FOOTNOTES:

A bad wife lived on the worst of terms with her husband, and never paid any attention to what he said. If her husband told her to get up early, she would lie in bed three days at a stretch; if he wanted her to go to sleep, she couldn’t think of sleeping. When her husband asked her to make pancakes, she would say: “You thief, you don’t deserve a pancake!”If he said:“Don’t make any pancakes, wife, if I don’t deserve them,” she would cook a two-gallon pot full, and say,“Eat away, you thief, till they’re all gone!”“Now then, wife,” perhaps he would say, “I feel quite sorry for you; don’t go toiling and moiling, and don’t go out to the hay cutting.”“No, no, you thief!” she would reply, “I shall go, and do you follow after me!”One day, after having had his trouble and bother with her he went into the forest to look for berries and distract his grief, and he came to where there was a currant bush, and in the middleof that bush he saw a bottomless pit. He looked at it for some time and considered, “Why should I live in torment with a bad wife? can’t I put her into that pit? can’t I teach her a good lesson?”So when he came home, he said:“Wife, don’t go into the woods for berries.”“Yes, you bugbear, I shall go!”“I’ve found a currant bush; don’t pick it.”“Yes I will; I shall go and pick it clean; but I won’t give you a single currant!”The husband went out, his wife with him. He came to the currant bush, and his wife jumped into it, crying out at the top her voice:“Don’t you come into the bush, you thief, or I’ll kill you!”And so she got into the middle of the bush, and went flop into the bottomless pit.The husband returned home joyfully, and remained there three days; on the fourth day he went to see how things were going on. Taking a long cord, he let it down into the pit, and out from thence he pulled a little demon. Frightened out of his wits, he was going to throw the imp back again into the pit, but it shrieked aloud, and earnestly entreated him, saying:“Don’t send me back again, O peasant! let me go out into the world! A bad wife has come, and absolutely devoured us all, pinching us, and biting us—we’re utterly worn out with it. I’ll do you a good turn, if you will.”So the peasant let him go free—at large in Holy Russia. Then the imp said:“Now then, peasant, come along with me to the town of Vologda. I’ll take to tormenting people, and you shall cure them.”Well, the imp went to where there were merchant’s wives and merchant’s daughters; and when they were possessed by him, they fell ill and went crazy. Then the peasant would go to a house where there was illness of this kind, and, as soon as heentered, out would go the enemy; then there would be blessing in the house, and everyone would suppose that the peasant was a doctor indeed, and would give him money, and treat him to pies. And so the peasant gained an incalculable sum of money. At last the demon said:“You’ve plenty now, peasant; arn’t you content? I’m going now to enter into the Boyar’s daughter. Mind you don’t go curing her. If you do, I shall eat you.”The Boyar’s daughter fell ill, and went so crazy that she wanted to eat people. The Boyar ordered his people to find out the peasant—(that is to say) to look for such and such a physician. The peasant came, entered the house, and told Boyar to make all the townspeople, and the carriages with coachmen, stand in the street outside. Moreover, he gave orders that all the coachmen should crack their whips and cry at the top of their voices: “The Bad Wife has come! the Bad Wife has come!” and then he went into the inner room. As soon as he entered it, the demon rushed at him crying, “What do you mean, Russian? what have you come here for? I’ll eat you!”“What doyoumean?” said the peasant, “why I didn’t come here to turn you out. I came, out of pity to you, to say that the Bad Wife has come here.”The Demon rushed to the window, stared with all his eyes, and heard everyone shouting at the top of his voice the words, “The Bad Wife!”“Peasant,” cries the Demon, “wherever can I take refuge?”“Run back into the pit. She won’t go there any more.”The Demon went back to the pit—and to the Bad Wife too.In return for his services, the Boyar conferred a rich guerdon on the peasant, giving him his daughter to wife, and presenting him with half his property.But the Bad Wife sits to this day in the pit—in Tartarus.[54]

If he said:

“Don’t make any pancakes, wife, if I don’t deserve them,” she would cook a two-gallon pot full, and say,

“Eat away, you thief, till they’re all gone!”

“Now then, wife,” perhaps he would say, “I feel quite sorry for you; don’t go toiling and moiling, and don’t go out to the hay cutting.”

“No, no, you thief!” she would reply, “I shall go, and do you follow after me!”

One day, after having had his trouble and bother with her he went into the forest to look for berries and distract his grief, and he came to where there was a currant bush, and in the middleof that bush he saw a bottomless pit. He looked at it for some time and considered, “Why should I live in torment with a bad wife? can’t I put her into that pit? can’t I teach her a good lesson?”

So when he came home, he said:

“Wife, don’t go into the woods for berries.”

“Yes, you bugbear, I shall go!”

“I’ve found a currant bush; don’t pick it.”

“Yes I will; I shall go and pick it clean; but I won’t give you a single currant!”

The husband went out, his wife with him. He came to the currant bush, and his wife jumped into it, crying out at the top her voice:

“Don’t you come into the bush, you thief, or I’ll kill you!”

And so she got into the middle of the bush, and went flop into the bottomless pit.

The husband returned home joyfully, and remained there three days; on the fourth day he went to see how things were going on. Taking a long cord, he let it down into the pit, and out from thence he pulled a little demon. Frightened out of his wits, he was going to throw the imp back again into the pit, but it shrieked aloud, and earnestly entreated him, saying:

“Don’t send me back again, O peasant! let me go out into the world! A bad wife has come, and absolutely devoured us all, pinching us, and biting us—we’re utterly worn out with it. I’ll do you a good turn, if you will.”

So the peasant let him go free—at large in Holy Russia. Then the imp said:

“Now then, peasant, come along with me to the town of Vologda. I’ll take to tormenting people, and you shall cure them.”

Well, the imp went to where there were merchant’s wives and merchant’s daughters; and when they were possessed by him, they fell ill and went crazy. Then the peasant would go to a house where there was illness of this kind, and, as soon as heentered, out would go the enemy; then there would be blessing in the house, and everyone would suppose that the peasant was a doctor indeed, and would give him money, and treat him to pies. And so the peasant gained an incalculable sum of money. At last the demon said:

“You’ve plenty now, peasant; arn’t you content? I’m going now to enter into the Boyar’s daughter. Mind you don’t go curing her. If you do, I shall eat you.”

The Boyar’s daughter fell ill, and went so crazy that she wanted to eat people. The Boyar ordered his people to find out the peasant—(that is to say) to look for such and such a physician. The peasant came, entered the house, and told Boyar to make all the townspeople, and the carriages with coachmen, stand in the street outside. Moreover, he gave orders that all the coachmen should crack their whips and cry at the top of their voices: “The Bad Wife has come! the Bad Wife has come!” and then he went into the inner room. As soon as he entered it, the demon rushed at him crying, “What do you mean, Russian? what have you come here for? I’ll eat you!”

“What doyoumean?” said the peasant, “why I didn’t come here to turn you out. I came, out of pity to you, to say that the Bad Wife has come here.”

The Demon rushed to the window, stared with all his eyes, and heard everyone shouting at the top of his voice the words, “The Bad Wife!”

“Peasant,” cries the Demon, “wherever can I take refuge?”

“Run back into the pit. She won’t go there any more.”

The Demon went back to the pit—and to the Bad Wife too.

In return for his services, the Boyar conferred a rich guerdon on the peasant, giving him his daughter to wife, and presenting him with half his property.

But the Bad Wife sits to this day in the pit—in Tartarus.[54]

Our final illustration of the Skazkas which satirize women is the story of theGolovikha. It is all the more valuable, inasmuch as it is one of the few folk-tales which throw any light on the working of Russian communal institutions. The wordGolovikhameans, in its strict sense, the wife of aGolova, or elected chief [Golova= head] of aVolost, or association of village communities; but here it is used for a “femaleGolova,” a species of “mayoress.”

A certain woman was very bumptious. Her husband came from a village council one day, and she asked him:“What have you been deciding over there?”“What have we been deciding? why choosing a Golova.”“Whom have you chosen?”“No one as yet.”“Choose me,” says the woman.So as soon as her husband went back to the council (she was a bad sort; he wanted to give her a lesson) he told the elders what she had said. They immediately chose her as Golova.Well the woman got along, settled all questions, took bribes, and drank spirits at the peasant’s expense. But the time came to collect the poll-tax. The Golova couldn’t do it, wasn’t able to collect it in time. There came a Cossack, and asked for the Golova; but the woman had hidden herself. As soon as she learnt that the Cossack had come, off she ran home.“Where, oh where can I hide myself?” she cries to her husband. “Husband dear! tie me up in a bag, and put me out there where the corn-sacks are.”Now there were five sacks of seed-corn outside, so her husband tied up the Golova, and set her in the midst of them. Up came the Cossack and said:“Ho! so the Golova’s in hiding.”Then he took to slashing at the sacks one after another with his whip, and the woman to howling at the pitch of her voice:“Oh, my father! I won’t be a Golova, I won’t be a Golova.”At last the Cossack left off beating the sacks, and rode away. But the woman had had enough of Golova-ing; from that time forward she took to obeying her husband.

A certain woman was very bumptious. Her husband came from a village council one day, and she asked him:

“What have you been deciding over there?”

“What have we been deciding? why choosing a Golova.”

“Whom have you chosen?”

“No one as yet.”

“Choose me,” says the woman.

So as soon as her husband went back to the council (she was a bad sort; he wanted to give her a lesson) he told the elders what she had said. They immediately chose her as Golova.

Well the woman got along, settled all questions, took bribes, and drank spirits at the peasant’s expense. But the time came to collect the poll-tax. The Golova couldn’t do it, wasn’t able to collect it in time. There came a Cossack, and asked for the Golova; but the woman had hidden herself. As soon as she learnt that the Cossack had come, off she ran home.

“Where, oh where can I hide myself?” she cries to her husband. “Husband dear! tie me up in a bag, and put me out there where the corn-sacks are.”

