Part 9

From that day forward nobody died in that kingdom: they were born, and they kept on being born, and they never died. And very many years went by, and the soldier never took his nosebag down. One day he happened to go into the town. He went, and on his way he met such an old, old lady, so old that on whichever side the wind blew, she inclined. “Oh, what an old lady!” the soldier said. “Why, it is almost time she died.”

“Yes, father,” the old dame replied. “The time has come and gone long since. At the time when you put Death into the nosebag I had only one hour left in which to live in the white world. I should be very glad to have some rest; but unless I die, earth will not take me up; and you, discharged soldier, are guilty of an unforgivable sin in God’s eyes. For there is no single soul left on earth who is tortured as I am.”

Then the soldier stayed and began to think. “Yes, yes; it would be better to let Death out; perhaps I, too, might die. And beyond this, too, I have many sins on my conscience. Thus it is better now whilst I am still strong and I bear pain on this earth; for when I shall become very old then it will be all the worse for me to suffer anything.”

So he got up and he went up into the Bryánski Woods, and he went up to the aspen, and saw there the nosebag was hanging very high, shaking in the winds to all sides. “Oh, you Death,” he says, “are you still alive?”

A faint voice came out of the nosebag: “Yes, father, I am alive.”

So the soldier took the nosebag, opened it, and he let out Death.

And he himself lay down on his bed, bade farewell to his wife and son, and he begged Death that he might die. And she[19] ran outside the door with all the strength in her feet. “Go!” she cried. “It is the devils who shall slay you—I shall not slay you!”

So the soldier remained alive and healthy. And he thought: “Shall I go straight into the burning pitch, for then the devils will throw me into the seething sulphur until such time as my sins shall have been melted from off me.” And he bade farewell from all, and he went with the knapsack in his hand straight into the burning pitch.

And he went on: may-be near, may-be far, may-be downhill, may-be uphill, may-be short, may-be long; and he at last arrived in the abyss, and he looked, and all round the burning cauldron there stood watchmen. As soon as he stopped at the gate a devil asked who was coming.

“A guilty soul to be tortured.”

“Why do you come? What are you carrying with you?”

“Oh, a nosebag.”

And the devil shrieked out of his full throat and made a tremendous stir. All the infernal powers roused themselves and looked out of the gates and windows with their unbreakable bolts.

And the soldier went all round the cauldron, and he called out to the master of the cauldron: “Let me in, please; do let me into the cauldron. I have come to you to be tortured for my sins.”

“No, I will not let you in. Go away wherever you will—there is no room for you here.”

“Well, if you will not let me in to be tortured, at least give me two hundred souls. I will take them up to God, and perhaps the Lord will pardon my faults.”

And the master of the cauldron answered: “I will add fifty more souls to the lot; only do go away!” So he instantly ordered two hundred and fifty souls to be counted out and to be taken to the rear gates in order that the soldier might not see him.

So the soldier gathered up the guilty souls, and he went up to the gates of Paradise.

The Apostles saw him, and said to the Lord: “Some soldier or other has come up here with two hundred and fifty souls from hell!”

“Take them into Paradise, but do not let the soldier in.”

But the soldier had given up his nosebag to one guilty soul, and had told it: “Just look here. When you enter the gates of Paradise, say at once: ‘Soldier, jump into the nosebag!’”

Then the gates of Paradise opened, and the souls began to go in; and this guilty soul also went in, and for sheer joy forgot all about the soldier.

Thus the soldier was left behind, and could not find any home in either place, and for long after that he still had to live and go on living in the white world. And after very many days he died.

THE MIDNIGHT DANCE

Once upon a time there was a king who was a widower. He had twelve daughters: each was fairer than the others. Every night these princesses went where nobody knew: it was only for twenty-four hours, and they always wore out a new pair of shoes. Now the king had no shoes ready for them, and he wanted to know where they went at night and what they did. So he made a feast ready, and he summoned all the kings and _korolévichi_, all the _boyárs_, and the merchants and the simple folk, to it, and he asked them, “Can any of you guess this riddle? Whoever guesses it I will give him my beloved daughter as a wife and a half of my kingdom as a dowry.”

