Once upon a time there was a merchant who had been married for twelve
years and had only one daughter, Vasilísa the Fair. When her mother died
the girl was eight years old. On her death-bed the mother called the
maiden to her, took a doll out of her counterpane, said: “Vasilísushka,
hear my last words. I am dying, and I will leave you my mother’s
blessing and this doll. Keep this doll always by you, but show it to
nobody, and no misfortune can befall you. Give it food and ask it for
advice. After it has eaten, it will tell you how to avoid your evil.”
Then the wife kissed her daughter and died.
After the wife’s death the merchant mourned as it behoved, and then he
thought of a second wife. He was a handsome man and found many brides,
but he liked one widow more than any one. She was no longer young, and
had two daughters of about the same age as Vasilísa. So she was an
experienced housewife and mother. The merchant married her, but he had
made a mistake, for she was no good mother to his own daughter.
Vasilísa was the fairest damsel in the entire village, and the
stepmother and the sisters envied her therefore. And they used to
torture her by piling all the work they could on her, that she might
grow thin and ugly, and might be tanned by the wind and the sun. And the
child lived a hard life. Vasilísa, however, did all her work without
complaining, and always grew more beautiful and plumper, while the
stepmother and her daughters, out of sheer spite, grew thinner and
uglier. Yet there they sat all day long with their hands folded, just
like fine ladies. How could this be?
It was the doll that had helped Vasilísa. Without her the maiden could
never have done her task. Vasilísa often ate nothing herself, and kept
the tastiest morsels for the doll; and when at night they had all gone
to bed, she used to lock herself up in her cellaret below, give the doll
food to eat, and say, “Dollet, eat and listen to my misery. I am living
in my father’s house, and my lot is hard. My evil stepmother is
torturing me out of the white world. Teach me what I must do in order to
bear this life.”
Then the doll gave her good advice, consoled her, and did all her
morning’s work for her. Vasilísa was told to go walking, plucking
flowers; and all her flowerbeds were done in time, all the coal was
brought in, and the water-jugs carried in, and the hearthstone was hot.
Further, the doll taught her herb-lore; so, thanks to her doll, she had
a merry life; and the years went by.
Vasilísa grew up, and all the lads in the village sought her. But the
stepmother’s daughters nobody would look at; and the stepmother grew
more evil than ever and answered all her suitors: “I will not give my
youngest daughter before I give the elders.” So she sent all the
bargainers away, and to show how pleased she was, rained blows on
Vasilísa.
One day the merchant had to go away on business for a long time; so the
stepmother in the meantime went over to a new house near a dense,
slumbrous forest. In the forest there was a meadow, and on the meadow
there was a hut, and in the hut Bába Yagá lived, who would not let
anybody in, and ate up men as though they were poultry. Whilst she was
moving, the stepmother sent her hated stepdaughter into the wood, but
she always came back perfectly safe, for the doll showed her the way by
which she could avoid Bába Yagá’s hut.
So one day the harvest season came and the stepmother gave all three
maidens their task for the evening: one was to make lace and the other
to sew a stocking, and Vasilísa was to spin. Each was to do a certain
amount. The mother put all the fires out in the entire house, and left
only one candle burning where the maidens were at work, and herself went
to sleep. The maidens worked on. The candle burned down, and one of the
stepmother’s daughters took the snuffers in order to cut down the wick.
But the stepmother had told her to put the light out as though by
accident.
“What is to be done now?” they said. “There is no fire in the house and
our work is not finished. We must get a light from the Bába Yagá.”
“I can see by the needles,” said the one who was making lace.
“I also am not going,” said the second, “for my knitting needles give me
light enough. You must go and get some fire. Go to the Bába Yagá!” And
they turned Vasilísa out of the room.
And Vasilísa went to her room, put meat and drink before her doll, and
said: “Dolly dear, eat it and listen to my complaint. They are sending
me to Bába Yagá for fire, and the Bába Yagá will eat me up.”
Then the Dollet ate, and her eyes glittered like two lamps, and she
said: “Fear nothing, Vasilísushka. Do what they say, only take me with
you. As long as I am with you Bába Yagá can do you no harm.” Vasilísa
put the doll into her pocket, crossed herself, and went tremblingly into
the darksome forest.
Suddenly a knight on horseback galloped past her all in white. His cloak
was white, and his horse and the reins: and it became light. She went
further, and suddenly another horseman passed by, who was all in red,
and his horse was red, and his clothes: and the sun rose. Vasilísa went
on through the night and the next day. Next evening she came to the mead
where Bába Yagá’s hut stood. The fence round the hut consisted of human
bones, and on the stakes skeletons glared out of their empty eyes. And,
instead of the doorways and the gate, there were feet, and in the stead
of bolts there were hands, and instead of the lock there was a mouth
with sharp teeth. And Vasilísa was stone-cold with fright.
Suddenly another horseman pranced by on his way. He was all in black, on
a jet-black horse, with a jet-black cloak. He sprang to the door and
vanished as though the earth had swallowed him up: and it was night. But
the darkness did not last long, for the eyes in all the skeletons on the
fence glistened, and it became as light as day all over the green.
