BYLINY BOOK
HERO TALES OF RUSSIA
Told from the Russian by
MARION CHILTON HARRISON
With Illustrations by
MRS. HUGH STEWART
CAMBRIDGE:
W. HEFFER & SONS LTD.
1915
PREFACE.
This is a Byliny Book. What does “Byliny” mean? It is a Russian word,
and it means stories about What-has-Been, what happened in Russia in
the old days long ago. We all read about the Greek heroes Jason and
Perseus and Theseus and Heracles. The Russians had splendid heroes too,
who met with wonderful adventures. Russia and France and Italy and
England are fighting side by side a great fight for freedom, and these
old heroes of Russia fought for freedom too, against great barbarian
armies of Huns and Tartars. The Russians are our brave friends, our
“Allies,” as we call them now, and it is good to get to know about
their heroes of olden times.
We all know and honour our French Allies, and most of us try to speak
French. We are proud to read in history how our William the Conqueror
came over from France and brought with him many good laws and customs,
and, best of all, beautiful French words that have now become
English—why, the very word beauty came to us from France. But Russia is
much further away than France, and very few of us learn to speak
Russian, or even to read it.
Far the best way to get to know people is to learn their language, but
it is not quite so easy to learn to read Russian as it is to read
French, because the Russians use different letters. You will see
Russian letters in the pictures [1]; they are beautiful, delightful
things and some of them are like English, so it is exciting to try and
make them out, but some of them are like Greek, for the Russians always
liked the Greeks better than the Romans.
The Russian names of the heroes look a little strange at first, but
they are not really hard to pronounce. There are a great many Russian
heroes, but this book only tells about four of them, Volgá and Mikúla
and Svyatogór and Ilyá. The Volgá is quite short and easy, and so is
Mikúla, which is pronounced as if it was written Mikóolla. Svyatogór
looks rather hard, but you only have to remember to say it like
this—Svyătăgórr, and you must roll the r’s as if you were a Scotsman.
The Russians put the accent on the end of their words much oftener than
the English. We say Ī́-văn and they say Eeváhn. And so it is with the
last hero, Ilyá; he is pronounced Eelyā́h. Besides the heroes, there is
Vladímir the king, and he is called Vladéemir. The only really hard
word to say right is Byliny itself, and that you can call Bwĭléeny, but
our English lips do not make quite the Russian sound.
These heroes Volgá and Ilyá and the rest lived very long ago, and their
great city was not Petrograd but Kiev (Kieff). Petrograd means “Peter’s
fortified town,” and we all know how till the war it used to be called
Peters-burg. But if you look on the map you will find no Petrograd,
only Kiev on the river Dnieper, which winds down to the Black Sea. The
old Russian heroes used to sail down the river on through the Black Sea
down to Constantinople, and there of course they met the Greeks, and
the Greeks taught them to be Christians. That was in the days of good
King Vladímir, and he was reigning before our William the Conqueror,
hundreds of years before Peter the Great came to Holland and England
and learnt to build boats, and made the great city of Petrograd.
But though the heroes lived so long ago, they are never forgotten. The
Russian children in the village schools learn about Volgá and Ilyá as
soon as they can read, and old minstrels in far away villages beyond
lake Onéga and even in Siberia sing the Byliny, the songs of
What-has-Been to the peasants as they sit round the fire at night. I
have seen a picture of one of these singers, an old peasant over
seventy, with a long white beard and shaggy hair and bright deep-set
eyes. He could not write or read, and his voice was rather cracked, but
when he sang the old songs he was all on fire, and he sang them so
splendidly that the villagers crowded round to hear. The old men say
that the young ones will not learn to sing the songs because they are
gramotnye, “grammar-people,” who read books and learn to write—what a
pity.
A learned Russian called Hilferding went to North Russia to live among
the peasants and listen to these stories. The peasants are very poor,
and are shy with strangers, but they learned to love and trust
Hilferding, and sang their songs to him. It is nice to know that he was
able to help the peasants, and get them a little more money and food.
Other learned men had been before Hilferding, but nearly all the
stories in this book were collected by him, so we like to remember his
name.
It is the peasants who sing the Byliny, not the nobles, and two of the
greatest Russian heroes, Ilyá and Mikúla, are peasants’ sons. Mikúla is
a ploughman. It sounds strange to us that a ploughman should be a hero;
but the Russians did not feel like that. They love their land with all
their hearts. Some of it has very black fertile soil, but some of it is
very hard and full of stones, and sometimes of forests to be cleared,
and the man who does all this is a hero. The Russians sing a hymn to
the honour of Mikúla; it ends “Glory to thee, good Mikúla, the peasant
who worked.” In one of the pictures you see Volgá, the prince, come to
beg Mikúla to leave his plough and join his warriors. Mikúla was sad,
but a man must leave even his work to defend his country. Mikúla is my
favourite of all the heroes.
The peasant heroes, Mikúla and great Ilyá, are very proud and
independent, and sometimes not very respectful to the King; they seem
to think they are as good as he is, and so they were. It is their
country they love, and their beautiful city of Kiev and its Church, and
in those old days they had not learned that the King stands for the
country. Ilyá is always wanting to get to Kiev; you see him on the
cover of this book, riding up to the Holy City. It is like Jerusalem to
him, and he was buried there. But though he dreams of the City, he
loves the place where he was born, near Múrom. Múrom is a real place
still, with forests round it and a river full of fish. The peasants in
the old days owned the land in common, so each village was like a
little kingdom. Ilyá hates the dog, King Kálin, because he slays the
villagers.