Now there were five sacks of seed-corn outside, so her husband tied up the Golova, and set her in the midst of them. Up came the Cossack and said:

“Ho! so the Golova’s in hiding.”

Then he took to slashing at the sacks one after another with his whip, and the woman to howling at the pitch of her voice:

“Oh, my father! I won’t be a Golova, I won’t be a Golova.”

At last the Cossack left off beating the sacks, and rode away. But the woman had had enough of Golova-ing; from that time forward she took to obeying her husband.

Before passing on to another subject, it may be advisable to quote one of the stories in which the value of a good and wise wife is fully acknowledged. I have chosen for that purpose one of the variants of a tale from which, in all probability, our own story of “Whittington and his Cat” has been derived. With respect to its origin, there can be very little doubt, such a feature as that of the incense-burning pointing directly to a Buddhist source. It is called—

There once was a poor little orphan-lad who had nothing at all to live on; so he went to a rich moujik and hired himself out to him, agreeing to work for one copeck a year. And when he had worked for a whole year, and had received his copeck, he went to a well and threw it into the water, saying, “If it don’t sink, I’ll keep it. It will be plain enough I’ve served my master faithfully.”But the copeck sank. Well, he remained in service a second year, and received a second copeck. Again he flung it into the well, and again it sank to the bottom. He remained a third year; worked and worked, till the time came for payment. Then hismaster gave him a rouble. “No,” says the orphan, “I don’t want your money; give me my copeck.” He got his copeck and flung it into the well. Lo and behold! there were all three copecks floating on the surface of the water. So he took them and went into the town.Now as he went along the street, it happened that some small boys had got hold of a kitten and were tormenting it. And he felt sorry for it, and said:“Let me have that kitten, my boys?”“Yes, we’ll sell it you.”“What do you want for it?”“Three copecks.”Well the orphan bought the kitten, and afterwards hired himself to a merchant, to sit in his shop.That merchant’s business began to prosper wonderfully. He couldn’t supply goods fast enough; purchasers carried off everything in a twinkling. The merchant got ready to go to sea, freighted a ship, and said to the orphan:“Give me your cat; maybe it will catch mice on board, and amuse me.”“Pray take it, master! only if you lose it, I shan’t let you off cheap.”The merchant arrived in a far off land, and put up at an inn. The landlord saw that he had a great deal of money, so he gave him a bedroom which was infested by countless swarms of rats and mice, saying to himself, “If they should happen to eat him up, his money will belong to me.” For in that country they knew nothing about cats, and the rats and mice had completely got the upper hand. Well the merchant took the cat with him to his room and went to bed. Next morning the landlord came into the room. There was the merchant alive and well, holding the cat in his arms, and stroking its fur; the cat was purring away, singing its song, and on the floor lay a perfect heap of dead rats and mice!“Master merchant, sell me that beastie,” says the landlord.“Certainly.”“What do you want for it?”“A mere trifle. I’ll make the beastie stand on his hind legs while I hold him up by his forelegs, and you shall pile gold pieces around him, so as just to hide him—I shall be content with that!”The landlord agreed to the bargain. The merchant gave him the cat, received a sackful of gold, and as soon as he had settled his affairs, started on his way back. As he sailed across the seas, he thought:“Why should I give the gold to that orphan? Such a lot of money in return for a mere cat! that would be too much of a good thing. No, much better keep it myself.”The moment he had made up his mind to the sin, all of a sudden there arose a storm—such a tremendous one! the ship was on the point of sinking.“Ah, accursed one that I am! I’ve been longing for what doesn’t belong to me; O Lord, forgive me a sinner! I won’t keep back a single copeck.”The moment the merchant began praying the winds were stilled, the sea became calm, and the ship went sailing on prosperously to the quay.“Hail, master!” says the orphan. “But where’s my cat?”“I’ve sold it,” answers the merchant; “There’s your money, take it in full.”The orphan received the sack of gold, took leave of the merchant, and went to the strand, where the shipmen were. From them he obtained a shipload of incense in exchange for his gold, and he strewed the incense along the strand, and burnt it in honor of God. The sweet savor spread through all that land, and suddenly an old man appeared, and he said to the orphan:“Which desirest thou—riches, or a good wife?”“I know not, old man.”“Well then, go afield. Three brothers are ploughing over there. Ask them to tell thee.”The orphan went afield. He looked, and saw peasants tilling the soil.“God lend you aid!” says he.“Thanks, good man!” say they. “What dost thou want?”“An old man has sent me here, and told me to ask you which of the two I shall wish for—riches or a good wife?”“Ask our elder brother; he’s sitting in that cart there.”The orphan went to the cart and saw a little boy—one that seemed about three years old.“Can this be their elder brother?” thought he—however he asked him:“Which dost thou tell me to choose—riches, or a good wife?”“Choose the good wife.”So the orphan returned to the old man.“I’m told to ask for the wife,” says he.“That’s all right!” said the old man, and disappeared from sight. The orphan looked round; by his side stood a beautiful woman.“Hail, good youth!” says she. “I am thy wife; let us go and seek a place where we may live.”[57]

But the copeck sank. Well, he remained in service a second year, and received a second copeck. Again he flung it into the well, and again it sank to the bottom. He remained a third year; worked and worked, till the time came for payment. Then hismaster gave him a rouble. “No,” says the orphan, “I don’t want your money; give me my copeck.” He got his copeck and flung it into the well. Lo and behold! there were all three copecks floating on the surface of the water. So he took them and went into the town.

Now as he went along the street, it happened that some small boys had got hold of a kitten and were tormenting it. And he felt sorry for it, and said:

“Let me have that kitten, my boys?”

“Yes, we’ll sell it you.”

“What do you want for it?”

“Three copecks.”

Well the orphan bought the kitten, and afterwards hired himself to a merchant, to sit in his shop.

That merchant’s business began to prosper wonderfully. He couldn’t supply goods fast enough; purchasers carried off everything in a twinkling. The merchant got ready to go to sea, freighted a ship, and said to the orphan:

“Give me your cat; maybe it will catch mice on board, and amuse me.”

“Pray take it, master! only if you lose it, I shan’t let you off cheap.”

The merchant arrived in a far off land, and put up at an inn. The landlord saw that he had a great deal of money, so he gave him a bedroom which was infested by countless swarms of rats and mice, saying to himself, “If they should happen to eat him up, his money will belong to me.” For in that country they knew nothing about cats, and the rats and mice had completely got the upper hand. Well the merchant took the cat with him to his room and went to bed. Next morning the landlord came into the room. There was the merchant alive and well, holding the cat in his arms, and stroking its fur; the cat was purring away, singing its song, and on the floor lay a perfect heap of dead rats and mice!

“Master merchant, sell me that beastie,” says the landlord.

“Certainly.”

“What do you want for it?”

“A mere trifle. I’ll make the beastie stand on his hind legs while I hold him up by his forelegs, and you shall pile gold pieces around him, so as just to hide him—I shall be content with that!”

The landlord agreed to the bargain. The merchant gave him the cat, received a sackful of gold, and as soon as he had settled his affairs, started on his way back. As he sailed across the seas, he thought:

“Why should I give the gold to that orphan? Such a lot of money in return for a mere cat! that would be too much of a good thing. No, much better keep it myself.”

The moment he had made up his mind to the sin, all of a sudden there arose a storm—such a tremendous one! the ship was on the point of sinking.

“Ah, accursed one that I am! I’ve been longing for what doesn’t belong to me; O Lord, forgive me a sinner! I won’t keep back a single copeck.”

The moment the merchant began praying the winds were stilled, the sea became calm, and the ship went sailing on prosperously to the quay.

“Hail, master!” says the orphan. “But where’s my cat?”

“I’ve sold it,” answers the merchant; “There’s your money, take it in full.”

The orphan received the sack of gold, took leave of the merchant, and went to the strand, where the shipmen were. From them he obtained a shipload of incense in exchange for his gold, and he strewed the incense along the strand, and burnt it in honor of God. The sweet savor spread through all that land, and suddenly an old man appeared, and he said to the orphan:

“Which desirest thou—riches, or a good wife?”

“I know not, old man.”

“Well then, go afield. Three brothers are ploughing over there. Ask them to tell thee.”

The orphan went afield. He looked, and saw peasants tilling the soil.

“God lend you aid!” says he.

“Thanks, good man!” say they. “What dost thou want?”

“An old man has sent me here, and told me to ask you which of the two I shall wish for—riches or a good wife?”

“Ask our elder brother; he’s sitting in that cart there.”

The orphan went to the cart and saw a little boy—one that seemed about three years old.

“Can this be their elder brother?” thought he—however he asked him:

“Which dost thou tell me to choose—riches, or a good wife?”

“Choose the good wife.”

So the orphan returned to the old man.

“I’m told to ask for the wife,” says he.

“That’s all right!” said the old man, and disappeared from sight. The orphan looked round; by his side stood a beautiful woman.

