Whether it is a long time ago or a short time ago I cannot say, but I know that once upon a time, in a certain village, dwelt a peasant who was headstrong and hot-tempered, and his name was Demyan. He was austere and hard and stern, always seeking an occasion to quarrel, and dealing hardly with whom-soever he fell out. Whatever any one said or did to him, he was always ready with his fists. He would invite a neighbour to be his guest, for instance, and force him to eat, and if the neighbour hung back a bit for bashfulness or courtesy, our peasant would pitch into him at once and cry, “In a strange house obey thy host!”
Now this is what happened one day. A smart, sturdy young fellow came to little Demyan as a guest, and our peasant regaled him finely, and filled the table with meat and drink. The young fellow pulled everything towards himself, dish after dish, and munched away in silence with both cheeks crammed full. Our peasant stared and stared, and at last he took off his cloak and said, “Take off thy blouse, and put on my cloak!” But he thought to himself, “He is sure to refuse, and then I’ll show him something!” But the youth put on the cloak, tied it round with his girdle, bowed low and said, “Well, little father! I thank thee for thy gift. I dare not refuse, for in a strange house one must obey the host.”
The host was furious; he wanted to pick a quarrel with him now at any price, so he ran into the stable, got out his best horse, and said to the youth, “Nothing is too good for thee! Here, mount my horse, and take it away as thine own!” But he thought, “He’ll be sure to refuse, and then I’ll teach him a lesson.” But the youth again said, “In a strange house we must always obey the host!” Only when he was fairly mounted did he turn round to the peasant Demyan and cry, “Farewell, mine host! Nobody pushed thee, but thou didst fall into the ditch of thine own self!” and he trotted out of the courtyard right away.
But the host looked after him, shook his head, and said, “The scythe has struck upon a stone!”1
1 I. e. I’ve met my match at last.
In a certain kingdom in a certain empire, there lived, once upon a time, an old man and an old woman, and they had a son called little Martin. Time went on, the old man fell ill and died, and though he had worked hard all his days, the only inheritance he left behind him was two hundred rubles.1 The old woman did not want to waste this money, but what was to be done? There was nothing to eat, so she had to have recourse to the pot containing the patrimony. The old woman counted out a hundred rubles, and sent her son to town to buy provision of bread for a whole year. So Martin the widow’s son went to town. He went past the meat market, and saw crowds of people gathered together, and his ears were deafened by the din and noise and racket. Little Martin went into the midst of the throng and saw that the butchers had caught a terrier, and had fastened it to a post, and were beating it unmercifully. Little Martin was sorry for the poor dog, and said to the butchers, “My brothers! why do you beat the poor dog so unmercifully?”—“Why should we not beat him, when he has spoiled a whole quarter of beef?”—“Yet, beat him not, my brothers! ’Twere better to sell him to me!”—“Buy him if you like then!” said the butchers, mockingly, “but for such a treasure as that we could not take less than a hundred rubles.”—“Well, one hundred rubles is only one hundred rubles after all!” replied little Martin, and he drew out the money and gave it for the dog. But the dog’s name was Jurka.2 Martin then went home, and his mother asked him, “What hast thou bought?”—“Why look, I have bought Jurka!” replied her son. His mother fell a-scolding him, and reproached him bitterly: “Art thou not ashamed? Soon we shall not have a morsel to eat, and thou hast gone and thrown away so much money on a pagan dog.” The next day the old woman sent her son into the town again, and said to him, “Now there is our last one hundred rubles, buy with it provision of bread. To-day I will collect together the scrapings of the meal-tub and bake us fritters, but to-morrow there will not even be that!” Little Martin got to town and walked along the streets and looked about him, and he saw a boy who had fastened a cord round a cat’s neck and was dragging it off to drown it. “Stop!” shrieked Martin, “whither art thou dragging Vaska?”3—“I am dragging him off to be drowned!”—“Why, what has he done?”—“He is a great rascal. He has stolen a whole goose.”—“Don’t drown him, far better sell him to me!”—“I’ll take nothing less than one hundred rubles!”—“Well, one hundred rubles is only one hundred rubles after all; here! take the money!” And he took Vaska from the boy. “What hast thou bought, my son?” asked his mother when he got home.—“Why the cat Vaska!”—“And what besides?”—“Well, perhaps there’s some money still left, and then we can buy something else.”—“Oh, oh, oh! what a fool thou art!” screeched the old woman. “Go out of the house this instant and beg thy bread from the stranger!”
Martin dared not gainsay his mother, so he took Jurka and Vaska with him and went into the neighbouring village to seek work. And there met him a rich farmer. “Whither art thou going?” said he. “I want to hire myself out as a day-labourer.”—“Come to me then. I take labourers without any contract, but if thou serve me well for a year thou shalt not lose by it.” Martin agreed, and for a whole year he worked for this farmer without ceasing. The time of payment came round. The farmer led Martin into the barn, showed him two full sacks, and said, “Take which thou wilt.” Martin looked; in one of the sacks was riches, in the other sand, and he thought to himself, “That’s not done without a reason; there’s some trickery here. I’ll take the sand; something will come of it no doubt.” So Martin put the sack of sand on his back, and went to seek another place. He went on and on, and strayed into a dark and dreary wood. In the midst of the wood was a field, and on the field a fire was burning, and in the fire a maiden was sitting; and it was such a lovely maiden that it was a delight to look at her. And the Beauty said to him, “Martin the widow’s son, if thou wishest to find happiness, save me. Extinguish this flame with the sand which thou hast gotten for thy faithful service.”—“Well, really,” thought Martin, “why should I go on dragging this load about on my shoulders? Far better to help a body with it.” So he undid his sack and emptied all the sand on the fire. The fire immediately went out, but the lovely damsel turned into a serpent, bounded on to the bosom of the good youth, wound itself round his neck, and said, “Fear me not, Martin the widow’s son. Go boldly into the land of Thrice-ten, into the underground realm where my dear father rules. Only mark this; he will offer thee lots of gold and silver and precious stones; thou, however, must take none of them, but beg him for the little ring off his little finger. That ring is no common ring; if thou move it from one hand to the other twelve young heroes will immediately appear, and whatever thou dost bid them do they will do it in a single night.”