Vasilísa trembled with fear, but remained standing, for she did not know
how she could escape. Suddenly a terrible noise was heard in the forest,
and the tree-boughs creaked and the dry leaves crackled. And out of the
wood Bába Yagá drove in inside the mortar with the pestle, and with the
broom swept away every trace of her steps. At the door she stopped,
sniffed all the way round, and cried out:
“Fee, Fo, Fi, Fum, I smell the blood of a Russian mum!
Who is there?”
Vasilísa, shuddering with dread, stepped up to her, bowed low to the
ground, and said: “Mother, I am here. My stepmother’s daughters sent me
to you to ask for fire.”
“Very well,” said Bába Yagá: “I know them. Stay with me, work for me,
and I will give you fire. Otherwise I shall eat you up.”
Then she went to the door, and she cried out: “Ho! my strong bolts, draw
back, my strong door, spring open!” And the door sprang open, and Bába
Yagá went in whistling and whirring, and Vasilísa followed her.
Then the door closed, and Bába Yagá stretched herself in the room and
said to Vasilísa: “Give me whatever there is in the oven. I am hungry.”
So Vasilísa lit a splinter from the skulls on the hedge and fetched Bába
Yagá food out of the oven, and there was food enough there for ten men.
Out of a cellar she fetched _kvas_, mead, and wine. Bába Yagá ate and
drank it all up. But all there was left for Vasilísa was a little of
some kind of soup, and a crust of bread, and a snippet of pork.
Bába Yagá lay down to sleep and said: “In the morning, to-morrow, when I
go away you must clean the courtyard, brush out the room, get dinner
ready, do the washing, go to the field, get a quarter of oats, sift it
all out, and see that it is all done before I come home. Otherwise I
will eat you up.”
And, as soon as ever she had given all the orders, she began snoring.
Vasilísa put the rest of the dinner in front of the doll and said:
“Dollet, eat it up and listen to my woe. Heavy are the tasks which the
Bába Yagá has given me, and she threatens to eat me up if I don’t carry
them all out. Help me!”
“Have no fear, Vasilísa, thou fair maiden. Eat, pray, and lie down to
sleep, for the morning is wiser than the evening.”
Very early next day Vasilísa woke up. Bába Yagá was already up and was
looking out of the window. The glimmer in the eyes of the skulls had
dimmed; the white horseman raced by: and it dawned. Bába Yagá went into
the courtyard, and whistled, and the mortar, the pestle, and the besom
appeared at once, and the red horseman came by: and the sun rose. Bába
Yagá sat in the mortar and went by, thrusting the mortar with the
pestle, and with the besom she removed every trace of her steps.
Vasilísa, left all by herself, looked over the house of the Bába Yagá,
wondered at all the wealth gathered in, and began to consider what she
should start with. But all the work was already done, and the doll had
sifted out the very last of the ears of oats.
“Oh, my saviour!” said Vasilísa. “You have helped me in my great need.”
“You now have only to get dinner ready,” the doll answered, and
clambered back into Vasilísa’s pocket. “With God’s help get it ready,
and stay here quietly waiting.”
In the evening Vasilísa laid the cloth and waited for Bába Yagá. The
gloaming came, and the black horseman reached by: and it at once became
dark, but the eyes in the skulls glowed. The trees shuddered, the leaves
crackled, Bába Yagá drove in, and Vasilísa met her.
“Is it all done?” Bába Yagá asked.
“Yes, grandmother: look!” said Vasilísa.
Bába Yagá looked round everywhere, and was rather angry that she had
nothing to find fault with and said: “Very well.” Then she cried out:
“Ye my faithful servants, friends of my heart! Store up my oats.” Then
three pairs of hands appeared, seized the oats and carried them off.
Bába Yagá had her supper, and, before she went to sleep, once more
commanded Vasilísa: “To-morrow do the same as you did to-day, but also
take the hay which is lying on my field, clean it from every trace of
soil, every single ear. Somebody has, out of spite, mixed earth with
it.”
And, as soon as she had said it, she turned round to the wall and was
snoring.
Vasilísa at once fetched her doll, who ate, and said as she had the day
before: “Pray and lie down to sleep, for the morning is wiser than the
evening. Everything shall be done, Vasilísushka.”
Next morning Bába Yagá got up and stood at the window, and then went
into the courtyard and whistled; and the mortar, the besom, and the
pestle appeared at once, and the red horseman came by: and the sun rose.
Bába Yagá sat in the mortar and went off, sweeping away her traces as
before.
Vasilísa got everything ready with the help of her doll. Then the old
woman came back, looked over everything, and said: “Ho, my faithful
servants, friends of my heart! Make me some poppy-oil.” Then three pairs
of hands came, laid hold of the poppies and carried them off.
Bába Yagá sat down to supper, and Vasilísa sat silently in front of her.
“Why do you not speak; why do you stay there as if you were dumb?” Bába
Yagá asked.