Svyatogór’s name means Holy Mountain. He is very strong and huge, like
a mountain, but he is clumsy and rather boastful. He boasted he could
lift anything, but he soon found he couldn’t. At the end he stops
boasting, and is good to young Ilyá, and gives him all his strength, so
that makes up.
The hero who really can do everything is Volgá. He was a prince, not a
peasant, and he was a mighty hunter, like Nimrod in the Bible; and he
was a wizard, too, and could turn himself into a grey wolf. Some people
said his father was a wolf, some said he was a serpent. The story says
“damp earth was his cradle,” and that sounds uncomfortable, but the
Russians always call the earth “damp earth.” They mean that the rain
has rained on it, and that it is not hard and dry, but full of sap like
the trees. Volgá learnt all his wisdom from the beasts and birds. S.
Francis used to preach to the birds, but Volgá let the beasts and birds
preach to him, and that is better, for the Bible says:
Ask now the beasts and they shall teach thee;
And the fowls of the air and they shall tell thee.
The first story is about Volgá, and in the first picture you see him
listening to a wise old Bear.
Jane Ellen Harrison.
This book is for children, and is no place for bibliography, but we
should like to own our debt to three books. Chudinov’s Byliny in the
“Russian School Library” was our first introduction (in Russian) to the
hero-tales; but for Rambaud’s La Russie Épique it would have been
difficult to put the stories together; and, last, to the kindness of
Mr. E. T. Minns we are indebted for the loan of Hilferding’s invaluable
Sbornik, now out of print, and not easily obtainable during the War.
M. C. H.
J. E. H.
CONTENTS.
Page.
I. The Story of Volgá 1
II. Mikúla the Villager’s Son 8
III. Svyatogór 15
IV. Svyatogór and Ilyá of Múrom 17
V. Ilyá of Múrom and Nightingale the Robber 30
VI. The Three Ways 46
VII. Ilyá of Múrom and King Kálin 50
CHARACTERS.
Volgá, Son of Svyátoslav.
Mikúla, the Ploughman Hero.
Svyatogór, the Hero.
Ilyá of Múrom, Son of Iván.
Vladímir, Prince of Kiev.
Apráxia, his Daughter.
Nightingale, the Robber.
King Kálin, a Tartar King.
Samson, a Hero (Ilyá’s Godfather).
ILLUSTRATIONS.
Page.
Volgá, Son of Buslav Frontispiece
Young Mikúla, the Villager’s Son 11
Ilyá of Múrom, the Peasant’s Son 19
Map of Ilyá’s Journeys 23
He Shot Nightingale the Robber 37
Ilyá came to Kiev Town 41
A Feast of Honour was Spread 51
There was the Old Cossack, Ilyá of Múrom 57
These titles are literal translations of the Russian inscriptions on
the illustrations.
HERO TALES OF RUSSIA.
I.
THE STORY OF VOLGÁ.
The red sun was going down behind the high hills, behind the blue sea.
The countless stars showed themselves in the clear sky, and the bright
moon was shining in the heavens when Volgá the Hero was born in Holy
Russia. Damp Mother Earth was his cradle. The earth rocked, and there
was a great storm upon the blue sea, and the fish went down into the
deep sea, the birds flew up into the sky, the great aurochs and the
deer fled over the hills, the hares and rabbits ran into the thick
forest, and the wolves and bears fled away among the fir trees, sables
and martens escaped to the islands, because they knew that a hero was
born in Russia.
When Volgá was an hour and a half old he spoke with a voice like
thunder, and said:
“Come then, O Lady, my mother, young Márfa, put no baby-clothes upon
me, nor a sash of silk, but give me strong steel armour, and on my head
put a helmet of gold. In my right hand a club, a club made heavy with
lead of the weight of a hundred pounds.”
When Volgá was seven years old his mother had him taught to read, and
she made him write with a pen. And from all the birds and beasts he
learnt their skill and wisdom and the different tongues of all, and he
understood the speech of all the beasts of the field and forest, and of
all the birds and fishes.
When he was ten years old he learned much magic. First he learned to
turn himself into a bright falcon, and next he learned to turn himself
into a grey wolf, and the third thing he learned was to turn himself
into a brown aurochs, a brown aurochs with golden hoofs.
When Volgá was seventeen he called his friends and companions together
and formed a bodyguard of thirty youths save one, and Volgá himself was
the thirtieth. He was their Chief, and took them with him on his
journeys. He provided for them all and gave them abundance of food and
drink, and of sugar sweetmeats many kinds. And warm clothes, too, he
gave them, fur coats made of the skins of marten and sable and of
panther. When his comrades slept Volgá slept not. Sometimes he turned
himself into a grey wolf and ran and leaped in the dark forest and
killed moose-deer and bears and wolves. Martens and panthers were his
favourite prey, and he spared neither hares nor foxes. And at other
times he turned himself into a bright falcon, flew far away over the
blue sea and killed geese and white swans, and the little grey ducks he
spared not.
One day when he was at Kiev he called his body-guard:
“My good brave comrades,” said he, “listen to your big brother, your
Chief. Bring a rope of silk and make a snare. Put it into the dark
forest and set the snare upon the damp earth so as to catch beasts of
the forest, and catch martens and foxes, black sables and other wild
beasts, and go on snaring them for three days and three nights.”
They listened to their big brother, their Chief, and they did the thing
he had ordered. They took a rope of silk to the dark forest and set a
snare upon the damp earth, but they could not catch a single beast.
Then Volgá their Chief turned himself into a lion-beast. He leapt and
bounded on the damp earth, through the dark forest, and drove out
martens and foxes, black sables and other wild beasts, big bounding
hares and little ermines. And Volgá took his own form again, and became
a goodly youth.
