MYTHOLOGICAL.
_Miscellaneous Impersonifications._
Somewhat resembling the picture usually drawn of the supernatural
Witch in the Skazkas, is that which some of them offer of a
personification of evil called Likho.[224] The following story,
belonging to the familiar Polyphemus-cycle, will serve to convey an
idea of this baleful being, who in it takes a female form.
ONE-EYED LIKHO.[224]
Once upon a time there was a smith. "Well now," says
he, "I've never set eyes on any harm. They say there's evil
(_likho_)[225] in the world. I'll go and seek me out evil." So he
went and had a goodish drink, and then started in search of
evil. On the way he met a tailor.
"Good day," says the Tailor.
"Good day."
"Where are you going?" asks the Tailor.
"Well, brother, everybody says there is evil on earth. But
I've never seen any, so I'm going to look for it."
"Let's go together. I'm a thriving man, too, and have seen
no evil; let's go and have a hunt for some."
Well, they walked and walked till they reached a dark, dense
forest. In it they found a small path, and along it they went--along
the narrow path. They walked and walked along the path,
and at last they saw a large cottage standing before them. It
was night; there was nowhere else to go to. "Look here,"
they say, "let's go into that cottage." In they went. There
was nobody there. All looked bare and squalid. They sat
down, and remained sitting there some time. Presently in
came a tall woman, lank, crooked, with only one eye.
"Ah!" says she, "I've visitors. Good day to you."
"Good day, grandmother. We've come to pass the night
under your roof."
"Very good: I shall have something to sup on."
Thereupon they were greatly terrified. As for her, she went
and fetched a great heap of firewood. She brought in the heap
of firewood, flung it into the stove, and set it alight. Then she
went up to the two men, took one of them--the Tailor--cut his
throat, trussed him, and put him in the oven.
Meantime the Smith sat there, thinking, "What's to be done?
how's one to save one's life?" When she had finished her
supper, the Smith looked at the oven and said:
"Granny, I'm a smith."
"What can you forge?"
"Anything."
"Make me an eye."
"Good," says he; "but have you got any cord? I must
tie you up, or you won't keep still. I shall have to hammer
your eye in."
She went and fetched two cords, one rather thin, the other
thicker. Well, he bound her with the one which was thinnest.
"Now then, granny," says he, "just turn over." She turned
over, and broke the cord.
"That won't do, granny," says he; "that cord doesn't suit."
He took the thick cord, and tied her up with it famously.
"Now then, turn away, granny!" says he. She turned and
twisted, but didn't break the cord. Then he took an awl, heated
it red-hot, and applied it to her eye--her sound one. At
the same moment he caught up a hatchet, and hammered away
vigorously with the back of it at the awl. She struggled like
anything, and broke the cord; then she went and sat down at
the threshold.
"Ah, villain!" she cried. "You sha'n't get away from me
now!"
He saw that he was in an evil plight again. There he sat,
thinking, "What's to be done?"
By-and-by the sheep came home from afield, and she drove
them into her cottage for the night. Well, the Smith spent the
night there, too. In the morning she got up to let the sheep
out. He took his sheep-skin pelisse and turned it inside out
so that the wool was outside, passed his arms through its
sleeves, and pulled it well over him, and crept up to her as
he had been a sheep. She let the flock go out one at a time,
catching hold of each by the wool on its back, and shoving it
out. Well, he came creeping up like the rest. She caught
hold of the wool on his back and shoved him out. But as
soon as she had shoved him out, he stood up and cried:
"Farewell, Likho! I have suffered much evil (_likha_) at your
hands. Now you can do nothing to me."
"Wait a bit!" she replied; "you shall endure still more.
You haven't escaped yet!"
The Smith went back through the forest along the narrow
path. Presently he saw a golden-handled hatchet sticking in a
tree, and he felt a strong desire to seize it. Well, he did seize
that hatchet, and his hand stuck fast to it. What was to be
done? There was no freeing it anyhow. He gave a look behind
him. There was Likho coming after him, and crying:
"There you are, villain! you've not got off yet!"
The Smith pulled out a small knife which he had in his
pocket, and began hacking away at his hand--cut it clean off
and ran away. When he reached his village, he immediately
began to show his arm as a proof that he had seen Likho at last.
"Look," says he, "that's the state of things. Here am I,"
says he, "without my hand. And as for my comrade, she's
eaten him up entirely."
In a Little-Russian variant of this story, quoted by Afanasief,[226]
(III. p. 137) a man, who often hears evil or misfortune (_likho_)
spoken of, sets out in search of it. One day he sees an iron castle
beside a wood, surrounded by a palisade of human bones tipped with
skulls. He knocks at the door, and a voice cries "What do you want?"
"I want evil," he replies. "That's what I'm looking for." "Evil is
here," cries the voice. So in he goes, and finds a huge, blind giant
lying within, stretched on a couch of human bones. "This was Likho
(Evil)," says the story, "and around him were seated Zluidni (Woes)
and Zhurba (Care)." Finding that Likho intends to eat him, the
misfortune-seeker takes to flight. Likho hears the iron doors creak,
and cries to them to stop the fugitive. "But he had already passed out
of doors. Only he lost his right hand, on which the door slammed:
whereupon he exclaimed 'Here's misfortune, sure enough!'"
The opening of the story of Likho is somewhat similar to that of one
of the tales of Indian origin translated by Stanislas Julien from the
Chinese. Once upon a time, we are told, a king grew weary of good
fortune, so he sent messengers in search of misfortune. It a certain
god sold to them, in the shape of a sow which devoured a peck of
needles a day. The king's agents took to worrying his subjects for
needles, and brought such trouble upon the whole kingdom, that his
ministers entreated him to have the beast put to death. He consented,
and it was led forth to die. But neither knife nor axe could penetrate
its hide, so they tried to consume it with fire. After a time it
became red-hot, and then it leaped out from amid the flames, and
dashed about setting fire to all manner of things. The conflagration
spread and was followed by famine, so that the whole land was involved
in ruin.[227]
The Polyphemus story has been so thoroughly investigated by Wilhelm
Grimm,[228] that there is no occasion to dwell upon it here. But the
following statement is worthy of notice. The inhabitants of the
Ukraine are said still to retain some recollection of the one-eyed
nation of Arimaspians of whom Herodotus speaks (Bk. IV. c. 27).
According to them the One-Eyes[229] dwell somewhere far off, beyond
the seas. The Tartars, during their inroads, used to burn towns and
villages, kill old folks and infants, and carry off young people. The
plumpest of these they used to sell to cannibals who had but one eye
apiece, situated in the forehead. And the cannibals would drive away
their purchases, like sheep, to their own land, and there fatten them
up, kill them, and eat them. A similar tradition, says Afanasief
(VIII. 260) exists also among the Ural Cossacks.
While on the subject of eyes, it may be remarked that the story of
"One-Eye, Two-Eyes, and Three-Eyes," rendered so familiar to juvenile
English readers by translations from the German,[230] appears among
the Russian tales in a very archaic and heathenish form. Here is the
outline of a version of it found in the Archangel Government.[231]
There once was a Princess Marya, whose stepmother had two daughters,
one of whom was three-eyed. Now her stepmother hated Marya, and used
to send her out, with nothing to eat but a dry crust, to tend a cow
all day. But "the princess went into the open field, bowed down before
the cow's right foot, and got plenty to eat and to drink, and fine
clothes to put on; all day long she followed the cow about dressed
like a great lady--when the day came to a close, she again bowed down
to the cow's right foot, took off her fine clothes, went home and laid
on the table the crust of bread she had brought back with her."
Wondering at this, her stepmother sent her two-eyed stepsister to
watch her. But Marya uttered the words "Sleep, sleep, one-eye! sleep,
sleep, other eye!" till the watcher fell asleep. Then the three-eyed
sister was sent, and Marya by the same spell sent two of her eyes to
sleep, but forgot the third. So all was found out, and the stepmother
had the cow killed. But Marya persuaded her father, who acted as the
butcher, to give her a part of the cow's entrails, which she buried
near the threshold; and from it there sprang a bush covered with
berries, and haunted by birds which sang "songs royal and rustic."
After a time a Prince Ivan heard of Marya, so he came riding up, and
offered to marry whichever of the three princesses could fill with
berries from the bush a bowl which he brought with him. The
stepmother's daughters tried to do so, but the birds almost pecked
their eyes out, and would not let them gather the berries. Then
Marya's turn came, and when she approached the bush the birds picked
the berries for her, and filled the bowl in a trice. So she married
the prince, and lived happily with him for a time.
But after she had borne him a son, she went to pay a visit to her
father, and her stepmother availed herself of the opportunity to turn
her into a goose, and to set her own two-eyed daughter in her place.
So Prince Ivan returned home with a false bride. But a certain old man
took out the infant prince afield, and there his mother appeared,
flung aside her feather-covering, and suckled the babe, exclaiming the
while with tears--
"To-day I suckle thee, to-morrow I shall suckle thee, but on the third
day I shall fly away beyond the dark forests, beyond the high
mountains!"
This occurred on two successive days, but on the second occasion
Prince Ivan was a witness of what took place, and he seized her
feather-dress and burnt it, and then laid hold of her. She first
turned into a frog, then assumed various reptile forms, and finally
became a spindle. This he broke in two, and flung one half in front
and the other behind him, and the spell was broken along with it. So
he regained his wife and went home with her. But as for the false
wife, he took a gun and shot her.
We will now return to the stories in which Harm or Misery figures as
a living agent. To Likho is always attributed a character of
unmitigated malevolence, and a similar disposition is ascribed by the
songs of the people to another being in whom the idea of misfortune is
personified. This is _Gore_, or Woe, who is frequently represented in
popular poetry--sometimes under the name of _Beda_ or Misery--as
chasing and ultimately destroying the unhappy victims of destiny. In
vain do the fugitives attempt to escape. If they enter the dark
forest, Woe follows them there; if they rush to the pot-house, there
they find Woe sitting; when they seek refuge in the grave, Woe stands
over it with a shovel and rejoices.[232] In the following story,
however, the gloomy figure of Woe has been painted in a less than
usually sombre tone.
WOE.[233]
In a certain village there lived two peasants, two brothers: one
of them poor, the other rich. The rich one went away to live
in a town, built himself a large house, and enrolled himself
among the traders. Meanwhile the poor man sometimes had
not so much as a morsel of bread, and his children--each one
smaller than the other--were crying and begging for food.
