Part 2

But Iván Tsarévich assembled all the Princes and the _boyárs_, and he asked them: “With which wife shall I live?”

They said: “With the first.”

But he answered, “My lords, whichever wife leaps quickest to the door shall remain with me.”

So the witch’s daughter climbed up at once, but Márya Tsarévna clung on. Then Iván Tsarévich took his gun and shot the substitute wife, and lived happy ever after with Márya Tsarévna.

A TALE OF THE DEAD

One day a peasant was going by night with pots on his head. He journeyed on and on, and his horse became tired and came to a spot in front of God’s acre. The peasant ungirded the horse, set it to graze, but he could not get any sleep. He lay down and lay down, suddenly the grave began opening under him, and he felt it and leaped to his feet. Then the grave opened and the corpse with the coffin lid got out, with his white shroud on; got out and ran up to the church door, laid the coffin lid at the gate and himself went into the village.

Now this peasant was a bold fellow: so he took the coffin lid and set it by his _teléga_, and went to see what would come of it. Very soon the corpse came back, looked about him and could not find the coffin lid anywhere, and began to hunt for it. And at last he came up to the peasant, and said, “Give me my coffin lid, or else I will smash you to atoms.”

“What are you bragging for?” answered the peasant, “I will break you up into little bits.”

“Do, please, give it me, dear good man,” asked the corpse.

“Well, I will give it you if you will tell me where you have been and what you have done.”

“Oh, I have been in the village, and I there slew two young lads!”

“Well, tell me how to revive them.”

The corpse had no choice, so he answered, “Cut off the left lappet from my shroud and take it with you. When you come to the house where the lads have died, scatter hot sparks into a pot and put the piece of my shirt there, then close the door and at the breath of it they will revive at once.”

So the peasant cut off the left lappet from the shroud and gave him back the coffin lid. Then the dead man went back into the grave and laid himself down in it. Then the cocks crowed and he could not lock it down properly: one corner of the coffin lid would perk upwards. The peasant noticed all this. Day was breaking, so he yoked his horse and went into the village.

In a certain house he could hear the sound of lamentation and cries of grief: he went in there, and two youths lay dead. “Do not weep: I can revive them.”

“Do revive them, kinsman: half of our goods we will give you,” said the relations.

So the peasant did as the corpse had told him, and the lads revived. The parents were delighted, and they seized hold of the peasant, and they pinioned him with ropes. “Now, doctor, we are going to take you up to the authorities: if you can revive them it must be you who killed them!”

“What, good Christians! Have some fear for God!” the peasant shrieked: and he told what he had seen at night.

Soon the news spread through the village, and the people assembled and rushed up to the cemetery, looked at the grave out of which the corpse had come, tore it up and dug into the dead man’s heart an oaken stake, so that he should never rise up and kill folks. And they rewarded the peasant greatly and led him home with honour.

A TALE OF THE DEAD

Once a carpenter was going home late at night from a strange village: he had been at a jolly feast at a friend’s house. As he came back an old friend met him who had died some ten years before.

“How do you do?”

“How do you do?” said the walker, and he forgot that his friend had long ago taken the long road.

“Come along with me: let us have a cup together once more.”

“Let us go.”

“I am so glad to have met you again, let us toast the occasion.”

So they went into an _izbá_,[1] and they had a drink and a talk. “Well, good-bye; time I went home!”

“Stay, where are you going? Come and stay the night with me.”

“No, brother, do not ask me: it is no good. I have business at home to-morrow and must be there early.”

“Well, good-bye.”

“But why should you go on foot? Better come on my horse, and he will gallop along gaily.”

“Thank you very much.”

So he sat on the horse, and the horse galloped away like a whirlwind.

Suddenly the cock crowed: it was a very terrible sight! Graves all around, and under the wayfarer a gravestone!

A TALE OF THE DEAD

They had discharged the soldier home, and he was going on his road, it may be far, it may be a short way, and he at last was nearing his village. Not far from his village there lived a miller in his mill: in past times the soldier had been great friends with him.

Why should he not go and see his friend? So he went.