And again when he was at the town of Kiev with his body-guard of brave
youths he said:
“My good comrades, my brave lads, listen to your big brother your
Chief. Take a snare of silk and set it in the dark forest at the very
tops of the trees, and with it catch geese, swans and bright falcons,
and little singing birds, and go on snaring them for three days and
three nights.”
And they listened to their big brother their Chief. They did the thing
he ordered. They took a snare of silk, set the snare in the dark
forest, at the very tops of the trees, but they could not catch a
single bird.
Volgá the Chief turned himself into an eagle. He flew up beneath the
clouds and struck down geese, swans, bright hawks, and little singing
birds.
Again when they were at the town of Kiev, Volgá the Chief said:
“Good comrades, my brave body-guard, listen to your big brother, your
Chief. Take sharp axes, good for cutting wood, and build a ship of oak;
take fishing nets of silk and go forth upon the blue sea, and fish for
all kinds of fish—salmon and white fish, pike and dace, and the most
precious fish—sturgeon, and go on fishing for three days and three
nights.”
They listened to their big brother their Chief, and they did the thing
he ordered. They took sharp axes, good for cutting wood, and built a
ship of oak. They took fishing nets of silk, but they could not catch a
single fish.
Volgá the Chief turned himself into a big pike and swam in the blue
sea. He sent up salmon and white sturgeon, pike and dace, and the
costly fish—sturgeon, and drove them into the nets of his men.
And again, when he was at Kiev with his body-guard of good comrades,
Volgá the Chief said:
“My good brave comrades, why should we not send to the country of the
Tartars to find out what the Cham is thinking of? For the Cham may be
thinking of something. And what if he were thinking of riding into Holy
Russia? Now, whom shall we send? If we send an old man he will go
slowly, and we shall have long to wait. If we send a middle-aged man he
will tarry and drink by the way; and if we send a boy he will stop and
play. It seems as if Volgá will have to go himself!”
Then Volgá the Chief turned himself into a little bird and flew up
beneath the clouds. He flew on and soon came to the country of the
Tartars. He came to the house of the Tartar Cham and perched at the
Cham’s own window and listened to his secret talk.
The Cham said to his wife:
“Now I tell you, my Queen, I know what I know. In Russia the grass
grows not as it used to grow. The flowers bloom not as before. Volgá
must be dead and gone.”
The Queen said:
“Come now, Santal, Cham of Tartary, the grass grows in Russia just as
before. The flowers bloom in Russia just as before. I dreamed in the
night—in dreams one sees all things. It seemed that from the East, that
dear country, a bird was flying—a small singing bird—and from the
West—the old country—after the little bird there flew a black crow.
They flew together over the open plain, and they were pecking at each
other, and the little singing bird was pecking the black crow, and she
pulled out his feathers, and all were carried away on the wind.”
And the Cham Santal of Tartary answered her: “Oh, my Queen! I am
thinking of riding soon to Holy Russia with my army, and I shall take
nine cities and give them to my nine sons, and for myself I shall bring
back a costly fur coat.”
But the Queen said:
“You will not take nine cities or give them to your nine sons, and you
will not bring back for yourself a costly fur coat!”
The Cham of Tartary answered in a rage:
“Oh, you old devil! You were dreaming and saw yourself in your dream!”
And he struck her on her white face, and again he struck her on the
other cheek. He threw the Queen down upon the brick floor, and threw
her down a second time, and said:
“I shall ride to Holy Russia; I shall take nine cities, and give them
to my nine sons; and for myself I shall bring back a costly fur coat.”
Volgá the Chief flew down from the window-ledge to the ground and
turned himself into a grey wolf and jumped into the stable yard. He
picked out all the good horses and tore out the throat of every one.
Then Volgá turned himself into a little ermine and slipped into the
armoury, where the Cham kept a great stock of weapons for his men.
Volgá broke all the tough bows, tore out the silken bow strings,
destroyed the sharp arrows, bit notches in the sharp swords, and bent
the steel maces into a bow. Then he turned himself again into a little
bird and soon flew back to Kiev town, where he turned himself back into
his own shape, and was once more a goodly youth.
Volgá came to his body-guard of good comrades.
“My brave comrades,” said he, “let us go to the land of the Tartars!”
And they went to the land of the Tartars, and they took all the Tartar
army prisoners.
II.
MIKÚLA THE VILLAGER’S SON.
Next we come to the story of Mikúla, the villager’s son, and how he
meets with Volgá and joins his band of heroes. Young Volgá had an uncle
who was a prince in the land, and the prince gave Volgá for his own
three towns, and the towns were to pay him a yearly tribute, and so he
set out with his body-guard of brave youths to collect this tribute.
Volgá set out, and as he rode through the free and open plain he heard
a ploughman in the open field. The ploughman’s plough could be heard
scraping over the ground and scrunching over the stones, but the
ploughman and his plough were out of sight on the boundless plain.
Volgá rode towards the ploughman all day from morning till evening with
his brave body-guard, but he could not come up with the ploughman. And
Volgá rode on the whole of another day, another day from morning till
evening, but he could not come up with the ploughman. The ploughman was
ploughing the field and still drove on. The ploughman’s plough scraped
on and the ploughshare creaked over the stones, but still Volgá could
not come within sight of him, and on the third day Volgá and his
comrades rode from morning till midday, and at midday they came up with
the ploughman in the open field. The ploughman was ploughing in the
field, and on he drove. From edge to edge he swept the long furrows.
When he reached the edge of the field he could not see the other edge.
He cast out the stumps and stones, and all the large stones he piled up
in a trench.
