Chapter II · (continued 2)

One of the strangest of the stories which turn on this idea of an external heart is the Samoyed tale,[135] in which seven brothers are in the habit, every night, of taking out their hearts and sleeping without them. A captive damsel whose mother they have killed, receives the extracted hearts and hangs them on the tent-pole, where they remain till the following morning. One night her brother contrives to get the hearts into his possession. Next morning he takes them into the tent, where he finds the brothers at the point of death. In vain do they beg for their hearts, which he flings on the floor. “And as he flings down the hearts the brothers die.”

The legend to which I am now about to refer will serve as a proof of the venerable antiquity of the myth from which the folk-tales, which have just been quoted, appear to have sprung. A papyrus, which is supposed to be “of the age of the nineteenth dynasty, about B.C. 1300,” has preserved an Egyptian tale about two brothers. The younger of these, Satou, leaves the elder, Anepou (Anubis) and retires to the Valley of the Acacia. But, before setting off, Satou states that he shall take his heart and place it “in the flowers of the acacia-tree,” so that, if the tree is cut down, his heart will fall to the ground and he will die. Having given Anepou instructions what to do in such a case, he seeks the valley. There he hunts wild animals by day, and at night he sleeps under the acacia-tree on which his heart rests. But at length Noum, the Creator, forms a wife for him, and all the other gods endow her with gifts. To this Egyptian Pandora Satou confides the secret of his heart. One day a tress of her perfumed hair floats down the river, and is taken to the King of Egypt. He determines to make its owner his queen, and she, like Rhodope or Cinderella, is sought for far and wide. When she has been found and brought to the king, she recommends him to have the acacia cut down, so as to get rid of her lawful husband. Accordingly the tree is cut down, the heart falls, and Satou dies.

About this time Anepou sets out to pay his long-lost brother a visit. Finding him dead, he searches for his heart, but searches in vain for three years. In the fourth year, however, it suddenly becomes desirous of returning to Egypt, and says, “I will leave this celestial sphere.” Next day Anepou finds it under the acacia, and places it in a vase which contains some mystic fluid. When the heart has become saturated with the moisture, the corpse shudders and opens its eyes. Anepou pours the rest of the fluid down its throat, the heart returns to its proper place, and Satou is restored to life.[136]

In one of the Skazkas, a volshebnitsa or enchantress is introduced, whose “death,” like that of Koshchei, is spoken of as something definite and localized. A prince has loved and lost a princess, who is so beautiful that no man can look at her without fainting. Going in search of her, he comes to the home of an enchantress, who invites him to tea and gives him leave to inspect her house. As he wanders about he comes to a cellar in which “he sees that beautiful one whom he loves, in fire.” She tells him her love for him has brought her there; and he learns that there is no hope of freeing her unless he can find out “where lies the death of the enchantress.” So that evening he asks his hostess about it, and she replies:

“In a certain lake stands a blue rose-tree. It is in a deep place, and no man can reach unto it. My death is there.”

He sets out in search of it, and, aided by a magic ring, reaches the lake, “and sees there the blue rose-tree, and around it a blue forest.” After several failures, he succeeds in plucking up the rose-tree by the roots, whereupon the enchantress straightway sickens. He returns to her house, finds her at the point of death, and throws the rose-bush into the cellar where his love is crying, “Behold her death!” and immediately the whole building shakes to its foundations—“and becomes an island, on which are people who had been sitting in Hell, and who offer up thanks to Prince Ivan.”[137]

In another Russian story,[138] a prince is grievously tormented by a witch who has got hold of his heart, and keeps it perpetually seething in a magic cauldron. In a third,[139] a “Queen-Maiden” falls in love with the young Ivan, and, after being betrothed to him, would fain take him away to her own land and marry him. But his stepmother throws him into a magic slumber, and the Queen-Maiden has to return home without him. When he awakes, and learns that she has gone, he sorrows greatly, and sets out in search of her. At last he learns from a friendly witch that his betrothed no longer cares for him, “her love is hidden far away.” It seems “that on the other side of the ocean stands an oak, and on the oak a coffer, and in the coffer a hare, and in the hare a duck, and in the duck an egg, and in the egg the love of the Queen-Maiden.” Ivan gets possession of the egg, and the friendly witch contrives to have it placed before the Queen-Maiden at dinner. She eats it, and immediately her love for Ivan returns in all its pristine force. He appears, and she, overjoyed, carries him off to her own land and there marries him.

After this digression we will now return to our Snakes. All the monstrous forms which figure in the stories we have just been considering appear to be merely different species of the great serpent family. Such names as Koshchei, Chudo Yudo, Usuinya, and the like, seem to admit of exchange at the will of the story-teller with that of Zméï Goruinuich, the many-headed Snake, who in Russian storyland is represented as the type of all that is evil. But in the actual Russia of to-day, snakes bear by no means so bad a character. Their presence in a cottage is considered a good omen by the peasants, who leave out milk for them to drink, and who think that to kill such visitors would be a terrible sin.[140] This is probably a result of some remembrance of a religious cultus paid to the household gods under the form of snakes, such as existed of old, according to Kromer, in Poland and Lithuania. The following story is more in keeping with such ideas as these, than with those which are expressed in the tales about Koshchei and his kin.

The Water Snake.[141]

There was once an old woman who had a daughter; and her daughter went down to the pond one day to bathe with the other girls. They all stripped off their shifts, and went into the water. Then there came a snake out of the water, and glided on to the daughter’s shift. After a time the girls all came out, and began to put on their shifts, and the old woman’s daughter wanted to put on hers, but there was the snake lying on it. She tried to drive him away, but there he stuck and would not move. Then the snake said:

“If you’ll marry me, I’ll give you back your shift.”

Now she wasn’t at all inclined to marry him, but the other girls said:

“As if it were possible for you to be married to him! Say you will!” So she said, “Very well, I will.” Then the snake glided off from the shift, and went straight into the water. The girl dressed and went home. And as soon as she got there, she said to her mother,

“Mammie, mammie, thus and thus, a snake got upon my shift, and says he, ‘Marry me or I won’t let you have your shift;’ and I said, ‘I will.’”

“What nonsense are you talking, you little fool! as if one could marry a snake!”

And so they remained just as they were, and forgot all about the matter.

A week passed by, and one day they saw ever so many snakes, a huge troop of them, wriggling up to their cottage. “Ah, mammie, save me, save me!” cried the girl, and her mother slammed the door and barred the entrance as quickly as possible. The snakes would have rushed in at the door, but the door was shut; they would have rushed into the passage, but the passage was closed. Then in a moment they rolled themselves into a ball, flung themselves at the window, smashed it to pieces, and glided in a body into the room. The girl got upon the stove, but they followed her, pulled her down, and bore her out of the room and out of doors. Her mother accompanied her, crying like anything.

They took the girl down to the pond, and dived right into the water with her. And there they all turned into men and women. The mother remained for some time on the dike, wailed a little, and then went home.

Three years went by. The girl lived down there, and had two children, a son and a daughter. Now she often entreated her husband to let her go to see her mother. So at last one day he took her up to the surface of the water, and brought her ashore. But she asked him before leaving him,

“What am I to call out when I want you?”

“Call out to me, ‘Osip, [Joseph] Osip, come here!’ and I will come,” he replied.

Then he dived under water again, and she went to her mother’s, carrying her little girl on one arm, and leading her boy by the hand. Out came her mother to meet her—was so delighted to see her!

“Good day, mother!” said the daughter.

“Have you been doing well while you were living down there?” asked her mother.

“Very well indeed, mother. My life there is better than yours here.”

They sat down for a bit and chatted. Her mother got dinner ready for her, and she dined.

“What’s your husband’s name?” asked her mother.

“Osip,” she replied.

“And how are you to get home?”

“I shall go to the dike, and call out, ‘Osip, Osip, come here!’ and he’ll come.”

“Lie down, daughter, and rest a bit,” said the mother.

So the daughter lay down and went to sleep. The mother immediately took an axe and sharpened it, and went down to the dike with it. And when she came to the dike, she began calling out,

“Osip, Osip, come here!”

No sooner had Osip shown his head than the old woman lifted her axe and chopped it off. And the water in the pond became dark with blood.

The old woman went home. And when she got home her daughter awoke.

“Ah! mother,” says she, “I’m getting tired of being here; I’ll go home.”

“Do sleep here to-night, daughter; perhaps you won’t have another chance of being with me.”

So the daughter stayed and spent the night there. In the morning she got up and her mother got breakfast ready for her; she breakfasted, and then she said good-bye to her mother and went away, carrying her little girl in her arms, while her boy followed behind her. She came to the dike, and called out:

“Osip, Osip, come here!”

She called and called, but he did not come.

Then she looked into the water, and there she saw a head floating about. Then she guessed what had happened.

“Alas! my mother has killed him!” she cried.

There on the bank she wept and wailed. And then to her girl she cried:

“Fly about as a wren, henceforth and evermore!”

And to her boy she cried:

“Fly about as a nightingale, my boy, henceforth and evermore!”

“But I,” she said, “will fly about as a cuckoo, crying ‘Cuckoo!’ henceforth and evermore!”