No one was able to find out where the princesses went at night. Only one poor nobleman cried out, “Your kingly Majesty, I will find out!”

“Very well; go and find out.”

So then the poor nobleman began pondering and saying to himself, “What have I done? I have undertaken to find out, and I don’t know myself. If I don’t find out now, possibly the king will put me under arrest.”

So he went out of the palace beyond the city, and went on and on, and at last he met an old woman on the road who asked him, “What are you thinking of, doughty youth?”

And he answered, “How should I, Bábushka, not become thoughtful? I have undertaken to discover for the king where his daughters go by night.”

“Oh, this is a difficult task, but it can be done. Here, I will give you the cap of invisibility; with that you cannot be seen. Now, remember, when you go to sleep the princesses will pour a sleeping-draught out for you: you turn to the wall and pour it into the bed and do not drink it.”

So the poor nobleman thanked the old woman and returned to the palace. Night-time approached and they gave him a room next to that in which the princesses slept. So he lay on the bed and began to keep watch. Then one of the princesses brought sleeping-drugs in wine and asked him to drink her health. He could not refuse, and so he took the goblet, turned to the wall, and poured it into the bed. At midnight the princesses went to look whether he was asleep or not. Then the poor nobleman pretended to be as sound asleep as a log, and himself kept a keen look out for every noise.

“Now, sisters, our watchman has gone to sleep: it is time we set out on our promenade: it is time.”

So they all put on their best clothes, and the elder sister went to her bedside, moved the bed, and an entrance into the subterranean realm instantly opened up beneath, leading to the home of the Accursèd Tsar.

They all went down a flight of stairs, and the poor nobleman quietly got off his bed, put on the cap of invisibility, and followed them. He, without noticing, touched the youngest princess’s dress: she was frightened and said to her sisters, “O my sisters, somebody has stepped on my dress. This is a foretokening of woe.”

“Nonsense; it does not mean anything of the sort!”

So they all went down the flight of steps into a grove, and in that grove there were golden flowers. Then the poor nobleman broke off and plucked a single sprig, and the entire grove rustled.

“Oh, sisters,” said the youngest sister, “some unfortunate thing is injuring us. Did you hear how the grove rustled?”

“Do not fear; this is the music in the Accursèd Tsar’s realm.”

So they went into the Tsar’s palace. He, with his lacqueys, met them; music sounded; and they began dancing: and they danced until their shoes were worn thin. Then the Tsar bade wine to be served to his guests. The poor nobleman took a single goblet from under his nose, poured out the wine, and put the cup into his pocket.

At last the rout was over, and the princesses bade farewell to their cavaliers, promised to come another night, turned back home, undressed and lay down to sleep.

Then the king summoned the poor nobleman, and asked him, “Did you keep watch on my daughters?”

“Yes, I did, your Majesty.”

“Where did they go?”

“Into the subterranean realm, to the Accursèd Tsar, where they danced all night long.”

So the king summoned his daughters, and began cross-examining them. “Where do you go at night?”

So the princesses tried a feint: “We have not been anywhere.”

“Were you not with the Accursèd Tsar? There is this poor nobleman who can turn evidence on you. He is able to convict you.”

“What do you mean, bátyushka? He can convict us when all night he slept the sleep of the dead?”

Then the poor nobleman brought the golden flower out of his pocket, and the goblet, and said, “There is the testimony.”

What could they do? The princesses had to acknowledge their guilt, and the king bade the entrance to the subterranean realm be slated up. And he married the poor nobleman to the youngest daughter, and they lived happily ever after.

VASILÍSA THE FAIR

Once upon a time there was a merchant who had been married for twelve years and had only one daughter, Vasilísa the Fair. When her mother died the girl was eight years old. On her death-bed the mother called the maiden to her, took a doll out of her counterpane, said: “Vasilísushka, hear my last words. I am dying, and I will leave you my mother’s blessing and this doll. Keep this doll always by you, but show it to nobody, and no misfortune can befall you. Give it food and ask it for advice. After it has eaten, it will tell you how to avoid your evil.” Then the wife kissed her daughter and died.