Then the young man set out on his long, long journey, whether ’twere a long time or a short I know not, but at last he drew nigh to the kingdom of Thrice-ten, and came to a place where a huge stone lay across the way. Here the snake leaped from his neck, lit on the damp ground, and turned into the former lovely damsel. “Follow me,” said she to Martin, and showed him a little hole beneath the stone. For a long time they went through this underground way, and came into a wide plain beneath the open sky; and in this plain a castle was built entirely of porphyry, with a roof of golden fish-scales, with sharp-pointed golden pinnacles. “That’s where my father lives, the Tsar of this underground region,” said the lovely damsel to Martin.
The wanderers entered the castle, and the Tsar met them kindly and made them welcome. “My dear daughter,” said he to the lovely damsel, “I did not expect to see thee here. Where hast thou been knocking about all these years?”—“Dear father, and light of my eyes, I should have been lost altogether but for this good youth, who saved me from an unavoidable death!” The Tsar turned, looked with a friendly eye at Martin, and said to him, “I thank thee, good youth. I am ready to reward thee for thy good deeds with whatever thou desirest. Take of my gold and silver and precious stones as much as thy soul longs for.”—“I thank thee, Sovereign Tsar, for thy good words. But I want no precious stones, nor silver, nor gold; but if thou of thy royal grace and favour wouldst indeed reward me, then give me, I pray, the ring from the little finger of thy royal hand. Whenever I look upon that ring I’ll think of thee; but if ever I meet with a bride after mine own heart I will give it to her.” The Tsar immediately took off the ring, gave it to Martin, and said, “By all means, good youth, take the ring, and may it be to thy health! But mark this one thing: tell no one that this ring of thine is no common ring, or it will be to thy hurt and harm!”
Martin the widow’s son thanked the Tsar and took the ring, and returned by the same way through which he had reached the underground realm. He returned to his native place, sought out his old widowed mother, and lived and dwelt with her without either want or care. Yet for all the good life he led, Martin seemed sorrowful; and why should he not? for Martin wanted to marry, and the bride of his choice was not his like in birth, for she was a king’s daughter. So he consulted his mother, and sent her away as his matchmaker, and said to her, “Go to the King himself, and woo for me the thrice-lovely Princess.”—“Alas! my dear son,” said his old mother, “’twould be far better for thee if thou wert to chop thine own wood.4 But what art thou thinking of? How can I go to the King and ask him for his daughter for thee? ’Twould be as much as thy head and my head were worth.”—“Fear not, dear mother! If I send thee, thou mayest go boldly. And mind thou dost not come back from the King without an answer.”
So the old woman dragged herself to the royal palace. She went into the royal courtyard, and without being announced she went right up to the very staircase of the King. The guards shook their arms at her as a sign that nobody was allowed to go there, but she didn’t trouble her head about that one bit, but kept on creeping up. Then all the royal lacqueys came running up, and took the old woman under the arms and would have quite gently led her down again; but the old woman made such a to-do and fell a-shrieking so loudly that it pierced through everything, and the King himself in his lofty carved palace heard the noise, and looked out of his little window into the courtyard, and saw his servants dragging an old woman down the staircase, and preventing her from entering the royal apartments, while the old woman was resisting and shrieking with all her might. “I won’t go out! I have come to the King on a good errand!” The King commanded them to admit the old woman. The old woman entered the carved palace, and saw sitting in the front corner, on the high carved throne, on cushions of purple velvet, the King in state, holding a council in the midst of his grandees and his councillors. The old woman invoked the aid of the holy ikons,5 and bowed very low before the King. “What hast thou to say, old woman?” asked the King.—“Now, lo! I have come to your Majesty—be not wroth at my words—I have come to your Majesty as a matchmaker!”—“Art thou in thy senses, old woman?” cried the King, and his brow was wrinkled with a frown.—“Nay, O father-king! pray do not be angry; pray give me an answer. You have the wares—a little daughter, a beauty; I have the purchaser—a young man, so wise, so cunning, a master of every trade, so that you could not find a better son-in-law. Tell me, therefore, straight out, won’t you give your daughter to my son?” The King listened and listened to the old woman, and at first his frown was blacker than night, but he thought to himself, “Does it become me, a king, to be wroth with a silly old woman?” And the royal councillors were amazed, for they saw the wrinkles on the King’s forehead smoothing out, and the King looked at the old woman with a smile. “If thy son is so cunning, and a master of every trade, let him build me within twenty-four hours a palace more gorgeous than my own, and let him hang a crystal bridge between this palace and my palace, and let luxuriant apple trees grow up all along this bridge, and let them bear silver and golden pippins, and let birds of paradise sing within these apple trees. And on the right-hand side of this crystal bridge let him build a cathedral five storeys high, with golden pinnacles, where he may receive the wedding crown with my daughter, and where the marriage may be celebrated. But if thy son fulfil not all this, then for thy and his presumption I will have you both smeared with tar and rolled in feathers and down, and hanged up in cages in the market-place as a laughing-stock to all good people.” And the King condescended to smile still more pleasantly, and his grandees and his councillors held their sides, and rolled about the floor for laughter, and they began with one voice to praise his wisdom and thought amongst themselves, “What fun it will be to see the old woman and her son hung up in cages! ’Tis as plain as daylight; a beard will sooner grow out of the palm of his hand than he be able to accomplish so shrewd a task.” The poor old woman was near to swooning. “What!” said she to the King, “is this thy final sovereign word? Is this what I must say to my son?”—“Yes, thus must thou say: if he accomplish this task, I will give him my daughter; if he does not accomplish it, I will put you both into cages.”
The poor old woman went home more dead than alive. She staggered from side to side, and shed floods of scalding tears. When she saw Martin, she began screeching at him from afar. “Did not I tell thee, my son, to go and chop thine own wood? Now thou seest that our poor little heads are lost.” And she told her son all about it. “Cheer up, mother,” said little Martin, “pray to God and lie down to sleep, the morning is always wiser than the evening.” But he himself went out of the hut, took his little ring from one hand and put it on the other, and the twelve youths immediately appeared before him and said, “What dost thou require?” He told them of the royal task, and the twelve youths answered, “To-morrow, everything will be ready.”