And the miller met him, greeted him kindly, brought a glass of wine, and they began speaking of all they had lived through and seen. This was towards the evening, and whilst the soldier was the miller’s guest it had become dark. So the soldier got ready to go into the village.

But the miller said to him, “Soldier, stay the night with me: it is late and you might come by some mishap.”

“What?”

“A terrible sorcerer has died, and at night he rises out of the grave, ranges about the village and terrifies the boldest: why, he might give you trouble.”

What was the use of it? Why, the soldier was a State servant, and a soldier cannot be drowned in the sea, nor be burned in the fire! So he answered, “I will go, for I should like to see my relatives as soon as I can.”

So he set out; and the road crossed a grave-yard. As he looked he saw a glow on one grave. “What is it?” he said; “I must look at this.” So he went up, and beside a fire there sat the sorcerer, sewing shoes. “Hail, brother!” said the soldier.

So the wizard looked, and asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I only wanted to see what you are up to.”

So the wizard threw down his work, and he invited the soldier to a wedding. “Let us go, brother, let us have a walk: there is a wedding now going on in the village.”

“Very well,” said the soldier.

So they went to the wedding, and were royally feasted and given to eat and drink.

The wizard drank and drank, walked about and walked about, and grew angry, drove all the guests and the family out of the _izbá_,[2] scattered all the wedding guests, took out two bladders and an awl, pricked the hands of the bride and bridegroom and drew their blood, filling the bladders with the blood. He did this and said to the soldier, “Now we will leave the house.”

On the road the soldier asked him, “Tell me, why did you fill the bladders with the blood?”

“So that the bride and bridegroom might die. To-morrow nobody will be able to wake them up: I only know one means of reviving them.”

“What is that?”

“You must pierce the heels of the bride and bridegroom and pour the blood again into the wounds, their own blood into each. In my right pocket I have the bridegroom’s blood hidden, and in my left, the bride’s.”

So the soldier listened and never said a single word.

But the wizard went on boasting. “I, you know, carry out whatever I desire.”

“Can you be overcome?”

“Yes, certainly: if any one were to make a pile of aspen wood, one hundred cartloads in all, and to burn me on the pile, it can be done; then I should be overcome. Only you must burn me in a cunning way. Out of my belly snakes, worms and all sorts of reptiles will creep; jackdaws, magpies and crows will fly: you must catch them and throw them on the pile. If a single worm escapes, it will be no good, for I shall creep out into that worm.”

So the soldier listened and remembered. So they had a long talk, and at last they came to the grave.

“Now, my brother,” said the wizard, “I am going to tear you to bits! Otherwise you will tell the tale!”

“Now! Let’s argue this out! How are you going to tear me to bits; I am a servant of God and the Tsar!”

So the wizard gnashed his teeth, howled, and threw himself on the soldier. But he drew out his sabre and dealt a backstroke. They tussled and struggled, and the soldier was almost exhausted. Ho, but this is a sorry ending! Then the cocks crowed and the wizard fell down breathless.

The soldier got the bladders out of the wizard’s pockets, and went to his relations. He went in and he greeted them. And they asked him, “Have you ever seen such a fearful stir?”

“No, I never have!”

“Why, have you not heard? There is a curse on our village: a wizard haunts it.”

So they lay down and went to sleep.

In the morning the soldier rose and began asking: “Is it true that there was a wedding celebrated here?”

So his kin answered him, “There was a wedding at the rich peasant’s house, only the bride and bridegroom died that same night. No, we don’t know at all of what they died.”

“Where is the house?”

So they showed him, and he said never a word, and went there, got there, and found the whole family in tears.

“What are you wailing for?”

So they told him the reason.

“I can revive the bridal couple: what will you give me?”

“Oh, you may take half of our possessions.”

So the soldier did as the wizard had bidden him, and he revived the bride and bridegroom, and grief was turned to joy and merriment.

They feasted the soldier and rewarded him.

