Part 3

“Oh, you old fatty!” he exclaimed, “shivers and shakes, quivers and quakes! Be off! this has nothing to do with you!” Then he went on a little way and thought, “Why did I bid her remove?” So he approached her again and said, “_Bábushka_,[8] little dove, forgive me: this is my trouble. Prince Vladímir has given me eighty score of sable skins, of which I am to make a _shúba_ in the morning. If only the buttons had been moulded and the silken buttonholes sewn! But there are to be lions moulded on to the buttons, and there are to be shepherds embroidered on to the buttonholes that should have sung and warbled. How am I to set about it? It would be better for me to drink _vódka_ behind the counter.”

Then the old woman, with her patched skirt, said, “Oh, I am now ‘_Bábushka_’ and your ‘little dove’! Do you go to the border of the blue sea, and stand in front of the grey oak: at the hour of midnight the blue sea will boil over and Chúdo-Yúda, the Old Man of the Sea, will come out to you: he has no hands, no feet, and he has a grey beard. Take hold of him by his beard and beat him until he asks you, ‘Why do you beat me, Danílo the Unfortunate?’ Then you are to answer, ‘I am beating you for this reason: let me see the Swan,[9] the fair maiden; let her body glint through her wings, and through her body let her bones appear, and from bone to bone let the marrow run like a flowing string of pearls.’”

Then Danílo the Unfortunate went to the blue sea, and he stood in front of the dusky oak: and at midnight the blue sea was disturbed and Chúdo-Yúda, the Old Man of the Sea, appeared before him. He had no hands, he had no feet, and his beard was grey. Danílo seized him by his beard and began to beat him on to the grey earth. Then at last Chúdo-Yúda asked him: “Why do you beat me, Danílo the Unfortunate?” “For this reason: let me see the Swan, the fair maiden; let her body glint through her wings, and through her body let her bones appear, and from bone to bone let the marrow run like a flowing string of pearls.”

Very soon the Swan, the fair maiden, swam up to the shore, and she spoke in this wise:

“Is it work on your way, Or for sloth do you stay?”

“Oh, Swan, fair maiden, I have a double task: Prince Vladímir has bidden me sew a _shúba_, and the sables are not prepared, the buttons are not moulded, and the buttonholes are not sewn.”

“You take me with you, and it will all be done in time.”

Then he began to think in his thoughts, “How shall I take her with me?”

“Now, Danílo, what are you thinking?”

“I must do as you say: I will take you with me.”

So she flapped her wings, and she moved her little head, and said, “Turn to me with your white face; we will build for ourselves a princely house. Shake your locks, that our house may have rooms.” Then twelve youths appeared, all of them carpenters, sawyers, stone-hewers; and they set to work, and the house was soon ready.

Then Danílo took her by her right hand, and he kissed her on her sweet lips, and he led her into the princely home. They sat down at a table, ate and drank. They refreshed themselves, and their hands met at one table. “Now, Danílo, go to rest and to bed; think of nothing else; it will all be done.” So she laid him to sleep and herself went out to the crystal flight of steps. And she waved her pinions and she shook her little head: “My father,” she cried, “send me your craftsmen!”

And the twelve youths appeared and asked, “Swan-bird, fair maiden, what do you bid us do?”

“Sew me this _shúba_ at once: the sables are not prepared, the buttons are not moulded, the buttonholes are not sewn.”

So they set to work: one of them made the sables ready and sewed the _shúba_, one of them worked the forge and moulded the buttons, and one of them sewed the buttonholes, and in a minute, wondrously, the _shúba_ was made.

Then the Swan-bird, the fair maiden, came up and woke Danílo the Unfortunate: “Arise, my dear friend, the _shúba_ is ready, and the church-bells are ringing in the city of Kíev: it is time for you to arise and to prepare for matins.”

Danílo arose, put on the _shúba_, and went: she looked out of the window, stayed, gave him a silver staff, and bade him, “When you leave matins, stand on the right side of the choir as the choir leave, raise your hands and strike the sable _shúba_, and the birds will sing joyously and the lions roar fearsomely. Then take the _shúba_ from your shoulders and array Prince Vladímir at that instant, lest he forget us. He will then summon you as a guest, and will give you a glass of wine. Do not drink the glass to the bottom: if you drink it to the bottom no good will befall you; and do not boast of me: do not boast that we built a house together in a single night.”

