by John Gardner
“One day passed and then another, and on the third day Marco the Rich summoned the poor peasant, spoke to him kindly, and said, ‘Friend, you are a poor man, you will never be able to bring up your son. Give him to me, then, and I will help him to rise in the world, and I will give you a thousand rubles.’ The poor man thought and thought and at last consented. Marco gave him the thousand rubles, took the child, wrapped him in fox furs, put him on the seat of his carriage, and drove away. It was winter. When they had driven several miles, Marco bade his coachman stop, handed him the godchild, and said: ‘Take him by the legs and hurl him into the ravine.’ The coachman did as he was ordered and hurled the child into a deep ravine. ‘Now, Vasily,’ said Marco, ‘take my wealth if you can!’ And he drove home.
“The following day, some merchants came driving down this same road. They were carrying twelve thousand rubles they owed Marco the Rich. When they came near the ravine they heard the wailing of a child, and they stopped, listened, and sent a servant to see what it could be. The servant went down into the ravine and beheld a soft green meadow, and in the middle of the meadow a child sat, playing with flowers and whimpering. The servant told all this to his master, who went to the ravine himself, took the child, wrapped him in a fur coat, returned to his carriage, and drove on. The merchants came to Marco the Rich, who asked them where they’d found the child. ‘In a meadow at the bottom of a ravine,’ said the merchants, and Marco guessed at once that it was Vasily the Luckless, his own godchild. He took the boy in his arms, dandled him for a time, then gave him to his daughter, saying, ‘Take this boy, my daughter, and see to his comfort.’
“Then he plied the merchants with all kinds of drink and asked them to let him keep the child, seeing he’d grown so fond of it. The merchants at first refused, but when Marco told them that he would cancel their debt, they consented and left. Anastasya was so overjoyed that she immediately found a cradle, hung curtains around it, and began to tend to the babe, never leaving him by night or day. One day went by, then another. On the third day Marco came home when Anastasya was asleep, took the child, put him into a barrel, tarred it, and threw it into the harbor.
“The world rolled on, and the barrel sailed one week and then another, till finally it floated up against the bank of a monastery. A monk happened to be fetching water. He heard the wailing of a child, and when he looked about him, saw the barrel. He immediately took a boat, caught up the barrel, broke it open, and found the child. He brought the babe to his abbot. The abbot decided he would name the child ‘Vasily,’ and he gave it the surname ‘the Luckless.’ Vasily the Luckless lived in the monastery for sixteen years and learned how to read and write. The abbot loved him and made him his sacristan.
“Now it came to pass that Marco the Rich was traveling to a foreign kingdom to collect some debts that were owed him, and on his way he stopped at this same monastery. He was received as befits a rich man. The abbot ordered the sacristan to go to the church. He went, lighted the candles, and read and sang. Marco the Rich asked the abbot: ‘Has this young man been with you long?’ The abbot told him how the boy had been found in a barrel, and when. Marco reckoned the time and realized that the sacristan was his godchild. He said: ‘If I had an intelligent young man like your sacristan, I would appoint him chief clerk and put him in charge of all my treasure. My friend, you must give him to me.’ For a long time the abbot made excuses. Finally, Marco offered him twenty-five thousand rubles for the benefit of his monastery. The abbot consulted the brothers, and after long deliberation they consented to part with Vasily the Luckless.
“Marco sent Vasily home and gave him a letter to his wife. The letter read: ‘Wife, when you receive this letter, take its bearer to our soap works, and when you pass near the great boiling cauldron, push him in. Do not fail to do this, or I shall punish you severely, for this youth has evil designs on me and, if he survives, will be my ruin.’ Vasily took the letter and went on his way. He met an old man who said, ‘Where are you bound, Vasily the Luckless?’ Vasily said: ‘To the house of Marco the Rich, with a letter to his wife.’ ‘Show me this letter,’ said the old man. Vasily took it out and gave it to the old man, who broke the seal and asked Vasily to read it. Vasily read it and burst into tears. ‘What have I done to this man,’ he said, ‘that he should send me to my death?’ The old man said: ‘Do not grieve, my child. God will not forsake you.’ Then he breathed on the letter and the seal resumed its former shape. ‘Go,’ said the old man, ‘and deliver the letter to the wife of Marco the Rich.’
