[112] _Kruptadia_: Heilbronn: Henninger Frères, 1883: _Secret Stories
from the Russian_.
Once on a time there dwelt a priest and his wife; they had two
daughters. The priest hired a labourer, and in the spring he made a
pilgrimage; but before setting out he gave his orders to the labourer.
“See, friend,” said the priest, “on my return I would find all the
garden dug up and the beds set out.”
“I hear, little father,” answered the labourer.
The labourer dug so ill that the garden went to wrack and ruin, and all
the while he enjoyed himself. When the priest returned, he went to the
garden and saw that naught had been done.
“Ah, friend,” asked the priest of the labourer, “is it possible that
thou knowest not how to dig a garden?”
“Assuredly I know not,” answered the labourer. “Had I known I would
have done it.”
“Go, then, into the house, and beg of my daughters to give thee an iron
shovel, and I will show thee how to dig.”
The labourer sped to the house and sought the daughters.
“Little mistresses,” quoth he, “the little father orders ye to give me
... both of ye....”
“Give thee what?”
“Ye know well he meaneth ye yourselves ... to futter!”
The priest’s daughters fell to abusing the labourer.
“What availeth it to abuse me?” asked the labourer. “The little father
hath ordered ye to yield me this at once, for the borders of the garden
must be dug. An ye believe not me, ask of him yourselves.”
One of the daughters straightway ran to the steps leading to the house,
and cried:
“Little father! Hast ordered us to give this thing to the labourer?”
“Give it him swiftly! Why keepest him waiting?” answered the priest.
“Come, my sister,” said the young girl when she returned. “There is no
help for it. We must give it him. So the little father hath ordered.”
Both then went to bed, and the labourer put the matter through most
expeditiously. Afterwards, he took a shovel from the shed, and ran to
the little father in the garden. The priest showed him how to dig the
borders of the garden, and he himself returned to the house to his
wife. But what saw he? His daughters in tears.
“Why weep ye?”
“How should we not weep, little father,” answered they, “when thou
thyself hast ordered the labourer to make mock of us?”
“To make mock of ye?”
“Didst not order us to yield it to him?”
“And why not? I ordered ye to give him a shovel.”
“A shovel? He hath dishonoured us! He hath taken our virginity!”
When the priest heard this, he fell into a mighty rage, seized a stake,
and ran headlong to the kitchen garden. The labourer perceived the
priest approaching with a stake. Wretched mischance! He hurled the
shovel from him and took to his heels. The priest sped after him, but
the labourer was the more agile, and vanished from the sight of the
priest.
Then went the priest in search of his labourer, and in his search he
encountered a peasant.
“Good day, friend,” said the priest.
“Good day, little father,” answered the peasant.
“Hast encountered my labourer?”
“I know not. A lad passed me, running swiftly.”
“Tis he! Come with me, little peasant, and aid me in the search. I will
pay thee well.”
They set out together; not far off they came upon a strolling player.
“Good day, strolling player,” said the priest.
“Good day, little father,” answered the strolling player.
“Hast met a lad just now?”
“Yea, little father. There was one who went running past me.”
“‘Tis he! Aid us in the search. I will pay thee well.”
“Willingly, little father.”
And the three set forth together.
Now the labourer had run to the village, and having clad himself in
other garments, went himself to meet the priest. And the priest failed
to recognise him, but questioned him, saying:
“Tell me, friend--hast seen a labourer on the road?”
“I have seen one, and he ran to the village.”
“Come, friend, aid us in the search.”
“Willingly, little father.”
All four then went in search of the priest’s labourer; they entered
the village; they walked; they walked unto eventide; naught befell.
Darkness descended. Where might they pass the night?
Anon they came to a house where dwelt a widow, and they begged leave of
her to pass the night therein.
“Good people,” replied the widow, “there will be a deluge this night in
my house. I warn ye of it beforehand. Ye will be drowned.”
Howbeit, she did not refuse them--indeed, she might not--and she let
them enter for the night.
(Now the widow’s lover had promised to visit her that night.)
All four then entered the house and betook themselves to bed. The
priest, thinking perchance there might be a deluge, laid hold of a
great trough, set it upon a shelf, and put himself to sleep in the
trough.
“If there be a deluge,” thought he to himself, “I shall float upon the
top of it in the trough.”