Danílo took the silver staff and hied away, and she again stayed him on his course, and she gave him three little eggs, two of silver, one of gold, and said, “With the silver eggs give the Easter greeting to the Prince and the Princess, but the golden one keep and live your life along with it.”

Danílo the Unfortunate bade farewell to her and went to matins. All the people wondered. “Look what a fine man Danílo the Unfortunate has become: he has made the _shúba_ and he has brought it with him for the feast.”

After the Mass, he went up to the Prince and Princess, and he gave them the Easter greeting, but carelessly took out the golden egg. Alyósha Popóvich saw this, the Mocker of Women. As they went out of the church, Danílo the Unfortunate struck himself on the breast with the silver staff, and the birds sang and the lions roared; and all the folk were amazed and gazed at Danílo. But Alyósha Popóvich, the Mocker of Women, dressed himself as a sorry beggar and asked for holy alms. They all gave to him; only Danílo the Unfortunate alone said and thought, “What shall I give him? I have nothing to give.” So, as it was Easter Day, he gave him the golden egg. Alyósha Popóvich took that golden egg and changed into his former garb.

Prince Vladímir summoned them all to him, all to his palace to dessert: so they ate and drank and were refreshed, and they exalted themselves. Danílo drank until he was drunk; and, when he was drunk, made boast of his wife. Alyósha Popóvich bragged at the feast that he knew Danílo’s wife. But Danílo said, “If you know my wife you may cut off my head; and, if you do not know her, you shall forfeit your own.”

So Alyósha Popóvich, the Mocker of Women, went whither his eyes might go, and he went and wept.

Then the old woman met him on his way and asked, “Why are you weeping, Alyósha Popóvich?”

“Go away, old woman with the swollen belly; I have naught to do with you.”

“Yet I shall be of service to you.”

Then he began to ask her, “O my own grandmother, what did you wish to tell me?”

“Ha! am I now your own grandmother?”

“O, I was boasting I knew Danílo’s wife!”

“O _bátyushka_,[10] how do you know her: was there any little bird that told you? Do you go up to a certain house and invite her to feast with the Prince. She will wash herself, busk herself, and put a little chain out of the window. You take that chain and show it to Danílo the Unfortunate.”

So Alyósha Popóvich, the Mocker of Women, went to the window jamb, and called the Swan-bird, the fair maiden, to dine with the Prince. She was starting to wash herself, busk herself, and make ready for the feast, and that moment Alyósha Popóvich seized her little chain, ran up into the palace, and showed it to Danílo the Unfortunate.

So Prince Vladímir said to Danílo the Unfortunate, “I see now that you must forfeit your head.”

“Let me go home and bid farewell to my wife.” So he went home and said, “O fair Swan-maiden, what have I done? I became drunk and I bragged of you and have lost my life.”

“I know it all, Danílo the Unfortunate. Go, summon the Prince and Princess here as your guests, and all the burghers and generals and field-marshals and _boyárs_.”

“But the Prince will not come out in the mud and the mire!” (For the roads were bad, and the blue sea became stormy; the marshes surged and opened.)

“You are to tell him: ‘Have no fear, Prince Vladímir: across the rivers have been built hazel-tree bridges, the transoms are of oak covered with cloth of purple and with nails of tin. The shoes of the doughty warrior will not be soiled, nor will the hoofs of his horse be smeared.’”

So Danílo the Unfortunate invited them as guests; and the Swan-bird, the fair maiden, stepped out to her window, flapped her wings, shook her little head, and there was a bridge laid from her house to the palace of Prince Vladímir. It was covered with cloth of purple, tacked in with tacks of tin; and on one side flowers grew, nightingales sang, and on the other side apple trees and fruits bloomed and ripened.