The King awoke next morning, and lo! right in front of his palace towered another palace, and a crystal bridge led from one to the other. Along the sides of the bridge stood luxuriant apple trees, and upon them hung golden pippins, and birds of paradise were singing in the trees; and on the right hand of the bridge, blazing like fire in the sun, stood the cathedral with its golden pinnacles; and the bells of the cathedral were ringing and pealing in all directions. The King had to keep his word. He raised his son-in-law high in rank, gave him a rich inheritance with his daughter, and he took her to wife. Great was the wedding-feast. The wine flowed in streams, and they drank of mead and beer till they could drink no more.
So Martin lived in his palace, and he ate of the best and drank of the best, and his life went as smoothly as cheese with butter. But the Princess did not love him at heart, and when she reflected that they had not married her to the son of a tsar, or the son of a king, or even to a prince from across the sea, but to simple Martin the widow’s son, her wrath waxed hot within her. And she fell a-thinking by what means she might best rid herself of a husband she hated. So she took care to caress him, and flatter him, and waited upon him herself, and made him comfortable, and when they were quite alone she would ask him what it was that made him so wise and clever. And it happened one day that when he had been the King’s guest, and had drunk and made merry with all his lords one after another, and had returned home and laid him down to rest, that the Princess came to him and caressed him, and coaxed him with wheedling words, and made him drunk with strong mead, and in that way found out what she wanted to know, for Martin told her all about his enchanted ring, and showed her how to turn it. And no sooner was little Martin asleep and snoring, than the Princess took off the enchanted ring from his little finger, went forth into the broad courtyard, moved the ring from one finger to the other, and the twelve youths immediately appeared before her. “What is thy pleasure, and what is thy desire?”—“That to-morrow morning there may be neither palace, nor bridge, nor cathedral on this spot, but only a wretched little hut as heretofore, and cast this drunkard into it, but remove me far from him into the Empire of Thrice-ten.”—“It shall be done,” replied the twelve youths with one voice.
In the morning, when the King awoke, he felt inclined to go and pay a visit to his son-in-law and his daughter, so he went out upon the balcony, and lo! there was neither palace, nor bridge, nor cathedral, nor garden. In place of them stood a wretched old hut, leaning on one side, and scarce able to stand at all. The King sent for his son-in-law, and began asking him what it all meant; but little Martin could only stare blankly at him without uttering a word. And the King bade them sit in judgment on his son-in-law for deceiving him by magic, and destroying his daughter, the thrice-lovely Princess, and they condemned Martin to be put on the top of a lofty stone column with nothing to eat or drink; there he was to be left to die of hunger.
Then it was that Jurka and Vaska remembered how little Martin had saved them from an evil death, and they came and laid their heads together about it. Jurka growled and snarled, and was ready to tear every one to bits, for his master’s sake; but Vaska purred and hummed and scratched himself behind the ear with his velvet paw, and began to think the matter over. And the artful cat hit upon a plan, and said to Jurka, “Let us go for a walk about the town, and as soon as we meet a roll-baker with a tin on his head, you run between his legs and knock the tin off his head, and I’ll be close behind and immediately seize the rolls, and take them to master.” No sooner said than done. Jurka and the cat took a run into the town, and they met a roll-baker. He was carrying a tin on his head, and he looked about him on all sides and cried with a loud voice, “Hot rolls, hot rolls, fresh from the oven!” Jurka ran between his legs, the baker stumbled, the tin fell, and all the rolls were scattered about. But while the angry baker was chasing Jurka, Vaska hid all the rolls in the hedges. Then the cat and Jurka ran to the tower where Martin was placed, dragged with them the stores of bread, and Vaska scrambled up to the top, looked in at the little window, called to his master, and said, “Alive, eh?”—“Scarcely alive!” replied little Martin; “I am quite exhausted from want of food, and it will not be long before I die of hunger.”—“Don’t grieve; wait a bit, and we’ll feed you,” said Vaska, and he began to drag the food up from below—rolls and cakes, and all kinds of bread, till he had dragged up for his master a large store. Then he said, “Master, Jurka and I will go to the kingdom of Thrice-ten, and get you back your enchanted ring. Take care to make the bread last till we return.” Then they both took leave of their master, and departed on their long journey.
They ran on and on, and they smelt out the scent everywhere and followed it; paid great attention to what people told them; carefully made friends with all the other dogs and cats they met; asked about the Princess, and found out at last that they were not far from the kingdom of Thrice-ten, whither she had told the twelve youths to carry her. They ran into the kingdom, went to the palace, and made friends with all the dogs and cats there, asked them all about the Princess’s ways, and turned the conversation to the subject of the enchanted ring; but no one could give them certain information about it. But one day it happened that Vaska went a-hunting in the royal cellars. There he waylaid a big fat mouse, threw himself upon it, dug his cruel claws into it, and was going to begin with its head, when the big mouse spoke to him: “Dear little Vaska, don’t hurt me, don’t kill me. Perhaps I may be of service to you. I’ll do all I can for you. But if you kill me, the Mouse-Tsar, all my mousey tsardom will fall to pieces.”—“Very well,” said Vaska; “I’ll spare you; but this is the service you must do me. In this palace dwells the Princess, the wicked wife of our master; she has stolen from him his wonder-working ring; till you have got me that ring, I will not let you out of my claws under any pretence whatever.”—Agreed,” said the Mouse-Tsar, “I’ll try”; and he piped and whistled all his people together. A countless multitude of mice assembled, both small and great, and they sat all round the cat Vaska, and waited to hear what the Mouse-Tsar would say to them from beneath Vaska’s claws. And the Mouse-Tsar said to them: “Whichever of you shall get the wonder-working ring from the Princess, he will save me from a cruel death, and I will raise him to the highest place about my person.” Then a little mouse rose up and said: “I have often been in the Princess’s bed-chamber, and I’ve noticed that the Princess’s eye rests more often on a certain little ring than on anything else. In the daytime she wears it on her little finger, but at night she stuffs it into her mouth behind her cheeks. If you wait a bit, I’ll get you that ring.” And the little mouse ran into the Princess’s bed-chamber and waited till night, and as soon as ever the Princess was asleep, it wriggled into her bed, picked the down out of her swan-feathered bolster, and strewed it all about under her nose. The fine down went up the Princess’s nose and into her mouth, she sprang up and began to sneeze and cough, and spat out the enchanted ring on to the counterpane. The little mouse immediately snatched it up, and ran off with it to save the life of the Mouse-Tsar.