From morning till night the peasant would struggle, like a fish
trying to break through ice, but nothing came of it all. At last
one day he said to his wife:
"Suppose I go to town, and ask my brother whether he won't
do something to help us."
So he went to the rich man and said:
"Ah, brother mine! do help me a bit in my trouble. My
wife and children are without bread. They have to go whole
days without eating."
"Work for me this week, then I'll help you," said his brother.
What was there to be done! The poor man betook himself
to work, swept out the yard, cleaned the horses, fetched water,
chopped firewood.
At the end of the week the rich man gave him a loaf of bread,
and says:
"There's for your work!"
"Thank you all the same," dolefully said the poor man,
making his bow and preparing to go home.
"Stop a bit! come and dine with me to-morrow, and bring
your wife, too: to-morrow is my name-day, you know."
"Ah, brother! how can I? you know very well you'll
be having merchants coming to you in boots and pelisses,
but I have to go about in bast shoes and a miserable old grey
caftan."
"No matter, come! there will be room even for you."
"Very well, brother! I'll come."
The poor man returned home, gave his wife the loaf, and
said:
"Listen, wife! we're invited to a party to-morrow."
"What do you mean by a party? who's invited us?"
"My brother! he keeps his name-day to-morrow."
"Well, well! let's go."
Next day they got up and went to the town, came to the rich
man's house, offered him their congratulations, and sat down on
a bench. A number of the name-day guests were already seated
at table. All of these the host feasted gloriously, but he forgot
even so much as to think of his poor brother and his wife; not
a thing did he offer them; they had to sit and merely look on
at the others eating and drinking.
The dinner came to an end; the guests rose from table,
and expressed their thanks to their host and hostess; and the
poor man did likewise, got up from his bench, and bowed down
to his girdle before his brother. The guests drove off homewards,
full of drink and merriment, shouting, singing songs. But
the poor man had to walk back empty.
"Suppose we sing a song, too," he says to his wife.
"What a fool you are!" says she, "people sing because
they've made a good meal and had lots to drink; but why ever
should you dream of singing?"
"Well, at all events, I've been at my brother's name-day
party. I'm ashamed of trudging along without singing. If I
sing, everybody will think I've been feasted like the rest."
"Sing away, then, if you like; but I won't!"
The peasant began a song. Presently he heard a voice
joining in it. So he stopped, and asked his wife:
"Is it you that's helping me to sing with that thin little
voice?"
"What are you thinking about! I never even dreamt of
such a thing."
"Who is it, then?"
"I don't know," said the woman. "But now, sing away,
and I'll listen."
He began his song again. There was only one person singing,
yet two voices could be heard. So he stopped, and asked:
"Woe, is that you that's helping me to sing?"
"Yes, master," answered Woe: "it's I that's helping you."
"Well then, Woe! let's all go on together."
"Very good, master! I'll never depart from you now."
When the peasant got home, Woe bid him to the _kabak_ or
pot-house.
"I've no money," says the man.
"Out upon you, moujik! What do you want money for? why
you've got on a sheep-skin jacket. What's the good of that? It
will soon be summer; anyhow you won't be wanting to wear it.
Off with the jacket, and to the pot-house we'll go."
So the peasant went with Woe into the pot-house, and they
drank the sheep-skin away.
The next day Woe began groaning--its head ached from
yesterday's drinking--and again bade the master of the house
have a drink.
"I've no money," said the peasant.
"What do we want money for? Take the cart and the
sledge; we've plenty without them."
There was nothing to be done; the peasant could not shake
himself free from Woe. So he took the cart and the sledge,
dragged them to the pot-house, and there he and Woe drank them
away. Next morning Woe began groaning more than ever, and
invited the master of the house to go and drink off the effects
of the debauch. This time the peasant drank away his plough
and his harrow.
A month hadn't passed before he had got rid of everything
he possessed. Even his very cottage he pledged to a neighbor,
and the money he got that way he took to the pot-house.
Yet another time did Woe come close beside him and say:
"Let us go, let us go to the pot-house!"
"No, no, Woe! it's all very well, but there's nothing more
to be squeezed out."
"How can you say that? Your wife has got two petticoats:
leave her one, but the other we must turn into drink."
The peasant took the petticoat, drank it away, and said to
himself:
"We're cleaned out at last, my wife as well as myself. Not
a stick nor a stone is left!"
Next morning Woe saw, on waking, that there was nothing
more to be got out of the peasant, so it said:
"Master!"
"Well, Woe?"
"Why, look here. Go to your neighbor, and ask him to
lend you a cart and a pair of oxen."
The peasant went to the neighbor's.
"Be so good as to lend me a cart and a pair of oxen for a
short time," says he. "I'll do a week's work for you in return."
"But what do you want them for?"
"To go to the forest for firewood."
"Well then, take them; only don't overburthen them."
"How could you think of such a thing, kind friend!"
So he brought the pair of oxen, and Woe got into the cart
with him, and away he drove into the open plain.
"Master!" asks Woe, "do you know the big stone on this
plain?"
"Of course I do."
"Well then if you know it, drive straight up to it."
They came to the place where it was, stopped, and got out
of the cart. Woe told the peasant to lift the stone; the peasant
lifted it, Woe helping him. Well, when they had lifted it there
was a pit underneath chock full of gold.
"Now then, what are you staring at!" said Woe to the
peasant, "be quick and pitch it into the cart."
The peasant set to work and filled the cart with gold;
cleared the pit to the very last ducat. When he saw there was
nothing more left:
"Just give a look, Woe," he said; "isn't there some money
left in there?"
"Where?" said Woe, bending down; "I can't see a thing."
"Why there; something is shining in yon corner!"
"No, I can't see anything," said Woe.
"Get into the pit; you'll see it then."
Woe jumped in: no sooner had it got there than the peasant
closed the mouth of the pit with the stone.
"Things will be much better like that," said the peasant:
"if I were to take you home with me, O Woeful Woe, sooner
or later you'd be sure to drink away all this money, too!"
The peasant got home, shovelled the money into his cellar,
took the oxen back to his neighbor, and set about considering
how he should manage. It ended in his buying a wood, building
a large homestead, and becoming twice as rich as his
brother.
After a time he went into the town to invite his brother and
sister-in-law to spend his name-day with him.
"What an idea!" said his rich brother: "you haven't a
thing to eat, and yet you ask people to spend your name-day
with you!"
"Well, there was a time when I had nothing to eat, but
now, thank God! I've as much as you. If you come, you'll see
for yourself."
"So be it! I'll come," said his brother.
Next day the rich brother and his wife got ready, and went
to the name-day party. They could see that the former beggar
had got a new house, a lofty one, such as few merchants had!
And the moujik treated them hospitably, regaled them with all
sorts of dishes, gave them all sorts of meads and spirits to
drink. At length the rich man asked his brother:
"Do tell me by what good luck have you grown rich?"
The peasant made a clean breast of everything--how Woe
the Woeful had attached itself to him, how he and Woe had
drunk away all that he had, to the very last thread, so that the
only thing that was left him was the soul in his body. How
Woe showed him a treasure in the open field, how he took that
treasure, and freed himself from Woe into the bargain. The
rich man became envious.
"Suppose I go to the open field," thinks he, "and lift up the
stone and let Woe out. Of a surety it will utterly destroy my
brother, and then he will no longer brag of his riches before me!"
So he sent his wife home, but he himself hastened into the
plain. When he came to the big stone, he pushed it aside, and
knelt down to see what was under it. Before he had managed
to get his head down low enough, Woe had already leapt out
and seated itself on his shoulders.
"Ha!" it cried, "you wanted to starve me to death in here!
No, no! Now will I never on any account depart from you."
"Only hear me, Woe!" said the merchant: "it wasn't I at
all who put you under the stone."
"Who was it then, if it wasn't you?"
"It was my brother put you there, but I came on purpose to
let you out."
"No, no! that's a lie. You tricked me once; you shan't
trick me a second time!"
Woe gripped the rich merchant tight by the neck; the man
had to carry it home, and there everything began to go wrong
with him. From the very first day Woe began again to play
its usual part, every day it called on the merchant to renew his
drinking.[234] Many were the valuables which went in the pot-house.
"Impossible to go on living like this!" says the merchant to
himself. "Surely I've made sport enough for Woe! It's time
to get rid of it--but how?"
He thought and thought, and hit on an idea. Going into the
large yard, he cut two oaken wedges, took a new wheel, and
drove a wedge firmly into one end of its axle-box. Then he
went to where Woe was:
"Hallo, Woe! why are you always idly sprawling there?"
"Why, what is there left for me to do?"
"What is there to do! let's go into the yard and play at
hide-and-seek."
Woe liked the idea. Out they went into the yard. First
the merchant hid himself; Woe found him immediately. Then
it was Woe's turn to hide.
"Now then," says Woe, "you won't find me in a hurry!
There isn't a chink I can't get into!"
"Get along with you!" answered the merchant. "Why you
couldn't creep into that wheel there, and yet you talk about
chinks!"
"I can't creep into that wheel? See if I don't go clean out
of sight in it!"
Woe slipped into the wheel; the merchant caught up the
oaken wedge, and drove it into the axle-box from the other
side. Then he seized the wheel and flung it, with Woe in it,
into the river. Woe was drowned, and the merchant began to
live again as he had been wont to do of old.
In a variant of this story found in the Tula Government we have, in
the place of woe, _Nuzhda_, or Need. The poor brother and his wife are
returning home disconsolately from a party given by the rich brother
in honor of his son's marriage. But a draught of water which they take
by the way gets into their heads, and they set up a song.
"There are two of them singing (says the story), but three voices
prolong the strain.
"'Whoever is that?' say they.
"'Thy Need,' answers some one or other.
"'What, my good mother Need!'
"So saying the man laid hold of her, and took her down from his
shoulders--for she was sitting on them. And he found a horse's head
and put her inside it, and flung it into a swamp. And afterwards he
began to lead a new life--impossible to live more prosperously."
Of course the rich brother becomes envious and takes Need out of the
swamp, whereupon she clings to him so tightly that he cannot get rid
of her, and he becomes utterly ruined.[235]
In another story, from the Viatka Government, the poor man is invited
to a house-warming at his rich brother's, but he has no present to
take with him.