The ploughman had a light bay mare, and the stock of his plough was of
maple wood. His mare was harnessed with ropes of silk.
When Volgá came up with the ploughman he spoke to him and said:
“God help thee, good ploughman, to plough the field and till the
ground, and to do thy labour, to sweep the furrows from edge to edge of
the field, and to turn out the stumps and stones from the ground.”
The ploughman looked at Volgá and said:
“Here comes Volgá with his brave body-guard! Yes, I need the help of
God to do my peasant’s work! Is it far thou goest, Volgá, and whither
dost thou go with thy brave body-guard?”
“Well, good ploughman, I am going to town to collect the tribute. First
I go to Gurchevitz town, and next I am going to Orechovitz, and then to
a third town, Krestyanovitz.”
“Well, my Lord Volgá,” said the ploughman, “I was in town not long
since on my bay mare, and I brought away with me from the town two bags
of salt, only two bags of salt, each of fourteen hundred pounds weight,
and the peasants there are all thieves; they asked me for threepence
for toll. But I had my whip for the journey, and I paid them their toll
with my whip.”
“Now come with me, good ploughman,” said Volgá, “come and join my
body-guard!”
And the good ploughman straightway unfastened his ropes of silk, took
his mare from the plough, and got on her back.
Volgá’s body-guard were all mounted on their good horses and were
setting off, but the ploughman stopped Volgá and said:
“Now, Volgá, I left the plough in the furrow; would it not be better to
pull the plough out of the ground and shake the earth from the
ploughshare, and throw the plough behind the broom bush? Not for fear
of any passing travellers who might take it, but on account of the
good-for-nothings in the village who might meddle with my plough.”
Young Volgá ordered five strong young men out of his brave body-guard
to pull the plough out of the ground, to shake the earth from the
ploughshare, and throw the plough behind the broom bush. The five
strong young men rode up to the plough of maple wood, they turned the
plough about by the shaft, but could not pull the plough out of the
ground, or shake the earth from the ploughshare, and throw the plough
behind the broom bush.
Young Volgá then sent from his brave body-guard a whole half-score to
pull the plough out of the ground, to shake the earth from the
ploughshare, and throw the plough behind the broom bush. They turned
the plough round by the shaft, but could not pull the plough out of the
ground, or shake the earth from the ploughshare, or throw the plough
behind the broom bush.
Young Volgá then sent his whole brave body-guard to pull the plough out
of the ground, shake the earth from the ploughshare, and throw the
plough behind the broom bush, but, though they tried their hardest,
they could not pull the plough out of the ground, or shake the earth
from the ploughshare, and throw the plough behind the broom bush. Then
the good ploughman came riding up upon his light bay mare to this
plough of maple wood. He took hold of the plough with one hand, pulled
the plough out of the ground, shook the earth from the ploughshare, and
threw the plough into the broom bush.
Again they all mounted their good steeds and rode on. The ploughman’s
mare went on at a trot, but Volgá’s horse had to gallop to try to get
up to the ploughman’s mare, and Volgá’s horse was left behind. Volgá
began to wave his cap, and he shouted:
“Stop, good ploughman. If that mare of yours were a horse, I would give
five hundred for that mare.”
The ploughman answered him:
“Stupid is Volgá, the son of Svyátoslav. I took the mare as a foal from
the dam, and I paid five hundred for that mare when she was a foal. If
the mare were a horse, she would be priceless!”
Said Volgá, the son of Svyátoslav:
“Here, good ploughman-farmer, by what name art thou called? What is thy
father’s name, and whence comest thou?”
And the ploughman answered him:
“Well now, Volgá, son of Svyátoslav, I plough the fields for rye, I
build my ricks, I stack my corn, I lead it home; when I’ve brought it
home, I grind the corn, I split wood, and I brew beer. When I have
brewed beer I give it to the peasants to drink. And the peasants call
me Young Mikúla, the villager’s son!”
III.
SVYATOGÓR.
There was once a great Russian Hero who was so big and strong that no
one could stand up against him, and he fancied that with his great
strength he could do anything.
One day he made up his mind to go out for a ride on the plain, the
great open plain in Russia, where one can ride for miles without seeing
anything but the long waving feather grass.
He saddled and bridled his good horse, got upon his back and rode out
on the open plain. In his heart he was glad; yes, he was glad—yes, and
overflowing with strength, and he said to himself:
“So strong do I feel that if I could find something to take hold of I
could lift up the whole world!”
He rode on a long way and presently saw another man on horseback ahead
of him. The man did not look round, but he let fall a small wallet such
as a man often carries across his shoulder or across his horse.
Svyatogór saw it lying on the road and tried to push it away with the
end of his whip; it did not move. He bent over and touched the wallet
with his fingers, but he could not move it. He stooped down from his
horse and grasped the wallet with his hand, but he could not lift it.
“Many years have I journeyed upon this earth,” said he, “but never have
I come upon so strange a thing. Such a wonder have I never seen. A
little wallet, a bag, that will not be pushed away, that cannot be
moved out of the way, and that cannot be lifted up!”
The hero got off his good horse, stooped and grasped the bag with both
hands; he lifted it a little higher than his knees, but he sank down
into the earth as far as his knees, and, not tears, but blood, ran down
his white face, and as he sank down he could not rise again.
The man who was riding in front turned round and rode back to him.
Svyatogór asked:
“What was in that wallet to make it so heavy?”
The man answered:
“The weight of the whole world.”
“Who art thou?” asked Svyatogór.
“I am Mikúla, the villager’s son.”
IV.
SVYATOGÓR AND ILYÁ OF MÚROM.