Vaska and Jurka set off to bring their master the wonder-working ring. Whether they took a long time or a short time matters not, but they arrived at last, and ran to the tower in which Martin was put to die from starvation. The cat immediately climbed up to the window, and called to its master, “Art thou alive, Martin the widow’s son?”—“I am scarce able to keep body and soul together. This is the third day I have been sitting here without bread.”—“Well, thy woes are over now. There will be a feast in your street now6; we have brought you your ring.” Martin was overjoyed, and began to stroke the cat, and the cat rubbed itself against him, and began purring its own little songs through its nose; but at the bottom of the tower Jurka was leaping and whining and barking for joy, and leaping high in the air. Martin took the ring and turned it from one hand to the other. The twelve youths immediately appeared: “What is thy pleasure, and what thy command?”—“Give me to eat and drink till I can eat and drink no more, and let cunning music be played on the top of this tower to me all day.” When the music began to play, the good folks hastened to the King, and told him that little Martin was up to no good in the tower there. “He ought to have ceased to be among the living long ago,” they said, “and yet he is having such a merry time of it on the top of the tower. They are stamping with their feet, and knocking their plates, and clashing their glasses, and such splendid music is playing, that you can’t help listening to it.” The King sent an express messenger to the tower, and there he stood and listened to the music; the King sent his highest officer, and there they all remained standing, and opened wide their ears. The King himself went to the tower, and the music seemed to turn him into a statue. But little Martin again called his twelve youths, and said to them, “Restore my old palace, as it was before; throw a crystal bridge across from it to the royal palace; let the former five-storeyed cathedral stand by the side of the palace; and let my faithless wife also be found in the palace.” And while he was yet expressing the wish, the whole thing was done. And he went out of the tower, took his father-in-law the King by the hand, led him into the palace, led him up to the sleeping-chamber, where the Princess, in fear and trembling, awaited an evil death, and said to the King, “My dear little father-in-law, a great deal of trouble and anguish has befallen me from living with thy daughter; what shall we sentence her to?”—“My dear son-in-law, let mercy prevail over justice; exhort her with good words, and live with her as heretofore.” And Martin listened to his father-in-law, upbraided his wife for her treachery, and to the end of his life he never parted with the ring, nor with Jurka and Vaska, and saw no more misery.
A young fellow entered the service of a miller. The miller sent him to throw grain on the scoop, but the labourer, not knowing how to set about it, went and strewed the wheat on the mill-stone. The mill-wheel went round, and all the grain was scattered about. The master miller, when he came to the mill, and saw the scattered grain, sent the workman about his business. The workman went home and thought to himself, “Well, I haven’t been very long working at the mill.” So he went on his way thinking to himself, and so he missed the way to his own village. He strayed among the bushes, and wandered and wandered about till he came to a stream, and on the stream stood an empty mill, and in this mill he resolved to pass the night.
The dumb midnight hour approached; the labourer could not sleep in the empty mill; he listened to every rustling sound, and suddenly it was as though he heard some one approaching the mill. The poor labourer started up more dead than alive, and hid himself in the scoop. Three men entered the mill. Judging from their appearance they were no good people, but robbers. They lit a fire in the mill, and began to divide amongst themselves a rich booty. And one of the robbers said to the others, “I will lay my portion underneath the mill.” The second said, “I’ll shove mine underneath the wheel.” But the third said, “I’ll conceal my goods in the scoop.” But our labourer was lying in the scoop, and he thought, “No man can die twice, but every man must die once. I wonder now if I can frighten them. Let us try.” And he roared at the top of his voice: “Denis, you come down there; and you, Phocas, look on that side; and you, little one, look there, and I’ll be here. Stop them, don’t let them go, and beat them without mercy.” The robbers were terrified, threw down their booty, took to their heels straightway, and the labourer took their booty and returned home richer than rich.
An old man and an old woman died, and left behind them a son young in years, who was rich neither in wits nor goods. His uncle took him home, gave him to eat and drink, and when he grew up sent him to watch the sheep. And one day he sent for his kinsman and resolved to test his wits; so he said to him: “Here thou hast a flock of sheep, drive them to market and make profit out of them in such a way that both thou and the sheep shall get fat upon it, and the sheep be all brought back whole, and yet all, to the very last one, be sold for ready money.”
“How is that to be managed?” thought the orphan, who drove the sheep into the open field, sat by the roadside, and fell a-thinking. A lovely damsel passed by that way, and she said to him: “Of what art thou thinking, good youth?”
“Why should I not be thinking? My uncle has taken a spite at last against me, a poor orphan; he has given me a task to do, and cudgel my brains as I may I cannot see how it is to be done.”
“What task has he given thee?”
“Well, look here; he says, ‘Go to market, drive those sheep thither and make a profit out of them, but so that thou and the sheep shall grow fat upon it, and the sheep be brought back whole, all down to the last one, and yet be sold for ready money.’”
“Well, that’s no very tricky task,” replied the damsel. “Shear the sheep, take the fleeces to market and sell them, then thou wilt make a profit out of them, and the sheep will remain whole, and thou wilt be able to feed thyself on the profits.”