"We might borrow, but who would trust us?" says he.
"Why there's Need!" replies his wife with a bitter laugh. "Perhaps
she'll make us a present. Surely we've lived on friendly terms with
her for an age!"
"Take the feast-day sarafan,"[236] cries Need from behind the stove;
"and with the money you get for it buy a ham and take it to your
brother's."
"Have you been living here long, Need?" asks the moujik.
"Yes, ever since you and your brother separated."
"And have you been comfortable here?"
"Thanks be to God, I get on tolerably!"
The moujik follows the advice of Need, but meets with a cold reception
at his brother's. On returning sadly home he finds a horse standing by
the road side, with a couple of bags slung across its back. He strikes
it with his glove, and it disappears, leaving behind it the bags,
which turn out to be full of gold. This he gathers up, and then goes
indoors. After finding out from his wife where she has taken up her
quarters for the night, he says:
"And where are you, Need?"
"In the pitcher which stands on the stove."
After a time the moujik asks his wife if she is asleep. "Not yet,"
she replies. Then he puts the same question to Need, who gives no
answer, having gone to sleep. So he takes his wife's last sarafan,
wraps up the pitcher in it, and flings the bundle into an
ice-hole.[237]
In one of the "chap-book" stories (a _lubochnaya skazka_), a poor man
"obtained a crust of bread and took it home to provide his wife and
boy with a meal, but just as he was beginning to cut it, suddenly out
from behind the stove jumped Kruchina,[238] snatched the crust from
his hands, and fled back again behind the stove. Then the old man
began to bow down before Kruchina and to beseech him[239] to give back
the bread, seeing that he and his had nothing to eat. Thereupon
Kruchina replied, "I will not give you back your crust, but in return
for it I will make you a present of a duck which will lay a golden egg
every day," and kept his word.[240]
In Little-Russia the peasantry believe in the existence of small
beings, of vaguely defined form, called _Zluidni_ who bring _zlo_ or
evil to every habitation in which they take up their quarters. "May
the Zluidni strike him!" is a Little-Russian curse, and "The Zluidni
have got leave for three days; not in three years will you get rid of
them!" is a White-Russian proverb. In a Little-Russian skazka a poor
man catches a fish and takes it as a present to his rich brother, who
says, "A splendid fish! thank you, brother, thank you!" but evinces no
other sign of gratitude. On his way home the poor man meets an old
stranger and tells him his story--how he had taken his brother a fish
and had got nothing in return but a "thank ye."
"How!" cries the old man. "A _spasibo_[241] is no small thing. Sell it
to me!"
"How can one sell it?" replies the moujik. "Take it pray, as a
present!"
"So the _spasibo_ is mine!" says the old man, and disappears, leaving
in the peasant's hands a purse full of gold.
The peasant grows rich, and moves into another house. After a time his
wife says to him--
"We've been wrong, Ivan, in leaving our mill-stones in the old house.
They nourished us, you see, when we were poor; but now, when they're
no longer necessary to us, we've quite forgotten them!"
"Right you are," replies Ivan, and sets off to fetch them. When he
reaches his old dwelling, he hears a voice saying--
"A bad fellow, that Ivan! now he's rich, he's abandoned us!"
"Who are you?" asks Ivan. "I don't know you a bit."
"Not know us! you've forgotten our faithful service, it seems! Why,
we're your Zluidni!"
"God be with you!" says he. "I don't want you!"
"No, no! we will never part from you now!"
"Wait a bit!" thinks Ivan, and then continues aloud, "Very good, I'll
take you; but only on condition that you bring home my mill-stones for
me."
So he laid the mill-stones on their backs, and made them go on in
front of him. They all had to pass along a bridge over a deep river;
the moujik managed to give the Zluidni a shove, and over they went,
mill-stones and all, and sank straight to the bottom.[242]
There is a very curious Servian story of two brothers, one of whom is
industrious and unlucky, and the other idle and prosperous. The poor
brother one day sees a flock of sheep, and near them a fair maiden
spinning a golden thread.
"Whose sheep are these?" he asks.
"The sheep are his whose I myself am," she replies.
"And whose art thou?" he asks.
"I am thy brother's Luck," she answers.
"But where is my Luck?" he continues
"Far away from thee is thy Luck," she replies.
"But can I find her?" he asks.
"Thou canst; go and seek her," she replies.
So the poor man wanders away in search of her. One day he sees a
grey-haired old woman asleep under an oak in a great forest, who
proves to be his Luck. He asks who it is that has given him such a
poor Luck, and is told that it is Fate. So he goes in search of Fate.
When he finds her, she is living at ease in a large house, but day by
day her riches wane and her house contracts. She explains to her
visitor that her condition at any given hour affects the whole lives
of all children born at that time, and that he had come into the world
at a most unpropitious moment; and she advises him to take his niece
Militsa (who had been born at a lucky time) to live in his house, and
to call all he might acquire her property. This advice he follows, and
all goes well with him. One day, as he is gazing at a splendid field
of corn, a stranger asks him to whom it belongs. In a forgetful moment
he replies, "It is mine," and immediately the whole crop begins to
burn. He runs after the stranger and cries, "Stop, brother! that field
isn't mine, but my niece Militsa's," whereupon the fire goes out and
the crop is saved.[243]
On this idea of a personal Fortune is founded the quaint opening of
one of the Russian stories. A certain peasant, known as Ivan the
Unlucky, in despair at his constant want of success, goes to the king
for advice. The king lays the matter before "his nobles and generals,"
but they can make nothing of it. At last the king's daughter enters
the council chamber and says, "This is my opinion, my father. If he
were to be married, the Lord might allot him another sort of Fortune."
The king flies into a passion and exclaims:
"Since you've settled the question better than all of us, go and marry
him yourself!"
The marriage takes place, and brings Ivan good luck along with
it.[244]
Similar references to a man's good or bad luck frequently occur in
the skazkas. Thus in one of them (from the Grodno Government) a poor
man meets "two ladies (_pannui_), and those ladies are--the one
Fortune and the other Misfortune."[245] He tells them how poor he is,
and they agree that it will be well to bestow something on him. "Since
he is one of yours," says Luck, "do you make him a present." At length
they take out ten roubles and give them to him. He hides the money in
a pot, and his wife gives it away to a neighbor. Again they assist
him, giving him twenty roubles, and again his wife gives them away
unwittingly. Then the ladies bestow on him two farthings (_groshi_),
telling him to give them to fishermen, and bid them make a cast "for
his luck." He obeys, and the result is the capture of a fish which
brings him in wealth.[246]
In another story[247] a young man, the son of a wealthy merchant, is
so unlucky that nothing will prosper with him. Having lost all that
his father has left him, he hires himself out, first as a laborer,
then as a herdsman. But as, in each capacity, he involves his masters
in heavy losses, he soon finds himself without employment. Then he
tries another country, in which the king gives him a post as a sort of
stoker in the royal distillery, which he soon all but burns down. The
king is at first bent upon punishing him, but pardons him after
hearing his sad tale. "He bestowed on him the name of Luckless,[248]
and gave orders that a stamp should be set on his forehead, that no
tolls or taxes should be demanded from him, and that wherever he
appeared he should be given free board and lodging, but that he should
never be allowed to stop more than twenty-four hours in any one
place." These orders are obeyed, and wherever Luckless goes, "nobody
ever asks him for his billet or his passport, but they give him food
to eat, and liquor to drink, and a place to spend the night in; and
next morning they take him by the scruff of the neck and turn him out
of doors."[249]
We will now turn from the forms under which popular fiction has
embodied some of the ideas connected with Fortune and Misfortune, to
another strange group of figures--the personifications of certain days
of the week. Of these, by far the most important is that of Friday.
The Russian name for that day, _Pyatnitsa_,[250] has no such
mythological significance as have our own Friday and the French
_Vendredi_. But the day was undoubtedly consecrated by the old
Slavonians to some goddess akin to Venus or Freyja, and her worship in
ancient times accounts for the superstitions now connected with the
name of Friday. According to Afanasief,[251] the Carinthian name for
the day, _Sibne dan_, is a clear proof that it was once holy to Siva,
the Lithuanian Seewa, the Slavonic goddess answering to Ceres. In
Christian times the personality of the goddess (by whatever name she
may have been known) to whom Friday was consecrated became merged in
that of St. Prascovia, and she is now frequently addressed by the
compound name of "Mother Pyatnitsa-Prascovia." As she is supposed to
wander about the houses of the peasants on her holy day, and to be
offended if she finds certain kinds of work going on, they are (or at
least they used to be) frequently suspended on Fridays. It is a sin,
says a time-honored tradition, for a woman to sew, or spin, or weave,
or buck linen on a Friday, and similarly for a man to plait bast
shoes, twine cord, and the like. Spinning and weaving are especially
obnoxious to "Mother Friday," for the dust and refuse thus produced
injure her eyes. When this takes place, she revenges herself by
plagues of sore-eyes, whitlows and agnails. In some places the
villagers go to bed early on Friday evening, believing that "St.
Pyatinka" will punish all whom she finds awake when she roams through
the cottage. In others they sweep their floors every Thursday evening,
that she may not be annoyed by dust or the like when she comes next
day. Sometimes, however, she has been seen, says the popular voice,
"all pricked with the needles and pierced by the spindles" of the
careless woman who sewed and spun on the day they ought to have kept
holy in her honor. As for any work begun on a Friday, it is sure to go
wrong.[252]
These remarks will be sufficient to render intelligible the following
story of--
FRIDAY.[253]
There was once a certain woman who did not pay due reverence
to Mother Friday, but set to work on a distaff-ful of flax,
combing and whirling it. She span away till dinner-time, then
suddenly sleep fell upon her--such a deep sleep! And when
she had gone to sleep, suddenly the door opened and in came
Mother Friday, before the eyes of all who were there, clad in a
white dress, and in such a rage! And she went straight up to
the woman who had been spinning, scooped up from the floor a
handful of the dust that had fallen out of the flax, and began stuffing
and stuffing that woman's eyes full of it! And when she had
stuffed them full, she went off in a rage--disappeared without
saying a word.
When the woman awoke, she began squalling at the top of
her voice about her eyes, but couldn't tell what was the matter
with them. The other women, who had been terribly frightened,
began to cry out:
"Oh, you wretch, you! you've brought a terrible punishment
on yourself from Mother Friday."
