by Unknown
‘Who has brought joy to my daughter?’ asked the tsar. ‘I did!’ said one man. ‘I did!’ said another. ‘No!’ said the tsarevna who wouldn’t laugh. ‘It was him!’ And she pointed to the worker down below. He was led into the palace at once, and there before the tsar he became a handsome young fellow. And the tsar kept his royal oath; the young couple were betrothed that very evening.
‘Didn’t the worker just dream all this?’ I sometimes say. But people tell me this is the honest truth – and so we must believe it.
Misery
In a certain village there once lived two brothers. One was poor, the other rich. The rich brother went to live in the city, built himself a fine house and became a merchant. But the poor brother often didn’t have so much as a crust of bread in the house; his little children, each littler than the next, were always weeping and begging for something to put in their mouths. From morning till night the man struggled to keep his head above water – but all in vain. One day he said to his wife, ‘I’m going to the city to see my brother. Maybe he’ll help us out.’ He found his rich brother and said, ‘Dear brother, help me a little in my misery. My wife and children are without bread. They’re going hungry for days on end.’ ‘Do a week’s work for me – then I’ll help you.’ What could the poor brother do? He set to work. He swept the yard; he groomed the horses; he fetched water and he chopped wood. At the end of the week the rich brother gave him a loaf of bread. ‘Here you are!’ he said. ‘This is for the work you’ve done.’ ‘For this,’ said the poor brother, ‘I thank you.’ He bowed low and was about to set off back home. ‘Wait a moment,’ said the rich brother. ‘Come back tomorrow. Be my guest. And bring your wife too. Tomorrow’s my name day.’ ‘What do you mean, brother? How can I? Your other guests will be merchants. They’ll be wearing boots and fur coats. But I’ve only got my bast sandals and my old grey kaftan.’ ‘That doesn’t matter. Come along anyway. There’ll be a place for you too.’ ‘All right, brother, I’ll come.’ The poor brother went back home, gave the loaf of bread to his wife and said, ‘Listen, wife! We’ve been invited to a feast tomorrow.’ ‘What do you mean? Who by?’ ‘By my brother. Tomorrow’s his name day.’ ‘All right then, let’s go.’ The following morning they went straight to the city. They went to the house of the rich brother, gave him their congratulations and sat down on a bench. Sitting at the table were many distinguished guests, and the rich brother was feasting them all splendidly. But he completely forgot about the poor brother and his wife. He didn’t give them anything to eat at all. Their only entertainment was to sit and watch everyone else eating and drinking. When the dinner was over, the guests rose from the table and began to thank their host and hostess. The poor brother got to his feet too, then bowed to the ground before his brother. And the guests went off in their carriages, drunken and merry, singing at the tops of their voices.
The poor brother had to walk home on foot, and with an empty stomach. But he said to his wife, ‘We must sing a song too!’ ‘What do you mean, you fool? People sing because they’ve eaten and drunk their fill. But what have we got to sing about?’ ‘I’ve just been at a feast – the name day of my own brother. I’m ashamed to walk home without singing. If I sing, people will think I’ve had a good time.’ ‘All right then, you sing if you must – but I won’t!’ The peasant began to sing. What he heard, though, was not one voice but two. He stopped and said to his wife, ‘Was it you just then, singing along with me in a high voice?’ ‘What do you mean? I wasn’t doing anything of the kind.’ ‘Who was it then?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said the wife. ‘But try singing again. I’ll listen.’ The husband began to sing a second time. He was singing alone, but there were two voices. ‘Is that you, Misery, singing along with me?’ And Misery replied, ‘Yes, Master, it was me.’ ‘Well, Misery, come back home with us then!’ ‘Yes, Master, I’m not going to leave you now.’
