Part 9

Vasilísa at once fetched her doll, who ate, and said as she had the day before: “Pray and lie down to sleep, for the morning is wiser than the evening. Everything shall be done, Vasilísushka.”

Next morning Bába Yagá got up and stood at the window, and then went into the courtyard and whistled; and the mortar, the besom, and the pestle appeared at once, and the red horseman came by: and the sun rose. Bába Yagá sat in the mortar and went off, sweeping away her traces as before.

Vasilísa got everything ready with the help of her doll. Then the old woman came back, looked over everything, and said: “Ho, my faithful servants, friends of my heart! Make me some poppy-oil.” Then three pairs of hands came, laid hold of the poppies and carried them off.

Bába Yagá sat down to supper, and Vasilísa sat silently in front of her. “Why do you not speak; why do you stay there as if you were dumb?” Bába Yagá asked.

“I did not venture to say anything; but if I might, I should like to ask some questions.”

“Ask, but not every question turns out well: too knowing is too old.”

“Still, I should like to ask you of some things I saw. On my way to you I met a white horseman, in a white cloak, on a white horse: who was he?”

“The bright day.”

“Then a red horseman, on a red horse, in a red cloak, overtook me: who was he?”

“The red sun.”

“What is the meaning of the black horseman who overtook me as I reached your door, grandmother?”

“That was the dark night. Those are my faithful servants.”

Vasilísa then thought of the three pairs of hands and said nothing.

“Why don’t you ask any further?” Bába Yagá asked.

“I know enough, for you say yourself ‘too knowing is too old.’”

“It is well you asked only about things you saw in the courtyard, and not about things without it, for I do not like people to tell tales out of school, and I eat up everybody who is too curious. But now I shall ask you, how did you manage to do all the work I gave you?”

“By my mother’s blessing!”

“Ah, then, get off with you as fast as you can, blessed daughter; no one blessed may stay with me!”

So she turned Vasilísa out of the room and kicked her to the door, took a skull with the burning eyes from the fence, put it on a staff, gave it her and said, “Now you have fire for your stepmother’s daughters, for that was why they sent you here.”

Then Vasilísa ran home as fast as she could by the light of the skull; and the flash in it went out with the dawn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, she may do the work.”

So the woman went home and told Vasilísa everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE ANIMALS IN THE PIT

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

“Piggy, Piggy, where are you faring?”

“To St. Petersburg, to pray to God.”

“Take me with!”

“Come along, Gossip.”

So they went on together, and met the Vixen.

“Pig, where are you going?”

“To St. Petersburg, so please you.”

“Take me with!”

“Come along, Gossip.”

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

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

“Very well, take me with.”

“Very well, Slant-eyes, I will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE POOR WIDOW

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

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

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

“Never mind; we can manage somehow!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And again the Apostles were astonished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christ answered never a word.

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

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

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

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

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

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

ILYÁ MÚROMETS[20] AND SVYATOGÓR THE KNIGHT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Take my sword, my sworn brother!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

So there Svyatogór the knight remains to this day.

THE SMITH AND THE DEVIL

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

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

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

“How do you do, uncle?” he said.

“Very well, thank you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It would cost five hundred roubles.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! you know how to!”

“I really have not any idea!”

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

“But I have not seen your wife!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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