Then they told her all that had taken place. She listened to
it all, and then began imploringly:
"Mother Friday, forgive me! pardon me, the guilty one!
I'll offer thee a taper, and I'll never let friend or foe dishonor
thee, Mother!"
Well, what do you think? During the night, back came
Mother Friday and took the dust out of that woman's eyes, so
that she was able to get about again. It's a great sin to dishonor
Mother Friday--combing and spinning flax, forsooth!
Very similar to this story is that about Wednesday which follows.
Wednesday, the day consecrated to Odin, the eve of the day sacred to
the Thundergod,[254] may also have been held holy by the heathen
Slavonians, but to some commentators it appears more likely that the
traditions now attached to it in Russia became transferred to it from
Friday in Christian times--Wednesday and Friday having been associated
by the Church as days sacred to the memory of Our Lord's passion and
death. The Russian name for the day, _Sereda_ or _Sreda_, means "the
middle," Wednesday being the middle of the working week.
WEDNESDAY.[255]
A young housewife was spinning late one evening. It was during
the night between a Tuesday and a Wednesday. She had
been left alone for a long time, and after midnight, when the
first cock crew, she began to think about going to bed, only she
would have liked to finish spinning what she had in hand. "Well,"
thinks she, "I'll get up a bit earlier in the morning, but just
now I want to go to sleep." So she laid down her hatchel--but
without crossing herself--and said:
"Now then, Mother Wednesday, lend me thy aid, that I may
get up early in the morning and finish my spinning." And then
she went to sleep.
Well, very early in the morning, long before it was light, she
heard some one moving, bustling about the room. She opened
her eyes and looked. The room was lighted up. A splinter of
fir was burning in the cresset, and the fire was lighted in the
stove. A woman, no longer young, wearing a white towel by
way of head-dress, was moving about the cottage, going to and
fro, supplying the stove with firewood, getting everything ready.
Presently she came up to the young woman, and roused her, saying,
"Get up!" The young woman got up, full of wonder, saying:
"But who art thou? What hast thou come here for?"
"I am she on whom thou didst call. I have come to thy aid."
"But who art thou? On whom did I call?"
"I am Wednesday. On Wednesday surely thou didst call.
See, I have spun thy linen and woven thy web: now let us bleach
it and set it in the oven. The oven is heated and the irons are
ready; do thou go down to the brook and draw water."
The woman was frightened, and thought: "What manner of
thing is this?" (or, "How can that be?") but Wednesday glared
at her angrily; her eyes just did sparkle!
So the woman took a couple of pails and went for water. As
soon as she was outside the door she thought: "Mayn't something
terrible happen to me? I'd better go to my neighbor's instead
of fetching the water." So she set off. The night was
dark. In the village all were still asleep. She reached a neighbor's
house, and rapped away at the window until at last she
made herself heard. An aged woman let her in.
"Why, child!" says the old crone; "whatever hast thou got
up so early for? What's the matter?"
"Oh, granny, this is how it was. Wednesday has come to me,
and has sent me for water to buck my linen with."
"That doesn't look well," says the old crone. "On that linen
she will either strangle thee or scald[256] thee."
The old woman was evidently well acquainted with Wednesday's
ways.
"What am I to do?" says the young woman. "How can I
escape from this danger?"
"Well, this is what thou must do. Go and beat thy pails together
in front of the house, and cry, 'Wednesday's children
have been burnt at sea!'[257] She will run out of the house, and
do thou be sure to seize the opportunity to get into it before she
comes back, and immediately slam the door to, and make the
sign of the cross over it. Then don't let her in, however much
she may threaten you or implore you, but sign a cross with your
hands, and draw one with a piece of chalk, and utter a prayer.
The Unclean Spirit will have to disappear."
Well, the young woman ran home, beat the pails together,
and cried out beneath the window:
"Wednesday's children have been burnt at sea!"
Wednesday rushed out of the house and ran to look, and the
woman sprang inside, shut the door, and set a cross upon it.
Wednesday came running back, and began crying: "Let me in,
my dear! I have spun thy linen; now will I bleach it." But the
woman would not listen to her, so Wednesday went on knocking
at the door until cock-crow. As soon as the cocks crew, she
uttered a shrill cry and disappeared. But the linen remained
where it was.[258]
In one of the numerous legends which the Russian peasants hold in
reverence, St. Petka or Friday appears among the other saints, and
together with her is mentioned another canonized day, St. Nedelya or
Sunday,[259] answering to the Greek St. Anastasia, to _Der heilige
Sonntag_ of German peasant-hagiology. In some respects she resembles
both Friday and Wednesday, sharing their views about spinning and
weaving at unfitting seasons. Thus in Little-Russia she assures
untimely spinners that it is not flax they are spinning, but her hair,
and in proof of this she shows them her dishevelled _kosa_, or long
back plait.
In one of the Wallachian tales[260] the hero is assisted in his
search after the dragon-stolen heroine by three supernatural
females--the holy Mothers Friday, Wednesday, and Sunday. They replace
the three benignant Baba Yagas of Russian stories. In another,[261]
the same three beings assist the Wallachian Psyche when she is
wandering in quest of her lost husband. Mother Sunday rules the animal
world, and can collect her subjects by playing on a magic flute. She
is represented as exercising authority over both birds and beasts, and
in a Slovak story she bestows on the hero a magic horse. He has been
sent by an unnatural mother in search of various things hard to be
obtained, but he is assisted in the quest by St. Ned[)e]lka, who
provides him with various magical implements, and lends him her own
steed Tatoschik, and so enables him four times to escape from the
perils to which he has been exposed by his mother, whose mind has been
entirely corrupted by an insidious dragon. But after he has returned
home in safety, his mother binds him as if in sport, and the dragon
chops off his head and cuts his body to pieces. His mother retains his
heart, but ties up the rest of him in a bundle, and sets it on
Tatoschik's back. The steed carries its ghastly burden to St.
Ned[)e]lka, who soon reanimates it, and the youth becomes as sound and
vigorous as a young man without a heart can be. Then the saint sends
him, under the disguise of a begging piper, to the castle in which his
mother dwells, and instructs him how to get his heart back again. He
succeeds, and carries it in his hand to St. Ned[)e]lka. She gives it
to "the bird Pelekan (no mere Pelican, but a magic fowl with a very
long and slim neck), which puts its head down the youth's throat, and
restores his heart to its right place."[262]
St. Friday and St. Wednesday appear to belong to that class of
spiritual beings, sometimes of a demoniacal disposition, with which
the imagination of the old Slavonians peopled the elements. Of several
of these--such as the Domovoy or House-Spirit, the Rusalka or Naiad,
and the Vodyany or Water-Sprite--I have written at some length
elsewhere,[263] and therefore I will not at present quote any of the
stories in which they figure. But, as a specimen of the class to which
such tales as these belong, here is a skazka about one of the
wood-sprites or Slavonic Satyrs, who are still believed by the
peasants to haunt the forests of Russia. In it we see reduced to a
vulgar form, and brought into accordance with everyday peasant-life,
the myth which appears to have given rise to the endless stories about
the theft and recovery of queens and princesses. The leading idea of
the story is the same, but the Snake or Koshchei has become a paltry
wood-demon, the hero is a mere hunter, and the princely heroine has
sunk to the low estate of a priest's daughter.
THE LESHY.[264]
A certain priest's daughter went strolling in the forest one day,
without having obtained leave from her father or her mother--and
she disappeared utterly. Three years went by. Now in
the village in which her parents dwelt there lived a bold hunter,
who went daily roaming through the thick woods with his dog and
his gun. One day he was going through the forest; all of a sudden
his dog began to bark, and the hair of its back bristled up.
The sportsman looked, and saw lying in the woodland path before
him a log, and on the log there sat a moujik plaiting a bast
shoe. And as he plaited the shoe, he kept looking up at the
moon, and saying with a menacing gesture:--
"Shine, shine, O bright moon!"
The sportsman was astounded. "How comes it," thinks he,
"that the moujik looks like that?--he is still young; but his
hair is grey as a badger's."[265]
He only thought these words, but the other replied, as if
guessing what he meant:--
"Grey am I, being the devil's grandfather!"[266]
Then the sportsman guessed that he had before him no mere
moujik, but a Leshy. He levelled his gun and--bang! he let
him have it right in the paunch. The Leshy groaned, and
seemed to be going to fall across the log; but directly afterwards
he got up and dragged himself into the thickets. After
him ran the dog in pursuit, and after the dog followed the sportsman.
He walked and walked, and came to a hill: in that hill
was a fissure, and in the fissure stood a hut. He entered the
hut--there on a bench lay the Leshy stone dead, and by his
side a damsel, exclaiming, amid bitter tears:--
"Who now will give me to eat and to drink?"
"Hail, fair maiden!" says the hunter. "Tell me whence
thou comest, and whose daughter thou art?"
"Ah, good youth! I know not that myself, any more than if
I had never seen the free light--never known a father and
mother."
"Well, get ready as soon as you can. I will take you back
to Holy Russia."
So he took her away with him, and brought her out of the
forest. And all the way he went along, he cut marks on the
trees. Now this damsel had been carried off by the Leshy, and
had lived in his hut for three years--her clothes were all worn
out, or had got torn off her back, so that she was stark naked
but she wasn't a bit ashamed of that. When they reached the
village, the sportsman began asking whether there was any one
there who had lost a girl. Up came the priest, and cried, "Why,
that's my daughter." Up came running the priest's wife, and
cried:--
"O thou dear child! where hast thou been so long? I had
no hope of ever seeing thee again."
But the girl gazed and just blinked with her eyes, understanding
nothing. After a time, however, she began slowly to come
back to her senses. Then the priest and his wife gave her in
marriage to the hunter, and rewarded him with all sorts of good
things. And they went in search of the hut in which she had
lived while she was with the Leshy. Long did they wander
about the forest; but that hut they never found.
To another group of personifications belong those of the Rivers. About
them many stories are current, generally having reference to their
alleged jealousies and disputes. Thus it is said that when God was
allotting their shares to the rivers, the Desna did not come in time,
and so failed to obtain precedence over the Dnieper.
"Try and get before him yourself," said the Lord.