The peasant got back home. Misery invited him along to the tavern with him. The peasant said, ‘But I haven’t got any money!’ ‘Who cares about that? What do you need money for? You’re wearing a sheepskin, but it’ll be summer soon and you won’t need it then. Let’s go to the tavern – and off with that sheepskin!’ The peasant and Misery went to the tavern and drank away the sheepskin. The next morning Misery was moaning and groaning. Misery had a hangover from the night before and he wanted the peasant to go back to the tavern with him for some more vodka. ‘But I haven’t got any money!’ ‘Who cares about that? What do you need money for? Take your sleigh and your cart – that’ll be more than enough.’ What could the peasant do? There’s no getting away from Misery. He took his sleigh and his cart and dragged them along to the tavern; then he and Misery drank them away too. The morning after, Misery was moaning and groaning more than ever. He had to drink away his hangover; he got the peasant to go back to the tavern yet again. This time the peasant drank away his harrow and plough. Before a month had gone by, the peasant had squandered everything he possessed. He had even pawned his hut to a neighbour and drunk away all the money the neighbour had given him for it. But there’s no getting away from Misery. ‘Come on, friend, let’s go to the tavern!’ ‘No, Misery, I’ll do what you will – but there’s nothing more I can sell.’ ‘What do you mean? Your wife has two dresses. You can leave your wife one of them – but we must drink away the other.’ The peasant took one of the dresses, drank it away and said to himself, ‘Now I truly am cleaned out. Neither house nor home. Neither my wife nor I have anything left.’
Misery woke up the next morning, saw there was nothing more he could take from the peasant and said, ‘Master!’ ‘What is it, Misery?’ ‘Listen now. You must go round to your neighbour and ask if you can borrow a cart and a pair of oxen.’ The peasant did as Misery told him. He said to his neighbour, ‘Let me borrow your cart and a pair of oxen, just for a little while. In return I’ll do a week’s work for you.’ ‘What do you want them for?’ ‘To go to the forest for firewood.’ ‘All right then, but mind you don’t overload the cart.’ ‘Certainly not, my friend!’ The peasant took the oxen, sat down with Misery in the cart and drove out into the steppe. ‘Master,’ said Misery, ‘do you know the big stone over there?’ ‘How could I not know it?’ ‘Well then, drive right up to it.’ They came to the stone, stopped and got down from the cart. Misery told the peasant to lift up the stone. The peasant lifted the stone, and Misery helped too. Beneath the stone lay a pit filled with gold. ‘Come on then,’ said Misery. ‘Don’t just stand and stare. Load it into the cart.’
The peasant got to work. He filled the cart with gold. He completely emptied the pit, down to the very last gold rouble. When he was quite sure there was nothing left, he said to Misery, ‘Have a look, Misery. Are you sure there isn’t anything left there?’ Misery leaned down over the pit. ‘Where? I can’t see anything myself.’ ‘There – in the corner! I can see a coin glittering.’ ‘I can’t see anything at all.’ Misery crawled down. As soon as he was safely in the pit, the peasant laid the stone back on top of him. ‘It’ll be better like this,’ said the peasant. ‘If I were to take you back with me, O miserable Misery, you’d drink our way through all this too. Yes, sooner or later you’d drink away every last piece of gold.’ The peasant went back home, stored the money in his cellar, returned the oxen to his neighbour and began to think about how best to establish himself in the world. First, he bought plenty of wood and built himself a fine house – and soon he was living twice as wealthily as his brother the merchant.
Time passed – maybe a long time, maybe a short time. One day he rode to the city to invite his rich brother to his name-day party. ‘What do you mean?’ asked the brother. ‘You’ve got nothing to eat yourself. How can you be celebrating your name day?’ ‘There was a time when I had nothing to eat. But now – thanks are to God – I have no less than you. Come along and you’ll see!’ ‘Very well then, I’ll come.’ The following day the rich brother and his wife set off to the feast. They could hardly believe their eyes: this wretched pauper now had a grand
new house – grander than many a merchant’s. And he was treating them to one delicacy after another – and to every kind of mead and wine. ‘Tell me,’ said the rich brother, ‘what turn of fate has brought you these riches!’ The poor brother told him the honest truth, how Misery had fastened on him; how he and this miserable miserybags had gone to the tavern and drunk away all he owned, down to his last thread of clothing, until there was nothing left to him but the soul in his body; how Misery had taken him to a store of buried treasure out in the steppe; how he had taken the treasure for himself and said goodbye forever to Misery.