“Vasily came to the house of Marco the Rich and gave the letter to his wife. She read it, pondered deeply, then called her daughter Anastasya and read Marco’s letter to her. This is what the letter now said: ‘Wife, one day after you receive this letter, marry Anastasya to the bearer. Do this without fail, otherwise you shall answer to me.’ The next day Vasily was dressed in rich garments, shown to Anastasya, and she found him to her liking. So they were married.
“One day the wife of Marco the Rich was told that her husband had arrived in port, and accompanied by her son-in-law and daughter she went to meet him. Marco looked at his son-in-law, fell into a rage, and said to his wife: ‘How dared you wed our daughter to this man?’ ‘By your command,’ answered she. Marco asked to see his letter, read it, and found that it was written in his hand.
“Marco lived with his son-in-law for one month, a second, and a third. One day he summoned the young man before him and said to him, ‘Take this letter beyond thrice nine lands, to the thrice tenth kingdom, to my friend King Dragon. Collect from him twelve years’ rent for the palace he has built on my land, and find out what has happened to twelve of my ships that have not been seen these three years. Set out on your way tomorrow morning.’ Vasily took the letter, went to his wife, and told her what Marco had commanded. Anastasya wept bitterly but dared not ask her father to change his mind.
“Early next morning Vasily prayed to God, took some biscuits in his knapsack, and set out. He walked the road for a long time or a short time, a long way or a short, let wise men judge; and as he was traveling he heard a voice at the side of the road saying: ‘Vasily the Luckless, where are you bound?’ Vasily looked around him on all sides and said: ‘Who is calling me?’ ‘I, the oak, am asking you where you are going.’ ‘I am going to King Dragon to collect rent for twelve years.’ The oak said: ‘If you arrive in time, remember to ask how much longer the oak must stand after standing for three hundred winters.’
“Vasily listened carefully and continued on his journey. He came to a river and sat in a ferryboat. The old ferryman asked him: ‘Where are you bound, my friend?’ Vasily told him what he had told the oak. And the ferryman requested him to ask King Dragon how much longer he would have to ferry, for he had been ferrying for thirty winters. ‘I shall ask him,’ said Vasily. He went on and reached the sea. A whale lay stretched out across the sea and people were walking and driving over her. When Vasily stepped on the whale, she said, ‘Vasily the Luckless, where are you bound?’ Vasily told her what he had told the ferryman and the oak, and the whale said, ‘If you arrive in time, remember to ask how much longer I must lie here stretched across the sea, for people on foot and people on horseback have worn down my body to my ribs.’
“Vasily promised to ask and went on. He came to a green meadow; in the meadow stood a palace. Vasily entered the palace and went from room to room. Each was more splendid than the last. He went into the farthest room and found a lovely maiden sitting on the bed and weeping bitterly. When she saw Vasily, she rose up, kissed him, and said, ‘Who are you and how did you happen to come to this accursèd place?’ Vasily showed her the letter and told her that Marco the Rich had ordered him to collect twelve years’ rent from King Dragon. The maiden threw the letter into the stove and said to Vasily, ‘Fool, you have been sent here not to collect rent but as dragon’s food. But tell me, what roads did you take? Did you see or hear anything on your way?’ Vasily told her about the oak, the ferryman, and the whale. T
hey had no sooner finished talking than the earth and the palace began to rumble. The maiden put Vasily into a chest under the bed and said to him, ‘Now listen to my conversation with the dragon.’ And saying this she went out to meet her lord.
“When King Dragon entered the room, he said: ‘Why is there a Russian smell here?’ The maiden said: ‘How could a Russian smell get here? You have been flying over Russia and the smell is in your nostrils.’ The dragon said: ‘I am terribly exhausted. Pick the lice in my head.’ And he lay down. The maiden said to him: ‘King, what a dream I had while you were away! I was going along a road, and an oak cried to me: ‘Ask the king how long I must stand here!’ ‘It will stand,’ said King Dragon, ‘until someone comes and kicks it with his foot; then it will be uprooted and will fall, and beneath it there is gold and silver—Marco the Rich does not have as much.’