The Desna set off at full speed, but in spite of all her attempts, the
Dnieper always kept ahead of her until he fell into the sea, where the
Desna was obliged to join him.[267]
About the Volga and its affluent, the Vazuza, the following story is
told:--
VAZUZA AND VOLGA.[268]
Volga and Vazuza had a long dispute as to which was the wiser,
the stronger, and the more worthy of high respect. They wrangled
and wrangled, but neither could gain the mastery in the dispute,
so they decided upon the following course:--
"Let us lie down together to sleep," they said, "and whichever
of us is the first to rise, and the quickest to reach the Caspian
Sea, she shall be held to be the wiser of us two, and the
stronger and the worthier of respect."
So Volga lay down to sleep; down lay Vazuza also. But
during the night Vazuza rose silently, fled away from Volga,
chose the nearest and the straightest line, and flowed away.
When Volga awoke, she set off neither slowly nor hurriedly, but
with just befitting speed. At Zubtsof she came up with Vazuza. So
threatening was her mien, that Vazuza was frightened, declared
herself to be Volga's younger sister, and besought Volga to take
her in her arms and bear her to the Caspian Sea. And so to
this day Vazuza is the first to awake in the Spring, and then she
arouses Volga from her wintry sleep.
In the Government of Tula a similar tradition is current about the Don
and the Shat, both of which flow out of Lake Ivan.
Lake Ivan had two sons, Shat and Don. Shat, contrary to his father's
wishes, wanted to roam abroad, so he set out on his travels, but go
whither he would, he could get received nowhere. So, after fruitless
wanderings, he returned home.
But Don, in return for his constant quietness (the river is known as
"the quiet Don"), obtained his father's blessing, and he boldly set
out on a long journey. On the way, he met a raven, and asked it where
it was flying.
"To the blue sea," answered the raven.
"Let's go together!"
Well, they reached the sea. Don thought to himself, "If I dive right
through the sea, I shall carry it away with me."
"Raven!" he said, "do me a service. I am going to plunge into the sea,
but do you fly over to the other side and as soon as you reach the
opposite shore, give a croak."
Don plunged into the sea. The raven flew and croaked--but too soon.
Don remained just as he appears at the present day.[269]
In White-Russia there is a legend about two rivers, the beginning of
which has evidently been taken from the story of Jacob and Esau:--
SOZH AND DNIEPER.
There was once a blind old man called Dvina. He had
two sons--the elder called Sozh, and the younger Dnieper.
Sozh was of a boisterous turn, and went roving about the forests,
the hills, and the plains; but Dnieper was remarkably
sweet-tempered, and he spent all his time at home, and was his
mother's favorite. Once, when Sozh was away from home, the
old father was deceived by his wife into giving the elder son's
blessing to the younger son. Thus spake Dvina while blessing
him:--
"Dissolve, my son, into a wide and deep river. Flow past
towns, and bathe villages without number as far as the blue sea.
Thy brother shall be thy servant. Be rich and prosperous to
the end of time!"
Dnieper turned into a river, and flowed through fertile meadows
and dreamy woods. But after three days, Sozh returned
home and began to complain.
"If thou dost desire to become superior to thy brother,"
said his father, "speed swiftly by hidden ways, through dark
untrodden forests, and if thou canst outstrip thy brother, he will
have to be thy servant!"
Away sped Sozh on the chase, through untrodden places,
washing away swamps, cutting out gullies, tearing up oaks by
the roots. The Vulture[270] told Dnieper of this, and he put on
extra speed, tearing his way through high hills rather than turn
on one side. Meanwhile Sozh persuaded the Raven to fly
straight to Dnieper, and, as soon as it had come up with him
to croak three times; he himself was to burrow under the earth,
intending to leap to the surface at the cry of the Raven, and by
that means to get before his brother. But the Vulture fell on
the Raven; the Raven began to croak before it had caught up
the river Dnieper. Up burst Sozh from underground, and fell
straight into the waves of the Dnieper.[271]
Here is an account of--
THE METAMORPHOSIS OF THE DNIEPER, THE VOLGA, AND THE DVINA.[272]
The Dnieper, Volga, and Dvina used once to be living people.
The Dnieper was a boy, and the Volga and Dvina his sisters.
While they were still in childhood they were left complete orphans,
and, as they hadn't a crust to eat, they were obliged to
get their living by daily labor beyond their strength. "When
was that?" Very long ago, say the old folks; beyond the
memory even of our great-grandfathers.
Well, the children grew up, but they never had even the
slightest bit of good luck. Every day, from morn till eve, it was
always toil and toil, and all merely for the day's subsistence. As
for their clothing, it was just what God sent them! They sometimes
found rags on the dust-heaps, and with these they managed
to cover their bodies. The poor things had to endure cold and
hunger. Life became a burden to them.[273]
One day, after toiling hard afield, they sat down under a bush
to eat their last morsel of bread. And when they had eaten it,
they cried and sorrowed for a while, and considered and held
counsel together as to how they might manage to live, and to
have food and clothing, and, without toiling, to supply others
with meat and drink. Well, this is what they resolved: to set
out wandering about the wide world in search of good luck and
a kindly welcome, and to look for and find out the best places
in which they could turn into great rivers--for that was a possible
thing then.
Well, they walked and walked; not one year only, nor two
years, but all but three; and they chose the places they wanted,
and came to an agreement as to where the flowing of each one
should begin. And all three of them stopped to spend the night
in a swamp. But the sisters were more cunning than their
brother. No sooner was Dnieper asleep than they rose up
quietly, chose the best and most sloping places, and began to
flow away.
When the brother awoke in the morning, not a trace of his
sisters was to be seen. Then he became wroth, and made
haste to pursue them. But on the way he bethought himself,
and decided that no man can run faster than a river. So he
smote the ground, and flowed in pursuit as a stream. Through
gullies and ravines he rushed, and the further he went the
fiercer did he become. But when he came within a few versts
of the sea-shore, his anger calmed down and he disappeared in
the sea. And his two sisters, who had continued running from
him during his pursuit, separated in different directions and fled
to the bottom of the sea. But while the Dnieper was rushing
along in anger, he drove his way between steep banks. Therefore
is it that his flow is swifter than that of the Volga and the
Dvina; therefore also is it that he has many rapids and many
mouths.
There is a small stream which falls into Lake Ilmen on its western
side, and which is called Chorny Ruchei, the Black Brook. On the banks
of this brook, a long time ago, a certain man set up a mill, and the
fish came and implored the stream to grant them its aid, saying, "We
used to have room enough and be at our ease, but now an evil man is
taking away the water from us." And the result was this. One of the
inhabitants of Novgorod was angling in the brook Chorny. Up came a
stranger to him, dressed all in black, who greeted him, and said:--
"Do me a service, and I will show thee a place where the fish swarm."
"What is the service?"
"When thou art in Novgorod, thou wilt meet a tall, big moujik in a
plaited blue caftan, wide blue trowsers, and a high blue hat. Say to
him, 'Uncle Ilmen! the Chorny has sent thee a petition, and has told
me to say that a mill has been set in his way. As thou may'st think
fit to order, so shall it be!'"
The Novgorod man promised to fulfil this request, and the black
stranger showed him a place where the fish swarmed by thousands. With
rich booty did the fisherman return to Novgorod, where he met the
moujik with the blue caftan, and gave him the petition. The Ilmen
answered:--
"Give my compliments to the brook Chorny, and say to him about the
mill: there used not to be one, and so there shall not be one!"
This commission also the Novgorod man fulfilled, and behold! during
the night the brook Chorny ran riotous, Lake Ilmen waxed boisterous, a
tempest arose, and the raging waters swept away the mill.[274]
In old times sacrifices were regularly paid to lakes and streams in
Russia, just as they were in Germany[275] and in other lands. And even
at the present day the common people are in the habit of expressing,
by some kind of offering, their thanks to a river on which they have
made a prosperous voyage. It is said that Stenka Razin, the insurgent
chief of the Don Cossacks in the seventeenth century, once offered a
human sacrifice to the Volga. Among his captives was a Persian
princess, to whom he was warmly attached. But one day "when he was
fevered with wine, as he sat at the ship's side and musingly regarded
the waves, he said: 'Oh, Mother Volga, thou great river! much hast
thou given me of gold and of silver, and of all good things; thou hast
nursed me, and nourished me, and covered me with glory and honor. But
I have in no way shown thee my gratitude. Here is somewhat for thee;
take it!' And with these words he caught up the princess and flung her
into the water."[276]
Just as rivers might be conciliated by honor and sacrifice, so they
could be irritated by disrespect. One of the old songs tells how a
youth comes riding to the Smorodina, and beseeches that stream to show
him a ford. His prayer is granted, and he crosses to the other side.
Then he takes to boasting, and says, "People talk about the Smorodina,
saying that no one can cross it whether on foot or on horseback--but
it is no better than a pool of rain-water!" But when the time comes
for him to cross back again, the river takes its revenge, and drowns
him in its depths, saying the while: "It is not I, but thy own
boasting that drowns thee."
From these vocal rivers we will now turn to that elementary force by
which in winter they are often rendered mute. In the story which is
now about to be quoted will be found a striking personification of
Frost. As a general rule, Winter plays by no means so important a part
as might have been expected in Northern tales. As in other European
countries, so in Russia, the romantic stories of the people are full
of pictures bathed in warm sunlight, but they do not often represent
the aspect of the land when the sky is grey, and the earth is a sheet
of white, and outdoor life is sombre and still. Here and there, it is
true, glimpses of snowy landscapes are offered by the skazkas. But it
is seldom that a wintry effect is so deliberately produced in them as
is the case in the following remarkable version of a well-known tale.
FROST.[277]
There was once an old man who had a wife and three daughters.
The wife had no love for the eldest of the three, who
was her stepdaughter, but was always scolding her. Moreover,
she used to make her get up ever so early in the morning, and
gave her all the work of the house to do. Before daybreak the
girl would feed the cattle and give them to drink, fetch wood
and water indoors, light the fire in the stove, give the room a
wash, mend the dresses, and set everything in order. Even
then her stepmother was never satisfied, but would grumble
away at Marfa, exclaiming:--
"What a lazybones! what a slut! Why here's a brush not
in its place, and there's something put wrong, and she's left the
muck inside the house!"