The strolling player laid himself down by the hearth, his head in the
ashes; the peasant reclined on the bench behind the table; and the
priest’s labourer stretched himself on the stool by the window. Hardly
had they lain down ere they fell into deep slumber, excepting the
labourer, who alone slept not. He it was who heard the lover of the
mistress of the house come beneath the window and knock, saying:
“Open, my beloved.”
The labourer arose, opened the window, and spake in low tones, saying:
“Beloved, thou comest at an ill moment. Strangers are within my house,
passing the night therein. Come thou the next night.”
“I go, beloved,” answered the lover. “But lean thou from the window
that we may embrace.”
The labourer turned his posterior to the window and thrust out his
backside. The lover embraced it with rapture.
“I go ... adieu, my beloved. Fare thee well. I will return to-morrow
night.”
“Go, loved one. I will await thee, but, as a parting gift, give me thy
yard, which I will hold for several moments in my hand. ‘Twill console
me somewhat.”
The lover drew forth his yard from his drawers and thrust it towards
the window.
“Take it, beloved,” quoth he. “Amuse thyself.”
The labourer took the yard in his hand, caressed it once or twice, drew
his knife from his pocket, and, with one blow, cut off the member and
testicles of the lover. The latter uttered a great cry, and sped amain
to his home. The labourer shut the window, sat down on the bench, and
made a noise with his mouth, as though eating. The peasant heard the
noise and awoke, saying:
“What eatest thou, comrade?”
“I have found a morsel of sausage on the table, but I cannot eat it
all, for ‘tis uncooked.”
“No matter if it be uncooked, comrade. Give me a portion to sample.”
“There is not much, friend, but take what is left and eat.” And he gave
him the cut-off yard.
The peasant fell to chewing the ‘sausage’ with fine appetite. He chewed
and chewed, but could not swallow the morsel.
“What is wrong with it, comrade?” he asked. “‘Tis impossible to eat it.
‘Tis so tough.”
“Put it in the frying-pan, roast it, and then thou wilt be able to eat
it.”
The peasant arose, went towards the frying-pan, and crammed the
‘sausage’ right ‘twixt the teeth of the strolling player. He held it
there; he held it there for a long while, making experiment with it.
“Nay,” said he, at length. “The ‘sausage’ hath not grown tender. The
fire hath done naught.”
“Cease to wrestle with the thing,” said the labourer. “The mistress of
the house will hear and will scold us. Thou hast scattered the fire
over the frying-pan. Look! sprinkle it with water that the woman may
perceive naught.”
“But where may I get the water?”
“Piss o’er it. Better extinguish the fire than have to go forth into
the courtyard.”
The peasant had great desire to piss, and he pissed forthwith upon the
face of the strolling player. And when the strolling player felt the
water, coming whence he knew not, fall right in his mouth, he said:
“The deluge hath arrived!”
And he fell to crying with all the strength of his lungs:
“Little father! The deluge! The deluge!”
The priest heard the voice of the strolling player, and, half asleep,
sought to cast himself, together with the trough, straight into the
water, but instead he fell heavily on the ground, bruising himself all
over.
“Ah! my God!” he cried. “When a child falleth, the good Lord placeth
a cushion under it, but when an old man tumbleth, the devil putteth a
harrow beneath him. Behold me all sore and bruised. Of a certainty I
shall ne’er find that brigand of a labourer.”
Quoth the labourer to the priest:
“Seek him no more, I counsel thee. Go home, and may the Lord go with
thee. It were better for thy health.”
_EXCURSUS_ to _THE PRIEST AND THE LABOURER_.
The foregoing story reminds one of the device employed by “The Youth
who would Futter his Father’s Wives,” (_The Thousand Nights and a
Night: Supplemental Nights_, vol. 6: Translated by Sir Richard F.
Burton.) In the latter case the father sets out on a journey, but,
having forgotten his shoes, instructs his son, who is accompanying him
for a short way, to return and fetch them. The youth goes back, informs
his father’s wives that they are to sleep with him in his parent’s
absence, and, when they are incredulous, shouts to his father in the
distance:
“O my papa, one of them or the two of them?”
The father, referring, of course, to his shoes, shouts back:
“The two! The two!”
The wives are convinced by this remark, as were the virgin daughters
of the priest in our story from _Kruptadia_. We shall reserve further
extracts from this Oriental narrative for a subsequent volume of
_Anthologica Rarissima_, the plot and details being inappropriate to
our present theme.