Near the town of Múrom in Russia there lived long ago a farmer called
Iván, with his wife and family. He and his wife and his sons and
daughters worked hard in the fields, all but one son, Ilyá, who was
always sitting at home. For thirty years Ilyá had been sitting at home
because he could use neither hands nor feet.
One day he was sitting by the window as usual, when two wandering
pilgrims came passing by. They were both too lame and old to work, but
they had made the pilgrimage to the Holy Land and now walked about the
country singing psalms and living upon the food and money that kind
folk gave them. They saw Ilyá at his window and called out:
“Ilyá! Ilyá of Múrom, open wide the gate for the pilgrims; let us into
thy house.”
Ilyá of Múrom answered:
“Well now, good pilgrims, I cannot open the gate, for I have been
sitting here these thirty years. I can use neither hands nor feet.”
Again the pilgrims called to him:
“O Ilyá, rise up upon thy nimble feet. Open wide the gates and let the
pilgrims in to visit thee in thy house.”
Ilyá stood up upon his feet, as though nothing ailed him. He opened
wide the gates and let the pilgrims into the house. They came in,
crossing themselves like good Russians, and bowed low when they were in
the room.
“Pray give us a drink, Ilyá,” they said.
Ilyá brought them a large bowl of honey drink; it held about a pailful
and a half, and he offered it to the pilgrims. They took it and drank,
and then offered it to Ilyá. He drank the bowlful and felt a rush of
warmth throughout his body, his hero’s heart burned within him.
“What dost thou feel, O Ilyá?” asked the pilgrims.
Ilyá bowed to the ground before the pilgrims and answered:
“I feel great strength within me.”
“Bring another drink, Ilyá,” said the pilgrims.
And Ilyá brought another cupful, and offered it to the pilgrims. They
offered it to Ilyá, and Ilyá emptied the cup without drawing breath.
“How dost thou feel now, Ilyá?” asked the pilgrims.
“I feel great strength, but only half as much as before,” answered he.
Then the wandering pilgrims said:
“O Ilyá, thou wilt be a great hero, and it is not written that thou
shouldst die in battle. Fight thou with all the heroes and the bold
warrior women of the plain, and defend thyself against them; only go
not out to fight with the hero Svyatogór, for with his strength he
could carry the earth; and fight not with the hero Samson, for he has
upon his head seven hairs of angels; also fight not with the race of
Mikúla, for damp Mother Earth loves him. Neither go after Volgá, son of
Svyátoslav; he will overcome thee, not by force, but by craft and
wisdom. Now rise up, O Ilyá, mount thy horse, and ride out into the
free and open plain. Buy the first foal thou seest with its dam, and in
three months’ time thou mayst put on the saddle. Feed him on millet and
maize; walk him about for three months, then keep him for three nights
in the garden, and roll the foal three mornings in the dew. Lead him to
a high fence, and when he will readily leap the fence both from this
side and the other, then ride him where thou wilt, he will carry thee.”
Then the pilgrims vanished, and presently Ilyá’s father and mother came
in from their work in the fields. His brother and sisters came in also
from their work, and his father and mother were glad indeed to see that
Ilyá could walk as if nothing had ever ailed him. Then from joy they
became sad again, and said:
“Thirty years has Ilyá been sitting on the bench as if he had neither
hands nor feet!”
And Ilyá said to his father:
“Where have you been working to-day, father?”
But his parents only said:
“Glory to Thee, O Lord! Thirty years has Ilyá been sitting by the
stove, and was he not without hands or feet?”
And Ilyá asked again:
“But you, father and mother, where have you been working on the farm?”
“Well, Ilyá,” answered his father, “we are working in the field by the
stream; we are clearing it for ploughing. It is the field three fields
from home.”
After they had dined Ilyá said to his parents:
“Now, dear father and mother, take me to the water meadow. Show me my
bit of work.”
And his parents took him down to the water meadow, and Ilyá said:
“Show me how far you will plough here,” and they showed him the
boundary and sat down to rest.
But Ilyá seized the brushwood by handfuls and cut it down by the roots
and threw it all on to a pile on the edge of the field. And he worked
so hard and so fast that the field was cleared in a quarter of the time
that it would have taken his father to finish the work. The father and
mother were asleep, for they were tired by the long morning’s work, but
they awoke when Ilyá came towards them, saying:
“Come, father and mother, is not your field well cleared for the
ploughing? Now I must say good-bye to home!”
Then Ilyá saddled his good horse and put on the bridle, and his father
and mother gave him their farewell blessing.
He rode away through the open plain till at last he came to a high
mountain. When he reached the high mountain he climbed up it and then
lay down to rest, and he slept for twelve days the sleep of a hero.
When he awoke he saw at a distance a white tent standing beneath a
tree. He mounted his horse again and rode a long way through the plain
towards the white tent. This tent stood beneath the shade of a great
green oak tree upon another hill. In the tent was a great bed seventy
feet long and forty-two feet wide. Ilyá tied up his horse to the oak
tree and lay down upon that hero’s bed, and went to sleep. Now the
sleep of a hero is sound, and Ilyá slept for three days and three
nights.
On the third day his good horse heard a terrible noise from the north.
Mother Earth rocked, the dark forest shook, the rivers overflowed their
steep banks. Ilyá’s good horse struck the ground with his hoofs, but
could not waken Ilyá of Múrom. At last the horse spoke to him in a
human voice:
“O Ilyá of Múrom! thou knowest not that danger is near thee. The hero
Svyatogór is coming to his tent. Let me loose that I may flee across
the open plain, and thou mayest climb up into the green oak tree.”