So he then turned sharp to the left and marched up to the _stárosta_[3] and bade him assemble all the peasants and prepare one hundred cartloads of aspen boughs. Then they brought the boughs into the cemetery, put them into a pile and raised the wizard out of the grave, put him on the faggots and burned him. And then all the people stood around, some with brushes, shovels and pokers. The pile lit up gaily and the wizard began to burn. His belly burst, and out of it crept snakes, worms and vermin of all sorts, and there flew jackdaws and magpies. But the peasants beat them all into the fire as they came out, and did not let a single worm escape. So the wizard was burned, and the soldier collected his dust and scattered it to the four winds. Henceforth there was peace in the village.

And the peasants thanked the soldier.

He stayed in his country, stayed there until he was satisfied, and then with his money returned to the imperial service: he served his term, went on the retired list, and then lived out his life, living happily, loving the good things and shunning the ill.

THE BEAR, THE DOG, AND THE CAT

Once there lived a peasant who had a good dog, and as the dog grew old it left off barking and guarding the yard and the storehouses: its master would no longer nourish it, so the dog went into the wood and lay under a tree to die.

Then a bear came up and asked him, “Hello, Dog, why are you lying here?”

“I have come to die of hunger. You see how unjust people are. As long as you have any strength, they feed you and give you drink; but when your strength dies away and you become old they drive you from the courtyard.”

“Well, Dog, would you like something to eat?”

“I certainly should.”

“Well, come with me; I will feed you.”

So they went on.

On the way a foal met them.

“Look at me,” said the bear, and he began to claw the ground with his paws. “Dog, O dog!”

“What do you want?”

“Look, are my eyes beautiful?”

“Yes, Bear, they are beautiful.”

So the bear began clawing at the ground more savagely still. “Dog, O dog, is my hair dishevelled?”

“It is dishevelled, Bear.”

“Dog, O dog, is my tail raised?”

“Yes, it is raised.”

Then the bear laid hold of the foal by the tail, and the foal fell to the ground. The bear tore her to pieces and said, “Well, Dog, eat as much as you will, and when everything is in order, come and see me.”

So the dog lived by himself and had no cares, and when he had eaten all and was again hungry, he ran up to the bear.

“Well, my brother, have you done?”

“Yes, I have done, and again I am hungry.”

“What! Are you hungry again? Do you know where your old mistress lives?”

“I do.”

“Well, then, come; I will steal your mistress’s child out of the cradle, and do you chase me away and take the child back. Then you may go back; she will go on feeding you, as she formerly did, with bread.”

So they agreed, and the bear ran up to the hut himself and stole the child out of the cradle: the child cried, and the woman burst out, hunted him, hunted him, but could not catch him; so they came back, and the mother wept, and the other women were afflicted; from somewhere or other the dog appeared, and he drove the bear away, took the child and brought it back.

“Look,” said the woman, “here is your old dog restoring your child!” So they ran to meet him, and the mother was very glad and joyous. “Now,” she said, “I shall never discharge this old dog any more.” So they took him in, fed him with milk, gave him bread, and asked him only to taste the things. And they told the peasant, “Now you must keep and feed the dog, for he saved my child from the bear; and you were saying he had no strength!”

This all suited the dog very well, and he ate his fill, and he said, “May God grant health to the bear who did not let me die of hunger!” and he became the bear’s best friend.

Once there was an evening party given at the peasant’s house. At that time the bear came in as the dog’s guest. “Hail, Dog, with what luck are you meeting? Is it bread you are eating?”

“Praise be to God,” answered the dog, “it is no mere living, it is butter week. And what are you doing? Let us go into the _izbá_.[4] The masters have gone out for a walk and will not see what you are doing. You come into the _izbá_ and go and hide under the stove as fast as you can. I will await you there and will recall you.”

“Very well.”

And so they went into the _izbá_. The dog saw that his master’s guests had drunk too much, and made ready to receive his friend. The bear drank up one glass, then another, and broke it. The guests began singing songs, and the bear wanted to chime in. But the dog persuaded him: “Do not sing, it would only do harm.” But it was no good, for he could not keep the bear silent, and he began singing his song. Then the guests heard the noise, laid hold of a stick and began to beat him. He burst out and ran away, and just got away with his life.