After the wife’s death the merchant mourned as it behoved, and then he thought of a second wife. He was a handsome man and found many brides, but he liked one widow more than any one. She was no longer young, and had two daughters of about the same age as Vasilísa. So she was an experienced housewife and mother. The merchant married her, but he had made a mistake, for she was no good mother to his own daughter.

Vasilísa was the fairest damsel in the entire village, and the stepmother and the sisters envied her therefore. And they used to torture her by piling all the work they could on her, that she might grow thin and ugly, and might be tanned by the wind and the sun. And the child lived a hard life. Vasilísa, however, did all her work without complaining, and always grew more beautiful and plumper, while the stepmother and her daughters, out of sheer spite, grew thinner and uglier. Yet there they sat all day long with their hands folded, just like fine ladies. How could this be?

It was the doll that had helped Vasilísa. Without her the maiden could never have done her task. Vasilísa often ate nothing herself, and kept the tastiest morsels for the doll; and when at night they had all gone to bed, she used to lock herself up in her cellaret below, give the doll food to eat, and say, “Dollet, eat and listen to my misery. I am living in my father’s house, and my lot is hard. My evil stepmother is torturing me out of the white world. Teach me what I must do in order to bear this life.”

Then the doll gave her good advice, consoled her, and did all her morning’s work for her. Vasilísa was told to go walking, plucking flowers; and all her flowerbeds were done in time, all the coal was brought in, and the water-jugs carried in, and the hearthstone was hot. Further, the doll taught her herb-lore; so, thanks to her doll, she had a merry life; and the years went by.

Vasilísa grew up, and all the lads in the village sought her. But the stepmother’s daughters nobody would look at; and the stepmother grew more evil than ever and answered all her suitors: “I will not give my youngest daughter before I give the elders.” So she sent all the bargainers away, and to show how pleased she was, rained blows on Vasilísa.

One day the merchant had to go away on business for a long time; so the stepmother in the meantime went over to a new house near a dense, slumbrous forest. In the forest there was a meadow, and on the meadow there was a hut, and in the hut Bába Yagá lived, who would not let anybody in, and ate up men as though they were poultry. Whilst she was moving, the stepmother sent her hated stepdaughter into the wood, but she always came back perfectly safe, for the doll showed her the way by which she could avoid Bába Yagá’s hut.

So one day the harvest season came and the stepmother gave all three maidens their task for the evening: one was to make lace and the other to sew a stocking, and Vasilísa was to spin. Each was to do a certain amount. The mother put all the fires out in the entire house, and left only one candle burning where the maidens were at work, and herself went to sleep. The maidens worked on. The candle burned down, and one of the stepmother’s daughters took the snuffers in order to cut down the wick. But the stepmother had told her to put the light out as though by accident.

“What is to be done now?” they said. “There is no fire in the house and our work is not finished. We must get a light from the Bába Yagá.”

“I can see by the needles,” said the one who was making lace.

“I also am not going,” said the second, “for my knitting needles give me light enough. You must go and get some fire. Go to the Bába Yagá!” And they turned Vasilísa out of the room.

And Vasilísa went to her room, put meat and drink before her doll, and said: “Dolly dear, eat it and listen to my complaint. They are sending me to Bába Yagá for fire, and the Bába Yagá will eat me up.”

Then the Dollet ate, and her eyes glittered like two lamps, and she said: “Fear nothing, Vasilísushka. Do what they say, only take me with you. As long as I am with you Bába Yagá can do you no harm.” Vasilísa put the doll into her pocket, crossed herself, and went tremblingly into the darksome forest.

Suddenly a knight on horseback galloped past her all in white. His cloak was white, and his horse and the reins: and it became light. She went further, and suddenly another horseman passed by, who was all in red, and his horse was red, and his clothes: and the sun rose. Vasilísa went on through the night and the next day. Next evening she came to the mead where Bába Yagá’s hut stood. The fence round the hut consisted of human bones, and on the stakes skeletons glared out of their empty eyes. And, instead of the doorways and the gate, there were feet, and in the stead of bolts there were hands, and instead of the lock there was a mouth with sharp teeth. And Vasilísa was stone-cold with fright.

