“Wife, suppose we make a snow figure?”
Mary was ready.
“Why not?” said she; “we might as well amuse ourselves a little. But
what is the use of making a big figure? Better make a snow-child, since
God has not given us a living one.”
“You are right,” said Ivan, and he took his hat and went out into the
garden with his wife.
So they set to work to make a snow-child. They fashioned a little body,
little hands, and little feet, and when all that was done they rolled a
snow-ball and shaped it into a head.
“Heaven bless you!” cried a passer-by.
“Thanks,” replied Ivan.
“The help of Heaven is always good,” said Mary.
“What are you doing?” asked the stranger.
“Look,” said Ivan.
“We are making a snow-girl,” said Mary.
On the ball of snow which stood for a head they made the nose and the
chin. Then they put two little holes for the eyes. As Ivan finished the
work, oh, wonderful! the figure became alive! He felt a warm breath come
from its lips. Ivan drew back, and looked. The child had sparkling eyes,
and there was a smile upon its lips.
“Heavens! what is this?” cried Ivan, making the sign of the cross.
The snow figure bent its head as if it was alive, and stirred its little
arms and legs in the snow as if it was a real child.
“Ivan! Ivan!” cried Mary, trembling with joy, “Heaven has heard our
prayers,” and she threw herself on the child and covered her with
kisses. The snow fell away from the little girl like the shell from a
chicken.
“Ah, my dear Snyegurka!” cried Mary, embracing the long wished for and
unexpected child, and she carried her off into the cottage.
Ivan had much to do to recover himself, he was so surprised, and Mary
was foolish with joy.
Snyegurka grew hour by hour, and became more and more beautiful. Ivan
and Mary were overjoyed, and their hut was full of life and merriment.
The village girls were always there playing with Snyegurka, dressing
her, chattering with her, singing songs to her, teaching her all they
knew. Snyegurka was very clever; she noticed everything, and learnt
things quickly. During that winter she grew as big as a three-year-old
child. She understood things, and when she spoke her voice was so sweet
that one could have listened to it for ever. She was amiable, obedient,
and affectionate. Her skin was white, her hair the colour of flax, and
her eyes deep blue; her cheeks, however, had no rosy flush in them, for
she had no blood, but she was so good and so amiable that every one
loved her.
“You see,” said Mary, “what joy has Heaven given us in our old age.”
“Heaven be thanked,” responded Ivan.
At last the winter was ended, and the spring sun shone down and warmed
the earth. The snow melted, the green grass sprang up in the fields, and
the lark sang high up in the sky. The village girls went singing—
“Sweet spring, how did you come to us?
How did you come?
Did you come on a plough, or on a harrow?”
Snyegurka, however, became very sad. “What is the matter with you, my
dear child?” said Mary, drawing her to her and caressing her. “Are you
not well? You are not merry. Has an evil eye glanced on you?”
“No,” answered Snyegurka; “it is nothing, mother. I am quite well.”
The last snow of the winter had melted and disappeared. Flowers sprang
up in all the gardens and fields. In the woods the nightingale and all
the birds sang, and all the world seemed very happy save Snyegurka, who
became more and more sad. She would run away from her companions, and
hide herself from the sun in dark nooks, like a timid flower under the
trees. She liked nothing save playing by the water-side under the green
willows. She seemed to enjoy only the cool and the shower. At night-time
she was happy; and when a good storm occurred, a fierce hail-storm, she
was as pleased with the drops as if they had been pearls. When the sun
broke forth again—when the hail was melted—then Snyegurka began to weep
bitterly.
The spring was ended, the summer came, and the feast of Saint John was
at hand. The girls were going to play in the woods, and they called for
Snyegurka to go with them.
Mary was afraid to let her go, but she thought that the outing might do
her child good, so she got her ready, embraced her, and said—
“Go, my child, and play with your friends; and you, my daughters, look
well after her. You know I love her better than the apple of my eye.”
“All right,” cried they all, and they ran off in a body to the woods.
There they plucked the wild-flowers, made themselves wreaths, and sang
songs.
When the sun was setting they made a fire of dry grass and placed
themselves in a row by it, each of them having a crown of flowers on her
head. “Look at us,” said they to Snyegurka, “how we run, and follow us,”
and then they began to sing and to jump, around and over the little
fire.