Ilyá untied his horse’s bridle and set the good horse free to gallop
across the plain; and then he climbed up into the oak tree. From the
oak tree he saw the hero Svyatogór coming on his great horse. The hero
was taller than a standing forest, and his head nearly touched a moving
cloud. On his shoulder he carried a great chest of glass. He came down
from his horse and placed the chest on the ground and opened it with a
golden key. Out of the chest came the hero’s wife. So lovely was she
that no such beauty had ever been seen or heard of in the whole white
world.
Very tall she was and elegant, and delicately did she walk. She had
eyes like the eyes of a bright falcon, eyebrows of black sable, and
waving black hair. As soon as she came out of the great chest she set
to work to lay the table for her husband’s dinner. She spread a bright
chequered table-cloth and took from the chest a bottle of honey drink
and a cup and sweetmeats full many, and placed them upon the chequered
cloth.
After he had eaten and drunk, Svyatogór lay down to sleep on his great
bed in the tent, but his wife went to walk on the open plain. She
caught sight of Ilyá in the oak tree and would have him to come down
and talk to her. When her husband suddenly woke up she put Ilyá into
her husband’s pocket to hide him. Svyatogór stood up and put his wife
back into the glass chest and lifted it on to his shoulder again. He
called up his horse and got upon his back and set off to ride, but soon
the horse stumbled, and Svyatogór was vexed and asked why he was
stumbling.
“This morning,” said the horse in a human voice, “I was carrying a hero
and a hero’s wife, but now I am carrying two heroes as well as the
hero’s wife.”
Svyatogór looked round and saw no one, but putting his hand into his
pocket there he found Ilyá. The hero asked Ilyá whence he came. Ilyá
told him the truth, and Svyatogór was exceeding angry and killed his
wife for trying to deceive him.
That Ilyá had dealt straightly pleased the hero Svyatogór, and there
arose a great friendship between them. Svyatogór exchanged crosses with
Ilyá in token of friendship, and called Ilyá his younger brother. He
taught Ilyá all the handling of weapons, how to use his mace and his
bow and arrows and spear in fighting, and also all the ways of travel
of the heroes. Ilyá had called up his good horse from the plain by a
loud whistle, and the two heroes, the old Svyatogór and the younger
Ilyá of Múrom, rode on together through the open plain till they came
to a great tomb built of stone. Upon the tomb was written these words:—
“He who is fated to lie in this tomb will exactly fit it.”
Ilyá lay down in the tomb, but it was too long and too wide for him,
and at once he sprang out of it.
The giant hero Svyatogór lay down there, and the tomb just fitted him.
“The tomb is just made for me,” said the hero. “Take the lid of the
tomb, Ilyá, and cover me.”
Ilyá answered:
“I will not take up the lid of the tomb, O, my big brother. I will not
cover thee. This is a foolish jest of thine—thou wilt bury thyself.”
And Svyatogór took the lid and covered himself up in the tomb, but when
he tried to lift the lid off again he could not move it. He struggled
and strove to lift it, but could do nothing. Then he called to Ilyá:
“O, my young brother! It seems that my fate has found me. I cannot
raise the lid. Try thou to lift it.”
Ilyá of Múrom tried hard to raise the cover, but what could he do?
Then said Svyatogór the hero:
“Take my sword of steel and strike across the lid of the tomb.”
Ilyá tried to lift Svyatogór’s great sword, but could not—it was too
heavy for him—and he had to say:
“I cannot lift thy sword, O, my brother!”
Svyatogór then called to him:
“My little brother, bend down to this small chink in the tomb, and I
will breathe upon thee the spirit of a hero.”
Ilyá bent down to the chink and Svyatogór the hero breathed upon him
his hero’s spirit. Ilyá felt that his former strength had become three
times as great as before. He took the sword of steel and struck a blow
across the lid of the tomb. By this blow sparks were struck, but on the
place where he struck the lid there grew a band of iron.
The hero Svyatogór called to him again, saying:
“My young brother, I am suffocating; try again to strike the lid
lengthwise.”
Ilyá struck the cover lengthwise with the great sword, but again where
he struck there grew a band of iron.
Then the hero Svyatogór spoke to him, saying:
“My young brother, I am suffocating. Stoop down to the chink and I will
breathe upon thee and will give thee all my great strength.”
But Ilyá answered:
“If I had all thy strength, O, my big brother, Earth would not bear
me.”
Then said the hero Svyatogór:
“Thou hast done well, little brother, in that thou didst not do my last
bidding. I should have breathed upon thee with the breath of the dead,
and thou wouldst have lain dead by me. Now, farewell; take my sword of
steel, but lead my good horse to my tomb; none but I must own that
horse.”
Then came from the chink the last breath of the hero. Ilyá said
farewell to his friend, girded on his sword of steel, but left the
hero’s horse by his master’s tomb, and he rode away into the free and
open plain.
V.
ILYÁ OF MÚROM AND NIGHTINGALE THE ROBBER.
The green oak bows not down to the earth,
Leaves of paper do not grow.
Ilyá had made up his mind to go to Kiev town to seek service with the
gracious Prince Vladímir, but before setting out on that long journey
he wished to see his father again and ask for his blessing, so he rode
back to Múrom and to his old home. He found his old father there and
greeted him, saying:
“Come thou, my own dear Father! I am here to ask for thy blessing. I go
to glorious, royal Kiev town to pray at the sanctuary of Kiev and to
pledge myself to Vladímir the Prince, to serve him in faith and in
truth, and to uphold the Christian faith.”
The old farmer Iván blessed Ilyá and said:
“I give thee my blessing for the good work, but for evil work no
blessing I give. Go thou on the right road, and do no harm to any woman
whether she be Christian or Tartar.”