The girl held her peace, and wept; she tried in every way to
accommodate herself to her stepmother, and to be of service to
her stepsisters. But they, taking pattern by their mother, were
always insulting Marfa, quarrelling with her, and making her
cry: that was even a pleasure to them! As for them, they lay
in bed late, washed themselves in water got ready for them,
dried themselves with a clean towel, and didn't sit down to
work till after dinner.
Well, our girls grew and grew, until they grew up and were
old enough to be married. The old man felt sorry for his eldest
daughter, whom he loved because she was industrious and
obedient, never was obstinate, always did as she was bid, and
never uttered a word of contradiction. But he didn't know how
he was to help her in her trouble. He was feeble, his wife was
a scold, and her daughters were as obstinate as they were
indolent.
Well, the old folks set to work to consider--the husband
how he could get his daughters settled, the wife how she could
get rid of the eldest one. One day she says to him:--
"I say, old man! let's get Marfa married."
"Gladly," says he, slinking off (to the sleeping-place) above
the stove. But his wife called after him:--
"Get up early to-morrow, old man, harness the mare to the
sledge, and drive away with Marfa. And, Marfa, get your
things together in a basket, and put on a clean shift; you're
going away to-morrow on a visit."
Poor Marfa was delighted to hear of such a piece of good
luck as being invited on a visit, and she slept comfortably all
night. Early next morning she got up, washed herself, prayed
to God, got all her things together, packed them away in proper
order, dressed herself (in her best things), and looked something
like a lass!--a bride fit for any place whatsoever!
Now it was winter time, and out of doors was a rattling
frost. Early in the morning, between daybreak and sunrise,
the old man harnessed the mare to the sledge, and led it up to
the steps. Then he went indoors, sat down on the window-sill,
and said:--
"Now then! I've got everything ready."
"Sit down to table and swallow your victuals!" replied the
old woman.
The old man sat down to table, and made his daughter sit
by his side. On the table stood a pannier; he took out a loaf,[278]
and cut bread for himself and his daughter. Meantime his
wife served up a dish of old cabbage soup, and said:--
"There, my pigeon, eat and be off; I've looked at you quite
enough! Drive Marfa to her bridegroom, old man. And look
here, old greybeard! drive straight along the road at first, and
then turn off from the road to the right, you know, into the
forest--right up to the big pine that stands on the hill, and there
hand Marfa over to Morozko (Frost)."
The old man opened his eyes wide, also his mouth, and
stopped eating, and the girl began lamenting.
"Now then, what are you hanging your chaps and squealing
about?" said her stepmother. "Surely your bridegroom is a
beauty, and he's that rich! Why, just see what a lot of things
belong to him, the firs, the pine-tops, and the birches, all in
their robes of down--ways and means that any one might envy;
and he himself a _bogatir_!"[279]
The old man silently placed the things on the sledge, made
his daughter put on a warm pelisse, and set off on the journey.
After a time, he reached the forest, turned off from the road;
and drove across the frozen snow.[280] When he got into the
depths of the forest, he stopped, made his daughter get out,
laid her basket under the tall pine, and said:--
"Sit here, and await the bridegroom. And mind you receive
him as pleasantly as you can."
Then he turned his horse round and drove off homewards.
The girl sat and shivered. The cold had pierced her through.
She would fain have cried aloud, but she had not strength
enough; only her teeth chattered. Suddenly she heard a
sound. Not far off, Frost was cracking away on a fir. From
fir to fir was he leaping, and snapping his fingers. Presently he
appeared on that very pine under which the maiden was sitting
and from above her head he cried:--
"Art thou warm, maiden?"
"Warm, warm am I, dear Father Frost," she replied.
Frost began to descend lower, all the more cracking and
snapping his fingers. To the maiden said Frost:--
"Art thou warm, maiden? Art thou warm, fair one?"
The girl could scarcely draw her breath, but still she replied:
"Warm am I, Frost dear: warm am I, father dear!"
Frost began cracking more than ever, and more loudly did
he snap his fingers, and to the maiden he said:--
"Art thou warm, maiden? Art thou warm, pretty one?
Art thou warm, my darling?"
The girl was by this time numb with cold, and she could
scarcely make herself heard as she replied:--
"Oh! quite warm, Frost dearest!"
Then Frost took pity on the girl, wrapped her up in furs,
and warmed her with blankets.
Next morning the old woman said to her husband:--
"Drive out, old greybeard, and wake the young couple!"
The old man harnessed his horse and drove off. When he
came to where his daughter was, he found she was alive and had
got a good pelisse, a costly bridal veil, and a pannier with rich
gifts. He stowed everything away on the sledge without saying
a word, took his seat on it with his daughter, and drove back.
They reached home, and the daughter fell at her stepmother's
feet. The old woman was thunderstruck when she saw the girl
alive, and the new pelisse and the basket of linen.
"Ah, you wretch!" she cries. "But you shan't trick me!"
Well, a little later the old woman says to her husband:--
"Take my daughters, too, to their bridegroom. The presents
he's made are nothing to what he'll give them."
Well, early next morning the old woman gave her girls their
breakfast, dressed them as befitted brides, and sent them off on
their journey. In the same way as before the old man left the
girls under the pine.
There the girls sat, and kept laughing and saying:
"Whatever is mother thinking of! All of a sudden to marry
both of us off! As if there were no lads in our village, forsooth!
Some rubbishy fellow may come, and goodness knows who he
may be!"
The girls were wrapped up in pelisses, but for all that they
felt the cold.
"I say, Prascovia! the frost's skinning me alive. Well, if
our bridegroom[281] doesn't come quick, we shall be frozen to
death here!"
"Don't go talking nonsense, Mashka; as if suitors[282] generally
turned up in the forenoon. Why it's hardly dinner-time
yet!"
"But I say, Prascovia! if only one comes, which of us will
he take?"
"Not you, you stupid goose!"
"Then it will be you, I suppose!"
"Of course it will be me!"
"You, indeed! there now, have done talking stuff and
treating people like fools!"
Meanwhile, Frost had numbed the girl's hands, so our
damsels folded them under their dress, and then went on
quarrelling as before.
"What, you fright! you sleepy-face! you abominable shrew!
why, you don't know so much as how to begin weaving: and as
to going on with it, you haven't an idea!"
"Aha, boaster! and what is it you know? Why, nothing at
all except to go out to merry-makings and lick your lips there.
We'll soon see which he'll take first!"
While the girls went on scolding like that, they began to
freeze in downright earnest. Suddenly they both cried out at
once:
"Whyever is he so long coming. Do you know, you've turned
quite blue!"
Now, a good way off, Frost had begun cracking, snapping
his fingers, and leaping from fir to fir. To the girls it sounded
as if some one was coming.
"Listen, Prascovia! He's coming at last, and with bells,
too!"
"Get along with you! I won't listen; my skin is peeling
with cold."
"And yet you're still expecting to get married!"
Then they began blowing on their fingers.
Nearer and nearer came Frost. At length he appeared on
the pine, above the heads of the girls, and said to them:
"Are ye warm, maidens? Are ye warm, pretty ones? Are
ye warm, my darlings?"
"Oh, Frost, it's awfully cold! we're utterly perished!
We're expecting a bridegroom, but the confounded fellow has
disappeared."
Frost slid lower down the tree, cracked away more, snapped
his fingers oftener than before.
"Are ye warm, maidens? Are ye warm, pretty ones?"
"Get along with you! Are you blind that you can't see our
hands and feet are quite dead?"
Still lower descended Frost, still more put forth his might,[283]
and said:
"Are ye warm, maidens?"
"Into the bottomless pit with you! Out of sight, accursed
one!" cried the girls--and became lifeless forms.[284]
Next morning the old woman said to her husband:
"Old man, go and get the sledge harnessed; put an armful
of hay in it, and take some sheep-skin wraps. I daresay the
girls are half-dead with cold. There's a terrible frost outside!
And, mind you, old greybeard, do it quickly!"
Before the old man could manage to get a bite he was out of
doors and on his way. When he came to where his daughters
were, he found them dead. So he lifted the girls on to the
sledge, wrapped a blanket round them, and covered them up
with a bark mat. The old woman saw him from afar, ran out
to meet him, and called out ever so loud:
"Where are the girls?"
"In the sledge."
The old woman lifted the mat, undid the blanket, and found
the girls both dead.
Then, like a thunderstorm, she broke out against her husband,
abusing him saying:
"What have you done, you old wretch? You have destroyed
my daughters, the children of my own flesh and blood, my
never-enough-to-be-gazed-on seedlings, my beautiful berries! I
will thrash you with the tongs; I will give it you with the stove-rake."
"That's enough, you old goose! You flattered yourself
you were going to get riches, but your daughters were too stiff-necked.
How was I to blame? it was you yourself would
have it."
The old woman was in a rage at first, and used bad language;
but afterwards she made it up with her stepdaughter,
and they all lived together peaceably, and thrived, and bore no
malice. A neighbor made an offer of marriage, the wedding
was celebrated, and Marfa is now living happily. The old man
frightens his grandchildren with (stories about) Frost, and
doesn't let them have their own way.
In a variant from the Kursk Government (Afanasief IV. No. 42. _b_),
the stepdaughter is left by her father "in the open plain." There she
sits, "trembling and silently offering up a prayer." Frost draws near,
intending "to smite her and to freeze her to death." But when he says
to her, "Maiden, maiden, I am Frost the Red-Nosed," she replies
"Welcome, Frost; doubtless God has sent you for my sinful soul."
Pleased by her "wise words," Frost throws a warm cloak over her, and
afterwards presents her with "robes embroidered with silver and gold,
and a chest containing rich dowry." The girl puts on the robes, and
appears "such a beauty!" Then she sits on the chest and sings songs.
Meantime her stepmother is baking cakes and preparing for her funeral.
After a time her father sets out in search of her dead body. But the
dog beneath the table barks--"Taff! Taff! The master's daughter in
silver and gold by the wedding party is borne along, but the
mistress's daughter is wooed by none!" In vain does its mistress throw
it a cake, and order it to modify its remarks. It eats the cake, but
it repeats its offensive observations, until the stepdaughter appears
in all her glory. Then the old woman's own daughter is sent afield.
Frost comes to have a look at his new guest, expecting "wise words"
from her too. But as none are forthcoming, he waxes wroth, and kills
her. When the old man goes to fetch her, the dog barks--"Taff! Taff!