The youth thanked the damsel and did as she said. He sheared the sheep, sold their fleeces at the market, drove home the flock, and gave the money he had made out of them to his uncle. “Good,” said the uncle to the nephew; “but I am sure thou didst not work this out with thine own wits, eh? Didn’t some one or other teach it thee?” The youth confessed: “Well, I certainly did not do it by my own wits, but a lovely damsel came by and taught me.”—“Well, then, thou must take this sage young damsel to wife. ’Twill be a very good thing for thee, for here art thou an orphan with neither stick nor stone of thy own, and nothing much in the way of wits either!”—“I don’t mind if I do marry her,” said the nephew to his uncle.—“All right, but thou must render me this one service. Take corn to town to the bazaar. According as thou dost sell it and return again, I’ll wed thee to this damsel.”
The Sage Damsel.
So the nephew went to town to sell the uncle’s corn, and on the way he met a rich miller.—“Why art thou off to town?” said the miller.—“I am going to the bazaar to sell my uncle’s corn.”—“Then we’ll go to town together.”—So they went along the road together, the miller in his gig with his plump brown horse, and the orphan in his little cart with his thin gray mare. They encamped side by side in the open field to pass the night there, took out the horses, and themselves lay down to sleep. And it happened that self-same night the gray mare dropped a foal. The rich miller woke earlier than the orphan, saw the foal, and drove him beneath his gig. When the orphan awoke a hot dispute arose between them. The orphan said: “It is my foal, because my mare dropped it.” The covetous miller said: “No, ’tis mine, because thy mare dropped it beneath my gig.” They wrangled and wrangled till they resolved to go to law about it, and when they arrived in town they went to the court to fight the matter out there. And the judge said to them: “In our town we have introduced this custom into the tribunals, that whoever wants to go to law must first of all guess four riddles. So tell me now: what is the strongest and swiftest thing in the world; what is the fattest thing in the world; and what is the softest and what the sweetest of all?” The judge gave them three days to guess, and said: “If you guess my riddles, I will judge betwixt you according to law; but if not, don’t be angry if I drive you away.”
The rich miller went to his wife and told her how the matter stood, and what riddles the judge had given him to guess. “All thy riddles are but simple ones,” replied the miller’s wife; “if they ask thee what is the strongest and swiftest thing in the world, tell them that my father has a dark-brown horse so strong and nimble that it can run down a hare. And if they ask thee what is the fattest thing in the world, dost thou not know that in our stall we are fattening up a two-year-old boar, and he’s getting so fat that his very legs won’t be able to hold him up? And as for the third riddle, what is the softest thing in the world, why it’s quite plain that that’s a down pillow; thou canst not imagine anything softer than that. And if they ask thee what is the sweetest thing in the world, say: ‘Why, what sweeter thing can a man have than the wife of his bosom?’”
But the orphan went out of the town into the fields and sat by the roadside and racked his brain. He sat and thought of his misery; and along the road, close to him, passed the self-same lovely damsel. “Why art thou so racking thy brains again, good youth?”—“Why, look here, the judge has given me four such riddles to guess that I shall never be able to guess them all my days,” and he told the damsel all about it. The damsel laughed, and said to him: “Go to the judge and say to him, that the strongest and swiftest thing in the world is the wind; that the fattest of all is the earth, for she feeds everything that lives and grows upon her; the softest of all is the palm of the hand, for however soft a man may lie he always puts his hand beneath his head; and there’s nothing sweeter in the whole world than sleep.” The poor little orphan bowed to the very girdle to the damsel, and said to her: “I thank thee, thou sagest of maidens, for thou hast snatched me from very ruin.”
When the three days had passed, the miller and the orphan appeared in court, and told the court the answers to the riddles. Now the Tsar chanced to be on the bench at that time, and the answers of the orphan so pleased him that he ordered that the cause between them should be given in his favour, and that the miller should be driven with shame from the court. After that the Tsar said to the orphan: “Didst thou hit upon these answers thyself, or did some one else tell thee?”—“To tell the truth, they are not my own; the lovely damsel taught me these answers.”—“She has taught thee well too, sage indeed must she be. Go to her and tell her in my name that if she be so wise and sensible she must appear before me to-morrow: neither on foot nor on horseback, neither naked nor clothed, and with a present in her hand that is no gift. If she accomplish this I will reward her as becomes a Tsar, and make her higher than the highest.” Again the orphan went out of the town, and again he fell a-fretting, and he said to himself: “Why, I don’t even know how and have no idea where to find this lovely damsel; what sort of a task is this that I am bidden to give her?” No sooner had he thought this than the sage and lovely damsel again passed by that way. The orphan told her how his guesses had pleased the Tsar, and how he wanted to see the damsel himself and have proof of her wisdom, and how he had promised to reward her. The damsel thought a bit, and then said to the orphan: “Fetch me a long-bearded billy-goat, and a big net for catching fish, and catch me a pair of sparrows. To-morrow morning we’ll meet here, and if I get a reward from the Tsar, I’ll share it equally with thee.”
The orphan carried out the orders of the damsel, and waited for her next morning at the roadside. The damsel appeared, stripped off her sarafan,1 and wound herself in the long fishing-net from head to foot; then she sat on the goat, took a sparrow in each hand, and bade the orphan lead the way to town. The young man brought her to the Tsar at court, and she bowed low to the Tsar and said: “Behold, O sovereign Tsar! I come to thee neither on foot nor on horseback, neither naked nor clothed, and I have brought a present in my hand which is no gift.”—“Where is it?” asked the Tsar. “Here!” and she gave the Tsar the live sparrows, and he was about to take them from her hands when the sparrows wriggled out and flew away. “Well,” said the Tsar, “I see thou canst vie even with me in wit. Stay at my court, and look after my children, and I’ll give thee a rich recompense.”—“Nay, my sovereign lord and Tsar, I cannot accept thy gracious favour; I have promised this good youth to share my reward with him for his services.”—“Look now! thou art witty and wise; but in this matter thy head is turned, and thou dost not judge according to reason. I offer thee a high and honourable place with a great recompense; why then canst thou not share this reward with this youth?”—“But how can I share it then?”—“How, thou sage damsel? Why if this good youth be dear to thee, marry him; for honour and recompense, and labour and sorrow and bright-faced joy are shared by husband and wife half and half.”—“Thou too art wise, I see, O sovereign Tsar, and I’ll gainsay thee no longer,” said the lovely damsel. So she took the orphan for her husband, and though the orphan had no very great mind, his heart was simple and good, and he lived with his sage wife all his life in contentment and happiness.
1 A long dress without sleeves.
There was once upon a time a merchant, and he had two sons, Dmitry and Ivan. Once the father bade his sons good-night, sent them off to bed, and said to them: “Now, children, whatever you see in your dreams, tell it all to me to-morrow morning, and whichever of you hides his dream from me, no good thing will befall him.” In the morning the eldest son came to his father and said: “I dreamed, dear father, that my brother Ivan flew high into the sky on twenty eagles.”—“Very good!” said the father; “and what didst thou dream, Vania?”1—“Well, such rubbish, father, that it is impossible to tell it.”—“What dost thou mean? Speak!”—“No, I’ll not!”—“Speak, sir, when I bid thee!”—“No, I won’t speak, I won’t.” The father was very angry with his youngest son, and resolved to punish him for his disobedience, so he sent for his overseers and bade them strip Ivan naked and tie him to a post at the crossways as tightly as possible. No sooner said than done. The overseers seized hold of him, dragged him far, far away from home to the crossways, where seven roads crossed, tied him by the hands and feet to the post, and left him alone to his fate. The poor youth fared very badly. The sun scorched him, the gnats and flies sucked his blood, hunger and thirst tortured him. Fortunately for Ivan, a young Tsarevich happened to be going along one of these seven roads; he saw the merchant’s son, had compassion on him, and bade his attendants untie him from the post, dressed him in his own clothes, and saved him from a cruel death. The Tsarevich took Ivan to his court, gave him to eat and drink, and asked him who had tied him to the post. “My own father, who was angry with me.”—“And wherefore, pray? Surely thy fault was not small?”—“Well, in fact, I would not obey him; I would not tell him what I saw in my dreams.”—“And for such a trifle as that he condemned thee to so cruel a punishment! The villain! But surely he has outgrown his wits! But what then didst thou see in thy dream?”—“I saw what I cannot even tell unto thee, O Tsarevich!”—“What! Not tell? Not tell me? me, the Tsarevich? What! I saved thee from a cruel death, and thou wilt not do this trifle for me in return? Speak immediately, or it will not be well with thee!”—“Nay, Tsarevich! I stick to my word. I haven’t told my father, and I’ll not tell thee.”—The Tsarevich boiled over with unspeakable rage, and shrieked to his servants and attendants, “Hi! my faithful servants, take this good-for-nothing boor, put heavy irons on his hands, weld grievous fetters to his legs, and cast him into my deep dungeon!” The servants did not think twice about their master’s commands; they seized Ivan the merchant’s son, loaded his hands and feet with fetters, and put him as God’s slave in the stone sack. A little and a long time passed by, and the Tsarevich thought of marrying the thrice-wise Helena, the first maiden in the whole earth for beauty and wisdom, so he made ready and went into the strange country far away to marry this thrice-wise Helena. Now it happened that the day after he had gone, his sister the Tsarevna went walking in the garden hard by the very same dungeon in which Ivan the merchant’s son had been put. He saw the Tsarevna through the little grated window, and cried to her with a lamentable voice: “Dear mother Tsarevna, thy brother will never be married without my help.”—“Who art thou?” answered the Tsarevna. Ivan named his name and added: “I suppose thou hast heard, O Tsarevna, of the trickeries and the cunning wiles of the thrice-wise Helena? I have heard not once nor twice that she has expedited many wooers into another world; believe me that thy brother also will not be able to marry her without me!”—“And thou art able to help the Tsarevich?”—“Able and willing, but the falcon’s wings are bound, and no way for him is found.”—The Tsarevna bade them release Ivan from his dungeon, and gave him full liberty to do what was in his mind so long as he only helped the Tsarevich to marry. And then Ivan the merchant’s son chose him comrades first of all, one by one, and added youth to youth, and they were all as like to each other as if they had been born brothers. He dressed them in mantles of one kind, sewn in one and the same fashion; he mounted them on horses of one colour, and like each other to a hair, and they all mounted and rode away. Twelve was the number of the young comrades of Ivan the merchant’s son. They rode for one day, they rode for another day, and on the third day they entered a gloomy forest, and Ivan said to his comrades: “Stay, my brothers, there is here, on the verge of the precipice, an old tree; a hollow, branchless tree; I must look into its hollow trunk and find my fortune there.” So he went to the tree he had described and plunged his hand into the hollow trunk, and drew out of it an invisible cap, hid it in his bosom, and returned to his comrades.
And they came to the realm of the thrice-wise Helena, went straight into the capital, sought out the Tsarevich, and begged him: “Take us into thy service, O Tsarevich; we will serve thee with a single heart.” The Tsarevich thought the matter over and said: “How can I help taking such gallant youths into my service? perhaps in a strange land they may be of service to me.” And to each of them he assigned his post; he made one his equerry, another his cook, but Ivan he bade never to depart from his side.
The next day the Tsarevich attired himself in festal raiment, and went forth to woo the thrice-wise Helena. She received him courteously, regaled him with all manner of rich meats and drinks, and then she said to the Tsarevich: “I don’t at all mind being thy wife, but first of all thou must accomplish these tasks. If thou do them I will be thy faithful wife, but if not, thy haughty head shall wag no more on thy stalwart shoulders.”—“Why be afraid before the time? tell me thy tasks, thrice-wise Helena!”—“This then is my first task for thee: I shall have ready by to-morrow what I will not tell thee, and for what purpose I do not know; show thy wit, then, and bring me the fellow of it, of thine own devising.” The Tsarevich went home from the court by no means happy; his haughty head hung lower than his stalwart shoulders. And Ivan met him and said: “Halve thy grief with me, O Tsarevich, and it will be better for thee.”—“Well, look now,” said the Tsarevich, “Helena has set me a task that not a single wise man in the world could do”—and he told Ivan all about it. “Well,” said Ivan, “’tis not such a great matter after all! Pray to God and lie down to sleep; the morning is wiser than the evening—to-morrow we’ll consider the matter.” The Tsarevich lay down to sleep, but Ivan the merchant’s son put on his invisible cap, went as swiftly as possible to the palace, ran through all the chambers, and made his way right into the bedchamber of the thrice-wise Helena. And then he heard her giving these orders to her favourite servant: “Take this cloth-of-gold to my shoemaker, and let him make me shoes for my feet as soon as possible.” The servant ran with all her might, and behind her ran Ivan. The cobbler set to work; the work seemed to burn his fingers, so quickly did he do it; he beat the stuff with his little hammer and stitched it with his needle; a little shoe was quickly ready, and he put it on the little window-sill. Ivan the merchant’s son took the little shoe and hid it in his bosom. The shoemaker was in great consternation: what was the meaning of it? His work had vanished from before his eyes. He searched and searched. He rummaged in every corner, but it was all in vain. “What marvel is this?” thought he; “can the unclean spirit2 be playing his tricks with me?” There was no help for it. He set to work again with his awl, finished the other slipper, and sent it by the servant-maid to the thrice-wise Helena. But Ivan was after her again, crept like a shadow into the palace in his invisible cap, stood behind the shoulders of the thrice-wise Helena, and saw that she sat behind her little table and began to cover the slipper with gold, embroider it with large pearls, and set it thickly with precious stones. Ivan the merchant’s son drew his own slipper out of his bosom and began to do the like with it; whenever she took up a little gem, he chose out just such another; wherever she threaded a pearl, he took another and sewed that on too. The thrice-wise Helena finished her work, looked at the slipper, and couldn’t admire it enough. She smiled, and thought to herself: “We will see what the Tsarevich will present himself with to-morrow morning.” But Ivan the merchant’s son awoke the Tsarevich very early next morning, took the slipper from his bosom, and gave it to him. “Go to thy lady and show her this slipper,” said he; “there thou hast her first task!” The Tsarevich washed and dressed himself, hastened to his lady, and found her apartments full of Boyars and Grandees, and her Councillors were all assembled there down to the very last one. There was a noise of melody, there came a crash of lively music, the doors of the inner chambers were thrown open, and out came the thrice-wise Helena, sailing along like a white swan. She bowed on all sides, but particularly to the Tsarevich: then she drew out of her pocket the shoe, set with large pearls and adorned with precious stones, and she looked at the Tsarevich with a mocking smile, and all the Boyars, the Grandees, and the Councillors who were in the palace looked intently at the Tsarevich. And the Tsarevich said to the thrice-wise Helena: “Thy slipper is very fine, but ’tis no good at all unless it have a fellow. Well, here it is, and I give thee the other, which is exactly like it.” And he drew out of his pocket the slipper, and placed it by the side of the other one. The whole palace heaved a great “Oh!” The Boyars, Grandees, and Councillors exclaimed with one voice: “Thou art indeed worthy, O Tsarevich, to wed our Tsarevna, the thrice-wise Helena.”—“Not so quick, please,” cried the Tsarevna; “let us see what he’ll make of the second task. I shall await thee to-morrow in this self-same place, Tsarevich, and this is my task for thee: I shall have an unexplainable somewhat disguised in feathers and in stones; bring thou also just such another unknown, somewhat disguised in just such feathers and stones.” The Tsarevich bowed and went out, looking much blacker than the evening before. “Well,” thought he, “now indeed my shoulders will not support my head very much longer.” And again Ivan the merchant’s son met him and consoled him with a friendly smile: “Come, Tsarevich, wherefore grieve? Pray to God and lie down to sleep, the morning is wiser than the evening.” Ivan made the Tsarevich lie down, then he quickly took his invisible cap, darted into the palace, and arrived just in time to hear the Tsarevna give this command to her favourite servant: “Go into the fowl-yard and bring me hither a duck.” Off went the servant to the fowl-yard and Ivan after her; she put a duck under her arm, but Ivan hid a drake in his bosom, and they came back the same way. The thrice-wise Helena again sat down at her little table, took the duck, adorned its wings with ribands and its little tail with amethysts, and fastened a necklace of pearls round its neck; and Ivan saw it all, and did just the same to his drake.
The next day the Tsarevich again went up to the palace, and again all the Boyars and Grandees were assembled there; again there was a crash of music, and the doors of the inner chambers opened, and the thrice-wise Helena came forth strutting along like a pea-hen. Behind her came the maids of honour bearing a golden dish, and they all saw that upon this dish beneath the white cloth some living thing was moving about. Softly, very softly, the Tsarevna raised the cloth from the dish, took out the duck, and said to the Tsarevich: “Well, didst thou guess my riddle?”—“How could I help guessing it?” replied the Tsarevich, “there’s nothing so very knowing in such a task as that,” and forthwith he put his hand into his cap and drew out his dressed-up drake.
All the Boyars and Grandees cried “Oh!” and with one voice exclaimed: “Well done, young hero Tsarevich! Thou art indeed worthy to take Helena the thrice-wise to wife.” But Helena the thrice-wise knit her brows and said: “Stop a bit! Let him first fulfil my third task. If he be such a hero, let him fetch me three hairs from the head, and three hairs from the beard, of my grandfather, the Sea-king, and then I am ready to be his wife.” The Tsarevich returned home gloomier than an autumn night: he would look at nothing and speak to nobody. “Don’t fret, Tsarevich!” whispered Ivan the merchant’s son in his ear, and he seized his invisible cap, and was in the palace in a trice, and saw the thrice-wise Helena sitting in her state-coach and preparing to drive to the blue sea. And our Ivan, in his invisible cap, took his seat in the very carriage, and the fiery horses of the Tsar carried them in hot haste to the blue sea.
So the thrice-wise Helena arrived at the blue sea, sat under a rock by the shore on a large stone, turned her face to the blue sea, and began to call her dear grandad the Sea-king. The blue sea boiled as in a storm, and despite a great calm, the depths of the sea were disturbed by a huge wave; a crest of silvery foam worked its way up, rolled along the shore as if caressing it, broke up gradually on the golden beach, scattering crystal jets and pearly shells on the shore, and there rose out of the water, up to the waist, the old, old grandfather. On his head heaps and heaps of gray locks sparkled like silver in the sun, dripping wet, and great tufts of hair hung over his brows; but his face was covered with a thick, thick golden beard like moss; he rode up to the breast in a broad big wave which swept over his shoulders and hid his body to the waist. The ocean grandfather leaned against a stone with his goose-like paws, looked with his green eyes into the eyes of the thrice-wise Helena, and cried: “Hail, granddaughter of my desires. ’Tis a long time since I have seen thee; ’tis a long time since thou hast visited me. And now, please, comb my little head for me.” And he leaned his unkempt head against the knee of his granddaughter, and dozed off into a sweet sleep. But the thrice-wise Helena began smoothing her grandfather’s hair and winding his gray locks round her fingers to curl them, and whispering soft words in her grandfather’s ear, and lulling him to sleep with gentle songs; and as soon as she saw that her grandfather was asleep she tugged three silver hairs out of his head. But Ivan the merchant’s son, slipping his hand below hers, wrenched out a whole handful. The grandfather awoke, looked at his granddaughter, and said sleepily: “Art thou mad? It hurts me horribly!”—“Pardon, dear grandfather,” said the thrice-wise Helena, “but it’s such a long time since I did thy hair, that it is quite tangled.” But the grandfather did not hear her to the end; he was already snoring, and shortly afterwards the Tsarevna pulled three golden hairs out of his beard. Ivan the merchant’s son thought, “I must have some of that too,” seized the grandfather by the beard, and tore out a good piece of it. The sea-grandfather roared aloud, awoke from his sleep, and dived into the depths like a bucket—only bubbles remained behind.
Next day the Tsarevna entered the palace and thought: “The Tsarevich really will fall into my clutches now.” And she showed the Tsarevich the three golden hairs and the three silver ones: “Well, Tsarevich, hast managed to pick up such wonderful things as these?”—“Well, Tsarevna, that’s a lot to boast of, I must say! Why, I’ll give thee whole handfuls of such rubbish if thou wilt.” And the whole palace resounded with cries of amazement when the Tsarevich drew from his breast the grandfather’s hairs. The thrice-wise Helena was very wroth; she rushed off to her bedroom, looked into her magic books, and saw that it was not the Tsarevich who was so knowing, but his favourite servant, Ivan the merchant’s son. She returned to her guests and said in soft and wheedling tones: “Thou hast not guessed my riddles and done my tasks of thine own self alone, Tsarevich, but thy favourite servant Ivan has helped thee. I should like to look at the good youth. Bring him to me quickly.”—“I have not one servant but twelve servants, Tsarevna.”—“Then bring him hither whose name is Ivan!”—“They are all called Ivan.”—“Then let them all come,” said she, but she thought to herself: “I’ll pick out the guilty party, I know.” The Tsarevich sent for his servants, and the twelve youths appeared at court. They were all of one face and one stature; their voices were all alike, and there was not a hair’s difference between them. “Which among you is the biggest?” And they all cried with a loud voice: “I am the biggest, I am the biggest!”—“Well,” thought Helena, “I can’t catch you this way, but I’ll manage it somehow.” And she bade them bring eleven common drinking-cups, but the twelfth of pure gold; she filled the drinking-cups full with good wine, and gave them to the good youths to drink. But not one of them would look at the common cups, and all stretched out their hands towards the golden cup, so in struggling for it they only made a great clamour, and all the wine was spilled. The Tsarevna perceived that her artifice had failed, so she invited all the servants of the Tsarevich to pass the night at the palace. All the evening she gave them as much as they could eat and drink, and then she gave them soft downy beds to lie upon. And when all the good youths were sound asleep, then the thrice-wise Helena came to them in their bedroom, looked into her magic book, and immediately discovered which of them was Ivan the merchant’s son. Then she drew out her penknife and cut off the lock of hair over his left temple, and she thought to herself: “By that mark I shall know you in the morning and have you punished.” But in the morning, Ivan the merchant’s son awoke before them all, clapped his hand to his head, and saw that he was shorn of his lock. He immediately rose from his bed and awoke all his comrades: “Quick, my brothers! take your knives and shear off your locks.” In an hour’s time they were summoned to the presence of the thrice-wise Helena. The Tsarevna looked and saw that all of them had their locks shorn off. Full of rage, she seized her magic book, pitched it into the fire, called the Tsarevich to her, and said to him: “I’ll be thy wife, make ready for the wedding!” And the Tsarevich sent for his good youths, and said to Ivan: “Go to my sister and bid her make ready everything for the wedding.” Ivan went to the Tsarevna, told her of her brother, and gave her his command. “I thank thee, thou good youth and faithful servant, for thy services,” said the Tsarevich’s sister to Ivan, “but say now, how shall I reward thee?”—“How shalt thou reward me?” answered Ivan the merchant’s son; “why, bid them put me again in my old dungeon.” And do what the Tsarevna would to persuade him, he insisted upon it.
The Tsarevich and his bride arrived, and the Boyars, the Grandees, and the festal guests came out to meet them, wished them health and happiness, and presented them with bread and salt, and there were so many people pressed together that you could have walked on their heads. “But where is my faithful servant Ivan?” asked the Tsarevich; “how is it I do not see him here?” The Tsarevna answered him: “Thou thyself hadst him put into a dungeon because of a certain dream.”—“What! surely this is never the same person!”—“It’s the very same; I only let him out for a time to go and help thee.” The Tsarevich bade them bring Ivan to him, threw himself on his neck, burst into tears, and begged him not to think evil of him. “But dost thou know, O Tsarevich,” said Ivan, “that I did not tell thee this dream of mine because I saw beforehand in my slumbers all that has now happened to thee. Judge now thyself and tell me, wouldst thou not have thought me half mad if I had told thee all?” And the Tsarevich rewarded Ivan, and made him the greatest in the realm after himself; but Ivan wrote to his father and his brother, and they all lived together and had no end of good things, and lived happily ever after.