[Stories about serpent-spouses are by no means uncommon, but I can find no parallel to the above so far as the termination is concerned. Benfey quotes or refers to a great number of the transformation tales in which a husband or a wife appears at times in the form of a snake (Panchatantra, i. pp. 254-7 266-7). Sometimes, when a husband of this kind has doffed his serpent’s skin, his wife seizes it, and throws it into the fire. Her act generally proves to be to her advantage, as well as to his, but not always. On a story of this kind was doubtless founded the legend handed down to us by Appuleius of Cupid and Psyche. Among its wildest versions are the Albanian “Schlangenkind” (Hahn, No. 100), a very similar Roumanian tale (Ausland 1857, No. 43, quoted by Benfey), the Wallachian Trandafíru (Schott, No. 23, in which the husband is a pumpkin (Kürbiss) by day), and the second of the Servian tales of the Snake-Husband (Vuk Karajich, No. 10).]

The snakes which figure in this weird story, the termination of which is so unusually tragic, bear a strong resemblance to the Indian Nágas, the inhabitants of Patala or the underground world, serpents which take at will the human shape and often mix with mortals. They may, also, be related to the mermen and mermaids of the sea-coasts, and to the similar beings with which, under various names, tradition peoples the lakes, and streams, and fountains of Europe. The South-Russian peasantry have from immemorial times maintained a firm belief in the existence of water-nymphs, called Rusalkas, closely resembling the Nereids of Modern Greece, the female Nixies of the North of Europe, and throughout the whole of Russia, at least in outlying districts, there still lingers a sort of cultus of certain male water-sprites who bear the name of Vodyanies, and who are almost identical with the beings who haunt the waters of various countries—such as the German Nix, the Swedish Nek, the Finnish Näkke, etc.[142]

In the Skazkas we find frequent mention of beauteous maidens who usually live beneath the wave, but who can transform themselves into birds and fly wherever they please. We may perhaps be allowed to designate them by the well-known name of Swan-Maidens, though they do not always assume, together with their plumage-robes, the form of swans, but sometimes appear as geese, ducks, spoonbills, or aquatic birds of some other species. They are, for the most part, the daughters of the Morskoi Tsar, or Water King—a being who plays an important part in Slavonic popular fiction. He is of a somewhat shadowy form, and his functions are not very clearly defined, for the part he usually fills is sometimes allotted to Koshchei or to the Snake, but the stories generally represent him as a patriarchal monarch, living in subaqueous halls of light and splendor, whence he emerges at times to seize a human victim. It is generally a boy whom he gets into his power, and who eventually obtains the hand of one of his daughters, and escapes with her to the upper world, though not without considerable difficulty. Such are, for instance, the leading incidents in the following skazka, many features of which closely resemble those of various well-known West-European folk-tales.

The Water King and Vasilissa the Wise.[143]

Once upon a time there lived a King and Queen, and the King was very fond of hunting and shooting. Well one day he went out hunting, and he saw an Eaglet sitting on an oak. But just as he was going to shoot at it the Eaglet began to entreat him, crying:—

“Don’t shoot me, my lord King! better take me home with you; some time or other I shall be of service to you.”

The King reflected awhile and said, “How can you be of use to me?” and again he was going to shoot.

Then the Eaglet said to him a second time:—

“Don’t shoot me, my lord King! better take me home with you; some time or other I shall be of use to you.”

The King thought and thought, but couldn’t imagine a bit the more what use the Eaglet could be to him, and so he determined to shoot it. Then a third time the Eaglet exclaimed:—

“Don’t shoot me, my lord King! better take me home with you and feed me for three years. Some time or other I shall be of service to you!”

The King relented, took the Eaglet home with him, and fed it for a year, for two years. But it ate so much that it devoured all his cattle. The King had neither a cow nor a sheep left. At length the Eagle said:—

“Now let me go free!”

The King set it at liberty; the Eagle began trying its wings. But no, it could not fly yet! So it said:—

“Well, my lord King! you have fed me two years; now, whether you like it or no, feed me for one year more. Even if you have to borrow, at all events feed me; you won’t lose by it!”

Well, this is what the King did. He borrowed cattle from everywhere round about, and he fed the Eagle for the space of a whole year, and afterwards he set it at liberty. The Eagle rose ever so high, flew and flew, then dropt down again to the earth and said:—

“Now then, my lord King! Take a seat on my back! we’ll have a fly together?”

The King got on the Eagle’s back. Away they went flying. Before very long they reached the blue sea. Then the Eagle shook off the King, who fell into the sea, and sank up to his knees. But the Eagle didn’t let him drown! it jerked him on to its wing, and asked:—

“How now, my lord King! were you frightened, perchance?”

“I was,” said the King; “I thought I was going to be drowned outright!”

Again they flew and flew till they reached another sea. The Eagle shook off the King right in the middle of the sea; the King sank up to his girdle. The Eagle jerked him on to its wing again, and asked:—

“Well, my lord King, were you frightened, perchance?”

“I was,” he replied, “but all the time I thought, ‘Perhaps, please God, the creature will pull me out.’”

Away they flew again, flew, and arrived at a third sea. The Eagle dropped the King into a great gulf, so that he sank right up to his neck. And the third time the Eagle jerked him on to its wing, and asked:—

“Well, my lord King! Were you frightened, perchance?”

“I was,” says the King, “but still I said to myself, ‘Perhaps it will pull me out.’”

“Well, my lord King! now you have felt what the fear of death is like! What I have done was in payment of an old score. Do you remember my sitting on an oak, and your wanting to shoot me? Three times you were going to let fly, but I kept on entreating you not to shoot, saying to myself all the time, ‘Perhaps he won’t kill me; perhaps he’ll relent and take me home with him!’”

Afterwards they flew beyond thrice nine lands: long, long did they fly. Says the Eagle, “Look, my lord King! what is above us and what below us?”

The King looked.

“Above us,” he says, “is the sky, below us the earth.”

“Look again; what is on the right hand and on the left?”

“On the right hand is an open plain, on the left stands a house.”

“We will fly thither,” said the Eagle; “my youngest sister lives there.”

They went straight into the courtyard. The sister came out to meet them, received her brother cordially, and seated him at the oaken table. But on the King she would not so much as look, but left him outside, loosed greyhounds, and set them at him. The Eagle was exceedingly wroth, jumped up from table, seized the King, and flew away with him again.

Well, they flew and flew. Presently the Eagle said to the King, “Look round; what is behind us?”

The King turned his head, looked, and said, “Behind us is a red house.”

“That is the house of my youngest sister—on fire, because she did not receive you, but set greyhounds at you.”

They flew and flew. Again the Eagle asked:

“Look again, my lord King; what is above us, and what below us?”

“Above us is the sky, below us the earth.”

“Look and see what is on the right hand and on the left.”

“On the right is the open plain, on the left there stands a house.”

“There lives my second sister; we’ll go and pay her a visit.”

They stopped in a wide courtyard. The second sister received her brother cordially, and seated him at the oaken table; but the King was left outside, and she loosed greyhounds, and set them at him. The Eagle flew into a rage, jumped up from table, caught up the King, and flew away farther with him. They flew and flew. Says the Eagle:

“My lord King! look round! what is behind us?”

The King looked back.

“There stands behind us a red house.”

“That’s my second sister’s house burning!” said the Eagle. “Now we’ll fly to where my mother and my eldest sister live.”

Well, they flew there. The Eagle’s mother and eldest sister were delighted to see them, and received the King with cordiality and respect.

“Now, my lord King,” said the Eagle, “tarry awhile with us, and afterwards I will give you a ship, and will repay you for all I ate in your house, and then—God speed you home again!”

So the Eagle gave the King a ship and two coffers—the one red, the other green—and said:

“Mind now! don’t open the coffers until you get home. Then open the red coffer in the back court, and the green coffer in the front court.”

The King took the coffers, parted with the Eagle, and sailed along the blue sea. Presently he came to a certain island, and there his ship stopped. He landed on the shore, and began thinking about the coffers, and wondering whatever there could be in them, and why the Eagle had told him not to open them. He thought and thought, and at last couldn’t hold out any more—he longed so awfully to know all about it. So he took the red coffer, set it on the ground, and opened it—and out of it came such a quantity of different kinds of cattle that there was no counting them: the island had barely room enough for them.

When the King saw that, he became exceedingly sorrowful, and began to weep and therewithal to say:

“What is there now left for me to do? how shall I get all this cattle back into so little a coffer?”

Lo! there came out of the water a man—came up to him, and asked:

“Wherefore are you weeping so bitterly, O lord King?”

“How can I help weeping!” answers the King. “How shall I be able to get all this great herd into so small a coffer?”

“If you like, I will set your mind at rest. I will pack up all your cattle for you. But on one condition only. You must give me whatever you have at home that you don’t know of.”

The King reflected.

“Whatever is there at home that I don’t know of?” says he. “I fancy I know about everything that’s there.”

He reflected, and consented. “Pack them up,” says he. “I will give you whatever I have at home that I know nothing about.”

So that man packed away all his cattle for him in the coffer. The King went on board ship and sailed away homewards.

When he reached home, then only did he learn that a son had been born to him. And he began kissing the child, caressing it, and at the same time bursting into such floods of tears!

“My lord King!” says the Queen, “tell me wherefore thou droppest bitter tears?”

“For joy!” he replies.