Ilyá of Múrom bowed to the earth before his father, and said farewell
to his mother and his sisters and brothers, and then he mounted his
good horse and rode through the open plain. With his whip he struck his
horse on the curved hind quarter and his restive steed was wroth and
suddenly sprang from the earth and bounded higher than an upright tree,
almost as high as a moving cloud. At the first bound he passed twelve
miles, at the second bound he came to a well. By the well Ilyá cut down
a green oak tree, and beside the well he built a small chapel, and upon
the chapel he wrote his name,
ILYÁ OF MÚROM, SON OF IVÁN,
so that if some strong and mighty hero should ride that way, he should
know the name of the builder of that chapel.
At the third bound Ilyá’s horse brought him to the town of Chérnigov.
Near Chérnigov there stood a countless host of Tartars, and at their
head were three Princes, each with the strength of forty thousand. On
seeing this vast horde the hero’s heart grew hot within him, and he
could not control his longing to fight. His heart was filled with
fires, and it burned too as if scorched by frost. Then he spoke and
said:
“I desire not to go against my father’s wish, or knowingly to disregard
his command.”
Then he took in his hand his battle-sword and taught it to take a walk
through the army. Where he turned, it opened out a street, and when he
turned round there was a great open space. Ilyá made his way to the
three princes, and spoke thus to them:
“Come, my three king’s sons! Shall I take you away as prisoners, or
shall I cut off your warlike heads? If I take you away as prisoners, I
must travel over roads that I know not and must carry bread, but if I
take off your heads the kingly race will be destroyed. If you will go
home to your own country, you will spread such report of me that it
will be known all over Russia, and you will tell it everywhere that in
Holy Russia there are strong and mighty heroes.”
The Governor of Chérnigov saw Ilyá and said:
“This Lord has vanquished our tyrant and cleansed our glorious city of
Chérnigov,” and he spoke to his princes and nobles and said:
“Go ye and call in this goodly hero to eat bread and salt with me.”
And the princes and nobles came forth to greet Ilyá of Múrom and said:
“Come now, thou stalwart and goodly hero, and tell us by what honoured
name thou art called, and what is thy renowned father’s name?”
“They call me by the name of Ilyá, but I am honoured as the son of
Iván,” said Ilyá.
“Come, Ilyá of Múrom,” said the princes and nobles, “come to our
Governor, he sends us to invite thee to eat bread and salt with him.”
But Ilyá wished to be on the way to Kiev and answered with little
ceremony:
“I will not come to your Governor; I wish not to eat bread and salt
with him. Show me the straight road to glorious, royal Kiev town.”
So they had to let him go on his way, and they showed him the straight
road to Kiev across the open plain.
Farther, farther upon on the open plain waves the feather grass in the
breeze, and there upon the open plain, among old folk, mothers and men,
rode the Old Cossack, Ilyá of Múrom, and the horse he rode was like a
fierce wild beast and he himself like a bright falcon.
Now the old hero carried no money, only seven thousand golden ducats
had he with him, and of small money, forty thousand pieces. And the
horse the hero rode was priceless. Why was the hero’s horse priceless?
Because these was no price for the horse.
When he came to a river he looked for no ford. Now the river was a full
mile wide, but the good steed leapt from bank to bank. Then Ilyá saw a
village near by and the villagers—brigands, as we say in our Russian
tongue—rode out after the hero. They swept round him and tried to rob
him, tried to part him from his life and soul.
Then said Ilyá of Múrom, son of Iván:
“Oh come, brother villagers, no reason have ye to kill an old man like
me. And ye shall take nothing from the old man.”
He took from his saddle his tough bow and brought out from his quiver a
sharp arrow. He bent his bow and fitted the arrow to the silken string,
and shot—not at the village folk—brigands though they were—for he would
have been loth to slay them, but he shot at the green oak tree; and the
bowstring sang in the tough bow, the villagers fell from their horses,
the arrow struck the crackling green oak tree and shattered the oak
into chips and shavings. By this heroic deed of thunder the brigand
villagers were filled with fear, and for five hours they lay without
sense, and Ilyá made sport of them.
“Come, come, good youths, you village brigands! Why do you lie half the
night there upon the damp earth? Why go off to sleep and sleep half the
night? On my way here I passed many people both on horseback and on
foot; you have let many a good chance escape you.”
The goodly youths stood up upon their nimble feet and threw themselves
at Ilyá’s feet and said:
“O thou brave hero! come and join our band and be thou our chieftain.”
The good hero, Ilyá of Múrom, answered them:
“I desire not to join your band; I am on my way to Kiev town, to
Vladímir the Prince, to help him, and to fight and defend him.”
The bold hero rode on through the open plain till he came to a pillar
of white oak. On the pillar this writing was written:
“To ride straight on—only five hundred miles,
But making a round—seven hundred miles.”
Ilyá looked at this writing and said:
“If I ride straight, I shall cease to live; this way I can neither ride
nor walk nor fly. Nightingale the Robber sits in his nest upon the
seven oaks, and the robber-dog will seize me at the seventh mile.”
Ilyá stood still to think what he should do.
“The straight horse-road is broken up, the little bridge of white hazel
is broken down. It would be no honour to me, or glory to my knighthood
to ride by that roundabout way. It is better to ride by the straight
road.”
At once he got down from his good steed; with one hand he led his
horse, while with the other he put planks across the stream for a
bridge—that bridge of white hazel.
The straight road he mended, and he rode on till he came near the clump
of seven oak trees upon which Nightingale the Robber had built his
great nest.