The rich brother felt envious. ‘I’ll go out into the steppe myself,’ he thought. ‘I’ll lift the stone up and set Misery free. Let him ruin my brother completely. How dare my brother boast to me of his riches?’ And so he sent his wife home and drove out into the steppe. He drove up to the big stone, moved it to one side, then bent down to see what was there. But barely had he looked down before Misery had jumped out of the pit and onto his shoulders. ‘Ah!’ he yelled. ‘You thought you could starve me to death, did you? Well, I won’t leave you now for anything in the world!’ ‘No, Misery, it wasn’t me! It wasn’t me who imprisoned you beneath the stone!’ ‘Who was it then? Who else could it have been?’ ‘It was my brother. It was my brother imprisoned you, and now I’ve come to set you free.’ ‘You’re lying. You tricked me once, but you’re not going to trick me a second time.’ Misery sat fast on the rich man’s neck. The rich man took Misery back home with him, and everything in his life began to go wrong. Every morning Misery was hard at it, doing the work he did best. Every morning he took the merchant along to the tavern with him, so the two of them could drink away their hangovers. Very soon, the merchant was a great deal poorer and the tavern-keeper a great deal richer. In the end, though, the merchant understood that this was no way to live. ‘I’ve been giving Misery too good a time,’ he said to himself. ‘I really must send him on his way now – but how?’
The merchant thought and thought. In the end he thought his way to an answer. He went out into his yard, made himself two oak wedges, took a new wheel and knocked one of the wedges into the hub. Then he went up to Misery. ‘What’s up, Misery? Why are you just lying about all the time?’ ‘What else have I got to do?’ ‘What else? Let’s go out into the yard together and play hide-and-seek.’ Misery was only too glad. Out they went into the yard. The merchant hid first. Misery found him at once, and then it was his turn to hide. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘You’re going to find this difficult. I can hide myself inside the very tiniest of cracks.’ ‘Nonsense!’ said the merchant. ‘You couldn’t get inside this wheel, let alone into a crack.’ ‘What do you mean? Just watch me!’ Misery crept into the wheel. The merchant took the other oak wedge and drove it into the hub from the other side. Then he threw the wheel into the river, along with Misery. Misery drowned, and the merchant returned to his former life.
The Wise Girl
Two brothers were travelling together. One was poor, and the other rich. Each had a horse. The poor brother had a mare; the rich brother a gelding. They stopped somewhere for the night. During that night the poor man’s mare bore a foal, and this foal rolled under the rich man’s cart. In the morning the rich man woke his poor brother with the words, ‘Get up, brother! My cart’s foaled during the night!’ The poor brother got up and said, ‘How can a cart bear a foal? The foal belongs to my mare!’ The rich man said, ‘If it were your mare’s foal, it would be lying there beside her!’ They argued and argued, then went to the authorities. The rich man gave the judges money; the poor man made his case with words.
The tsar himself got to hear of this lawsuit. He summoned both brothers before him and asked them four riddles: ‘What is the strongest and swiftest thing in the world? What is richer and fatter than anything in the world? What is the softest thing in the world? And what is the sweetest thing?’ He gave them three days: on the fourth day they were to return to him with their answers.
The rich man thought and thought, remembered his godmother and went to ask her advice. She sat him down at her table, gave him something to eat and drink and asked, ‘Why are you so sad, my godson?’ ‘Because the sovereign has asked me four riddles and I have only three days to answer them.’ ‘What are the riddles? Tell me!’ ‘Well, godmother, this is the first riddle: “What is the strongest and swiftest thing in the world?” ’ ‘Call that a riddle? My husband has a dark bay mare. There’s nothing swifter than her in the world. You only have to show her the whip and she can outrun a hare!’ ‘And this is the second riddle: “What is richer and fatter than anything in the world?” ’ ‘We’ve been feeding a spotted boar for over two years now. He’s grown so fat he can barely stand.’ ‘And this is the third riddle: “What is the softest thing in the world?” ’ ‘Everyone knows the answer to that. Nothing in the world is softer than down.’ ‘And this is the fourth riddle: “What is the sweetest thing in the world?” ’ ‘The sweetest thing in the world is my grandson Ivanushka.’ ‘Thank you, godmother! You have spoken good sense. I shan’t forget it.’