Now the peasant also had a cat, which had ceased catching mice, and even playing tricks. Wherever it might crawl it would break something or spill something. The peasant chased the cat out of the house. But the dog saw that it was going to a miserable life without any food, and secretly began bringing it bread and butter and feeding it. Then the mistress looked on, and as soon as she saw this she began beating the dog, beat it hard, very hard, and saying all the time, “Give the cat no beef, nor bread.”

Then, three days later, the dog went to the courtyard and saw that the cat was dying of starvation. “What is the matter?” he said.

“I am dying of starvation: I was able to have enough whilst you were feeding me.”

“Come with me.”

So they went away. The dog went on, until he saw a drove of horses, and he began to scratch the earth with his paws and asked the cat, “Cat, O cat, are my eyes beautiful?”

“No, they are not beautiful.”

“Say that they are beautiful!”

So the cat said, “They are beautiful.”

“Cat, O cat, is my fur dishevelled?”

“No it is not dishevelled.”

“Say, you idiot, that it is dishevelled.”

“Well, it is dishevelled.”

“Cat, O cat, is my tail raised?”

“No, it is not raised.”

“Say, you fool, that it is raised.” Then the dog made a dash at a mare, but the mare kicked him back, and the dog died.

So the cat said, “Now I can see that his eyes are very red, and his fur is dishevelled, and his tail is raised. Good-bye, brother Dog, I will go home to die.”

EGÓRI THE BRAVE AND THE GIPSY

In a certain kingdom, in a certain land, there was a gipsy who had a wife and seven children, and he lived so poorly that at last there was nothing in the house to eat or to drink—not even a crust of bread. He was too idle to work, and too much of a coward to thieve. So what could he do?

Well, the peasant went on the road and stood pondering. At this time Egóri the Brave was passing by.

“Hail!” said the peasant. “Whither are you faring?”

“To God.”

“Why?”

“With a message from men wherewith each man should live, and wherewith each man should busy himself.”

“Will you, then, send in a report about me to the Lord?” the peasant said, “what He wishes me to engage in?”

“Very well—I will hand in a report,” Egóri said, and he went on his road.

So there the peasant stood, waiting for him—waiting. And when at last he saw Egóri on his way back, he asked him at once: “Did you hand in a report about me?”

“No,” said Egóri; “I forgot.”

So the peasant set out on his road a second time, and he again met Egóri, who was going to God on an errand. So the gipsy asked him once more: “Do please hand in a request on my behalf.”

“All right,” said Egóri. And he forgot again.

And so once more the peasant set out on the road, and once more met Egóri. And he asked him for the third time: “Do please speak on my behalf to God!”

“Yes—all right!”

“Will you forget again?”

“No, I shall not forget this time.”

Only the gipsy did not believe him. “Give me,” he said, “your golden stirrup. I will keep it until you come back; otherwise, you may once more forget.”

Egóri untied his golden stirrup, gave it to the gipsy, and rode on farther with a single stirrup. Then he reached God, and he began to ask wherewith each man should live, and wherewith each man should busy himself. In each case he received the right order, and he was starting back. But as soon as ever he mounted, he glanced down at the stirrup and recollected the gipsy. So he ran back to see God and said: “Oh, I forgot. Whilst I was coming here I met a gipsy on the way, and he asked me what he should do.” “Oh, tell the gipsy,” the Lord said, “that his trade is from whomsoever he take and steal, he, then, shall cheat and perjure himself.”

So Egóri went and mounted his horse, came up to the gipsy, and told him: “I shall now tell you the truth. If you had not taken the stirrup, I should have forgotten all about it.”

“I thought as much,” said the gipsy. “Now, for all eternity, you cannot forget me if you only look down at your stirrup, and I shall be always in your mind. Well, what did the Lord say to you?”

“Oh, He told me from whomsoever you take or steal you will cheat and perjure yourself; that will be your trade.”

“Thank you very much,” said the gipsy, and he bowed down to the ground, and went home.

“Where are you going?” said Egóri. “Give me my golden stirrup!”

“What stirrup?”

“Didn’t you take one from me?”

“How in the world could I take one from you? This is the first time I have seen you, and I have not even had a stirrup. Before God!—I never have!” And so the gipsy perjured himself.