“Hail, good youth!” says she. “I am thy wife; let us go and seek a place where we may live.”[57]

One of the sins to which the Popular Tale shows itself most hostile is that of avarice. The folk-tales of all lands delight togirdat misers and skinflints, to place them in unpleasant positions, and to gloat over the sufferings which attend their death and embitter their ghostly existence. As a specimen of the manner in which the humor of the Russian peasant has manipulated the stories of this class, most of which probably reached him from the East, we may take the following tale of—

There once was a rich merchant named Marko—a stingier fellow never lived! One day he went out for a stroll. As he went along the road he saw a beggar—an old man, who sat there asking for alms—“Please to give, O ye Orthodox, for Christ’s sake!”Marko the Rich passed by. Just at that time there came up behind him a poor moujik, who felt sorry for the beggar, and gave him a copeck. The rich man seemed to feel ashamed, for he stopped and said to the moujik:“Harkye, neighbor, lend me a copeck. I want to give that poor man something, but I’ve no small change.”The moujik gave him one, and asked when he should come for his money. “Come to-morrow,” was the reply. Well next day the poor man went to the rich man’s to get his copeck. He entered his spacious courtyard and asked:“Is Marko the Rich at home?”“Yes. What do you want?” replied Marko.“I’ve come for my copeck.”“Ah, brother! come again. Really I’ve no change just now.”The poor man made his bow and went away.“I’ll come to-morrow,” said he.On the morrow he came again, but it was just the same story as before.“I haven’t a single copper. If you like to change me a note for a hundred—No? well then come again in a fortnight.”At the end of the fortnight the poor man came again, but Marko the Rich saw him from the window, and said to his wife:“Harkye, wife! I’ll strip myself naked and lie down under the holy pictures. Cover me up with a cloth, and sit down and cry, just as you would over a corpse. When the moujik comes for his money, tell him I died this morning.”Well the wife did everything exactly as her husband directedher. While she was sitting there drowned in bitter tears, the moujik came into the room.“What do you want?” says she.“The money Marko the Rich owes me,” answers the poor man.“Ah, moujik, Marko the Rich has wished us farewell;[59]he’s only just dead.”“The kingdom of heaven be his! If you’ll allow me, mistress, in return for my copeck I’ll do him a last service—just give his mortal remains a wash.”So saying he laid hold of a pot full of boiling water and began pouring its scalding contents over Marko the Rich. Marko, his brows knit, his legs contorted, was scarcely able to hold out.[60]“Writhe away or not as you please,” thought the poor man, “but pay me my copeck!”When he had washed the body, and laid it out properly, he said:“Now then, mistress, buy a coffin and have it taken into the church; I’ll go and read psalms over it.”So Marko the Rich was put in a coffin and taken into the church, and the moujik began reading psalms over him. The darkness of night came on. All of a sudden a window opened, and a party of robbers crept through it into the church. The moujik hid himself behind the altar. As soon as the robbers had come in they began dividing their booty, and after everything else was shared there remained over and above a golden sabre—each one laid hold of it for himself, no one would give up his claim to it. Out jumped the poor man, crying:“What’s the good of disputing that way? Let the sabre belong to him who will cut this corpse’s head off!”Up jumped Marko the Rich like a madman. The robberswere frightened out of their wits, flung away their spoil and scampered off.“Here, Moujik,” says Marko, “let’s divide the money.”They divided it equally between them: each of the shares was a large one.“But how about the copeck?” asks the poor man.“Ah, brother!” replies Marko, “surely you can see I’ve got no change!”And so Marko the Rich never paid the copeck after all.

Marko the Rich passed by. Just at that time there came up behind him a poor moujik, who felt sorry for the beggar, and gave him a copeck. The rich man seemed to feel ashamed, for he stopped and said to the moujik:

“Harkye, neighbor, lend me a copeck. I want to give that poor man something, but I’ve no small change.”

The moujik gave him one, and asked when he should come for his money. “Come to-morrow,” was the reply. Well next day the poor man went to the rich man’s to get his copeck. He entered his spacious courtyard and asked:

“Is Marko the Rich at home?”

“Yes. What do you want?” replied Marko.

“I’ve come for my copeck.”

“Ah, brother! come again. Really I’ve no change just now.”

The poor man made his bow and went away.

“I’ll come to-morrow,” said he.

On the morrow he came again, but it was just the same story as before.

“I haven’t a single copper. If you like to change me a note for a hundred—No? well then come again in a fortnight.”

At the end of the fortnight the poor man came again, but Marko the Rich saw him from the window, and said to his wife:

“Harkye, wife! I’ll strip myself naked and lie down under the holy pictures. Cover me up with a cloth, and sit down and cry, just as you would over a corpse. When the moujik comes for his money, tell him I died this morning.”

Well the wife did everything exactly as her husband directedher. While she was sitting there drowned in bitter tears, the moujik came into the room.

“What do you want?” says she.

“The money Marko the Rich owes me,” answers the poor man.

“Ah, moujik, Marko the Rich has wished us farewell;[59]he’s only just dead.”

“The kingdom of heaven be his! If you’ll allow me, mistress, in return for my copeck I’ll do him a last service—just give his mortal remains a wash.”

So saying he laid hold of a pot full of boiling water and began pouring its scalding contents over Marko the Rich. Marko, his brows knit, his legs contorted, was scarcely able to hold out.[60]

“Writhe away or not as you please,” thought the poor man, “but pay me my copeck!”

When he had washed the body, and laid it out properly, he said:

“Now then, mistress, buy a coffin and have it taken into the church; I’ll go and read psalms over it.”

So Marko the Rich was put in a coffin and taken into the church, and the moujik began reading psalms over him. The darkness of night came on. All of a sudden a window opened, and a party of robbers crept through it into the church. The moujik hid himself behind the altar. As soon as the robbers had come in they began dividing their booty, and after everything else was shared there remained over and above a golden sabre—each one laid hold of it for himself, no one would give up his claim to it. Out jumped the poor man, crying:

“What’s the good of disputing that way? Let the sabre belong to him who will cut this corpse’s head off!”

Up jumped Marko the Rich like a madman. The robberswere frightened out of their wits, flung away their spoil and scampered off.

“Here, Moujik,” says Marko, “let’s divide the money.”

They divided it equally between them: each of the shares was a large one.

“But how about the copeck?” asks the poor man.

“Ah, brother!” replies Marko, “surely you can see I’ve got no change!”

And so Marko the Rich never paid the copeck after all.

We may take next the large class of stories about simpletons, so dear to the public in all parts of the world. In the Skazkas a simpleton is known as aduràk, a word which admits of a variety of explanations. Sometimes it means an idiot, sometimes a fool in the sense of a jester. In the stories of village life its signification is generally that of a “ninny;” in the “fairy stories” it is frequently applied to the youngest of the well-known “Three Brothers,” the “Boots” of the family as Dr. Dasent has called him. In the latter case, of course, the hero’sdurachestvo, or foolishness, is purely subjective. It exists only in the false conceptions of his character which his family or his neighbors have formed.[61]But theduràkof the following tale is represented as being really “daft.” The story begins with one of the conventional openings of the Skazka—“In a certaintsarstvo, in a certaingosudarstvo,”—but the two synonyms for “kingdom” or “state” are used only because they rhyme.

In a certain country there once lived an old man who had three sons. Two of them had their wits about them, but the third wasa fool. The old man died and his sons divided his property among themselves by lot. The sharp-witted ones got plenty of all sorts of good things, but nothing fell to the share of the Simpleton but one ox—and that such a skinny one!Well, fair-time came round, and the clever brothers got ready to go and transact business. The Simpleton saw this, and said:“I’ll go, too, brothers, and take my ox for sale.”So he fastened a cord to the horn of the ox and drove it to the town. On his way he happened to pass through a forest, and in the forest there stood an old withered Birch-tree. Whenever the wind blew the Birch-tree creaked.“What is the Birch creaking about?” thinks the Simpleton. “Surely it must be bargaining for my ox? Well,” says he, “if you want to buy it, why buy it. I’m not against selling it. The price of the ox is twenty roubles. I can’t take less. Out with the money!”The Birch made no reply, only went on creaking. But the Simpleton fancied that it was asking for the ox on credit. “Very good,” says he, “I’ll wait till to-morrow!” He tied the ox to the Birch, took leave of the tree, and went home. Presently in came the clever brothers, and began questioning him:“Well, Simpleton! sold your ox?”“I’ve sold it.”“For how much?”“For twenty roubles.”“Where’s the money?”“I haven’t received the money yet. It was settled I should go for it to-morrow.”“There’s simplicity for you!” say they.Early next morning the Simpleton got up, dressed himself, and went to the Birch-tree for his money. He reached the wood; there stood the Birch, waving in the wind, but the ox was not to be seen. During the night the wolves had eaten it.“Now, then, neighbor!” he exclaimed, “pay me my money. You promised you’d pay me to-day.”The wind blew, the Birch creaked, and the Simpleton cried:“What a liar you are! Yesterday you kept saying, ‘I’ll pay you to-morrow,’ and now you make just the same promise. Well, so be it, I’ll wait one day more, but not a bit longer. I want the money myself.”When he returned home, his brothers again questioned him closely:“Have you got your money?”“No, brothers; I’ve got to wait for my money again.”“Whom have you sold it to?”“To the withered Birch-tree in the forest.”“Oh, what an idiot!”On the third day the Simpleton took his hatchet and went to the forest. Arriving there, he demanded his money; but the Birch-tree only creaked and creaked. “No, no, neighbor!” says he. “If you’re always going to treat me to promises,[63]there’ll be no getting anything out of you. I don’t like such joking; I’ll pay you out well for it!”With that he pitched into it with his hatchet, so that its chips flew about in all directions. Now, in that Birch-tree there was a hollow, and in that hollow some robbers had hidden a pot full of gold. The tree split asunder, and the Simpleton caught sight of the gold. He took as much of it as the skirts of his caftan would hold, and toiled home with it. There he showed his brothers what he had brought.“Where did you get such a lot, Simpleton?” said they.“A neighbor gave it me for my ox. But this isn’t anything like the whole of it; a good half of it I didn’t bring home with me! Come along, brothers, let’s get the rest!”Well, they went into the forest, secured the money, and carried it home.“Now mind, Simpleton,” say the sensible brothers, “don’t tell anyone that we’ve such a lot of gold.”“Never fear, I won’t tell a soul!”All of a sudden they run up against a Diachok,[64]and says he:—“What’s that, brothers, you’re bringing from the forest?”The sharp ones replied, “Mushrooms.” But the Simpleton contradicted them, saying:“They’re telling lies! we’re carrying money; here, just take a look at it.”The Diachok uttered such an “Oh!”—then he flung himself on the gold, and began seizing handfuls of it and stuffing them into his pocket. The Simpleton grew angry, dealt him a blow with his hatchet, and struck him dead.“Heigh, Simpleton! what have you been and done!” cried his brothers. “You’re a lost man, and you’ll be the cause of our destruction, too! Wherever shall we put the dead body?”They thought and thought, and at last they dragged it to an empty cellar and flung it in there. But later on in the evening the eldest brother said to the second one:—“This piece of work is sure to turn out badly. When they begin looking for the Diachok, you’ll see that Simpleton will tell them everything. Let’s kill a goat and bury it in the cellar, and hide the body of the dead man in some other place.”Well, they waited till the dead of night; then they killed a goat and flung it into the cellar, but they carried the Diachok to another place and there hid him in the ground. Several days passed, and then people began looking everywhere for the Diachok, asking everyone about him.“What do you want him for?” said the Simpleton, when he was asked. “I killed him some time ago with my hatchet, and my brothers carried him into the cellar.”Straightway they laid hands on the Simpleton, crying, “Take us there and show him to us.”The Simpleton went down into the cellar, got hold of the goat’s head, and asked:—“Was your Diachok dark-haired?”“He was.”“And had he a beard?”“Yes, he’d a beard.”“And horns?”“What horns are you talking about, Simpleton?”“Well, see for yourselves,” said he, tossing up the head to them. They looked, saw it was a goat’s, spat in the Simpleton’s face, and went their ways home.