He was afraid to tell her the truth, that the Prince would have to be given up. Afterwards he went into the back court, opened the red coffer, and thence issued oxen and cows, sheep and rams; there were multitudes of all sorts of cattle, so that all the sheds and pastures were crammed full. He went into the front court, opened the green coffer, and there appeared a great and glorious garden. What trees there were in it to be sure! The King was so delighted that he forgot all about giving up his son.

Many years went by. One day the King took it into his head to go for a stroll, and he came to a river. At that moment the same man he had seen before came out of the water, and said:

“You’ve pretty soon become forgetful, lord King! Think a little! surely you’re in my debt!”

The King returned home full of grief, and told all the truth to the Queen and the Prince. They all mourned and wept together, but they decided that there was no help for it, the Prince must be given up. So they took him to the mouth of the river and there they left him alone.

The Prince looked around, saw a footpath, and followed trusting God would lead him somewhere. He walked and walked, and came to a dense forest: in the forest stood a hut, in the hut lived a Baba Yaga.

“Suppose I go in,” thought the Prince, and went in.

“Good day, Prince!” said the Baba Yaga. “Are you seeking work or shunning work?”

“Eh, granny! First give me to eat and to drink, and then ask me questions.”

So she gave him food and drink, and the Prince told her everything as to whither he was going and with what purpose.

Then the Baba Yaga said: “Go, my child, to the sea-shore; there will fly thither twelve spoonbills, which will turn into fair maidens, and begin bathing; do you steal quietly up and lay your hands on the eldest maiden’s shift. When you have come to terms with her, go to the Water King, and there will meet you on the way Obédalo and Opivalo, and also Moroz Treskum[144]—take all of them with you; they will do you good service.”

The Prince bid the Yaga farewell, went to the appointed spot on the sea-shore, and hid behind the bushes. Presently twelve spoonbills came flying thither, struck the moist earth, turned into fair maidens, and began to bathe. The Prince stole the eldest one’s shift, and sat down behind a bush—didn’t budge an inch. The girls finished bathing and came out on the shore: eleven of them put on their shifts, turned into birds, and flew away home. There remained only the eldest, Vasilissa the Wise. She began praying and begging the good youth:

“Do give me my shift!” she says. “You are on your way to the house of my father, the Water King. When you come I will do you good service.”

So the Prince gave her back her shift, and she immediately turned into a spoonbill and flew away after her companions. The Prince went further on; there met him by the way three heroes—Obédalo, Opivalo, and Moroz Treskum; he took them with him and went on to the Water King’s.

The Water King saw him, and said:

“Hail, friend! why have you been so long in coming to me? I have grown weary of waiting for you. Now set to work. Here is your first task. Build me in one night a great crystal bridge, so that it shall be ready for use to-morrow. If you don’t build it—off goes your head!”

The Prince went away from the Water King, and burst into a flood of tears. Vasilissa the Wise opened the window of her upper chamber, and asked:

“What are you crying about, Prince?”

“Ah! Vasilissa the Wise! how can I help crying? Your father has ordered me to build a crystal bridge in a single night, and I don’t even know how to handle an axe.”

“No matter! lie down and sleep; the morning is wiser than the evening.”

She ordered him to sleep, but she herself went out on the steps, and called aloud with a mighty whistling cry. Then from all sides there ran together carpenters and workmen; one levelled the ground, another carried bricks. Soon had they built a crystal bridge, and traced cunning devices on it; and then they dispersed to their homes.

Early next morning Vasilissa the Wise awoke the Prince:

“Get up, Prince! the bridge is ready: my father will be coming to inspect it directly.”

Up jumped the Prince, seized a broom, took his place on the bridge, and began sweeping here, clearing up there.

The Water King bestowed praise upon him:

“Thanks!” says he. “You’ve done me one service: now do another. Here is your task. Plant me by to-morrow a garden green—a big and shady one; and there must be birds singing in the garden, and flowers blossoming on the trees, and ripe apples and pears hanging from the boughs.”

Away went the Prince from the Water King, all dissolved in tears. Vasilissa the Wise opened her window and asked:

“What are you crying for, Prince?”

“How can I help crying? Your father has ordered me to plant a garden in one night!”

“That’s nothing! lie down and sleep: the morning is wiser than the evening.”

She made him go to sleep, but she herself went out on the steps, called and whistled with a mighty whistle. From every side there ran together gardeners of all sorts, and they planted a garden green, and in the garden birds sang, on the trees flowers blossomed, from the boughs hung ripe apples and pears.

Early in the morning Vasilissa the Wise awoke the Prince:

“Get up, Prince! the garden is ready: Papa is coming to see it.”

The Prince immediately snatched up a broom, and was off to the garden. Here he swept a path, there he trained a twig. The Water King praised him and said:

“Thanks, Prince! You’ve done me right trusty service. So choose yourself a bride from among my twelve daughters. They are all exactly alike in face, in hair, and in dress. If you can pick out the same one three times running, she shall be your wife; if you fail to do so, I shall have you put to death.”

Vasilissa the Wise knew all about that, so she found time to say to the Prince:

“The first time I will wave my handkerchief, the second I will be arranging my dress, the third time you will see a fly above my head.”

And so the Prince guessed which was Vasilissa the Wise three times running. And he and she were married, and a wedding feast was got ready.

Now the Water King had prepared much food of all sorts more than a hundred men could get through. And he ordered his son-in-law to see that everything was eaten. “If anything remains over, the worse for you!” says he.

“My Father,” begs the Prince, “there’s an old fellow of mine here; please let him take a snack with us.”

“Let him come!”

Immediately appeared Obédalo—ate up everything, and wasn’t content then! The Water King next set out two score tubs of all kinds of strong drinks, and ordered his son-in-law to see that they were all drained dry.

“My Father!” begs the Prince again, “there’s another old man of mine here, let him, too, drink your health.”

“Let him come!”

Opivalo appeared, emptied all the forty tubs in a twinkling, and then asked for a drop more by way of stirrup-cup.[145]

The Water King saw that there was nothing to be gained that way, so he gave orders to prepare a bath-room for the young couple—an iron bath-room—and to heat it as hot as possible. So the iron bath-room was made hot. Twelve loads of firewood were set alight, and the stove and the walls were made red-hot—impossible to come within five versts of it.

“My Father!” says the Prince; “let an old fellow of ours have a scrub first, just to try the bath-room.”

“Let him do so!”

Moroz Treskum went into the bath room, blew into one corner, blew in another—in a moment icicles were hanging there. After him the young couple also went into the bath-room, were lathered and scrubbed,[146] and then went home.

After a time Vasilissa said to the Prince, “Let us get out of my father’s power. He’s tremendously angry with you; perhaps he’ll be doing you some hurt.”

“Let us go,” says the Prince.

Straightway they saddled their horses and galloped off into the open plain. They rode and rode; many an hour went by.

“Jump down from your horse, Prince, and lay your ear close to the earth,” said Vasilissa. “Cannot you hear a sound as of pursuers?”

The prince bent his ear to the ground, but he could hear nothing. Then Vasilissa herself lighted down from her good steed, laid herself flat on the earth, and said: “Ah Prince! I hear a great noise as of chasing after us.” Then she turned the horses into a well, and herself into a bowl, and the Prince into an old, very old man. Up came the pursuers.

“Heigh, old man!” say they, “haven’t you seen a youth and a maiden pass by?”

“I saw them, my friends! only it was a long while ago. I was a youngster at the time when they rode by.”

The pursuers returned to the Water King.

“There is no trace of them,” they said, “no news: all we saw was an old man beside a well, and a bowl floating on the water.”

“Why did not ye seize them?” cried the Water King, who thereupon put the pursuers to a cruel death, and sent another troop after the Prince and Vasilissa the Wise.

The fugitives in the mean time had ridden far, far away. Vasilissa the Wise heard the noise made by the fresh set of pursuers, so she turned the Prince into an old priest, and she herself became an ancient church. Scarcely did its walls hold together, covered all over with moss. Presently up came the pursuers.

“Heigh, old man! haven’t you seen a youth and a maiden pass by?”

“I saw them, my own! only it was long, ever so long ago. I was a young man when they rode by. It was just while I was building this church.”

So the second set of pursuers returned to the Water King, saying:

“There is neither trace nor news of them, your Royal Majesty. All that we saw was an old priest and an ancient church.”

“Why did not ye seize them?” cried the Water King louder than before, and having put the pursuers to a cruel death, he galloped off himself in pursuit of the Prince and Vasilissa the Wise. This time Vasilissa turned the horses into a river of honey with kissel[147] banks, and changed the Prince into a Drake and herself into a grey duck. The Water King flung himself on the kissel and honey-water, and ate and ate, and drank and drank until he burst! And so he gave up the ghost.

The Prince and Vasilissa rode on, and at length they drew nigh to the home of the Prince’s parents. Then said Vasilissa,

“Go on in front, Prince, and report your arrival to your father and mother. But I will wait for you here by the wayside. Only remember these words of mine: kiss everyone else, only don’t kiss your sister; if you do, you will forget me.”

The Prince reached home, began saluting every one, kissed his sister too—and no sooner had he kissed her than from that very moment he forgot all about his wife, just as if she had never entered into his mind.

Three days did Vasilissa the Wise await him. On the fourth day she clad herself like a beggar, went into the capital, and took up her quarters in an old woman’s house. But the Prince was preparing to marry a rich Princess, and orders were given to proclaim throughout the kingdom, that all Christian people were to come to congratulate the bride and bridegroom, each one bringing a wheaten pie as a present. Well, the old woman with whom Vasilissa lodged, prepared, like everyone else, to sift flour and make a pie.