Nightingale the Robber was sitting upon his nest of twisted boughs upon
the seven oak trees, and Ilyá rode up to the oak trees. The robber-dog
tried to seize him just as he had come to the seventh mile, and
Nightingale the Robber roared like a wild aurochs, and the villain
whistled like a nightingale, and the robber-dog howled like a dog.
And at these sounds Ilyá’s good steed fell upon his knees with terror
at the roar of the aurochs, and the whistle of the nightingale, and the
dog-like howling of the robber-dog. Ilyá struck his horse between the
ears and also struck him upon the flank, saying:
“Oh thou food for wolves, thou grass-bag! Hast thou never heard the
roar of an aurochs? and hast thou never heard the whistle of a
nightingale, and the howling of a robber-dog?”
The hero did not sit still but quickly bent his strong bow, took a
sharp arrow from his quiver and shot the arrow at Nightingale the
Robber as he sat there in his nest on the seven oak trees. The arrow
hit Nightingale the Robber in the right eye and came out at the left
ear, and Nightingale the Robber fell from his nest down upon the damp
earth.
Then Ilyá took Nightingale the Robber and tied him to his Circassian
stirrup and made him walk beside the horse towards Kiev town. Presently
they came to the house of Nightingale the Robber. It was a big house in
a large yard, and round the yard was a high iron fence with spikes on
the railings, and upon every spike was set the head of a hero; for
Nightingale the Robber killed all that passed that way.
Nightingale’s children caught sight of their father and called out:
“Look! father is bringing a man.”
And Nightingale’s young wife looked from the window and said:
“A strange man is carrying off your dear father.”
And she called to some men who were idling about the yard and said:
“Will you not take him from this wanderer on the road? Is your dear
father nothing to you? He has fallen into the power of this horseman.
It would be better to take a cup full of red gold, and another of pure
silver, and a third cup full of round pearls. Go now and offer them as
a ransom. Speak to this horseman and persuade him. Coax him and talk
him over so that he may release Nightingale.”
And they rushed into the house, and Nightingale’s wife took the keys
and went down to the deep vaults where all Nightingale’s treasure was
stored, and they filled a cup full of red gold, and another with pure
silver, and a third with round pearls, and they went out to Ilyá with
flattering words and tried to coax him and talk him over, saying:
“O thou bold hero, good youth, give us back our dear father and we will
give thee gold and silver!”
Ilyá received these messengers and talked to them thus:
“Look here, brothers, you who work for gain, I will not give you your
dear father; he would only turn brigand again and rob the travellers
passing this way.”
And Ilyá rode on to Kiev town with Nightingale the Robber by his side,
still tied to the stirrup so that he could not run away. Ilyá hurried
on, for he would fain be at Kiev in time for the service on Easter
morning; but he could not get there in time. When he reached Kiev he
rode into the wide courtyard of the Prince’s palace. He tied up his
good horse to the gold ring on a carven pillar, but did not take off
either the saddle or the bridle, and he left Nightingale the Robber
still tied to the stirrup.
Then Ilyá walked quickly through the new entrance, through the guard
room and into the hall. There he crossed himself like a good Russian,
and made his bow as he came into the hall. The steward of Vladímir the
Prince he greeted, and asked him:
“Where is the Prince Vladímir of royal Kiev?”
“Prince Vladímir has gone to Mass,” was the answer.
Ilyá sat down on the plain wooden bench to wait, and in a short time
Prince Vladímir came in with his nobles and attendants from the Easter
service.
Then they all gave greetings one to the other, and each hero greeted
the other, and Vladímir spoke to Ilyá and said:
“All hail to thee, brave youth, I know not thy name or thy father’s
name. Art thou a Tsar or a Tsar’s son? Art thou a king or a king’s
son?”
Ilyá answered and said:
“I am from the town of Múrom. I am the old Cossack, Ilyá of Múrom.”
And they all sat down at the table to eat bread, and they carved and
ate white swans, and Ilyá began to talk and to boast of what he had
done.
“I am a brave hero, I have been riding through the eve of Easter Day. I
would fain have been in time for the Easter Mass, but I could not get
here in time for Easter morning, for the hour was past. I rode here by
the straight road, and when I reached the green oaks, Nightingale the
Robber was sitting upon the seven oaks. That ill-doer used to seize
upon every one for seven miles round. When I came near the oaks
Nightingale roared like a wild aurochs, and the villain whistled like a
nightingale, and the robber-dog howled like a dog. Then my good horse
fell upon his knees with fear, but I took out my tough bow, set the
sharp arrow, and shot Nightingale the Robber. I shot the villain
through the right eye, and the arrow came out by the left ear. Then
Nightingale fell upon the damp earth, and I took the robber and
fastened him to my Circassian stirrup and brought the villain with me.”
Vladímir the Prince looked at Ilyá and said:
“It seems to me, my bold youth, that there must be a big tavern in this
country! Hast thou been drinking strong drink? Art thou not making
empty boasts, good hero?”
Ilyá’s wrath grew hot within him, and angrily he said:
“Thou it is who art the fool, O Prince of royal Kiev! I have
Nightingale the Robber here, tied to my Circassian stirrup.”
Then all sprang up and rushed out, hurried and stumbled against each
other as they ran out to see Nightingale the Robber. They all spoke and
shouted together and called out to him:
“O thou Nightingale the Robber! Roar, O Nightingale, like an aurochs!
Thou evil doer, whistle like a nightingale! O thou robber-dog, howl
like a dog!”
Nightingale the Robber looked up and said:
“With you I neither eat nor drink, and I will not obey you.”
At once the crowd of courtiers turned back to the hall and came to Ilyá
of Múrom, bowed low to him and craved their boon: