In a certain kingdom, in a certain land, there was a gipsy who had a
wife and seven children, and he lived so poorly that at last there was
nothing in the house to eat or to drink—not even a crust of bread. He
was too idle to work, and too much of a coward to thieve. So what could
he do?
Well, the peasant went on the road and stood pondering. At this time
Egóri the Brave was passing by.
“Hail!” said the peasant. “Whither are you faring?”
“To God.”
“Why?”
“With a message from men wherewith each man should live, and wherewith
each man should busy himself.”
“Will you, then, send in a report about me to the Lord?” the peasant
said, “what He wishes me to engage in?”
“Very well—I will hand in a report,” Egóri said, and he went on his
road.
So there the peasant stood, waiting for him—waiting. And when at last he
saw Egóri on his way back, he asked him at once: “Did you hand in a
report about me?”
“No,” said Egóri; “I forgot.”
So the peasant set out on his road a second time, and he again met
Egóri, who was going to God on an errand. So the gipsy asked him once
more: “Do please hand in a request on my behalf.”
“All right,” said Egóri. And he forgot again.
And so once more the peasant set out on the road, and once more met
Egóri. And he asked him for the third time: “Do please speak on my
behalf to God!”
“Yes—all right!”
“Will you forget again?”
“No, I shall not forget this time.”
Only the gipsy did not believe him. “Give me,” he said, “your golden
stirrup. I will keep it until you come back; otherwise, you may once
more forget.”
Egóri untied his golden stirrup, gave it to the gipsy, and rode on
farther with a single stirrup. Then he reached God, and he began to ask
wherewith each man should live, and wherewith each man should busy
himself. In each case he received the right order, and he was starting
back. But as soon as ever he mounted, he glanced down at the stirrup and
recollected the gipsy. So he ran back to see God and said: “Oh, I
forgot. Whilst I was coming here I met a gipsy on the way, and he asked
me what he should do.” “Oh, tell the gipsy,” the Lord said, “that his
trade is from whomsoever he take and steal, he, then, shall cheat and
perjure himself.”
So Egóri went and mounted his horse, came up to the gipsy, and told him:
“I shall now tell you the truth. If you had not taken the stirrup, I
should have forgotten all about it.”
“I thought as much,” said the gipsy. “Now, for all eternity, you cannot
forget me if you only look down at your stirrup, and I shall be always
in your mind. Well, what did the Lord say to you?”
“Oh, He told me from whomsoever you take or steal you will cheat and
perjure yourself; that will be your trade.”
“Thank you very much,” said the gipsy, and he bowed down to the ground,
and went home.
“Where are you going?” said Egóri. “Give me my golden stirrup!”
“What stirrup?”
“Didn’t you take one from me?”
“How in the world could I take one from you? This is the first time I
have seen you, and I have not even had a stirrup. Before God!—I never
have!” And so the gipsy perjured himself.
What could he do? He could struggle and fight it out, Egóri could, and
so he did; but it was all no good. It is perfectly true, and the gipsy
spoke the truth: “If I had not given him the stirrup!—if I had not only
known him! Now I shall forget him no more.”
So the gipsy took the golden stirrup and began hawking it. And as he
went on his way, a fine lord came and met him. “Hullo, gipsy!” he said.
“Will you sell the stirrup?”
“Yes—all right!”
“What will you take?”
“Fifteen hundred roubles.”
“Much too dear, isn’t that?”
“Well, you see, it is all gold.”
“Very well!” said his lordship; and he put his hand into his pocket, and
he only had a thousand. “You just take this thousand, gipsy, and then
give me the stirrup: I will send you on the odd five hundred.”
“Oh, no, my lord! One thousand roubles I will certainly take, but I
shall not give up the stirrup. When you carry out your part of the
bargain, then you shall receive the stirrup.” So the lord gave him the
thousand, and he went home.
The very instant he got there he took out five hundred roubles, and sent
his man up to the gipsy, telling him to give the money to him and to
take the golden stirrup.
When his lordship’s groom came to the gipsy’s _izbá_,[5] “Hail, gipsy!”
he said. “How fare you, good man? I have brought you the money from his
lordship.”
“Well, give it me if you have brought it.” So the gipsy took the five
hundred roubles, and gave the man a glass of wine, and then another,
until the man had his fill.
And when he had had his fill the groom began to make his way home, and
said to the peasant: “Now give me the golden stirrup.”
“What?”
“Yes—the stirrup which you sold my master.”
“What, _I_ sold it! I never had a golden stirrup!”
“Well, then, give me the money back.”
“What money?”
“But I just gave you five hundred roubles!”
“I have not even seen a _grívennik_[6]—never in my life! I looked after
you kindly, simply for the sake of our Lord, and not in the least in
order to get any money out of you.” And in this manner the gipsy had
disavowed everything.
When the master had heard of this, he instantly started out to see the
gipsy. “What on earth do you mean, you vile thief, by taking money and
not giving up the golden stirrup?”
“What golden stirrup? Now do, my lord, think a little. How is it
possible for a grey, hoary old peasant like me to possess a golden
stirrup?”
Then the master became angrier and angrier, but he could not find it.
“Well, we will come to court!” he said.
“Oh, please,” the gipsy answered, “please think! How in the world can I
come in your company? You are a lord, and I am only a blockhead—I am
only a dolt and a mere hind. At least you might dress me in a fine
costume if we are to go together.” So the master dressed him in his own
dress, and they journeyed together to the town for the case to be tried.
When they came into the town, the master said: “I bought of this peasant
a golden stirrup. He took the money for it and will not deliver the
chattel.”
And the peasant answered: “My Lords Justices, do you think it out for
yourselves, however could one get a golden stirrup out of a grey-haired
peasant? Why, I have not a single loaf at home. And I really cannot
imagine what this fine gentleman wants of me. Why, he will even be
saying next that I am wearing his clothes.”
“But the dress _is_ mine!” the master shrieked out.
“There you are, my Lords Justices!”
After this the case came to an end, and the master went back home
without getting anything, and the peasant went on living merrily—living
on and gaining nothing but good.