“Why are you making a pie, granny?” asked Vasilissa.

“Is it why? you evidently don’t know then. Our King is giving his son in marriage to a rich princess: one must go to the palace to serve up the dinner to the young couple.”

“Come now! I, too, will bake a pie and take it to the palace; may be the King will make me some present.”

“Bake away in God’s name!” said the old woman.

Vasilissa took flour, kneaded dough, and made a pie. And inside it she put some curds and a pair of live doves.

Well, the old woman and Vasilissa the Wise reached the palace just at dinner-time. There a feast was in progress, one fit for all the world to see. Vasilissa’s pie was set on the table, but no sooner was it cut in two than out of it flew the two doves. The hen bird seized a piece of curd, and her mate said to her:

“Give me some curds, too, Dovey!”

“No I won’t,” replied the other dove: “else you’d forget me, as the Prince has forgotten his Vasilissa the Wise.”

Then the Prince remembered about his wife. He jumped up from table, caught her by her white hands, and seated her close by his side. From that time forward they lived together in all happiness and prosperity.

[With this story may be compared a multitude of tales in very many languages. In German for instance, “Der König vom goldenen Berg,” (Grimm, KM. No. 92. See also Nos. 51, 56, 113, 181, and the opening of No. 31), “Der Königssohn und die Teufelstochter,” (Haltrich, No. 26), and “Grünus Kravalle” (Wolf’s “Deutsche Hausmärchen,” No. 29)—the Norse “Mastermaid,” (Asbjörnsen and Moe, No. 46, Dasent, No. 11) and “The Three Princesses of Whiteland,” (A. and M. No. 9, Dasent, No. 26)—the Lithuanian story (Schleicher, No. 26, p. 75) in which a “field-devil” exacts from a farmer the promise of a child—the Wallachian stories (Schott, Nos. 2 and 15) in which a devil obtains a like promise from a woodcutter and a fisherman—the Modern Greek (Hahn, Nos. 4, 5, 54, and 68) in which a child is promised to a Dervish, a Drakos, the Devil, and a Demon—and the Gaelic tales of “The Battle of the Birds” and “The Sea-maiden,” (Campbell, Nos. 2 and 4) in the former of which the child is promised to a Giant, in the latter to a Mermaid. The likeness between the Russian story and the “Battle of the Birds” is very striking. References to a great many other similar tales will be found in Grimm (KM. iii. pp. 96-7, and 168-9). The group to which all these stories belong is linked with a set of tales about a father who apprentices his son to a wizard, sometimes to the Devil, from whom the youth escapes with great difficulty. The principal Russian representative of the second set is called “Eerie Art,” “Khitraya Nauka,” (Afanasief, v. No. 22, vi. No. 45, viii. p. 339).

To the hero’s adventures while with the Water King, and while escaping from him, an important parallel is offered by the end of the already mentioned (at p. 92) Indian story of Sringabhuja. That prince asks Agnisikha, the Rákshasa whom, in his crane-form, he has wounded, to bestow upon him the hand of his daughter—the maiden who had met him on his arrival at the Rákshasa’s palace. The demon pretends to consent, but only on condition that the prince is able to pick out his love from among her numerous sisters. This Sringabhuja is able to do in spite of all the demon’s daughters being exactly alike, as she has told him beforehand she will wear her pearls on her brow instead of round her neck. Her father will not remark the change, she says, for being of the demon race, he is not very sharp witted. The Rákshasa next sets the prince two of the usual tasks. He is to plough a great field, and sow a hundred bushels of corn. When this, by the daughter’s help, is done, he is told to gather up the seed again. This also the demon’s daughter does for him, sending to his aid a countless swarm of ants. Lastly he is commanded to visit the demon’s brother and invite him to the wedding. He does so, and is pursued by the invited guest, from whom he escapes only by throwing behind him earth, water, thorns, and lastly fire, with all of which he has been provided by his love. They produce corresponding obstacles which enable him to get away from the uncle of his bride. The demon now believes that his proposed son-in-law must be a god in disguise, so he gives his consent to the marriage. All goes well for a time, but at last the prince wants to go home, so he and his wife fly from her father’s palace. Agnisikha pursues them. She makes her husband invisible, while she assumes the form of a woodman. Up comes her angry sire, and asks for news of the fugitives. She replies she has seen none, her eyes being full of tears caused by the death of the Rákshasa prince Agnisikha. The slow-witted demon immediately flies home to find out whether he is really dead. Discovering that he is not, he renews the pursuit. Again his daughter renders her husband invisible, and assumes the form of a messenger carrying a letter. When her father arrives and repeats his question, she says she has seen no one: she is going with a letter to his brother from Agnisikha, who has just been mortally wounded. Back again home flies the demon in great distress, anxious to find out whether he has really been wounded to death or not. After settling this question, he leaves his daughter and her husband in peace. See Professor Brockhaus in the “Berichte der phil. hist. Classe der K. Sächs. Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften,” 1861, pp. 226-9, and Professor Wilson, “Essays, &c.,” ii. p. 136-8. Cf. R. Köhler in “Orient und Occident,” ii. pp. 107-14.]

In another story a king is out hunting and becomes thirsty. Seeing a spring near at hand, he bends down and is just going to lap up its water, when the Tsar-Medvéd, a King-Bear, seizes him by the beard. The king is unable to free himself from his grasp, and is obliged to promise as his ransom “that which he knows not of at home,” which turns out to be a couple of children—a boy and a girl—who have been born during his absence. In vain does he attempt to save the twins from their impending fate, by concealing them in a secret abode constructed for that purpose underground. In the course of time the King-Bear arrives to claim them, finds out their hiding-place, digs them up, and carries them off on his back to a distant region where no man lives. During his absence they attempt to escape being carried through the air on the back of a friendly falcon, but the King-Bear sees them, “strikes his head against the earth, and burns the falcon’s wings.” The twins fall to the ground, and are carried by the King-Bear to his home amid inaccessible mountains. There they make a second attempt at escape, trusting this time to an eagle’s aid; but it meets with exactly the same fate as their first trial. At last they are rescued by a bull-calf, which succeeds in baffling all the King-Bear’s efforts to recover them. At the end of their perilous journey the bull-calf tells the young prince to cut its throat, and burn its carcase. He unwillingly consents, and from its ashes spring a horse, a dog, and an apple-tree, all of which play important parts in the next act of the drama.[148]

In one of the variants of the Water King story,[149] the seizer of the drinking kings’ beard is not called the Morskoi Tsar but Chudo Morskoe, a Water Chudo, whose name recalls to mind the Chudo Yudo we have already met with.[150] The Prince who is obliged, in consequence of his father’s promise, to surrender himself to the Water Giant, falls in love with a maiden whom he finds in that potentate’s palace, and who is an enchantress whom the Chudo has stolen. She turns herself into a ring, which he carries about with him, and eventually, after his escape from the Chudo, she becomes his bride.

In another story,[151] the being who obtains a child from one of the incautious fathers of the Jephthah type who abound in popular fiction, is of a very singular nature. A merchant is flying across a river on the back of an eagle, when he drops a magic “snuff-box,” which had been entrusted to his charge by that bird, and it disappears beneath the waters. At the eagle’s command, the crayfish search for it, and bring back word that it is lying “on the knees of an Idol.” The eagle summons the Idol, and demands the snuff box. Thereupon the Idol says to the merchant—“Give me what you do not know of at home?” The merchant agrees and the Idol gives him back his snuff-box.

In some of the variants of the story, the influence of ideas connected with Christianity makes itself apparent in the names given to the actors. Thus in the “Moujik and Anastasia Adovna,”[152] it is no longer a king of the waters, but a devil’s imp,[153] who bargains with the thirsting father for his child, and the swan-maiden whose shift the devoted youth steals bears the name of Adovna, the daughter of Ad or Hades. In “The Youth,”[154] a moujik, who has lost his way in a forest makes the rash promise to a man who enables him to cross a great river; “and that man (says the story) was a devil.”[155] We shall meet with other instances further on of parents whose “hasty words” condemn their children to captivity among evil spirits. In one of the stories of this class,[156] the father is a hunter who is perishing with cold one night, and who makes the usual promise as the condition of his being allowed to warm himself at a fire guarded by a devil. Being in consequence of this deprived of a son, he becomes very sad, and drinks himself to death. “The priest will not bury his sinful body, so it is thrust into a hole at a crossway,” and he falls into the power of “that very same devil,” who turns him into a horse, and uses him as a beast of burden. At last he is released by his son, who has forced the devil to free him after several adventures—one of them being a fight with the evil spirit in the shape of a three-headed snake.

In the Hindoo story of “Brave Seventee Bai,”[157] that heroine kills “a very large Cobra” which comes out of a lake. Touching the waters with a magic diamond taken from the snake, she sees them roll back “in a wall on either hand,” between which she passes into a splendid garden. In it she finds a lovely girl who proves to be the Cobra’s daughter and who is delighted to hear of her serpent-father’s death.

