnt down.
2 Serpent.

Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London & Bungay.

Colophon

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Polevoi, P. (Petr), 1839–1902; Bain, R. Nisbet (Robert Nisbet), 1854–1909

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