“I did not venture to say anything; but if I might, I should like to ask
some questions.”
“Ask, but not every question turns out well: too knowing is too old.”
“Still, I should like to ask you of some things I saw. On my way to you
I met a white horseman, in a white cloak, on a white horse: who was he?”
“The bright day.”
“Then a red horseman, on a red horse, in a red cloak, overtook me: who
was he?”
“The red sun.”
“What is the meaning of the black horseman who overtook me as I reached
your door, grandmother?”
“That was the dark night. Those are my faithful servants.”
Vasilísa then thought of the three pairs of hands and said nothing.
“Why don’t you ask any further?” Bába Yagá asked.
“I know enough, for you say yourself ‘too knowing is too old.’”
“It is well you asked only about things you saw in the courtyard, and
not about things without it, for I do not like people to tell tales out
of school, and I eat up everybody who is too curious. But now I shall
ask you, how did you manage to do all the work I gave you?”
“By my mother’s blessing!”
“Ah, then, get off with you as fast as you can, blessed daughter; no one
blessed may stay with me!”
So she turned Vasilísa out of the room and kicked her to the door, took
a skull with the burning eyes from the fence, put it on a staff, gave it
her and said, “Now you have fire for your stepmother’s daughters, for
that was why they sent you here.”
Then Vasilísa ran home as fast as she could by the light of the skull;
and the flash in it went out with the dawn.
By the evening of the next day she reached the house, and was going to
throw the skull away, when she heard a hollow voice coming out of the
skull and saying: “Do not throw me away. Bring me up to your
stepmother’s house.” And she looked at her stepmother’s house and saw
that there was no light in any window, and decided to enter with the
skull. She was friendlily received, and the sisters told her that ever
since she had gone away they had had no fire; they were able to make
none; and all they borrowed of their neighbours went out as soon as it
came into the room.
“Possibly _your_ fire may burn!” said the stepmother.
So they took the skull into the room, and the burning eyes looked into
the stepmother’s and the daughters’ and singed their eyes out. Wherever
they went, they could not escape it, for the eyes followed them
everywhere, and in the morning they were all burned to cinders. Vasilísa
alone was left alive.
Then Vasilísa buried the skull in the earth, locked the house up, and
went into the town. And she asked a poor old woman to take her home and
to give her food until her father came back; she said to the old woman,
“Mother, sitting here idle makes me feel dull. Go and buy me some of the
very best flax; I should like to spin.”
So the old woman went and bought good flax. Vasilísa set herself to
work, and the work went merrily along, and the skein was as smooth and
as fine as hair, and when she had a great deal of yarn, no one would
undertake the weaving, so she turned to her doll, who said: “Bring me
some old comb from somewhere, some old spindle, some old shuttle, and
some horse mane; and I will do it for you.”
Vasilísa went to bed, and the doll in that night made a splendid
spinning stool; and by the end of the winter all the linen had been
woven, and it was so fine that it could be drawn like a thread through
the eye of a needle. And in the spring they bleached the linen, and
Vasilísa said to the old mistress: “Go and sell the cloth, and keep the
money for yourself.”
The old woman saw the cloth and admired it, and said: “Oh, my child!
nobody except the Tsar could ever wear such fine linen; I will take it
to Court.”
The old woman went to the Tsar’s palace, and kept walking up and down in
front of it.
The Tsar saw her and said: “Oh, woman, what do you want?”
“Almighty Tsar, I am bringing you some wonderful goods, which I will
show to nobody except you.”
The Tsar ordered the old woman to be given audience, and as soon as ever
he had seen the linen he admired it very much. “What do you want for
it?” he asked her.
“It is priceless, Bátyushka,” she said; “I will give it you as a
present.”
And the Tsar thought it over and sent her away with rich rewards.
Now the Tsar wanted to have shirts made out of this same linen, but he
could not find any seamstress to undertake the work. And he thought for
long, and at last he sent for the old woman again, and said: “If you can
spin this linen and weave it, perhaps you can make a shirt out of it?”
“I cannot weave and spin the linen,” said the old woman; “only a maiden
can who is staying with me.”
“Well, she may do the work.”
So the woman went home and told Vasilísa everything.
“I knew that I should have to do the work!” said Vasilísa. And she
locked herself up in her little room, set to work, and never put her
hands again on her lap until she had sewn a dozen shirts.
The old woman brought the Tsar the shirts, and Vasilísa washed and
combed herself, dressed herself, and sat down at the window, and waited.
Then there came a henchman of the Tsar’s, entered the room and said:
“The Tsar would fain see the artist who has sewn him the shirts, and he
wants to reward her with his own hands.”
Vasilísa the Fair went to the Tsar. When he saw her, he fell deep in
love with her. “No, fairest damsel; I will never part from you. You must
be my wife.”
So the Tsar took Vasilísa, with her white hands, put her next to him,
and bade the bells ring for the wedding.
Vasilísa’s father came back home, and was rejoiced at her good luck, and
stayed with his daughter.
Vasilísa also took the old woman to live with her, and the doll ever
remained in her pocket.