Demon haunted waters, which prove fatal to mortals who bathe in or drink of them, often occur in oriental fiction. In one of the Indian stories, for instance,[158] a king is induced to order his escort to bathe in a lake which is the abode of a Rákshasa or demon. They leap into the water simultaneously, and are all devoured by the terrible man-eater. From the assaults of such a Rákshasa as this it was that Buddha, who was at the time a monkey, preserved himself and 80,000 of his brother monkeys, by suggesting that they should drink from the tank in which the demon lay in wait for them, “through reeds previously made completely hollow by their breath.”[159]

From these male personifications of evil—from the Snake, Koshchei, and the Water King—we will now turn to their corresponding female forms. By far the most important beings of the latter class are those malevolent enchantresses who form two closely related branches of the same family. Like their sisters all over the world, they are, as a general rule, old, hideous, and hateful. They possess all kinds of supernatural powers, but their wits are often dull. They wage constant war with mankind, but the heroes of storyland find them as easily overcome as the males of their family. In their general character they bear a strong resemblance to the Giantesses, Lamias, female Trolls, Ogresses, Dragonesses, &c., of Europe, but in some of their traits they differ from those well-known beings, and therefore they are worthy of a detailed notice.

In several of the stories which have already been quoted, a prominent part is played by the Baba Yaga, a female fiend whose name has given rise to much philological discussion of a somewhat unsatisfactory nature.[160] Her appearance is that of a tall, gaunt hag, with dishevelled hair. Sometimes she is seen lying stretched out from one corner to the other of a miserable hut, through the ceiling of which passes her long iron nose; the hut is supported “by fowl’s legs,” and stands at the edge of a forest towards which its entrance looks. When the proper words are addressed to it, the hut revolves upon its slender supports, so as to turn its back instead of its front to the forest. Sometimes, as in the next story, the Baba Yaga appears as the mistress of a mansion, which stands in a courtyard enclosed by a fence made of dead men’s bones. When she goes abroad she rides in a mortar, which she urges on with a pestle, while she sweeps away the traces of her flight with a broom. She is closely connected with the Snake in different forms; in many stories, indeed, the leading part has been ascribed by one narrator to a Snake and by another to a Baba Yaga. She possesses the usual magic apparatus by which enchantresses work their wonders; the Day and the Night (according to the following story) are among her servants, the entire animal world lies at her disposal. On the whole she is the most prominent among the strange figures with which the Skazkas make us acquainted. Of the stories which especially relate to her the following may be taken as a fair specimen.

The Baba Yaga.[161]

Once upon a time there was an old couple. The husband lost his wife and married again. But he had a daughter by the first marriage, a young girl, and she found no favor in the eyes of her evil stepmother, who used to beat her, and consider how she could get her killed outright. One day the father went away somewhere or other, so the stepmother said to the girl, “Go to your aunt, my sister, and ask her for a needle and thread to make you a shift.”

Now that aunt was a Baba Yaga. Well, the girl was no fool, so she went to a real aunt of hers first, and says she:

“Good morning, auntie!”

“Good morning, my dear! what have you come for?”

“Mother has sent me to her sister, to ask for a needle and thread to make me a shift.”

Then her aunt instructed her what to do. “There is a birch-tree there, niece, which would hit you in the eye—you must tie a ribbon round it; there are doors which would creak and bang—you must pour oil on their hinges; there are dogs which would tear you in pieces—you must throw them these rolls; there is a cat which would scratch your eyes out—you must give it a piece of bacon.”

So the girl went away, and walked and walked, till she came to the place. There stood a hut, and in it sat weaving the Baba Yaga, the Bony-shanks.

“Good morning, auntie,” says the girl.

“Good morning, my dear,” replies the Baba Yaga.

“Mother has sent me to ask you for a needle and thread to make me a shift.”

“Very well; sit down and weave a little in the meantime.”

So the girl sat down behind the loom, and the Baba Yaga went outside, and said to her servant-maid:

“Go and heat the bath, and get my niece washed; and mind you look sharp after her. I want to breakfast off her.”

Well, the girl sat there in such a fright that she was as much dead as alive. Presently she spoke imploringly to the servant-maid, saying:

“Kinswoman dear, do please wet the firewood instead of making it burn; and fetch the water for the bath in a sieve.” And she made her a present of a handkerchief.

The Baba Yaga waited awhile; then she came to the window and asked:

“Are you weaving, niece? are you weaving, my dear?”

“Oh yes, dear aunt, I’m weaving.” So the Baba Yaga went away again, and the girl gave the Cat a piece of bacon, and asked:

“Is there no way of escaping from here?”

“Here’s a comb for you and a towel,” said the Cat; “take them, and be off. The Baba Yaga will pursue you, but you must lay your ear on the ground, and when you hear that she is close at hand, first of all throw down the towel. It will become a wide, wide river. And if the Baba Yaga gets across the river, and tries to catch you, then you must lay your ear on the ground again, and when you hear that she is close at hand, throw down the comb. It will become a dense, dense forest; through that she won’t be able to force her way anyhow.”

The girl took the towel and the comb and fled. The dogs would have rent her, but she threw them the rolls, and they let her go by; the doors would have begun to bang, but she poured oil on their hinges, and they let her pass through; the birch-tree would have poked her eyes out, but she tied the ribbon around it, and it let her pass on. And the Cat sat down to the loom, and worked away; muddled everything about, if it didn’t do much weaving. Up came the Baba Yaga to the window, and asked:

“Are you weaving, niece? are you weaving, my dear?”

“I’m weaving, dear aunt, I’m weaving,” gruffly replied the Cat.

The Baba Yaga rushed into the hut, saw that the girl was gone, and took to beating the Cat, and abusing it for not having scratched the girl’s eyes out. “Long as I’ve served you,” said the Cat, “you’ve never given me so much as a bone; but she gave me bacon.” Then the Baba Yaga pounced upon the dogs, on the doors, on the birch-tree, and on the servant-maid, and set to work to abuse them all, and to knock them about. Then the dogs said to her, “Long as we’ve served you, you’ve never so much as pitched us a burnt crust; but she gave us rolls to eat.” And the doors said, “Long as we’ve served you, you’ve never poured even a drop of water on our hinges; but she poured oil on us.” The birch-tree said, “Long as I’ve served you, you’ve never tied a single thread round me; but she fastened a ribbon around me.” And the servant-maid said, “Long as I’ve served you, you’ve never given me so much as a rag; but she gave me a handkerchief.”

The Baba Yaga, bony of limb, quickly jumped into her mortar, sent it flying along with the pestle, sweeping away the while all traces of its flight with a broom, and set off in pursuit of the girl. Then the girl put her ear to the ground, and when she heard that the Baba Yaga was chasing her, and was now close at hand, she flung down the towel. And it became a wide, such a wide river! Up came the Baba Yaga to the river, and gnashed her teeth with spite; then she went home for her oxen, and drove them to the river. The oxen drank up every drop of the river, and then the Baba Yaga began the pursuit anew. But the girl put her ear to the ground again, and when she heard that the Baba Yaga was near, she flung down the comb, and instantly a forest sprang up, such an awfully thick one! The Baba Yaga began gnawing away at it, but however hard she worked, she couldn’t gnaw her way through it, so she had to go back again.

But by this time the girl’s father had returned home, and he asked:

“Where’s my daughter?”

“She’s gone to her aunt’s,” replied her stepmother.

Soon afterwards the girl herself came running home.

“Where have you been?” asked her father.

“Ah, father!” she said, “mother sent me to aunt’s to ask for a needle and thread to make me a shift. But aunt’s a Baba Yaga, and she wanted to eat me!”

“And how did you get away, daughter?”

“Why like this,” said the girl, and explained the whole matter. As soon as her father had heard all about it, he became wroth with his wife, and shot her. But he and his daughter lived on and flourished, and everything went well with them.

In one of the numerous variants of this story[162] the heroine is sent by her husband’s mother to the Baba Yaga’s, and the advice which saves her comes from her husband. The Baba Yaga goes into another room “in order to sharpen her teeth,” and while she is engaged in that operation the girl escapes, having previously—by the advice of the Cat, to which she had given a lump of butter—spat under the threshold. The spittle answers for her in her absence, behaving as do, in other folk-tales, drops of blood, or rags dipped in blood, or apples, or eggs, or beans, or stone images, or wooden puppets.[163]

The magic comb and towel, by the aid of which the girl effects her escape, constantly figure in Skazkas of this class, and always produce the required effect. A brush, also, is frequently introduced, from each bristle of which springs up a wood. In one story, however, the brush gives rise to mountains, and a golik, or bath-room whisk, turns into a forest. The towel is used, also, for the purpose of constructing or annihilating a bridge. Similar instruments are found in the folk-tales of every land, whether they appear as the brush, comb, and mirror of the German water-sprite;[164] or the rod, stone, and pitcher of water of the Norse Troll;[165] or the knife, comb, and handful of salt which, in the Modern Greek story, save Asterinos and Pulja from their fiendish mother;[166] or the twig, the stone, and the bladder of water, found in the ear of the filly, which saves her master from the Gaelic giant;[167] or the brush, comb, and egg, the last of which produces a frozen lake with “mirror-smooth” surface, whereon the pursuing Old Prussian witch slips and breaks her neck;[168] or the wand which causes a river to flow and a mountain to rise between the youth who waves it and the “wicked old Rákshasa” who chases him in the Deccan story;[169] or the handful of earth, cup of water, and dry sticks and match, which impede and finally destroy the Rákshasa in the almost identical episode of Somadeva’s tale of “The Prince of Varddhamána.”[170]