Well, fair-time came round, and the clever brothers got ready to go and transact business. The Simpleton saw this, and said:

“I’ll go, too, brothers, and take my ox for sale.”

So he fastened a cord to the horn of the ox and drove it to the town. On his way he happened to pass through a forest, and in the forest there stood an old withered Birch-tree. Whenever the wind blew the Birch-tree creaked.

“What is the Birch creaking about?” thinks the Simpleton. “Surely it must be bargaining for my ox? Well,” says he, “if you want to buy it, why buy it. I’m not against selling it. The price of the ox is twenty roubles. I can’t take less. Out with the money!”

The Birch made no reply, only went on creaking. But the Simpleton fancied that it was asking for the ox on credit. “Very good,” says he, “I’ll wait till to-morrow!” He tied the ox to the Birch, took leave of the tree, and went home. Presently in came the clever brothers, and began questioning him:

“Well, Simpleton! sold your ox?”

“I’ve sold it.”

“For how much?”

“For twenty roubles.”

“Where’s the money?”

“I haven’t received the money yet. It was settled I should go for it to-morrow.”

“There’s simplicity for you!” say they.

Early next morning the Simpleton got up, dressed himself, and went to the Birch-tree for his money. He reached the wood; there stood the Birch, waving in the wind, but the ox was not to be seen. During the night the wolves had eaten it.

“Now, then, neighbor!” he exclaimed, “pay me my money. You promised you’d pay me to-day.”

The wind blew, the Birch creaked, and the Simpleton cried:

“What a liar you are! Yesterday you kept saying, ‘I’ll pay you to-morrow,’ and now you make just the same promise. Well, so be it, I’ll wait one day more, but not a bit longer. I want the money myself.”

When he returned home, his brothers again questioned him closely:

“Have you got your money?”

“No, brothers; I’ve got to wait for my money again.”

“Whom have you sold it to?”

“To the withered Birch-tree in the forest.”

“Oh, what an idiot!”

On the third day the Simpleton took his hatchet and went to the forest. Arriving there, he demanded his money; but the Birch-tree only creaked and creaked. “No, no, neighbor!” says he. “If you’re always going to treat me to promises,[63]there’ll be no getting anything out of you. I don’t like such joking; I’ll pay you out well for it!”

With that he pitched into it with his hatchet, so that its chips flew about in all directions. Now, in that Birch-tree there was a hollow, and in that hollow some robbers had hidden a pot full of gold. The tree split asunder, and the Simpleton caught sight of the gold. He took as much of it as the skirts of his caftan would hold, and toiled home with it. There he showed his brothers what he had brought.

“Where did you get such a lot, Simpleton?” said they.

“A neighbor gave it me for my ox. But this isn’t anything like the whole of it; a good half of it I didn’t bring home with me! Come along, brothers, let’s get the rest!”

Well, they went into the forest, secured the money, and carried it home.

“Now mind, Simpleton,” say the sensible brothers, “don’t tell anyone that we’ve such a lot of gold.”

“Never fear, I won’t tell a soul!”

All of a sudden they run up against a Diachok,[64]and says he:—

“What’s that, brothers, you’re bringing from the forest?”

The sharp ones replied, “Mushrooms.” But the Simpleton contradicted them, saying:

“They’re telling lies! we’re carrying money; here, just take a look at it.”

The Diachok uttered such an “Oh!”—then he flung himself on the gold, and began seizing handfuls of it and stuffing them into his pocket. The Simpleton grew angry, dealt him a blow with his hatchet, and struck him dead.

“Heigh, Simpleton! what have you been and done!” cried his brothers. “You’re a lost man, and you’ll be the cause of our destruction, too! Wherever shall we put the dead body?”

They thought and thought, and at last they dragged it to an empty cellar and flung it in there. But later on in the evening the eldest brother said to the second one:—

“This piece of work is sure to turn out badly. When they begin looking for the Diachok, you’ll see that Simpleton will tell them everything. Let’s kill a goat and bury it in the cellar, and hide the body of the dead man in some other place.”

Well, they waited till the dead of night; then they killed a goat and flung it into the cellar, but they carried the Diachok to another place and there hid him in the ground. Several days passed, and then people began looking everywhere for the Diachok, asking everyone about him.

“What do you want him for?” said the Simpleton, when he was asked. “I killed him some time ago with my hatchet, and my brothers carried him into the cellar.”

Straightway they laid hands on the Simpleton, crying, “Take us there and show him to us.”

The Simpleton went down into the cellar, got hold of the goat’s head, and asked:—

“Was your Diachok dark-haired?”

“He was.”

“And had he a beard?”

“Yes, he’d a beard.”

“And horns?”

“What horns are you talking about, Simpleton?”

“Well, see for yourselves,” said he, tossing up the head to them. They looked, saw it was a goat’s, spat in the Simpleton’s face, and went their ways home.

One of the most popular simpleton-tales in the world is that of the fond parents who harrow their feelings by conjuring up the misfortunes which may possibly await their as yet unborn grandchildren. In Scotland it is told, in a slightly different form, of two old maids who were once found bathed in tears, and who were obliged to confess that they had been day-dreaming and supposing—if they had been married, and one had had a boy and the other a girl; and if the children, when they grew up, had married, and had had a little child; and if it had tumbled out of the window and been killed—what a dreadful thing it would have been. At which terrible idea they both gave way to not unnatural tears. In one of its Russian forms, it is told of the old parents of a boy named Lutonya, who weep over the hypothetical death of an imaginary grandchild, thinking how sad it would have been if a log which the old woman has dropped had killed that as yet merely potential infant. The parent’s grief appears to Lutonya so uncalled for that he leaves home, declaring that he will not return until he has found people more foolish than they. He travels long and far, and witnesses several foolish doings,most of which are familiar to us. In one place, a cow is being hoisted on to a roof in order that it may eat the grass growing thereon; in another a horse is being inserted into its collar by sheer force; in a third, a woman is fetching milk from the cellar, a spoonful at a time. But the story comes to an end before its hero has discovered the surpassing stupidity of which he is in quest. In another Russian story of a similar nature Lutonya goes from home in search of some one more foolish than his mother, who has been tricked by a cunning sharper. First he finds carpenters attempting to stretch a beam which is not long enough, and earns their gratitude by showing them how to add a piece to it. Then he comes to a place where sickles are unknown, and harvesters are in the habit of biting off the ears of corn, so he makes a sickle for them, thrusts it into a sheaf and leaves it there. They take it for a monstrous worm, tie a cord to it, and drag it away to the bank of the river. There they fasten one of their number to a log and set him afloat, giving him the end of the cord, in order that he may drag the “worm” after him into the water. The log turns over, and the moujik with it, so that his head is under water while his legs appear above it. “Why, brother!” they call to him from the bank, “why are you so particular about your leggings? If they do get wet, you can dry them at the fire.” But he makes no reply, only drowns. Finally Lutonya meets the counterpart of the well-known Irishman who, when counting the party to which he belongs, always forgets to count himself, and so gets into numerical difficulties. After which he returns home.[65]

It would be easy to multiply examples of this style of humor—to find in the folk-tales current all over Russia the equivalents of our own facetious narratives about the wise men of Gotham, the old woman whose petticoats were cut short by the pedlar whose name was Stout, and a number of other inhabitants of Fool-land, to whom the heart of childhood is still closely attached, and also of the exaggeration-stories, the GermanLügenmährchen, on which was founded the narrative of Baron Munchausen’s surprising adventures. But instead of doing this, before passing on to the more important groups of the Skazkas, I will quote, as this chapter’s final illustrations of the Russian story-teller’s art, an “animal story” and a “legend.” Here is the former:—

In the olden years, long long ago, with the spring-tide fair and the summer’s heat there came on the world distress and shame. For gnats and flies began to swarm, biting folks and letting their warm blood flow.Then the Spider[67]appeared, the hero bold, who, with waving arms, weaved webs around the highways and byways in which the gnats and flies were most to be found.A ghastly Gadfly, coming that way, stumbled straight into the Spider’s snare. The Spider, tightly squeezing her throat, prepared to put her out of the world. From the Spider the Gadfly mercy sought.“Good father Spider! please not to kill me. I’ve ever so many little ones. Without me they’ll be orphans left, and from door to door have to beg their bread and squabble with dogs.”Well, the Spider released her. Away she flew, and everywhere humming and buzzing about, told the flies and gnats of what had occurred.“Ho, ye gnats and flies! Meet here beneath this ash-tree’s roots. A spider has come, and, with waving of arms and weaving of nets, has set his snares in all the ways to which the flies and gnats resort. He’ll catch them, every single one!”They flew to the spot; beneath the ash-tree’s roots they hid, and lay there as though they were dead. The Spider came, and there he found a cricket, a beetle, and a bug.“O Cricket!” he cried, “upon this mound sit and take snuff! Beetle, do thou beat a drum. And do thou crawl, O Bug, the bun-like, beneath the ash, and spread abroad this news of me, the Spider, the wrestler, the hero bold—that the Spider, the wrestler, the hero bold, no longer in the world exists; that they have sent him to Kazan; that in Kazan, upon a block, they’ve chopped his head off, and the block destroyed.”On the mound sat the Cricket and took snuff. The Beetle smote upon the drum. The Bug crawled in among the ash-tree’s roots, and cried:—“Why have ye fallen? Wherefore as in death do ye lie here? Truly no longer lives the Spider, the wrestler, the hero bold. They’ve sent him to Kazan and in Kazan they’ve chopped his head off on a block, and afterwards destroyed the block.”The gnats and flies grew blithe and merry. Thrice they crossed themselves, then out they flew—and straight into the Spider’s snares. Said he:—“But seldom do ye come! I would that ye would far more often come to visit me! to quaff my wine and beer, and pay me tribute!”[68]

Then the Spider[67]appeared, the hero bold, who, with waving arms, weaved webs around the highways and byways in which the gnats and flies were most to be found.