“The maiden went on: ‘And then I dreamed that I came to a river and the ferryman asked me how long he would have to ferry.’ ‘Let him put on the ferryboat the first man who comes to him, and push the boat away from the shore—and this man will ferry forever, and the ferryman can go home.’ ‘And then I dreamed that I walked across the sea on a whale, and she asked me how long she would have to lie there.’ ‘She shall lie there till she vomits up the twelve ships of Marco the Rich; then she will go down into the water and her flesh will grow again.’ When King Dragon had said this, he fell sound asleep.
“The maiden let Vasily out of the chest and advised him thus: ‘Do not tell the whale that she must vomit up the twelve ships of Marco the Rich until you have crossed to the other side. Likewise, when you come to the ferryman, do not tell him what you have heard until you have crossed the river. And when you come to the oak, kick it toward the east, and you will discover countless riches.’ Vasily the Luckless thanked the maiden and went away.
“He came to the whale and she asked: ‘Did he say anything about me?’ ‘He did. As soon as I cross I shall tell you.’ When Vasily had crossed over, he said: ‘Vomit up the twelve ships of Marco the Rich.’ The whale vomited up the ships and they sailed forth, wholly unscathed; and Vasily the Luckless found himself in water up to his knees. Then he came to the ferryman, who asked: ‘Did you speak about me to King Dragon?’ ‘I did,’ said Vasily. ‘First, ferry me over.’ When he had crossed, he said to the ferryman: ‘Whoever comes to you first, put him on the ferryboat and push it away from the shore; he will ferry forever, and you can go home.’
“Vasily the Luckless came to the oak, kicked it toward the east with his foot, and the oak fell. Beneath it he found gold and silver and precious stones without number. Vasily looked back and lo and behold, the twelve ships that had been thrown up by the whale were sailing straight to shore. And the ships were commanded by the same old man whom Vasily had met when he was carrying the letter of Marco the Rich to his wife. The old man said to Vasily: ‘This, Vasily, is what the Lord has blessed you with.’ Then he got off his ship and went his way.
“The sailors transported the gold and silver to the ships and then set out with Vasily the Luckless. Marco the Rich was told that his son-in-law was coming with twelve ships and that King Dragon had rewarded him with countless riches.
“Marco grew furious, hearing that what he desired had not yet come to pass. He had his carriage harnessed and set out to drive to King Dragon’s palace and upbraid him. He came to the ferryman and sat in the ferryboat; the ferryman pushed it away from the shore, and Marco remained to ferry forever. But Vasily the Luckless came home to his wife and mother-in-law, began to live with them and gain increasing wealth, helped the poor, gave food and drink to beggars, and took possession of all the vast treasure of Marco the Rich.”
Chapter Nine
When the abbot finished telling his story he smiled and stood up, as if thinking of going to his bed now; but instead, with his head bowed, his right hand pushed inside his flowing left sleeve and his left hand pushed inside his flowing right sleeve, as he always stood except when he was praying, he walked over to the high, arched window that looked out at the stars above Suicide Leap; or perhaps it was the Leap itself he looked at, thinking about what the three of them had told him earlier. By the starlight one could see that his lips were trembling—it was quite pronounced—and one noticed that his head was slightly drawn in, like a turtle’s or a chicken’s, as if something had made him wince. He gave an abrupt headshake, as if in argument with himself; but precisely what the abbot might be thinking not even Chudu the Goat’s Son, who was half asleep anyway, with his pipe in his fist and his hat on his knees, could guess.
Prince Christopher the Sullen, still leaning on the mantel, toying with his brandy glass, said thoughtfully, glumly, “It’s an interesting story. Yet one thing I don’t understand, father.”
“Yes?” said the abbot, turning from the window for a moment to scrutinize the prince. Armida, too, was watching Prince Christopher, for whatever she might think about poems and stories, she loved the sad shine she’d seen in the prince’s eyes while he was listening.
“I don’t understand why you’ve told it to us.”
“Ah, that,” said the abbot.