Suddenly another horseman pranced by on his way. He was all in black, on a jet-black horse, with a jet-black cloak. He sprang to the door and vanished as though the earth had swallowed him up: and it was night. But the darkness did not last long, for the eyes in all the skeletons on the fence glistened, and it became as light as day all over the green.

Vasilísa trembled with fear, but remained standing, for she did not know how she could escape. Suddenly a terrible noise was heard in the forest, and the tree-boughs creaked and the dry leaves crackled. And out of the wood Bába Yagá drove in inside the mortar with the pestle, and with the broom swept away every trace of her steps. At the door she stopped, sniffed all the way round, and cried out:

“Fee, Fo, Fi, Fum, I smell the blood of a Russian mum!

Who is there?”

Vasilísa, shuddering with dread, stepped up to her, bowed low to the ground, and said: “Mother, I am here. My stepmother’s daughters sent me to you to ask for fire.”

“Very well,” said Bába Yagá: “I know them. Stay with me, work for me, and I will give you fire. Otherwise I shall eat you up.”

Then she went to the door, and she cried out: “Ho! my strong bolts, draw back, my strong door, spring open!” And the door sprang open, and Bába Yagá went in whistling and whirring, and Vasilísa followed her.

Then the door closed, and Bába Yagá stretched herself in the room and said to Vasilísa: “Give me whatever there is in the oven. I am hungry.”

So Vasilísa lit a splinter from the skulls on the hedge and fetched Bába Yagá food out of the oven, and there was food enough there for ten men. Out of a cellar she fetched _kvas_, mead, and wine. Bába Yagá ate and drank it all up. But all there was left for Vasilísa was a little of some kind of soup, and a crust of bread, and a snippet of pork.

Bába Yagá lay down to sleep and said: “In the morning, to-morrow, when I go away you must clean the courtyard, brush out the room, get dinner ready, do the washing, go to the field, get a quarter of oats, sift it all out, and see that it is all done before I come home. Otherwise I will eat you up.”

And, as soon as ever she had given all the orders, she began snoring.

Vasilísa put the rest of the dinner in front of the doll and said: “Dollet, eat it up and listen to my woe. Heavy are the tasks which the Bába Yagá has given me, and she threatens to eat me up if I don’t carry them all out. Help me!”

“Have no fear, Vasilísa, thou fair maiden. Eat, pray, and lie down to sleep, for the morning is wiser than the evening.”

Very early next day Vasilísa woke up. Bába Yagá was already up and was looking out of the window. The glimmer in the eyes of the skulls had dimmed; the white horseman raced by: and it dawned. Bába Yagá went into the courtyard, and whistled, and the mortar, the pestle, and the besom appeared at once, and the red horseman came by: and the sun rose. Bába Yagá sat in the mortar and went by, thrusting the mortar with the pestle, and with the besom she removed every trace of her steps.

Vasilísa, left all by herself, looked over the house of the Bába Yagá, wondered at all the wealth gathered in, and began to consider what she should start with. But all the work was already done, and the doll had sifted out the very last of the ears of oats.

“Oh, my saviour!” said Vasilísa. “You have helped me in my great need.”

“You now have only to get dinner ready,” the doll answered, and clambered back into Vasilísa’s pocket. “With God’s help get it ready, and stay here quietly waiting.”

In the evening Vasilísa laid the cloth and waited for Bába Yagá. The gloaming came, and the black horseman reached by: and it at once became dark, but the eyes in the skulls glowed. The trees shuddered, the leaves crackled, Bába Yagá drove in, and Vasilísa met her.

“Is it all done?” Bába Yagá asked.

“Yes, grandmother: look!” said Vasilísa.

Bába Yagá looked round everywhere, and was rather angry that she had nothing to find fault with and said: “Very well.” Then she cried out: “Ye my faithful servants, friends of my heart! Store up my oats.” Then three pairs of hands appeared, seized the oats and carried them off.

Bába Yagá had her supper, and, before she went to sleep, once more commanded Vasilísa: “To-morrow do the same as you did to-day, but also take the hay which is lying on my field, clean it from every trace of soil, every single ear. Somebody has, out of spite, mixed earth with it.”

And, as soon as she had said it, she turned round to the wall and was snoring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The bright day.”

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

“The red sun.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“By my mother’s blessing!”