What could he do? He could struggle and fight it out, Egóri could, and so he did; but it was all no good. It is perfectly true, and the gipsy spoke the truth: “If I had not given him the stirrup!—if I had not only known him! Now I shall forget him no more.”

So the gipsy took the golden stirrup and began hawking it. And as he went on his way, a fine lord came and met him. “Hullo, gipsy!” he said. “Will you sell the stirrup?”

“Yes—all right!”

“What will you take?”

“Fifteen hundred roubles.”

“Much too dear, isn’t that?”

“Well, you see, it is all gold.”

“Very well!” said his lordship; and he put his hand into his pocket, and he only had a thousand. “You just take this thousand, gipsy, and then give me the stirrup: I will send you on the odd five hundred.”

“Oh, no, my lord! One thousand roubles I will certainly take, but I shall not give up the stirrup. When you carry out your part of the bargain, then you shall receive the stirrup.” So the lord gave him the thousand, and he went home.

The very instant he got there he took out five hundred roubles, and sent his man up to the gipsy, telling him to give the money to him and to take the golden stirrup.

When his lordship’s groom came to the gipsy’s _izbá_,[5] “Hail, gipsy!” he said. “How fare you, good man? I have brought you the money from his lordship.”

“Well, give it me if you have brought it.” So the gipsy took the five hundred roubles, and gave the man a glass of wine, and then another, until the man had his fill.

And when he had had his fill the groom began to make his way home, and said to the peasant: “Now give me the golden stirrup.”

“What?”

“Yes—the stirrup which you sold my master.”

“What, _I_ sold it! I never had a golden stirrup!”

“Well, then, give me the money back.”

“What money?”

“But I just gave you five hundred roubles!”

“I have not even seen a _grívennik_[6]—never in my life! I looked after you kindly, simply for the sake of our Lord, and not in the least in order to get any money out of you.” And in this manner the gipsy had disavowed everything.

When the master had heard of this, he instantly started out to see the gipsy. “What on earth do you mean, you vile thief, by taking money and not giving up the golden stirrup?”

“What golden stirrup? Now do, my lord, think a little. How is it possible for a grey, hoary old peasant like me to possess a golden stirrup?”

Then the master became angrier and angrier, but he could not find it. “Well, we will come to court!” he said.

“Oh, please,” the gipsy answered, “please think! How in the world can I come in your company? You are a lord, and I am only a blockhead—I am only a dolt and a mere hind. At least you might dress me in a fine costume if we are to go together.” So the master dressed him in his own dress, and they journeyed together to the town for the case to be tried.

When they came into the town, the master said: “I bought of this peasant a golden stirrup. He took the money for it and will not deliver the chattel.”

And the peasant answered: “My Lords Justices, do you think it out for yourselves, however could one get a golden stirrup out of a grey-haired peasant? Why, I have not a single loaf at home. And I really cannot imagine what this fine gentleman wants of me. Why, he will even be saying next that I am wearing his clothes.”

“But the dress _is_ mine!” the master shrieked out.

“There you are, my Lords Justices!”

After this the case came to an end, and the master went back home without getting anything, and the peasant went on living merrily—living on and gaining nothing but good.

DANÍLO THE UNFORTUNATE

Good Prince Vladímir had many henchmen and serfs in the city of Kíev, and amongst them there was Danílo the Unfortunate, the noble. And on Sundays Prince Vladímir used to give all his servants goblets filled with wine, but Danílo good hard blows; and on great feast days every one was sated, but Danílo had nothing.

On the eve of Easter Sunday Prince Vladímir summoned Danílo the Unfortunate, and he gave him eighty score of sable skins, and he bade him sew a _shúba_[7] for the feast: the sable skins were not prepared, and the buttons had not been moulded, and the buttonholes had not been made. In the buttons he was bidden mould the wild beasts of the wood and to sew into the buttonholes all the seabirds.

Danílo the Unfortunate loathed the task, so he hurled it away, and he went outside. He went out on his road and way, and shed tears. An old woman came to meet him. “Look, Danílo,” she said, “do not rend yourself asunder: why are you crying, Danílo the Unfortunate?”