In each instance they appear to typify the influence which the supernatural beings to whom they belonged were supposed to exercise over the elements. It has been thought strange that such stress should be laid on the employment of certain toilet-articles, to the use of which the heroes of folk-tales do not appear to have been greatly addicted. But it is evident that like produces like in the transformation in question. In the oldest form of the story, the Sanskrit, a handful of earth turns into a mountain, a cup of water into a river. Now, metaphorically speaking, a brush may be taken as a miniature wood; the common use of the term brushwood is a proof of the general acceptance of the metaphor. A comb does not at first sight appear to resemble a mountain, but its indented outline may have struck the fancy of many primitive peoples as being a likeness to a serrated mountain range. Thence comes it that in German Kamm means not only a comb but also (like the Spanish Sierra) a mountain ridge or crest.[171]

In one of the numerous stories[172] about the Baba Yaga, four heroes are wandering about the world together; when they come to a dense forest in which a small izba, or hut, is twirling round on “a fowl’s leg.” Ivan, the youngest of the party, utters the magical formula “Izbushka, Izbushka! stand with back to the forest and front towards us,” and “the hut faces towards them, its doors and windows open of their own accord.” The heroes enter and find it empty. One of the party then remains indoors, while the rest go out to the chase. The hero who is left alone prepares a meal, and then, “after washing his head, sits down by the window to comb his hair.” Suddenly a stone is lifted, and from under it appears a Baba Yaga, driving in her mortar, with a dog yelping at her heels. She enters the hut and, after some short parley, seizes her pestle, and begins beating the hero with it until he falls prostrate. Then she cuts a strip out of his back, eats up the whole of the viands he has prepared for his companions, and disappears. After a time the beaten hero recovers his senses, “ties up his head with a handkerchief,” and sits groaning until his comrades return. Then he makes some excuse for not having got any supper ready for them, but says nothing about what has really happened to him.

On the next day the second hero is treated in the same manner by the Baba Yaga, and on the day after that the third undergoes a similar humiliation. But on the fourth day it falls to the lot of the young Ivan to stay in the hut alone. The Baba Yaga appears as usual, and begins thumping him with her pestle; but he snatches it from her, beats her almost to death with it, cuts three strips out of her back, and then locks her up in a closet. When his comrades return, they are surprised to find him unhurt, and a meal prepared for them, but they ask no questions. After supper they all take a bath, and then Ivan remarks that each of his companions has had a strip cut out of his back. This leads to a full confession, on hearing which Ivan “runs to the closet, takes those strips out of the Baba Yaga, and applies them to their backs,” which immediately become cured. He then hangs up the Baba Yaga by a cord tied to one foot, at which cord all the party shoot. At length it is severed, and she drops. As soon as she touches the ground, she runs to the stone from under which she had appeared, lifts it, and disappears.[173]

The rest of the story is very similar to that of “Norka,” which has already been given, only instead of the beast of that name we have the Baba Yaga, whom Ivan finds asleep, with a magic sword at her head. Following the advice of her daughters, three fair maidens whom he meets in her palace, Ivan does not attempt to touch the magic sword while she sleeps. But he awakes her gently, and offers her two golden apples on a silver dish. She lifts her head and opens her mouth, whereupon he seizes the sword and cuts her head off. As is usual in the stories of this class, his comrades, after hoisting the maidens aloft, cut the cord and let him fall back into the abyss. But he escapes, and eventually “he slays all the three heroes, and flings their bodies on the plain for wild beasts to devour.” This Skazka is one of the many versions of a widespread tale, which tells how the youngest of a party, usually consisting of three persons, overcomes some supernatural foe, generally a dwarf, who had been more than a match for his companions. The most important of these versions is the Lithuanian story of the carpenter who overcomes a Laume—a being in many respects akin to the Baba Yaga—who has proved too strong for his comrades, Perkun and the Devil.[174]

The practice of cutting strips from an enemy’s back is frequently referred to in the Skazkas—much more frequently than in the German and Norse stories. It is not often that such strips are turned to good account, but in the Skazka with which we have just been dealing, Ivan finding the rope by which he is being lowered into the abyss too short, ties to the end of it the three strips he has cut from the Baba Yaga’s back, and so makes it sufficiently long. They are often exacted as the penalty of losing a wager, as well in the Skazkas as elsewhere.[175] In a West-Slavonian story about a wager of this kind, the winner cuts off the loser’s nose.[176] In the Gaelic stories it is not an uncommon incident for a man to have “a strip of skin cut off him from his crown to his sole.”[177]

The Baba Yaga generally kills people in order to eat them. Her house is fenced about with the bones of the men whose flesh she has devoured; in one story she offers a human arm, by way of a meal, to a girl who visits her. But she is also represented in one of the stories[178] as petrifying her victims. This trait connects her with Medusa, and the three sister Baba Yagas with the three Gorgones. The Russian Gorgo’s method of petrifaction is singular. In the story referred to, Ivan Dévich (Ivan the servant-maid’s son) meets a Baba Yaga, who plucks one of her hairs, gives it to him, and says, “Tie three knots and then blow.” He does so, and both he and his horse turn into stone. The Baba Yaga places them in her mortar, pounds them to bits, and buries their remains under a stone. A little later comes Ivan Dévich’s comrade, Prince Ivan. Him also the Yaga attempts to destroy, but he feigns ignorance, and persuades her to show him how to tie knots and to blow. The result is that she becomes petrified herself. Prince Ivan puts her in her own mortar, and proceeds to pound her therein, until she tells him where the fragments of his comrade are, and what he must do to restore them to life.

The Baba Yaga usually lives by herself, but sometimes she appears in the character of the house-mother. One of the Skazkas[179] relates how a certain old couple, who had no children, were advised to get a number of eggs from the village—one from each house—and to place them under a sitting hen. From the forty-one eggs thus obtained and treated are born as many boys, all but one of whom develop into strong men, but the forty-first long remains a poor weak creature, a kind of “Hop-o’-my-thumb.” They all set forth to seek brides, and eventually marry the forty-one daughters of a Baba Yaga. On the wedding night she intends to kill her sons-in-law; but they, acting on the advice of him who had been the weakling of their party, but who has become a mighty hero, exchange clothes with their brides before “lying down to sleep.” Accordingly the Baba Yaga’s “trusty servants” cut off the heads of her daughters instead of those of her sons-in-law. Those youths arise, stick the heads of their brides on iron spikes all round the house, and gallop away. When the Baba Yaga awakes in the morning, looks out of the window, and sees her daughters’ heads on their spikes, she flies into a passion, calls for “her burning shield,” sets off in pursuit of her sons-in-law, and “begins burning up everything on all four sides with her shield.” A magic, bridge-creating kerchief, however, enables the fugitives to escape from their irritated mother-in-law.

In one story[180] the heroine is ordered to swing the cradle in which reposes a Baba Yaga’s infant son, whom she is ordered to address in terms of respect when she sings him lullabies; in others she is told to wash a Baba Yaga’s many children, whose appearance is usually unprepossessing. One girl, for instance, is ordered by a Baba Yaga to heat the bath, but the fuel given her for the purpose turns out to be dead men’s bones. Having got over this difficulty, thanks to the advice of a sparrow which tells her where to look for wood, she is sent to fetch water in a sieve. Again the sparrow comes to her rescue telling her to line the sieve with clay. Then she is told to wait upon the Baba Yaga’s children in the bath-room. She enters it, and presently in come “worms, frogs, rats, and all sorts of insects.” These, which are the Baba Yaga’s children, she soaps over and otherwise treats in the approved Russian-bath style, and afterwards she does as much for their mother. The Baba Yaga is highly pleased, calls for a “samovar” (or urn), and invites her young bath-woman to drink tea with her. And finally she sends her home with a blue coffer, which turns out to be full of money. This present excites the cupidity of her stepmother, who sends her own daughter to the Baba Yaga’s, hoping that she will bring back a similar treasure. The Baba Yaga gives the same orders as before to the new-comer, but that conceited young person fails to carry them out. She cannot make the bones burn, nor the sieve hold water, but when the sparrow offers its advice she only boxes its ears. And when the “rats, frogs, and all manner of vermin,” enter the bath-room, “she crushed half of them to death,” says the story; “the rest ran home, and complained about her to their mother.” And so the Baba Yaga, when she dismisses her, gives her a red coffer instead of a blue one. Out of it, when it is opened, issues fire, which consumes both her and her mother.[181]

Similar to this story in many of its features as well as in its catastrophe is one of the most spirited and dramatic of all the Skazkas, that of—

Vasilissa the Fair.[182]

In a certain kingdom there lived a merchant. Twelve years did he live as a married man, but he had only one child, Vasilissa the Fair. When her mother died, the girl was eight years old. And on her deathbed the merchant’s wife called her little daughter to her, took out from under the bed-clothes a doll, gave it to her, and said, “Listen, Vasilissa, dear; remember and obey these last words of mine. I am going to die. And now, together with my parental blessing, I bequeath to you this doll. Keep it always by you, and never show it to anybody; and whenever any misfortune comes upon you, give the doll food, and ask its advice. When it has fed, it will tell you a cure for your troubles.” Then the mother kissed her child and died.