The Prince and Princess made ready to be guests, and they set out on their journey with all their noble host with them, crossed the first river, which ran with splendid beer. And very many soldiers fell down by that beer. Then they advanced to the second river, which ran with wonderful mead, and more than half of the brave host bent down to drink the mead and rolled on their sides. So they came to the third river, which ran with glorious wine. Here all the officers bent down and drank till they were drunk. At the fourth river powerful _vódka_ flowed. And the Prince looked backwards: all of his generals were lying on their backs. Only the Prince was left with three companions—with the Princess, Alyósha Popóvich, the Mocker of Women, and Danílo the Unfortunate.

Then the invited guests arrived, and they entered into the lofty palace: there were tables standing, and the table-cloths were of silk, and the chairs painted with many colours. They sat down at the tables: there were all sorts of dishes and of foreign drinks. There were no bottles, no mere pints—entire rivers flowed! Prince Vladímir and the Princess drank nothing, tasted nothing, only looked on. When would the Swan, the fair maiden, come out? And they sat long at the table, waited for her long, until it was time to go home. Danílo the Unfortunate called her once, and twice, and a third time, but she would not come and see her guests.

Alyósha Popóvich, the Mocker of Women, then said, “If this had been my wife I should have taught her to obey!”

Then the Swan-bird, the fair maiden, came out and stood at the window, and she said these words: “This is how we teach our husbands!” And so she flapped her wings, moved her little head, and flew about: and there the guests sat on mounds in the bog.

One way the waters tossed, On the other lay woe, On the third side naught but moss, On the fourth side—Oh!

“Get up, Prince, and avaunt! Let Danílo sit at the head of the table.”

So they went back all the way to their palace, and they were covered with mud from head to foot.

* * * * *

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

THE SORRY DRUNKARD

Once there lived an old man, and he was such a sorry drunkard as words cannot describe. He used to go to the drinking-booth, drink green wine, and crawl away home through the hops. And his road lay across a river.

When he came to the river, he did not dally to think; but slipped off his boots, hung them on his head, and wandered at ease till he came into the middle, stumbled and fell into the water, and was heard of no more.

But he had a son, Ugly Peter, Petrúsha. When Petrúsha saw that his father had vanished utterly, he became melancholy, and wept, had a Requiem Mass sung for his soul, and began to administer the property.

One day, on a Sunday, he went to church to pray to God. As he was going on his way, in front of him there was a woman crawling along, going slowly, slowly, stumbling on the reeds, and scolding hard: “What the devil knocks you against me!”

Petrúsha heard her ugly language, and said: “Good-day, Auntie; where are you going?”

“I am off to church, Gossip, to pray to God.”

“But is not it very sinful of you, going to church to pray to God, and then invoking the Unholy Spirit? You stumbled, and then invoked the devil!”

Well, he went on, and he heard Mass, and went on and on; and suddenly, from somewhere or other, there stood in front of him a fine youth who bowed down to him and said: “Thank you, Petrúsha, for your good word.”

“What are you? Why do you thank me?” Petrúsha asked.

“Oh, I am the Devil, and I am thanking you because when the old woman was stumbling along and barking at me uselessly, you put in a good word for me.” And he began to beseech him: “Do come, Petrúsha, and be my guest, and I will give you a reward—gold and silver—all you wish.”

“All right!” said Petrúsha; “I will come.”

And the Devil gave him his directions, and instantly vanished, and Petrúsha went back home.

Next day Petrúsha went to pay a visit to the Devil—went on and went on for three whole days; and he got into a deep wood—into the dreary and darksome forest where he could not see the sky. And in that forest there stood a rich palace; and when he came to the palace, a fair maiden saw him. She had been stolen from a village by the Unholy Spirit. She saw him and asked: “Why have you come here, doughty youth? Here the devils live, and they will tear you to tatters.”

Petrúsha told her how and why he had come to this palace.

“Well, look you to it,” the fair maiden said; “the devils are going to give you gold and silver—do not take any of it. Only ask them to give you the sorry horse on which the unholy spirits load their fuel and water. This horse is your father. When he got drunk and fell into the water, the devils instantly got hold of him, turned him into a horse, and now he serves as the beast of burden to carry their wood and water for them.”

Then that same youth came forward who had invited Petrúsha to pay him a visit, and he began to entertain him with all sorts of sweetmeats and drinks. Then the time came for Petrúsha’s departure home.

“As a parting gift,” the Devil said to him, “I will give you money, and a splendid horse, and you shall ride home royally.”

“This is of no use to me,” Petrúsha answered. “But if you will give me anything, give me that sorry jade—that battered jade which carries your wood and water.”

“Whatever use is that sorry nag to you? Why, you will hardly get home on it! Why, it tumbles down if you look at it!”

“I don’t mind about that; give it to me; it is the only thing I will take.”

So the devils gave him the sorry jade. Petrúsha took it and led it out to the entrance. As soon as he was at the outside, he met the fair maiden, who asked: “Have you got the horse?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Then, fair youth, when you arrive at your village, take the cross off from your neck and pass it round the horse three times, and then hang the cross on its head.”

Petrúsha bowed down to her, and set on his way; and he arrived at his village, and did all the maiden had commanded: took his copper cross from his neck, passed it three times round the horse, and hung the cross on its head. And all at once it was the horse no longer; but, instead, became his own father.

The son looked at the father, shed hot tears, and took him into his own _izbá_.[11] The old man lived for three days without speaking, and could not unseal his tongue. After that, they lived on in all good luck and happiness.

The old man altogether forsook being drunk; and to his last day not a drop of wine passed his lips.

THE WOLF AND THE TAILOR

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

* * * * *

One day they were still on their road, going on a long, long road, and a wolf met them and said: “Lord, I am feeling hungry.”

“Go,” Christ said to him, “and eat a mare.”

So the wolf went to look for a mare.

And he saw her going up and down, and said: “Mare, the Lord has bidden me eat you!”

So she answered: “Well, please do not eat me—it is not the proper thing. But I have a passport on me; only it is driven in very hard.”

“Well, show it me.”

“Just come near my hind feet!”

So the wolf went up, and she kicked him with her hoofs, and knocked out his front teeth, so that the wolf was thrown, at a blow, three _sazhéns_[13] away, and the mare ran off.

Back the wolf came with a petition, met Christ, and said: “Lord, the mare almost killed me!”

“Well, go on and eat the ram.”

So the wolf ran up to the ram—ran up and said: “Ram, I am going to eat you—it is the command of the Lord.”

“Well, come and eat me up if you will. I will stand on the hill, and will jump up into your mouth all ready.”

So the wolf stood on the hill, and the ram told him to open his mouth. So the wolf went and stood on the hill and opened his mouth for the food, and the ram ran down and hit him hard with the horns on his forehead—_whack_! The wolf was knocked off his feet, and the ram went away. And the wolf got up, looked all round, and there was never a sign of the ram.

So he went up with another complaint. And he found Christ and said: “Lord, even the ram has deceived me. Why, it almost knocked me to bits.”

“All right!” said Christ, “go and eat the tailor.”

So the wolf ran up, and he met a tailor on the way. “Tailor,” he said, “I am going to eat you, by command of the Lord.”

“All right. Let me say good-bye—I should like to greet my kin.”

“No, I cannot let you say good-bye with your kin.”

“Well, I cannot help it—it must be so. Come and eat me up. Only at least let me take your measurements. I only want to see whether I shall slip in easily.”

“All right!—measure away,” said the wolf.

So the tailor went back, took hold of the wolf by his tail, twined his tail round in his hand, and began to whip the wolf. And the wolf struggled and tussled, roared and shrieked, and tore until he tore his tail loose, and he then took to his feet. So he ran away with all of his might, and he met seven other wolves. They said: “Why are you, grey wolf, tailless?”

“Oh, the tailor tore it out.”

“Where is the tailor?”

“You see him there, on the road.”

“All right—we will hunt after him.” And they started after the tailor.

When the tailor heard the chase coming after him, and saw that it was a disagreeable business, he scaled up a tree as fast as he could. So the wolves arrived there and said: “We will stop here, brothers, and wait until the tailor comes down. Do you, manx-wolf, stop below, and we will each of us climb on the other’s shoulders.” So the manx-wolf lay at the bottom, and all the seven wolves went after the others and climbed up.

When the tailor saw his ill-fate coming so near him, for they were nearer and nearer, he cried out to the top one: “It is nobody’s fault, only the manx-wolf’s!” So the manx-wolf was frightened, and jumped out from below and ran off. All the seven wolves tumbled down and chased after him, caught him up, and tore him to bits. But the tailor slid down the tree and went back home.

THE TALE OF THE SILVER SAUCER AND THE CRYSTAL APPLE

Once a peasant lived with his wife, and they had three daughters: two were finely dressed and clever, but the third was a simple girl; the sisters and the father and mother as well called her the Little Fool. They hustled the Little Fool, thrust her about this way and that and forced her to work. She never said a word and was always ready to weed the grass, break off lamp-splinters, feed the cows and ducks, and whatever anybody asked for the Little Fool would bring. They had only to say, “Fool, go and fetch this!” or “Fool, come and look here!”

One day the peasant went with his hay to the fair, and he asked his daughters, “What shall I bring you as your fairing?”

One daughter asked, “Buy me some red cloth for a sarafan.” The other asked, “Buy me some scarlet nankin.” But the Fool sat still and said nothing.

Well, after all, the Fool was his daughter, and her father felt sorry for her, so he asked her, “What would you like to have, Fool?”

So the Fool smiled and said, “Buy me, my own father, a silver saucer and a crystal apple.”

“What do you mean?” asked the sisters.

“I should then roll the apple on the saucer, and should speak words which an old woman taught me in return for my giving her a loaf of white bread.” So the peasant promised, and went away.

Whether he went far or near, whether he took long or short, anyhow he went to the fair, sold his hay, bought the fairings, gave his one daughter the scarlet nankin, the other the red cloth for a sarafan and the Fool a silver saucer and a crystal apple. He came back home and he showed them. Both sisters were overjoyed, sewed sarafans, and mocked the Fool, and waited to see what she would do with her silver saucer and crystal apple. But the Fool did not eat the apple, but sat in a corner and whispered, “Roll, roll, roll, little apple, on the silver saucer, and show me all the cities and the fields, all the woods and the seas, and the heights of the hills and the fairness of heaven.”

Then the apple rolled about on the saucer; a transparency came over the silver; and, on the saucer, all the cities, one after the other, became visible, all the ships on the seas, and the regiments in the fields, and the heights of the mountains, and the beauties of the sky. Sunset appeared after sunset and the stars gathered in their nocturnal dances: it was all so beautiful and so lovely as no tale can tell and no pen can write.

Then the sisters looked on and they became envious and wanted to take the saucer away from their sister, but she would not exchange her saucer for anything else in the world. So the evil sisters walked about, called out and began to talk. “Oh, my darling sisters, let us go into the wood and pick berries and look for wild strawberries!” So the Fool gave her saucer to her father and herself went into the wood. She wandered about with her sisters, plucked the strawberries, and saw a spade lying on the grass; then the other sisters took the spade and began beating the Fool with it, slew the Fool, buried her under a silver birch, and came back to their father late at night, saying, “The Little Fool ran away from us, we could not find her, we went all over the wood searching for her. We suppose the wolves must have eaten her up.” But the father was sorry. She was a Fool, but she was his daughter after all, and so the peasant wept for his daughter, took the silver saucer and the apple, put them into a coffer and locked them up. And the sisters also wept for her.

Soon a herd came by and the trumpet sounded at dawn. But the shepherd was taking his flock, and at dawn he sounded his trumpet and went into the wood to look for a little lamb. He saw a little hummock beside a silver birch, and on it all around ruby-red and azure flowers, and bulrushes standing above the flowers. So the young shepherd broke a bulrush, made a pipe of it, and a wonderful wonder happened, a marvellous marvel: the pipe began of itself to sing and to speak. “Play on, play on, my little pipe. Console my father, console my guiding light, my father, and tell my mother of me, and my sisters, the little doves. For they killed me, the poor one, and for a silver saucer have severed me from light, all for my enchanted apple.”

People heard and ran together, the entire village thronged round the shepherd, asked him who had been slain. There was no end to the question. “Good folks all,” said the shepherd, “I do not know anything about it. I was looking for a little sheep in the wood, and I saw a knoll, on the knoll flowers, and a bulrush over the knoll. I broke off a bulrush, carved myself a pipe out of it, and the pipe began singing and speaking of itself.”