The master's daughter will be borne along by the bridal train, but the
bones of the mistress's daughter are being carried in a bag," and
continues to bark in the same strain until the yard-gates open. The
old woman runs out to greet her daughter, and "instead of her embraces
a cold corpse."
To the Russian peasants, it should be observed, Moroz, our own Jack
Frost, is a living personage. On Christmas Eve it is customary for the
oldest man in each family to take a spoonful of kissel, a sort of
pudding, and then, having put his head through the window, to cry:
"Frost, Frost, come and eat kissel! Frost, Frost, do not kill our
oats! drive our flax and hemp deep into the ground."
The Tcheremisses have similar ideas, and are afraid of knocking the
icicles off their houses, thinking that, if they do so, Frost will wax
wroth and freeze them to death. In one of the Skazkas, a peasant goes
out one day to a field of buckwheat, and finds it all broken down. He
goes home, and tells the bad news to his wife, who says, "It is Frost
who has done this. Go and find him, and make him pay for the damage!"
So the peasant goes into the forest and, after wandering about for
some time, lights upon a path which leads him to a cottage made of
ice, covered with snow, and hung with icicles. He knocks at the door,
and out comes an old man--"all white." This is Frost, who presents him
with the magic cudgel and table-cloth which work wonders in so many of
the tales.[285] In another story, a peasant meets the Sun, the Wind,
and the Frost. He bows to all three, but adds an extra salutation to
the Wind. This enrages the two others, and the Sun cries out that he
will burn up the peasant. But the Wind says, "I will blow cold, and
temper the heat." Then the Frost threatens to freeze the peasant to
death, but the Wind comforts him, saying, "I will blow warm, and will
not let you be hurt."[286]
Sometimes the Frost is described by the people as a mighty smith who
forges strong chains with which to bind the earth and the waters--as
in the saying "The Old One has built a bridge without axe and without
knife," _i.e._, the river is frozen over. Sometimes Moroz-Treskun, the
Crackling Frost, is spoken of without disguise as the preserver of the
hero who is ordered to enter a bath which has been heated red-hot.
Frost goes into the bath, and breathes with so icy a breath that the
heat of the building turns at once to cold.[287]
The story in which Frost so singularly figures is one which is known
in many lands, and of which many variants are current in Russia. The
jealous hatred of a stepmother, who exposes her stepdaughter to some
great peril, has been made the theme of countless tales. What gives
its special importance, as well as its poetical charm, to the skazka
which has been quoted, is the introduction of Frost as the power to
which the stepmother has recourse for the furtherance of her murderous
plans, and by which she, in the persons of her own daughters, is
ultimately punished. We have already dealt with one specimen of the
skazkas of this class, the story of Vasilissa, who is sent to the Baba
Yaga's for a light. Another, still more closely connected with that of
"Frost," occurs in Khudyakof's collection.[288]
A certain woman ordered her husband (says the story) to make away with
his daughter by a previous marriage. So he took the girl into the
forest, and left her in a kind of hut, telling her to prepare some
soup while he was cutting wood. "At that time there was a gale
blowing. The old man tied a log to a tree; when the wind blew, the log
rattled. She thought the old man was going on cutting wood, but in
reality he had gone away home."
When the soup was ready, she called out to her father to come to
dinner. No reply came from him, "but there was a human head in the
forest, and it replied, 'I'm coming immediately!' And when the Head
arrived, it cried, 'Maiden, open the door!' She opened it. 'Maiden,
Maiden! lift me over the threshold!' She lifted it over. 'Maiden,
Maiden! put the dinner on the table!' She did so, and she and the Head
sat down to dinner. When they had dined, 'Maiden, Maiden!' said the
Head, 'take me off the bench!' She took it off the bench, and cleared
the table. It lay down to sleep on the bare floor; she lay on the
bench. She fell asleep, but it went into the forest after its
servants. The house became bigger; servants, horses, everything one
could think of suddenly appeared. The servants came to the maiden, and
said, 'Get up! it's time to go for a drive!' So she got into a
carriage with the Head, but she took a cock along with her. She told
the cock to crow; it crowed. Again she told it to crow; it crowed
again. And a third time she told it to crow. When it had crowed for
the third time, the Head fell to pieces, and became a heap of golden
coins."[289]
Then the stepmother sent her own daughter into the forest. Everything
occurred as before, until the Head arrived. Then she was so frightened
that she tried to hide herself, and she would do nothing for the Head,
which had to dish up its own dinner, and eat it by itself. And so
"when she lay down to sleep, it ate her up."
In a story in Chudinsky's collection, the stepdaughter is sent by
night to watch the rye in an _ovin_,[290] or corn-kiln. Presently a
stranger appears and asks her to marry him. She replies that she has
no wedding-clothes, upon which he brings her everything she asks for.
But she is very careful not to ask for more than one thing at a time,
and so the cock crows before her list of indispensable necessaries is
exhausted. The stranger immediately disappears, and she carries off
her presents in triumph.
The next night her stepsister is sent to the _ovin_, and the stranger
appears as before, and asks her to marry him. She, also, replies that
she has no wedding-clothes, and he offers to supply her with what she
wants. Whereupon, instead of asking for a number of things one after
the other, she demands them all at once--"Stockings, garters, a
petticoat, a dress, a comb, earrings, a mirror, soap, white paint and
rouge, and everything which her stepsister had got." Then follows the
catastrophe.
The stranger brought her everything, all at once.
"Now then," says he, "will you marry me now?"
"Wait a bit," said the stepmother's daughter, "I'll wash
and dress, and whiten myself and rouge myself, and then I'll
marry you." And straightway she set to work washing and
dressing--and she hastened and hurried to get all that done--she
wanted so awfully to see herself decked out as a bride.
By-and-by she was quite dressed--but the cock had not yet
crowed.
"Well, maiden!" says he, "will you marry me now?"
"I'm quite ready," says she.
Thereupon he tore her to pieces.[291]
There is one other of those personifications of natural forces which
play an active part in the Russian tales, about which a few words may
be said. It often happens that the heroine-stealer whom the hero of
the story has to overcome is called, not Koshchei nor the Snake, but
Vikhor,[292] the whirlwind. Here is a brief analysis of part of one of
the tales in which this elementary abducer figures. There was a
certain king, whose wife went out one day to walk in the garden.
"Suddenly a gale (_vyeter_) sprang up. In the gale was the
Vikhor-bird. Vikhor seized the Queen, and carried her off." She left
three sons, and they, when they came to man's estate, said to their
father--"Where is our mother? If she be dead, show us her grave; if
she be living, tell us where to find her."
"I myself know not where your mother is," replied the King. "Vikhor
carried her off."
"Well then," they said, "since Vikhor carried her off, and she is
alive, give us your blessing. We will go in search of our mother."
All three set out, but only the youngest, Prince Vasily, succeeded in
climbing the steep hill, whereon stood the palace in which his mother
and Vikhor lived. Entering it during Vikhor's absence, the Prince made
himself known to his mother, "who straightway gave him to eat, and
concealed him in a distant apartment, hiding him behind a number of
cushions, so that Vikhor might not easily discover him." And she gave
him these instructions. "If Vikhor comes, and begins quarrelling,
don't come forth, but if he takes to chatting, come forth and say,
'Hail father!' and seize hold of the little finger of his right hand,
and wherever he flies do you go with him."
Presently Vikhor came flying in, and addressed the Queen angrily.
Prince Vasily remained concealed until his mother gave him a hint to
come forth. This he did, and then greeted Vikhor, and caught hold of
his right little finger. Vikhor tried to shake him off, flying first
about the house and then out of it, but all in vain. At last Vikhor,
after soaring on high, struck the ground, and fell to pieces, becoming
a fine yellow sand. "But the little finger remained in the possession
of Prince Vasily, who scraped together the sand and burnt it in the
stove."[293]
* * * * *
With a mention of two other singular beings who occur in the Skazkas,
the present chapter may be brought to a close. The first is a certain
Morfei (Morpheus?) who figures in the following variant of a
well-known tale.
There was a king, and he had a daughter with whom a general who lived
over the way fell in love. But the king would not let him marry her
unless he went where none had been, and brought back thence what none
had seen. After much consideration the general set out and travelled
"over swamps, hill, and rivers." At last he reached a wood in which
was a hut, and inside the hut was an old crone. To her he told his
story, after hearing which, she cried out, "Ho, there! Morfei, dish up
the meal!" and immediately a dinner appeared of which the old crone
made the general partake. And next day "she presented that cook to the
general, ordering him to serve the general honorably, as he had served
her. The general took the cook and departed." By-and-by he came to a
river and was appealed to for food by a shipwrecked crew. "Morfei,
give them to eat!" he cried, and immediately excellent viands
appeared, with which the mariners were so pleased that they gave the
general a magic volume in exchange for his cook--who, however, did not
stay with them but secretly followed his master. A little later the
general found another shipwrecked crew, who gave him, in exchange for
his cook, a sabre and a towel, each of magic power. Then the general
returned to his own city, and his magic properties enabled him to
convince the king that he was an eligible suitor for the hand of the
Princess.[294]
The other is a mysterious personage whose name is "Oh!" The story in
which he appears is one with which many countries are familiar, and of
which numerous versions are to be found in Russia. A father sets out
with his boy for "the bazaar," hoping to find a teacher there who will
instruct the child in such science as enables people "to work little,
and feed delicately, and dress well." After walking a long way the man
becomes weary and exclaims, "Oh! I'm so tired!" Immediately there
appears "an old magician," who says--
"Why do you call me?"
"I didn't call you," replies the old man. "I don't even know who you
are."
"My name is Oh," says the magician, "and you cried 'Oh!' Where are you
taking that boy?"
The father explains what it is he wants, and the magician undertakes
to give the boy the requisite education, charging "one assignat
rouble" for a year's tuition.[295]
The teacher, in this story, is merely called a magician; but as in
other Russian versions of it his counterpart is always described as
being demoniacal, and is often openly styled a devil, it may be
assumed that Oh belongs to the supernatural order of beings. It is
often very difficult, however, to distinguish magicians from fiends in
storyland, the same powers being generally wielded, and that for the
same purposes, by the one set of beings as by the other. Of those
powers, and of the end to which the stories represent them as being
turned, some mention will be made in the next chapter.