A ghastly Gadfly, coming that way, stumbled straight into the Spider’s snare. The Spider, tightly squeezing her throat, prepared to put her out of the world. From the Spider the Gadfly mercy sought.

“Good father Spider! please not to kill me. I’ve ever so many little ones. Without me they’ll be orphans left, and from door to door have to beg their bread and squabble with dogs.”

Well, the Spider released her. Away she flew, and everywhere humming and buzzing about, told the flies and gnats of what had occurred.

“Ho, ye gnats and flies! Meet here beneath this ash-tree’s roots. A spider has come, and, with waving of arms and weaving of nets, has set his snares in all the ways to which the flies and gnats resort. He’ll catch them, every single one!”

They flew to the spot; beneath the ash-tree’s roots they hid, and lay there as though they were dead. The Spider came, and there he found a cricket, a beetle, and a bug.

“O Cricket!” he cried, “upon this mound sit and take snuff! Beetle, do thou beat a drum. And do thou crawl, O Bug, the bun-like, beneath the ash, and spread abroad this news of me, the Spider, the wrestler, the hero bold—that the Spider, the wrestler, the hero bold, no longer in the world exists; that they have sent him to Kazan; that in Kazan, upon a block, they’ve chopped his head off, and the block destroyed.”

On the mound sat the Cricket and took snuff. The Beetle smote upon the drum. The Bug crawled in among the ash-tree’s roots, and cried:—

“Why have ye fallen? Wherefore as in death do ye lie here? Truly no longer lives the Spider, the wrestler, the hero bold. They’ve sent him to Kazan and in Kazan they’ve chopped his head off on a block, and afterwards destroyed the block.”

The gnats and flies grew blithe and merry. Thrice they crossed themselves, then out they flew—and straight into the Spider’s snares. Said he:—

“But seldom do ye come! I would that ye would far more often come to visit me! to quaff my wine and beer, and pay me tribute!”[68]

This story is specially interesting in the original, inasmuch as it is rhymed throughout, although printed as prose. A kind of lilt is perceptible in many of the Skazkas, and traces of rhyme are often to be detected in them, but “The Mizgir’s” mould is different from theirs. Many stories also exist in an artificially versified form, but their movement differs entirely from that of the naturally cadenced periods of the ordinary Skazka, or of such rhymed prose as that of “The Mizgir.”

The following legend is not altogether new in “motive,” but a certain freshness is lent to it by its simple style, its unstrained humor, and its genial tone.

Once upon a time there was a Smith, and he had one son, a sharp, smart, six-year-old boy. One day the old man went to church, and as he stood before a picture of the Last Judgment he saw a Demon painted there—such a terrible one!—black, with horns and a tail.“O my!” says he to himself. “Suppose I get just such another painted for the smithy.” So he hired an artist, and ordered him to paint on the door of the smithy exactly such another demon as he had seen in the church. The artist painted it. Thenceforward the old man, every time he entered the smithy, always looked at the Demon and said, “Good morning, fellow-countryman!” And then he would lay the fire in the furnace and begin his work.Well, the Smith lived in good accord with the Demon for some ten years. Then he fell ill and died. His son succeededto his place as head of the household, and took the smithy into his own hands. But he was not disposed to show attention to the Demon as the old man had done. When he went into the smithy in the morning, he never said “Good morrow” to him; instead of offering him a kindly word, he took the biggest hammer he had handy, and thumped the Demon with it three times right on the forehead, and then he would go to his work. And when one of God’s holy days came round, he would go to church and offer each saint a taper; but he would go up to the Demon and spit in his face. Thus three years went by, he all the while favoring the Evil One every morning either with a spitting or with a hammering. The Demon endured it and endured it, and at last found it past all endurance. It was too much for him.“I’ve had quite enough of this insolence from him!” thinks he. “Suppose I make use of a little diplomacy, and play him some sort of a trick!”So the Demon took the form of a youth, and went to the smithy.“Good day, uncle!” says he.“Good day!”“What should you say, uncle, to taking me as an apprentice? At all events, I could carry fuel for you, and blow the bellows.”The Smith liked the idea. “Why shouldn’t I?” he replied. “Two are better than one.”The Demon began to learn his trade; at the end of a month he knew more about smith’s work than his master did himself, was able to do everything that his master couldn’t do. It was a real pleasure to look at him! There’s no describing how satisfied his master was with him, how fond he got of him. Sometimes the master didn’t go into the smithy at all himself, but trusted entirely to his journeyman, who had complete charge of everything.Well, it happened one day that the master was not at home, and the journeyman was left all by himself in the smithy.Presently he saw an old lady[70]driving along the street in her carriage, whereupon he popped his head out of doors and began shouting:—“Heigh, sirs! Be so good as to step in here! We’ve opened a new business here; we turn old folks into young ones.”Out of her carriage jumped the lady in a trice, and ran into the smithy.“What’s that you’re bragging about? Do you mean to say it’s true? Can you really do it?” she asked the youth.“We haven’t got to learn our business!” answered the Demon. “If I hadn’t been able to do it, I wouldn’t have invited people to try.”“And how much does it cost?” asked the lady.“Five hundred roubles altogether.”“Well, then, there’s your money; make a young woman of me.”The Demon took the money; then he sent the lady’s coachman into the village.“Go,” says he, “and bring me here two buckets full of milk.”After that he took a pair of tongs, caught hold of the lady by the feet, flung her into the furnace, and burnt her up; nothing was left of her but her bare bones.When the buckets of milk were brought, he emptied them into a large tub, then he collected all the bones and flung them into the milk. Just fancy! at the end of about three minutes the lady emerged from the milk—alive, and young, and beautiful!Well, she got into her carriage and drove home. There she went straight to her husband, and he stared hard at her, but didn’t know she was his wife.“What are you staring at?” says the lady. “I’m young and elegant, you see, and I don’t want to have an old husband! Be off at once to the smithy, and get them to make you young; if you don’t, I won’t so much as acknowledge you!”There was no help for it; off set the seigneur. But by that time the Smith had returned home, and had gone into the smithy. He looked about; the journeyman wasn’t to be seen. He searched and searched, he enquired and enquired, never a thing came of it; not even a trace of the youth could be found. He took to his work by himself, and was hammering away, when at that moment up drove the seigneur, and walked straight into the smithy.“Make a young man of me,” says he.“Are you in your right mind, Barin? How can one make a young man of you?”“Come, now! you know all about that.”“I know nothing of the kind.”“You lie, you scoundrel! Since you made my old woman young, make me young too; otherwise, there will be no living with her for me.”“Why I haven’t so much as seen your good lady.”“Your journeyman saw her, and that’s just the same thing. If he knew how to do the job, surely you, an old hand, must have learnt how to do it long ago. Come, now, set to work at once. If you don’t, it will be the worse for you. I’ll have you rubbed down with a birch-tree towel.”The Smith was compelled to try his hand at transforming the seigneur. He held a private conversation with the coachman as to how his journeyman had set to work with the lady, and what he had done to her, and then he thought:—“So be it! I’ll do the same. If I fall on my feet, good; if I don’t, well, I must suffer all the same!”So he set to work at once, stripped the seigneur naked, laid hold of him by the legs with the tongs, popped him into the furnace, and began blowing the bellows. After he had burnt him to a cinder, he collected his remains, flung them into the milk, and then waited to see how soon a youthful seigneur would jump out of it. He waited one hour, two hours. But nothing came of it. He made a search in the tub. There was nothing in it but bones, and those charred ones.Just then the lady sent messengers to the smithy, to ask whether the seigneur would soon be ready. The poor Smith had to reply that the seigneur was no more.When the lady heard that the Smith had only turned her husband into a cinder, instead of making him young, she was tremendously angry, and she called together her trusty servants, and ordered them to drag him to the gallows. No sooner said than done. Her servants ran to the Smith’s house, laid hold of him, tied his hands together, and dragged him off to the gallows. All of a sudden there came up with them the youngster who used to live with the Smith as his journeyman, who asked him:—“Where are they taking you, master?”“They’re going to hang me,” replied the Smith, and straightway related all that had happened to him.“Well, uncle!” said the Demon, “swear that you will never strike me with your hammer, but that you will pay me the same respect your father always paid, and the seigneur shall be alive, and young, too, in a trice.”The Smith began promising and swearing that he would never again lift his hammer against the Demon, but would always pay him every attention. Thereupon the journeyman hastened to the smithy, and shortly afterwards came back again, bringing the seigneur with him, and crying to the servants:“Hold! hold! Don’t hang him! Here’s your master!”Then they immediately untied the cords, and let the Smith go free.From that time forward the Smith gave up spitting at the Demon and striking him with his hammer. The journeyman disappeared, and was never seen again. But the seigneur and his lady entered upon a prosperous course of life, and if they haven’t died, they’re living still.[71]

“O my!” says he to himself. “Suppose I get just such another painted for the smithy.” So he hired an artist, and ordered him to paint on the door of the smithy exactly such another demon as he had seen in the church. The artist painted it. Thenceforward the old man, every time he entered the smithy, always looked at the Demon and said, “Good morning, fellow-countryman!” And then he would lay the fire in the furnace and begin his work.

Well, the Smith lived in good accord with the Demon for some ten years. Then he fell ill and died. His son succeededto his place as head of the household, and took the smithy into his own hands. But he was not disposed to show attention to the Demon as the old man had done. When he went into the smithy in the morning, he never said “Good morrow” to him; instead of offering him a kindly word, he took the biggest hammer he had handy, and thumped the Demon with it three times right on the forehead, and then he would go to his work. And when one of God’s holy days came round, he would go to church and offer each saint a taper; but he would go up to the Demon and spit in his face. Thus three years went by, he all the while favoring the Evil One every morning either with a spitting or with a hammering. The Demon endured it and endured it, and at last found it past all endurance. It was too much for him.

“I’ve had quite enough of this insolence from him!” thinks he. “Suppose I make use of a little diplomacy, and play him some sort of a trick!”

So the Demon took the form of a youth, and went to the smithy.

“Good day, uncle!” says he.

“Good day!”

“What should you say, uncle, to taking me as an apprentice? At all events, I could carry fuel for you, and blow the bellows.”

The Smith liked the idea. “Why shouldn’t I?” he replied. “Two are better than one.”

The Demon began to learn his trade; at the end of a month he knew more about smith’s work than his master did himself, was able to do everything that his master couldn’t do. It was a real pleasure to look at him! There’s no describing how satisfied his master was with him, how fond he got of him. Sometimes the master didn’t go into the smithy at all himself, but trusted entirely to his journeyman, who had complete charge of everything.

Well, it happened one day that the master was not at home, and the journeyman was left all by himself in the smithy.Presently he saw an old lady[70]driving along the street in her carriage, whereupon he popped his head out of doors and began shouting:—

“Heigh, sirs! Be so good as to step in here! We’ve opened a new business here; we turn old folks into young ones.”

Out of her carriage jumped the lady in a trice, and ran into the smithy.

“What’s that you’re bragging about? Do you mean to say it’s true? Can you really do it?” she asked the youth.

“We haven’t got to learn our business!” answered the Demon. “If I hadn’t been able to do it, I wouldn’t have invited people to try.”

“And how much does it cost?” asked the lady.

“Five hundred roubles altogether.”

“Well, then, there’s your money; make a young woman of me.”

The Demon took the money; then he sent the lady’s coachman into the village.

“Go,” says he, “and bring me here two buckets full of milk.”

After that he took a pair of tongs, caught hold of the lady by the feet, flung her into the furnace, and burnt her up; nothing was left of her but her bare bones.

When the buckets of milk were brought, he emptied them into a large tub, then he collected all the bones and flung them into the milk. Just fancy! at the end of about three minutes the lady emerged from the milk—alive, and young, and beautiful!

Well, she got into her carriage and drove home. There she went straight to her husband, and he stared hard at her, but didn’t know she was his wife.

“What are you staring at?” says the lady. “I’m young and elegant, you see, and I don’t want to have an old husband! Be off at once to the smithy, and get them to make you young; if you don’t, I won’t so much as acknowledge you!”

There was no help for it; off set the seigneur. But by that time the Smith had returned home, and had gone into the smithy. He looked about; the journeyman wasn’t to be seen. He searched and searched, he enquired and enquired, never a thing came of it; not even a trace of the youth could be found. He took to his work by himself, and was hammering away, when at that moment up drove the seigneur, and walked straight into the smithy.

“Make a young man of me,” says he.

“Are you in your right mind, Barin? How can one make a young man of you?”

“Come, now! you know all about that.”

“I know nothing of the kind.”

“You lie, you scoundrel! Since you made my old woman young, make me young too; otherwise, there will be no living with her for me.”

“Why I haven’t so much as seen your good lady.”

“Your journeyman saw her, and that’s just the same thing. If he knew how to do the job, surely you, an old hand, must have learnt how to do it long ago. Come, now, set to work at once. If you don’t, it will be the worse for you. I’ll have you rubbed down with a birch-tree towel.”

The Smith was compelled to try his hand at transforming the seigneur. He held a private conversation with the coachman as to how his journeyman had set to work with the lady, and what he had done to her, and then he thought:—

“So be it! I’ll do the same. If I fall on my feet, good; if I don’t, well, I must suffer all the same!”

So he set to work at once, stripped the seigneur naked, laid hold of him by the legs with the tongs, popped him into the furnace, and began blowing the bellows. After he had burnt him to a cinder, he collected his remains, flung them into the milk, and then waited to see how soon a youthful seigneur would jump out of it. He waited one hour, two hours. But nothing came of it. He made a search in the tub. There was nothing in it but bones, and those charred ones.

Just then the lady sent messengers to the smithy, to ask whether the seigneur would soon be ready. The poor Smith had to reply that the seigneur was no more.

When the lady heard that the Smith had only turned her husband into a cinder, instead of making him young, she was tremendously angry, and she called together her trusty servants, and ordered them to drag him to the gallows. No sooner said than done. Her servants ran to the Smith’s house, laid hold of him, tied his hands together, and dragged him off to the gallows. All of a sudden there came up with them the youngster who used to live with the Smith as his journeyman, who asked him:—

“Where are they taking you, master?”

“They’re going to hang me,” replied the Smith, and straightway related all that had happened to him.

“Well, uncle!” said the Demon, “swear that you will never strike me with your hammer, but that you will pay me the same respect your father always paid, and the seigneur shall be alive, and young, too, in a trice.”

The Smith began promising and swearing that he would never again lift his hammer against the Demon, but would always pay him every attention. Thereupon the journeyman hastened to the smithy, and shortly afterwards came back again, bringing the seigneur with him, and crying to the servants:

“Hold! hold! Don’t hang him! Here’s your master!”

Then they immediately untied the cords, and let the Smith go free.

From that time forward the Smith gave up spitting at the Demon and striking him with his hammer. The journeyman disappeared, and was never seen again. But the seigneur and his lady entered upon a prosperous course of life, and if they haven’t died, they’re living still.[71]

FOOTNOTES:[11]Dasent’s “Popular Tales from the Norse,” p. xl.[12]Max Müller, “Chips,” vol. ii. p. 226.[13]Take as an illustration of these remarks the close of the story of “Helenathe Fair” (No. 34, Chap. IV.). See how light and bright it is (or at least was, before it was translated).[14]I speak only of what I have seen. In some districts of Russia, if one may judge from pictures, the peasants occupy ornamented and ornamental dwellings.[15]Khudyakof, vol. ii. p. 65.[16]Khudyakof, vol. ii. p. 115.[17]For a description of such social gatherings see the “Songs of the Russian People,” pp. 32-38.[18]Afanasief, vi. No. 66.[19]Cakes of unleavened flour flavored with garlic.[20]TheNechistol, or unclean. (Chisty= clean, pure, &c.)[21]Literally, “on thee no face is to be seen.”[22]I do not propose to comment at any length upon the stories quoted in the present chapter. Some of them will be referred to farther on. Marusia’s demon lover will be recognized as akin to Arabian Ghouls, or the Rákshasas of Indian mythology. (See the story of Sidi Norman in the “Thousand and One Nights,” also Lane’s translation, vol. i., p. 32; and the story of Asokadatta and Vijayadatta in the fifth book of the “Kathásaritságara,” Brockhaus’s translation, 1843, vol. ii. pp. 142-159.) For transformations of a maiden into a flower or tree, see Grimm, No. 76, “Die Nelke,” and the notes to that story in vol. iii., p. 125—Hahn, No. 21, “Das Lorbeerkind,” etc. “The Water of Life,” will meet with due consideration in thefourth chapter. The Holy Water which destroys the Fiend is merely a Christian form of the “Water of Death,” viewed in its negative aspect.[23]Chudinsky, No. 3.[24]Afanasief, vi. p. 325. Wolfs “Niederlandische Sagen,” No. 326, quoted in Thorpe’s “Northern Mythology,” i. 292. Note 4.[25]A number of ghost stories, and some remarks about the ideas of the Russian peasants with respect to the dead, will be found inChap. V. Scott mentions a story in “The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border,” vol. ii. p. 223, of a widower who believed he was haunted by his dead wife. On one occasion the ghost, to prove her identity, gave suck to her surviving infant.[26]Afanasief, viii. p. 165.[27]In West-European stories the devil frequently carries off a witch’s soul after death. Here the fiend enters the corpse, or rather its skin, probably intending to reappear as a vampire. Compare Bleek’s “Reynard the Fox in South Africa,” No. 24, in which a lion squeezes itself into the skin of a girl it has killed. I have generally rendered by “demon,” instead of “devil,” the wordchortwhen it occurs in stories of this class, as the spirits to which they refer are manifestly akin to those of oriental demonology.[28]For an account of which, see the “Songs of the Russian People,” pp. 333-334. The best Russian work on the subject is Barsof’s “Prichitaniya Syevernago Kraya,” Moscow, 1872.[29]Afanasief, iv. No. 9.[30]Professor de Gubernatis justly remarks that this “howling” is more in keeping with the nature of the eastern jackal than with that of its western counterpart, the fox. “Zoological Mythology,” ii. 130.[31]Afanasief, vii. No. 45.[32]Popeis the ordinary but disrespectful term for a priest (Svyashchennik), aspopovichis for a priest’s son.[33]“Father dear,” or “reverend father.”[34]A phrase often used by the peasants, when frightened by anything of supernatural appearance.[35]Afanasief, Skazki, vii. No. 49.[36]The Russian expression isgol kak sokòl, “bare as a hawk.”[37]In another story St.Nicolas’spicture is the surety.[38]Another variant of this story, under the title of “Norka,” will be quoted in full in thenext chapter.[39]Afanasief, vii. p. 107.[40]Afanasief, vii. p. 146.[41]Or “The Seven-year-old.” Khudyakof, No. 6. See Grimm, No. 94, “Diekluge Bauerntochter,” and iii. 170-2.[42]Voevoda, now a general, formerly meant a civil governor, etc.[43]Afanasief. “Legendui,” No. 29.[44]Diminutive of Peter.[45]The word employed here is notchort, butdiavol.[46]Some remarks on the stories of this class, will be found inChap. VI. The Russian peasants still believe that all people who drink themselves to death are used as carriers of wood and water in the infernal regions.[47]In the sixty-fourth story of Asbjörnsen’s “Norske Folke-Eventyr,” (Ny Samling, 1871) the dispute between the husband and wife is about a cornfield—as to whether it should be reaped or shorn—and she tumbles into a pool while she is making clipping gestures “under her husband’s nose.” In the old fabliau of “Le Pré Tondu” (Le Grand d’Aussy, Fabliaux, 1829, iii. 185), the husband cuts out the tongue of his wife, to prevent her from repeating that his meadow has been clipped, whereupon she makes a clipping sign with her fingers. In Poggio’s “Facetiæ,” the wife is doubly aggravating. For copious information with respect to the use made of this story by the romance-writers, see Liebrecht’s translations of Basile’s “Pentamerone,” ii. 264, and of Dunlop’s “History of Literature,” p. 516.[48]Afanasief, v. p. 16.[49]Ibid., iii. p. 87.[50]Chudinsky, No. 8. The proverb is dear to the Tartars also.[51]Ibid. No. 23. Theliulka, or Russian cradle, is suspended and swung, instead of being placed on the floor and rocked. Russian babies are usually swaddled tightly, like American papooses.[52]“Panchatantra,” 1859, vol. i. § 212, pp. 519-524. I gladly avail myself of this opportunity of gratefully acknowledging my obligations to Dr. Benfey’s invaluable work.[53]Afanasief, i. No. 9. Written down in the Novgorod Government. Its dialect renders it somewhat difficult to read.[54]This story is known to the Finns, but with them the Russian Demon, (chortenok= a littlechortor devil), has become the Plague. In the original Indian story the demon is one which had formerly lived in a Brahman’s house, but had been frightened away by his cantankerous wife. In the Servian version (Karajich, No. 37), the opening consists of the “Scissors-story,” to which allusion has already been made. The vixen falls into a hole which she does not see, so bent is she on controverting her husband.[55]Afanasief, ii. No. 12. Written down by a “Crown Serf,” in the government of Perm.[56]Afanasief, viii. No. 20. A copeck is worth about a third of a penny.[57]The story is continued very little further by Afanasief, its conclusion being the same as that of “The Wise Wife,” in Book vii. No. 22, a tale of magic. For a Servian version of the tale see Vuk Karajich, No. 7.[58]Afanasief, v. No. 3. From the Novgorod Government.[59]Literally, “has bid to live long,” a conventional euphemism for “has died.” “Remember what his name was,” is sometimes added.[60]It will be observed that the miser holds out against the pain which the scalded demon was unable to bear. See above, p.21.[61]Professor de Gubernatis remarks that he may sometimes be called “the first Brutus of popular tradition.” “Zoological Mythology,” vol. i. p. 199.[62]Afanasief, v. No. 53.[63]Zavtrakami podchivat= to dupe;zavtra= to-morrow;zavtrak= breakfast.[64]One of the inferior members of the Russian clerical body, though not of the clergy. But in one of the variants of the story it is a “pope” or priest, who appears, and he immediately claims a share in the spoil. Whereupon the Simpleton makes use of his hatchet. Priests are often nicknamed goats by the Russian peasantry, perhaps on account of their long beards.[65]Afanasief, ii. No. 8, v. No. 5. See also Khudyakof, No. 76. Cf. Grimm, No. 34, “Die kluge Else.” Haltrich, No. 66. Asbjörnsen and Moe, No. 10. (Dasent No. 24, “Not a Pin to choose between them.”)[66]Afanasief, ii. No. 5. Written down by a crown-peasant in the government of Perm.[67]Mizgir, a venomous spider, like the Tarantula, found in the Kirghiz Steppes.[68]In another story bearing the same title (v. 39) the spider lies on its back awaiting its prey. Up comes “the honorable widow,” the wasp, and falls straight into the trap. The spider beheads her. Then the gnats and flies assemble, perform a funeral service over her remains, and carry them off on their shoulders to the village of Komarovo (komar= gnat). For specimens of the Russian “Beast-Epos” the reader is referred (as I have stated in the preface) to Professor de Gubernatis’s “Zoological Mythology.”[69]Afanasief, “Legendui,” No. 31. Taken from Dahl’s collection. Some remarks on the Russian “legends” are given inChap. VI.[70]Baruinya, the wife of abarinor seigneur.[71]Thechortof this legend is evidently akin to the devil himself, whom traditions frequently connect with blacksmiths; but his prototype, in the original form of this story, was doubtless a demigod or demon. His part is played by St. Nicholas in the legend of “The Priest with the Greedy Eyes,” for which, and for further comment on the story, seeChap. VI.

[11]Dasent’s “Popular Tales from the Norse,” p. xl.

[12]Max Müller, “Chips,” vol. ii. p. 226.

[13]Take as an illustration of these remarks the close of the story of “Helenathe Fair” (No. 34, Chap. IV.). See how light and bright it is (or at least was, before it was translated).

[14]I speak only of what I have seen. In some districts of Russia, if one may judge from pictures, the peasants occupy ornamented and ornamental dwellings.

[15]Khudyakof, vol. ii. p. 65.

[16]Khudyakof, vol. ii. p. 115.

[17]For a description of such social gatherings see the “Songs of the Russian People,” pp. 32-38.

[18]Afanasief, vi. No. 66.

[19]Cakes of unleavened flour flavored with garlic.

[20]TheNechistol, or unclean. (Chisty= clean, pure, &c.)

[21]Literally, “on thee no face is to be seen.”

[22]I do not propose to comment at any length upon the stories quoted in the present chapter. Some of them will be referred to farther on. Marusia’s demon lover will be recognized as akin to Arabian Ghouls, or the Rákshasas of Indian mythology. (See the story of Sidi Norman in the “Thousand and One Nights,” also Lane’s translation, vol. i., p. 32; and the story of Asokadatta and Vijayadatta in the fifth book of the “Kathásaritságara,” Brockhaus’s translation, 1843, vol. ii. pp. 142-159.) For transformations of a maiden into a flower or tree, see Grimm, No. 76, “Die Nelke,” and the notes to that story in vol. iii., p. 125—Hahn, No. 21, “Das Lorbeerkind,” etc. “The Water of Life,” will meet with due consideration in thefourth chapter. The Holy Water which destroys the Fiend is merely a Christian form of the “Water of Death,” viewed in its negative aspect.

[23]Chudinsky, No. 3.

[24]Afanasief, vi. p. 325. Wolfs “Niederlandische Sagen,” No. 326, quoted in Thorpe’s “Northern Mythology,” i. 292. Note 4.

[25]A number of ghost stories, and some remarks about the ideas of the Russian peasants with respect to the dead, will be found inChap. V. Scott mentions a story in “The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border,” vol. ii. p. 223, of a widower who believed he was haunted by his dead wife. On one occasion the ghost, to prove her identity, gave suck to her surviving infant.

[26]Afanasief, viii. p. 165.

[27]In West-European stories the devil frequently carries off a witch’s soul after death. Here the fiend enters the corpse, or rather its skin, probably intending to reappear as a vampire. Compare Bleek’s “Reynard the Fox in South Africa,” No. 24, in which a lion squeezes itself into the skin of a girl it has killed. I have generally rendered by “demon,” instead of “devil,” the wordchortwhen it occurs in stories of this class, as the spirits to which they refer are manifestly akin to those of oriental demonology.

[28]For an account of which, see the “Songs of the Russian People,” pp. 333-334. The best Russian work on the subject is Barsof’s “Prichitaniya Syevernago Kraya,” Moscow, 1872.

[29]Afanasief, iv. No. 9.

[30]Professor de Gubernatis justly remarks that this “howling” is more in keeping with the nature of the eastern jackal than with that of its western counterpart, the fox. “Zoological Mythology,” ii. 130.

[31]Afanasief, vii. No. 45.

[32]Popeis the ordinary but disrespectful term for a priest (Svyashchennik), aspopovichis for a priest’s son.

[33]“Father dear,” or “reverend father.”

[34]A phrase often used by the peasants, when frightened by anything of supernatural appearance.

[35]Afanasief, Skazki, vii. No. 49.

[36]The Russian expression isgol kak sokòl, “bare as a hawk.”

[37]In another story St.Nicolas’spicture is the surety.

[38]Another variant of this story, under the title of “Norka,” will be quoted in full in thenext chapter.

[39]Afanasief, vii. p. 107.

[40]Afanasief, vii. p. 146.

[41]Or “The Seven-year-old.” Khudyakof, No. 6. See Grimm, No. 94, “Diekluge Bauerntochter,” and iii. 170-2.

[42]Voevoda, now a general, formerly meant a civil governor, etc.

[43]Afanasief. “Legendui,” No. 29.

[44]Diminutive of Peter.

[45]The word employed here is notchort, butdiavol.

[46]Some remarks on the stories of this class, will be found inChap. VI. The Russian peasants still believe that all people who drink themselves to death are used as carriers of wood and water in the infernal regions.

[47]In the sixty-fourth story of Asbjörnsen’s “Norske Folke-Eventyr,” (Ny Samling, 1871) the dispute between the husband and wife is about a cornfield—as to whether it should be reaped or shorn—and she tumbles into a pool while she is making clipping gestures “under her husband’s nose.” In the old fabliau of “Le Pré Tondu” (Le Grand d’Aussy, Fabliaux, 1829, iii. 185), the husband cuts out the tongue of his wife, to prevent her from repeating that his meadow has been clipped, whereupon she makes a clipping sign with her fingers. In Poggio’s “Facetiæ,” the wife is doubly aggravating. For copious information with respect to the use made of this story by the romance-writers, see Liebrecht’s translations of Basile’s “Pentamerone,” ii. 264, and of Dunlop’s “History of Literature,” p. 516.

[48]Afanasief, v. p. 16.

[49]Ibid., iii. p. 87.

[50]Chudinsky, No. 8. The proverb is dear to the Tartars also.

[51]Ibid. No. 23. Theliulka, or Russian cradle, is suspended and swung, instead of being placed on the floor and rocked. Russian babies are usually swaddled tightly, like American papooses.

[52]“Panchatantra,” 1859, vol. i. § 212, pp. 519-524. I gladly avail myself of this opportunity of gratefully acknowledging my obligations to Dr. Benfey’s invaluable work.

[53]Afanasief, i. No. 9. Written down in the Novgorod Government. Its dialect renders it somewhat difficult to read.

[54]This story is known to the Finns, but with them the Russian Demon, (chortenok= a littlechortor devil), has become the Plague. In the original Indian story the demon is one which had formerly lived in a Brahman’s house, but had been frightened away by his cantankerous wife. In the Servian version (Karajich, No. 37), the opening consists of the “Scissors-story,” to which allusion has already been made. The vixen falls into a hole which she does not see, so bent is she on controverting her husband.

[55]Afanasief, ii. No. 12. Written down by a “Crown Serf,” in the government of Perm.

[56]Afanasief, viii. No. 20. A copeck is worth about a third of a penny.

[57]The story is continued very little further by Afanasief, its conclusion being the same as that of “The Wise Wife,” in Book vii. No. 22, a tale of magic. For a Servian version of the tale see Vuk Karajich, No. 7.

[58]Afanasief, v. No. 3. From the Novgorod Government.

[59]Literally, “has bid to live long,” a conventional euphemism for “has died.” “Remember what his name was,” is sometimes added.

[60]It will be observed that the miser holds out against the pain which the scalded demon was unable to bear. See above, p.21.

[61]Professor de Gubernatis remarks that he may sometimes be called “the first Brutus of popular tradition.” “Zoological Mythology,” vol. i. p. 199.

[62]Afanasief, v. No. 53.

[63]Zavtrakami podchivat= to dupe;zavtra= to-morrow;zavtrak= breakfast.

[64]One of the inferior members of the Russian clerical body, though not of the clergy. But in one of the variants of the story it is a “pope” or priest, who appears, and he immediately claims a share in the spoil. Whereupon the Simpleton makes use of his hatchet. Priests are often nicknamed goats by the Russian peasantry, perhaps on account of their long beards.

[65]Afanasief, ii. No. 8, v. No. 5. See also Khudyakof, No. 76. Cf. Grimm, No. 34, “Die kluge Else.” Haltrich, No. 66. Asbjörnsen and Moe, No. 10. (Dasent No. 24, “Not a Pin to choose between them.”)

[66]Afanasief, ii. No. 5. Written down by a crown-peasant in the government of Perm.

[67]Mizgir, a venomous spider, like the Tarantula, found in the Kirghiz Steppes.

[68]In another story bearing the same title (v. 39) the spider lies on its back awaiting its prey. Up comes “the honorable widow,” the wasp, and falls straight into the trap. The spider beheads her. Then the gnats and flies assemble, perform a funeral service over her remains, and carry them off on their shoulders to the village of Komarovo (komar= gnat). For specimens of the Russian “Beast-Epos” the reader is referred (as I have stated in the preface) to Professor de Gubernatis’s “Zoological Mythology.”

[69]Afanasief, “Legendui,” No. 31. Taken from Dahl’s collection. Some remarks on the Russian “legends” are given inChap. VI.

[70]Baruinya, the wife of abarinor seigneur.

[71]Thechortof this legend is evidently akin to the devil himself, whom traditions frequently connect with blacksmiths; but his prototype, in the original form of this story, was doubtless a demigod or demon. His part is played by St. Nicholas in the legend of “The Priest with the Greedy Eyes,” for which, and for further comment on the story, seeChap. VI.

The present chapter is devoted to specimens of those skazkas which most Russian critics assert to be distinctly mythical. The stories of this class are so numerous, that the task of selection has been by no means easy. But I have done my best to choose such examples as are most characteristic of that species of the “mythical” folk-tale which prevails in Russia, and to avoid, as far as possible, the repetition of narratives which have already been made familiar to the English reader by translations of German and Scandinavian stories.

There is a more marked individuality in the Russian tales of this kind, as compared with those of Western Europe, than is to be traced in the stories (especially those of a humorous cast) which relate to the events that chequer an ordinary existence. The actors in thecomediettasof European peasant-life vary but little, either in title or in character, wherever the scene may be laid; just as in the European beast-epos the Fox, the Wolf, and the Bear play parts which change but slightly with the regions they inhabit. But the supernatural beings which people the fairy-land peculiar to each race, though closely resembling each other in many respects, differ conspicuously in others.They may, it is true, be nothing more than various developments of the same original type; they may be traceable to germs common to the prehistoric ancestors of the now widely separated Aryan peoples; their peculiarities may simply be due to the accidents to which travellers from distant lands are liable. But at all events each family now has features of its own, typical characteristics by which it may be readily distinguished from its neighbors. My chief aim at present is to give an idea of those characteristics which lend individuality to the “mythical beings” in the Skazkas; in order to effect this, I shall attempt a delineation of those supernatural figures, to some extent peculiar to Slavonic fairy-land, which make their appearance in the Russian folk-tales. I have given a brief sketch of them elsewhere.[72]I now propose to deal with them more fully, quoting at length, instead of merely mentioning, some of the evidence on which the proof of their existence depends.

For the sake of convenience, we may select from the great mass of the mythical skazkas those which are supposed most manifestly to typify the conflict of opposing elements—whether of Good and Evil, or of Light and Darkness, or of Heat and Cold, or of any other pair of antagonistic forces or phenomena. The typical hero of this class of stories, who represents the cause of right, and who is resolved by mythologists into so many different essences, presents almost identically the same appearance in most of the countries wherein he has become naturalized. He is endowed with supernatural powers, but he remains a man, for all that. Whether as prince or peasant, he alters but very little in his wanderings among the Aryan races of Europe.

And a somewhat similar statement may be made about his feminine counterpart—for all the types of Fairy-land life are of an epicene nature, admitting of a feminine as well as a masculine development—the heroine who in the Skazkas, as well as in other folk-tales, braves the wrath of female demons in quest of means whereby to lighten the darkness of her home, or rescues her bewitched brothers from the thraldom of an enchantress, or liberates her captive husband from a dungeon’s gloom.

But their antagonists—the dark or evil beings whom the hero attacks and eventually destroys, or whom the heroine overcomes by her virtues, her subtlety, or her skill—vary to a considerable extent with the region they occupy, or rather with the people in whose memories they dwell. The Giants by killing whom our own Jack gained his renown, the Norse Trolls, the Ogres of southern romance, the Drakos and Lamia of modern Greece, the Lithuanian Laume—these and all the other groups of monstrous forms under which the imagination of each race has embodied its ideas about (according to one hypothesis) the Powers of Darkness it feared, or (according to another) the Aborigines it detested, differ from each other to a considerable and easily recognizable extent. An excellent illustration of this statement is offered by the contrast between the Slavonic group of supernatural beings of this class and their equivalents in lands tenanted by non-Slavonic members of the Indo-European family. A family likeness will, of course, be traced between all these conceptions of popular fancy, but the gloomy figures with which the folk-tales of the Slavonians render us familiar may be distinguished at a glance among their kindred monsters of Latin, Hellenic, Teutonic, or Celtic extraction.Of those among the number to which the Russian skazkas relate I will now proceed to give a sketch, allowing the stories, so far as is possible, to speak for themselves.

If the powers of darkness in the “mythical” skazkas are divided into two groups—the one male, the other female—there stand out as the most prominent figures in the former set, the Snake (or some other illustration of “Zoological Mythology”), Koshchei the Deathless, and the Morskoi Tsar or King of the Waters. In the latter group the principal characters are the Baba Yaga, or Hag, her close connection the Witch, and the Female Snake. On the forms and natures of the less conspicuous characters to be found in either class we will not at present dwell. An opportunity for commenting on some of them will be afforded in another chapter.

To begin with the Snake. His outline, like that of the cloud with which he is so frequently associated, and which he is often supposed to typify, is seldom well-defined. Now in one form and now in another, he glides a shifting shape, of which it is difficult to obtain a satisfactory view. Sometimes he retains throughout the story an exclusively reptilian character; sometimes he is of a mixed nature, partly serpent and partly man. In one story we see him riding on horseback, with hawk on wrist (or raven on shoulder) and hound at heel; in another he figures as a composite being with a human body and a serpent’s head; in a third he flies as a fiery snake into his mistress’s bower, stamps with his foot on the ground, and becomes a youthful gallant. But in most cases he is a serpent which in outward appearance seems to differ from other ophidians only in being winged andpolycephalous—the number of his heads generally varying from three to twelve.[73]

He is often known by the name of Zméï [snake] Goruinuich [son of thegoraor mountain], and sometimes he is supposed to dwell in the mountain caverns. To his abode, whether in the bowels of the earth, or in the open light of day—whether it be a sumptuous palace or “anizbaon fowl’s legs,” a hut upheld by slender supports on which it turns as on a pivot—he carries off his prey. In one story he appears to have stolen, or in some way concealed, the day-light; in another the bright moon and the many stars come forth from within him after his death. But as a general rule it is some queen or princess whom he tears away from her home, as Pluto carried off Proserpina, and who remains with him reluctantly, and hails as her rescuer the hero who comes to give him battle. Sometimes, however, the snake is represented as having a wife of his own species, and daughters who share their parent’s tastes and powers. Such is the case in the (South-Russian) story of

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