After his wife’s death, the merchant mourned for her a befitting time, and then began to consider about marrying again. He was a man of means. It wasn’t a question with him of girls (with dowries); more than all others, a certain widow took his fancy. She was middle-aged, and had a couple of daughters of her own just about the same age as Vasilissa. She must needs be both a good housekeeper and an experienced mother.

Well, the merchant married the widow, but he had deceived himself, for he did not find in her a kind mother for his Vasilissa. Vasilissa was the prettiest girl[183] in all the village; but her stepmother and stepsisters were jealous of her beauty, and tormented her with every possible sort of toil, in order that she might grow thin from over-work, and be tanned by the sun and the wind. Her life was made a burden to her! Vasilissa bore everything with resignation, and every day grew plumper and prettier, while the stepmother and her daughters lost flesh and fell off in appearance from the effects of their own spite, notwithstanding that they always sat with folded hands like fine ladies.

But how did that come about? Why, it was her doll that helped Vasilissa. If it hadn’t been for it, however could the girl have got through all her work? And therefore it was that Vasilissa would never eat all her share of a meal, but always kept the most delicate morsel for her doll; and at night, when all were at rest, she would shut herself up in the narrow chamber[184] in which she slept, and feast her doll, saying[185] the while:

“There, dolly, feed; help me in my need! I live in my father’s house, but never know what pleasure is; my evil stepmother tries to drive me out of the white world; teach me how to keep alive, and what I ought to do.”

Then the doll would eat, and afterwards give her advice, and comfort her in her sorrow, and next day it would do all Vasilissa’s work for her. She had only to take her ease in a shady place and pluck flowers, and yet all her work was done in good time; the beds were weeded, and the pails were filled, and the cabbages were watered, and the stove was heated. Moreover, the doll showed Vasilissa herbs which prevented her from getting sunburnt. Happily did she and her doll live together.

Several years went by. Vasilissa grew up and became old enough to be married.[186] All the marriageable young men in the town sent to make an offer to Vasilissa; at her stepmother’s daughters not a soul would so much as look. Her stepmother grew even more savage than before, and replied to every suitor—

“We won’t let the younger marry before her elders.”

And after the suitors had been packed off, she used to beat Vasilissa by way of wreaking her spite.

Well, it happened one day that the merchant had to go away from home on business for a long time. Thereupon the stepmother went to live in another house; and near that house was a dense forest, and in a clearing in that forest there stood a hut,[187] and in the hut there lived a Baba Yaga. She never let any one come near her dwelling, and she ate up people like so many chickens.

Having moved into the new abode, the merchant’s wife kept sending her hated Vasilissa into the forest on one pretence or another. But the girl always got home safe and sound; the doll used to show her the way, and never let her go near the Baba Yaga’s dwelling.

The autumn season arrived. One evening the stepmother gave out their work to the three girls; one she set to lace-making, another to knitting socks, and the third, Vasilissa, to weaving; and each of them had her allotted amount to do. By-and-by she put out the lights in the house, leaving only one candle alight where the girls were working, and then she went to bed. The girls worked and worked. Presently the candle wanted snuffing; one of the stepdaughters took the snuffers, as if she were going to clear the wick, but instead of doing so, in obedience to her mother’s orders, she snuffed the candle out, pretending to do so by accident.

“What shall we do now?” said the girls. “There isn’t a spark of fire in the house, and our tasks are not yet done. We must go to the Baba Yaga’s for a light!”

“My pins give me light enough,” said the one who was making lace. “I shan’t go.”

“And I shan’t go, either,” said the one who was knitting socks. “My knitting-needles give me light enough.”

“Vasilissa, you must go for the light,” they both cried out together; “be off to the Baba Yaga’s!”

And they pushed Vasilissa out of the room.

Vasilissa went into her little closet, set before the doll a supper which she had provided beforehand, and said:

“Now, dolly, feed, and listen to my need! I’m sent to the Baba Yaga’s for a light. The Baba Yaga will eat me!”

The doll fed, and its eyes began to glow just like a couple of candles.

“Never fear, Vasilissa dear!” it said. “Go where you’re sent. Only take care to keep me always by you. As long as I’m with you, no harm will come to you at the Baba Yaga’s.”

So Vasilissa got ready, put her doll in her pocket, crossed herself, and went out into the thick forest.

As she walks she trembles. Suddenly a horseman gallops by. He is white, and he is dressed in white, under him is a white horse, and the trappings of the horse are white—and the day begins to break.

She goes a little further, and a second rider gallops by. He is red, dressed in red, and sitting on a red horse—and the sun rises.

Vasilissa went on walking all night and all next day. It was only towards the evening that she reached the clearing on which stood the dwelling of the Baba Yaga. The fence around it was made of dead men’s bones; on the top of the fence were stuck human skulls with eyes in them; instead of uprights at the gates were men’s legs; instead of bolts were arms; instead of a lock was a mouth with sharp teeth.

Vasilissa was frightened out of her wits, and stood still as if rooted to the ground.

Suddenly there rode past another horseman. He was black, dressed all in black, and on a black horse. He galloped up to the Baba Yaga’s gate and disappeared, just as if he had sunk through the ground—and night fell. But the darkness did not last long. The eyes of all the skulls on the fence began to shine and the whole clearing became as bright as if it had been midday. Vasilissa shuddered with fear, but stopped where she was, not knowing which way to run.

Soon there was heard in the forest a terrible roar. The trees cracked, the dry leaves rustled; out of the forest came the Baba Yaga, riding in a mortar, urging it on with a pestle, sweeping away her traces with a broom. Up she drove to the gate, stopped short, and, snuffing the air around her, cried:—

“Faugh! Faugh! I smell Russian flesh![188] Who’s there?”

Vasilissa went up to the hag in a terrible fright, bowed low before her, and said:—

“It’s me, granny. My stepsisters have sent me to you for a light.”

“Very good,” said the Baba Yaga; “I know them. If you’ll stop awhile with me first, and do some work for me, I’ll give you a light. But if you won’t, I’ll eat you!”

Then she turned to the gates, and cried:—

“Ho, thou firm fence of mine, be thou divided! And ye, wide gates of mine, do ye fly open!”

The gates opened, and the Baba Yaga drove in, whistling as she went, and after her followed Vasilissa; and then everything shut to again. When they entered the sitting-room, the Baba Yaga stretched herself out at full length, and said to Vasilissa:

“Fetch out what there is in the oven; I’m hungry.”

Vasilissa lighted a splinter[189] at one of the skulls which were on the fence, and began fetching meat from the oven and setting it before the Baba Yaga; and meat enough had been provided for a dozen people. Then she fetched from the cellar kvass, mead, beer, and wine. The hag ate up everything, drank up everything. All she left for Vasilissa was a few scraps—a crust of bread and a morsel of sucking-pig. Then the Baba Yaga lay down to sleep, saying:—

“When I go out to-morrow morning, mind you cleanse the courtyard, sweep the room, cook the dinner, and get the linen ready. Then go to the corn-bin, take out four quarters of wheat, and clear it of other seed.[190] And mind you have it all done—if you don’t, I shall eat you!”

After giving these orders the Baba Yaga began to snore. But Vasilissa set the remnants of the hag’s supper before her doll, burst into tears, and said:—

“Now, dolly, feed, listen to my need! The Baba Yaga has set me a heavy task, and threatens to eat me if I don’t do it all. Do help me!”

The doll replied:

“Never fear, Vasilissa the Fair! Sup, say your prayers, and go to bed. The morning is wiser than the evening!”

Vasilissa awoke very early, but the Baba Yaga was already up. She looked out of the window. The light in the skull’s eyes was going out. All of a sudden there appeared the white horseman, and all was light. The Baba Yaga went out into the courtyard and whistled—before her appeared a mortar with a pestle and a broom. The red horseman appeared—the sun rose. The Baba Yaga seated herself in the mortar, and drove out of the courtyard, shooting herself along with the pestle, sweeping away her traces with the broom.

Vasilissa was left alone, so she examined the Baba Yaga’s house, wondered at the abundance there was in everything, and remained lost in thought as to which work she ought to take to first. She looked up; all her work was done already. The doll had cleared the wheat to the very last grain.

“Ah, my preserver!” cried Vasilissa, “you’ve saved me from danger!”

“All you’ve got to do now is to cook the dinner,” answered the doll, slipping into Vasilissa’s pocket. “Cook away, in God’s name, and then take some rest for your health’s sake!”

Towards evening Vasilissa got the table ready, and awaited the Baba Yaga. It began to grow dusky; the black rider appeared for a moment at the gate, and all grew dark. Only the eyes of the skulls sent forth their light. The trees began to crack, the leaves began to rustle, up drove the Baba Yaga. Vasilissa went out to meet her.

“Is everything done?” asks the Yaga.

“Please to look for yourself, granny!” says Vasilissa.

The Baba Yaga examined everything, was vexed that there was nothing to be angry about, and said:

“Well, well! very good!”

Afterwards she cried:

“My trusty servants, zealous friends, grind this my wheat!”

There appeared three pairs of hands, which gathered up the wheat, and carried it out of sight. The Baba Yaga supped, went to bed, and again gave her orders to Vasilissa:

“Do just the same to-morrow as to-day; only besides that take out of the bin the poppy seed that is there, and clean the earth off it grain by grain. Some one or other, you see, has mixed a lot of earth with it out of spite.” Having said this, the hag turned to the wall and began to snore, and Vasilissa took to feeding her doll. The doll fed, and then said to her what it had said the day before:

“Pray to God, and go to sleep. The morning is wiser than the evening. All shall be done, Vasilissa dear!”

The next morning the Baba Yaga again drove out of the courtyard in her mortar, and Vasilissa and her doll immediately did all the work. The hag returned, looked at everything, and cried, “My trusty servants, zealous friends, press forth oil from the poppy seed!”

Three pairs of hands appeared, gathered up the poppy seed, and bore it out of sight. The Baba Yaga sat down to dinner. She ate, but Vasilissa stood silently by.

“Why don’t you speak to me?” said the Baba Yaga; “there you stand like a dumb creature!”

“I didn’t dare,” answered Vasilissa; “but if you give me leave, I should like to ask you about something.”

“Ask away; only it isn’t every question that brings good. ‘Get much to know, and old soon you’ll grow.’”

“I only want to ask you, granny, about something I saw. As I was coming here, I was passed by one riding on a white horse; he was white himself, and dressed in white. Who was he?”

“That was my bright Day!” answered the Baba Yaga.

“Afterwards there passed me another rider, on a red horse; red himself, and all in red clothes. Who was he?”

“That was my red Sun!”[191] answered the Baba Yaga.

“And who may be the black rider, granny, who passed by me just at your gate?”

“That was my dark Night; they are all trusty servants of mine.”

Vasilissa thought of the three pairs of hands, but held her peace.

“Why don’t you go on asking?” said the Baba Yaga.

“That’s enough for me, granny. You said yourself, ‘Get too much to know, old you’ll grow!’”

“It’s just as well,” said the Baba Yaga, “that you’ve only asked about what you saw out of doors, not indoors! In my house I hate having dirt carried out of doors;[192] and as to over-inquisitive people—well, I eat them. Now I’ll ask you something. How is it you manage to do the work I set you to do?”

“My mother’s blessing assists me,” replied Vasilissa.

“Eh! eh! what’s that? Get along out of my house, you bless’d daughter. I don’t want bless’d people.”

She dragged Vasilissa out of the room, pushed her outside the gates, took one of the skulls with blazing eyes from the fence, stuck it on a stick, gave it to her and said:

“Lay hold of that. It’s a light you can take to your stepsisters. That’s what they sent you here for, I believe.”

Home went Vasilissa at a run, lit by the skull, which went out only at the approach of the dawn; and at last, on the evening of the second day, she reached home. When she came to the gate, she was going to throw away the skull.

“Surely,” thinks she, “they can’t be still in want of a light at home.” But suddenly a hollow voice issued from the skull, saying:

“Throw me not away. Carry me to your stepmother!”

She looked at her stepmother’s house, and not seeing a light in a single window, she determined to take the skull in there with her. For the first time in her life she was cordially received by her stepmother and stepsisters, who told her that from the moment she went away they hadn’t had a spark of fire in the house. They couldn’t strike a light themselves anyhow, and whenever they brought one in from a neighbor’s, it went out as soon as it came into the room.

“Perhaps your light will keep in!” said the stepmother. So they carried the skull into the sitting-room. But the eyes of the skull so glared at the stepmother and her daughters—shot forth such flames! They would fain have hidden themselves, but run where they would, everywhere did the eyes follow after them. By the morning they were utterly burnt to cinders. Only Vasilissa was none the worse.[193]

[Next morning Vasilissa “buried the skull,” locked up the house and took up her quarters in a neighboring town. After a time she began to work. Her doll made her a glorious loom, and by the end of the winter she had weaved a quantity of linen so fine that it might be passed like thread through the eye of a needle. In the spring, after it had been bleached, Vasilissa made a present of it to the old woman with whom she lodged. The crone presented it to the king, who ordered it to be made into shirts. But no seamstress could be found to make them up, until the linen was entrusted to Vasilissa. When a dozen shirts were ready, Vasilissa sent them to the king, and as soon as her carrier had started, “she washed herself, and combed her hair, and dressed herself, and sat down at the window.” Before long there arrived a messenger demanding her instant appearance at court. And “when she appeared before the royal eyes,” the king fell desperately in love with her.

“No; my beauty!” said he, “never will I part with thee; thou shalt be my wife.” So he married her; and by-and-by her father returned, and took up his abode with her. “And Vasilissa took the old woman into her service, and as for the doll—to the end of her life she always carried it in her pocket.”]

The puppet which plays so important a part in this story is worthy of a special examination. It is called in the original a Kùkla (dim. Kùkolka), a word designating any sort of puppet or other figure representing either man or beast. In a Little-Russian variant[194] of one of those numerous stories, current in all lands, which commence with the escape of the heroine from an incestuous union, a priest insists on marrying his daughter. She goes to her mother’s grave and weeps there. Her dead mother “comes out from her grave,” and tells her what to do. The girl obtains from her father a rough dress of pig’s skin, and two sets of gorgeous apparel; the former she herself assumes, in the latter she dresses up three Kuklui, which in this instance were probably mere blocks of wood. Then she takes her place in the midst of the dressed-up forms, which cry, one after the other, “Open, O moist earth, that the fair maiden may enter within thee!” The earth opens, and all four sink into it.

This introduction is almost identical with that prefixed to the German story of “Allerleirauh,”[195] except in so far as the puppets are concerned.

Sometimes it is a brother, instead of a father, from whom the heroine is forced to flee. Thus in the story of Kniaz Danila Govorila,[196] Prince Daniel the Talker is bent upon marrying his sister, pleading the excuse so often given in stories on this theme, namely, that she is the only maiden whose finger will fit the magic ring which is to indicate to him his destined wife. While she is weeping “like a river,” some old women of the mendicant-pilgrim class come to her rescue, telling her to make four Kukolki, or small puppets, and to place one of them in each corner of her room. She does as they tell her. The wedding day arrives, the marriage service is performed in the church, and then the bride hastens back to the room. When she is called for—says the story—the puppets in the four corners begin to coo.[197]

“Kuku! Prince Danila!

“Kuku! Govorila.

“Kuku! He wants to marry,

“Kuku! His own sister.

“Kuku! Split open, O Earth!

“Kuku! Sister, disappear!”

The earth opens, and the girl slowly sinks into it. Twice again the puppets sing their song, and at the end of its third performance, the earth closes over the head of the rescued bride. Presently in rushes the irritated bridegroom. “No bride is to be seen; only in the corners sit the puppets singing away to themselves.” He flies into a passion, seizes a hatchet, chops off their heads, and flings them into the fire.[198]

In another version of the same story[199] a son is ordered by his parents to marry his sister after their death. They die, and he tells her to get ready to be married. But she has prepared three puppets, and when she goes into her room to dress for the wedding, she says to them:

“O Kukolki, (cry) Kuku!”

The first asks, “Why?”

The second replies, “Because the brother his sister takes.”

The third says, “Split open, O Earth! disappear, O sister!”

All this is said three times, and then the earth opens, and the girl sinks “into that world.”

In two other Russian versions of the same story, the sister escapes by natural means. In the first[200] she runs away and hides in the hollow of an oak. In the second[201] she persuades a fisherman to convey her across a sea or lake. In a Polish version[202] the sister obtains a magic car, which sinks underground with her, while the spot on which she has spat replies to every summons which is addressed to her.[203]

Before taking leave of the Baba Yaga, we may glance at a malevolent monster, who seems to be her male counterpart. He appears, however, to be known in South Russia only. Here is an outline of the contents of the solitary story in which he is mentioned. There were two old folks with whom lived two orphan grandchildren, charming little girls. One day the youngest child was sent to drive the sparrows away from her grandfather’s pease. While she was thus engaged the forest began to roar, and out from it came Verlioka, “of vast stature, one-eyed, crook-nosed, bristly-headed, with tangled beard and moustaches half an ell long, and with a wooden boot on his one foot, supporting himself on a crutch, and giving vent to a terrible laughter.” And Verlioka caught sight of the little girl and immediately killed her with his crutch. And afterwards he killed her sister also, and then the old grandmother. The grandfather, however, managed to escape with his life, and afterwards, with the help of a drake and other aiders, he wreaked his vengeance on the murderous Verlioka.[204]

We will now turn to another female embodiment of evil, frequently mentioned in the Skazkas—the Witch.[205] She so closely resembles the Baba Yaga both in disposition and in behavior, that most of the remarks which have been made about that wild being apply to her also. In many cases, indeed, we find that one version of a story will allot to a Baba Yaga the part which in another version is played by a Witch. The name which she bears—that of Vyed’ma—is a misnomer; it properly belongs either to the “wise woman,” or prophetess, of old times, or to her modern representative, the woman to whom Russian superstition attributes the faculties and functions ascribed in olden days by most of our jurisprudents, in more recent times by a few of our rustics, to our own witch. The supernatural being who, in folk-tales, sways the elements and preys upon mankind, is most inadequately designated by such names as Vyed’ma, Hexe, or Witch, suggestive as those now homely terms are of merely human, though diabolically intensified malevolence. Far more in keeping with the vastness of her powers, and the vagueness of her outline, are the titles of Baba Yaga, Lamia, Striga, Troll-Wife, Ogress, or Dragoness, under which she figures in various lands. And therefore it is in her capacity of Baba Yaga, rather than in that of Vyed’ma, that we desire to study the behavior of the Russian equivalent for the terrible female form which figures in the Anglo-Saxon poem as the Mother of Grendel.