The fire in the hearth had died down to red coals, and there was no longer any sound of life outside the stone-walled room. The walls and beams had settled into blackness, so that the night sky beyond the high window was now brighter than where they sat. It was like looking out (Armida thought) from a funeral crypt, after everything has been decided; and the abbot’s voice, for all its gentleness and kindness, was like some nagging, troublesome memory calling a ghost back, making things difficult again, confusing. She was inclined to rise to it, for the sake of the prince. For the sake of the prince she would happily reconsider everything. As for the dwarf, though he smelled like old laundry in an abandoned chickenhouse where there was garbage on the floor and the body of a cat, she would not be heartbroken if he should kill himself; but all the same it would be a loss to the world, there was no denying that; an incalculable loss, like the death of the last redwood. She tapped her lips with her fingertip, musing.
The abbot was saying: “I tell you the story—among other reasons—to remind you, dear friends, lanterns to my darkness, of a point that may possibly have slipped your minds—the moral, that is, that I called your attention to earlier: Things are not always as they seem.” He began pacing back and forth by the window, head bowed. “I know very little about the world, of course—” The abbot glanced shyly past his shoulder at them, gauging the effect his words were having, then started again: “I know, I say, very little about the world, cut off from things here on my mountain, so what I say may be foolishness. Nevertheless, it seems to me that there’s a great truth in that tired old saw.” He spoke the tired old saw one more time, lovingly, separating the phrases, and it came to Armida that he’d no doubt said it from the pulpit many times, if abbots did, as she was inclined to believe, sometimes preach: “Things… are not always… as they seem.”
Gazing up at the prince, his face just visible in the red coals’ glow, Armida was surprised that she should see, even now, no trace of a smile. If he had any intelligence at all, it seemed to her, he’d see the humor in the abbot’s old-womanish maunderings. Yet on the other hand it was touching to her that Prince Christopher should take in this hackneyed lecturing with such solemn innocence, such— what should she say?—sweet openness of soul. She was surprised— shocked—by the sudden recollection that the prince had spoken of suicide. “I mustn’t let him,” she thought. “That’s all there is to it!”
She remembered all at once how the dwarf had bawled after her on the mountain road, “Armida, don’t do it! Don’t kill yourself!” and how he’d whooped and sobbed. She remembered his bellowing, “It is my business. It’s very much my business!” She understood that now more clearly than she had at the time—and felt ashamed of herself. The tables had been turned on her: it was now Armida prepared to run shamelessly after the creature she loved, prepared to wail, as the dwarf had wailed, “Thin
k of the people who love you! Think of how they’ll feel!” Yet could she stop him from doing it? She was stronger than he, she had no doubt of that, and she was sure she could easily outsmart him. But her love for him put a constraint upon her: because she loved him, respected him as he couldn’t respect himself, she was blocked, strange to say, from interfering. To control him, even for his own benefit, would be to diminish him, cheapen the value of his life—in his own eyes and even in hers. None of which was to deny that the prince’s desire to kill himself was a sickness, as certainly a disease as those coughings and witherings and jerkings which the abbot each night knelt to cure. Nevertheless …
Armida wrung her hands, squinting into the glow of the coals beyond his legs. Because she loved him it was imperative that she be worthy of him, yes—be, insofar as was possible for her, the Dream Woman every man desires: soft and tender, gentle, shy as a violet in the woods. O cruel irony! Such a woman, of course, would have no possible means of preventing his self-destruction. He would brush her away like a feather, outwit her and storm off, wild-eyed, and be gone. Only if she could cause him to love her in return, spare his life for her sake …
Suddenly, looking up at his face, the features as still as the features of a lighted marble statue, Armida once again began to weep. No one noticed except Chudu the Goat’s Son, and instantly he too began to cry. They both bent forward and shook with silent sobs, covering their faces with their hands, unaware that they were practically invisible in the room’s thick darkness.
The abbot was droning on, just perceptibly smiling in the pale light the stars cast, occasionally gesturing with a mild little tilt of the head, the slight movement of a silhouetted arm. “That’s the trouble, you see, with suicide. It may be that one has misapprehended the situation, that what seems so terrible and bitter in life as to make the race not worth the candle is in fact nothing more than some particularly seductive illusion, perhaps mere bad chemistry. A ripple of breath across the letter might in fact change all the writing. A little kick at the base of a tree might illuminate new golden options!”