FOOTNOTES:
[224] The adjective _likhoi_ has two opposite meanings, sometimes
signifying what is evil, hurtful, malicious, &c., sometimes what is
bold, vigorous, and therefore to be admired. As a substantive, _likho_
conveys the idea of something malevolent or unfortunate. The Polish
_licho_ properly signifies _uneven_. But odd numbers are sometimes
considered unlucky. Polish housewives, for instance, think it
imprudent to allow their hens to sit on an uneven number of eggs. But
the peasantry also describe by _Licho_ an evil spirit, a sort of
devil. (Wojcicki in the "Encyklopedyja Powszechna," xvii. p. 17.)
"When Likho sleeps, awake it not," says a proverb common to Poland and
South Russia.
[225] Afanasief, iii. No. 14. From the Voroneje Government.
[226] From an article by Borovikovsky in the "Otech. Zap." 1840, No.
2.
[227] "Les Avadanas," vol. i. No. 9, p. 51.
[228] In the "Philogische und historische Abhandlungen," of the Berlin
Academy of Sciences for 1857, pp. 1-30. See also Buslaef, "Ist. Och.,"
i. 327-331.; Campbell's "West Highland Tales," i. p. 132, &c.
[229] _Ednookie_ (_edno_ or _odno_ = one; _oko_ = eye). A Slavonic
equivalent of the name "Arimaspians," from the Scythic _arima_ = one
and _spu_ = eye. Mr. Rawlinson associates _arima_, through _farima_,
with Goth. _fruma_, Lat. _primus_, &c., and _spu_ with Lat. root
_spic_ or _spec_--in _specio_, _specto_, &c., and with our "spy," &c.
[230] Grimm, No. 130, &c.
[231] Afanasief, vi. No. 55.
[232] See the "Songs of the Russian People," p. 30.
[233] Afanasief, v. No. 34. From the Novgorod Government.
[234] _Opokhmyelit'sya_: "to drink off the effects of his debauch."
[235] Erlenvein, No. 21.
[236] Our "Sunday gown."
[237] Afanasief, viii. p. 408.
[238] Properly speaking "grief," that which morally _krushit_ or
crushes a man.
[239] _Kruchina_, as an abstract idea, is of the feminine gender. But
it is here personified as a male being.
[240] Afanasief, v. p. 237.
[241] _Spasibo_ is the word in popular use as an expression of thanks,
and it now means nothing more than "thank you!" But it is really a
contraction of _spasi Bog!_ "God save (you)!" as our "Good-bye!" is of
"God be with you!"
[242] Maksimovich, "Tri Skazki" (quoted by Afanasief, viii. p. 406).
[243] Vuk Karajich, No. 13.
[244] Afanasief, viii. No. 21.
[245] _Schastie_ and _Neschastie_--Luck and Bad-luck--the exact
counterparts of the Indian Lakshmi and Alakshmi.
[246] Afanasief, iii. No. 9.
[247] Afanasief viii. pp. 32-4.
[248] _Bezdolny_ (_bez_ = without; _dolya_ = lot, share, etc.).
[249] Everyone knows how frequent are the allusions to good and bad
fortune in Oriental fiction, so that there is no occasion to do more
than allude to the stories in which they occur--one of the most
interesting of which is that of Vira-vara in the "Hitopadesa" (chap.
iii. Fable 9), who finds one night a young and beautiful woman, richly
decked with jewels, weeping outside the city in which dwells his royal
master Sudraka, and asks her who she is, and why she weeps. To which
(in Mr. Johnson's translation) she replies "I am the Fortune of this
King Sudraka, beneath the shadow of whose arm I have long reposed very
happily. Through the fault of the queen the king will die on the third
day. I shall be without a protector, and shall stay no longer;
therefore do I weep." On the variants of this story, see Benfey's
"Panchatantra," i. pp. 415-16.
[250] From _pyat_ = five, Friday being the fifth working day.
Similarly Tuesday is called _Vtornik_, from _vtoroi_ = second;
Wednesday is _Sereda_, "the middle;" Thursday _Chetverg_, from
_chetverty_ = fourth. But Saturday is _Subbota_.
[251] _P.V.S._, i. 230. See also Buslaef, "Ist. Och." pp. 323, 503-4.
[252] A tradition of our own relates that the Lords of the Admiralty,
wishing to prove the absurdity of the English sailor's horror of
Friday, commenced a ship on a Friday, launched her on a Friday, named
her "The Friday," procured a Captain Friday to command her, and sent
her to sea on a Friday, and--she was never heard of again.
[253] Afanasief, "Legendui," No. 13. From the Tambof Government.
[254] For an account of various similar superstitions connected with
Wednesday and Thursday, see Mannhardt's "Germanische Mythen," p. 15,
16, and W. Schmidt's "Das Jahr und seine Tage," p. 19.
[255] Khudyakof, No. 166. From the Orel Government.
[256] Doubtful. The Russian word is "Svarit," properly "to cook."
[257] Compare the English nursery rhyme addressed to the lady-bird:
"Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home,
Your house is a-fire, your children at home."
[258] Wednesday in this, and Friday in the preceding story, are the
exact counterparts of Lithuanian Laumes. According to Schleicher
("Lituanica," p. 109), Thursday evening is called in Lithuania _Laumiu
vakars_, the Laume's Eve. No work ought to be done on a Thursday
evening, and it is especially imprudent to spin then. For at night,
when the Laumes come, as they are accustomed to do between Thursday
evening and Friday morning, they seize any spinning which has been
begun, work away at it till cock-crow, and then carry it off. In
modern Greece the women attribute all nightly meddling with their
spinning to the _Neraides_ (the representatives of the Hellenic
Nereids. See Bernhard Schmidt's "Volksleben der Neugriechen," p. 111).
In some respects the _Neraida_ closely resemble the _Lamia_, and both
of them have many features in common with the _Laume_. The latter name
(which in Lettish is written Lauma) has never been satisfactorily
explained. Can it be connected with the Greek _Lamia_ which is now
written also as +Lamnia+, +Lamna+ and +Lamnissa+?
[259] The word _Nedyelya_ now means "a week." But it originally meant
Sunday, the non-working day (_ne_ = not, _dyelat'_ = to do or work.)
After a time, the name for the first day of the week became
transferred to the week itself.
[260] That of "Wilisch Witiasu," Schott, No. 11.
[261] That of "Trandafiru," Schott, No. 23.
[262] J. Wenzig's "Westslawischer Maerchenschatz," pp. 144-155.
According to Wenzig Ned[)e]lka is "the personified first Sunday after
the new moon." The part here attributed to St. Ned[)e]lka is played by
a Vila in one of the Songs of Montenegro. According to an ancient
Indian tradition, the Aswattha-tree "is to be touched only on a
Sunday, for on every other day Poverty or Misfortune abides in it: on
Sunday it is the residence of Lakshmi" (Good Fortune). H. H. Wilson
"Works," iii. 70.
[263] "Songs of the Russian People," pp. 120-153.
[264] Afanasief, vii. No. 33. The name Leshy or Lyeshy is derived from
_lyes_, a forest.
[265] Literally "as a _lun_," a kind of hawk (_falco rusticolus_).
_Lun_ also means a greyish light.
[266] _Ottogo ya i cyed chto chortof dyed._
[267] Afanasief, _P.V.S._, ii. 226.
[268] Afanasief, iv. No. 40. From the Tver Government.
[269] Translated literally from Afanasief, _P.V.S._ ii. 227.
[270] Yastreb = vulture or goshawk
[271] Quoted from Borichefsky (pp. 183-5) by Afanasief.
[272] Tereshchenko, v. 43, 44.
[273] Literally "Life disgusted them worse than a bitter radish."
[274] Translated literally from Afanasief, _P.V.S._ ii. 230.
[275] "Deutsche Mythologie," 462.
[276] Afanasief, _loc. cit._ p. 231.
[277] Afanasief, iv. No. 42. From the Vologda Government.
[278] _Chelpan_, a sort of dough cake, or pie without stuffing.
[279] _Bogatir_ is the regular term for a Russian "hero of romance."
Its origin is disputed, but it appears to be of Tartar extraction.
[280] _Nast_, snow that has thawed and frozen again.
[281] _Suzhenoi-ryazhenoi._
[282] _Zhenikhi._
[283] _Sil'no priudaril_, mightily smote harder.
[284] _Okostenyeli_, were petrified.
[285] Afanasief, _P.V.S._ i. 318-19.
[286] Ibid. i. 312.
[287] As with Der Frostige in the German story of "Die sechs Diener,"
_KM._, No. 134, p. 519, and "The Man with the White Hat," in that of
"Sechse kommen durch die ganze Welt," No. 71, p. 295, and their
variants in different lands. See Grimm, iii. p. 122.
[288] No. 13, "The Stepmother's Daughter and the Stepdaughter,"
written down in Kazan.
[289] This is a thoroughly Buddhistic idea. According to Buddhist
belief, the treasure which has belonged to anyone in a former
existence may come to him in the shape of a man who, when killed,
turns to gold. The first story of the fifth book of the
"Panchatantra," is based upon an idea of this kind. A man is told in a
vision to kill a monk. He does so, and the monk becomes a heap of
gold. A barber, seeing this, kills several monks, but to no purpose.
See Benfey's Introduction, pp. 477-8.
[290] For an account of the _ovin_, and the respect paid to it or to
the demons supposed to haunt it see "The Songs of the Russian People,"
p. 257.
[291] Chudinsky, No. 13. "The Daughter and the Stepdaughter." From the
Nijegorod Government.
[292] _Vikhr'_ or _Vikhor'_ from _vit'_, to whirl or twist.
[293] Khudyakof, No. 82. The story ends in the same way as that of
Norka. See supra, p. 73.
[294] Khudyakof, No. 86. Morfei the Cook is merely a development of
the magic cudgel which in so many stories (_e.g._ the sixth of the
Calmuck tales) is often exchanged for other treasures by its master,
to whom it soon returns--it being itself a degraded form of the hammer
of Thor, the lance of Indra, which always came back to the divine hand
that had hurled it.
[295] Khudyakof, No. 19. The rest of the story is that of "Der Gaudief
un sin Meester," Grimm's _KM._ No. 68. (See also vol. iii. p. 118 of
that work, where a long list is given of similar stories in various
languages.)