As for the poor brother, he wept bitter tears and then set off back home. He was met by his seven-year-old daughter; this daughter was all the family he had. ‘Why are you sighing and shedding tears, father?’ ‘How can I not sigh and shed tears? The tsar has asked me four riddles and I wouldn’t be able to answer them even if I had a million years.’ ‘Tell me – what are these riddles?’ ‘These are the riddles, my daughter: what is the strongest and swiftest thing in the world? What is richer and fatter than anything in the world? What is the softest thing in the world? And what is the sweetest thing?’ ‘Go to the tsar, father, and tell him that the strongest and swiftest thing in the world is the wind. The richest and fattest thing is the earth – there’s nothing that lives and grows that the earth doesn’t feed. The softest thing in the world is a hand – no matter what a man sleeps on, he will put his hand under his head. And the sweetest thing in the world is sleep!’
The poor brother and the rich brother went to the tsar. The tsar heard their answers, then asked the poor brother, ‘Did you guess the riddles yourself? Or did someone teach you?’ The poor brother answered, ‘your Majesty, I have a seven-year-old daughter. It was she who taught me.’ ‘If your daughter is so wise, then here is a silken thread for her. Let her weave me a patterned towel by tomorrow morning.’ The brother took the silken thread and went back home, sad and grieving. ‘We’re in trouble,’ he said to his daughter. ‘The tsar orders you to weave a towel out of this little thread.’ ‘Don’t be sad, father,’ said the seven-year-old girl. She broke off a little twig from a broom, gave it to her father and said, ‘Go to the tsar and tell him to find a master craftsman who can make a loom from this little twig. Then I’ll be able to weave him his towel!’ Her father did as she said. The tsar gave him 150 eggs. ‘Give these eggs to your daughter,’ he said. ‘Let her hatch 150 chicks for me by tomorrow.’
The father went back home, now sadder than ever. ‘Oh my daughter,’ he said, ‘barely do we see off one trouble before another is upon us.’ ‘Don’t be sad, father,’ said the seven-year-old girl. She baked the eggs, put them aside for their lunch and their supper and sent her father back to the tsar. ‘Tell him,’ she said, ‘that the chickens need one-day grain. Let a field be ploughed, and the millet sown, harvested and milled in a single day. That’s the only grain our chickens will eat!’ The tsar heard this answer and said, ‘If your daughter’s so wise, let her appear before me tomorrow morning. Let her come neither on foot nor on horseback, neither naked nor clothed, and let her come neither gifted nor giftless.’ ‘Now we’re well and truly undone,’ thought the father. ‘Not even my daughter can unriddle this.’ ‘Don’t be sad, father,’ said the seven-year-old girl. ‘Go to the hunters and buy me a live hare and a live quail.’ And so the father bought her a hare and a quail.
The following morning the seven-year-old girl took off her clothes and put on a net. She took the quail in her hands, mounted the hare and rode
to the palace. The tsar met her at the gate. She bowed to the tsar and said, ‘Here’s a little gift for you, your Majesty!’ – and held out the quail to him. The tsar reached out his hand but – flap, flap, went the quail, and away it flew. ‘Very good,’ said the tsar. ‘You have done as I said. Tell me now. Your father is very poor – what do you live on?’ ‘My father goes fishing on a dry bank. He never puts his traps in the water. And I make fish soup in the hem of my skirt.’ ‘Don’t be so stupid! When did fish ever live on a dry bank? Fish swim about in the water.’ ‘And are you so very clever yourself? Whoever heard of a cart bearing a foal? Foals come from mares, not from carts!’
The tsar awarded the foal to the poor brother. As for the seven-year-old daughter, he took her into his palace. And when she had grown up, he married her and she became the tsaritsa.
Ivan Aleksandrovich Khudyakov
(1842–76)
The life of Ivan Khudyakov, Afanasyev’s brilliant younger contemporary, is still more tragic than that of Afanasyev himself. For Khudyakov, learning from the people (by collecting and studying their folklore) and educating them (by teaching them both basic literacy and revolutionary ideas) were inseparable parts of a single social and artistic enterprise.
In 1860, while still only an eighteen-year-old student at Moscow University, Khudyakov published a collection of historical folksongs and the first volume of a collection of folktales; he published the second and third volumes in 1861 and 1862. He also published a collection of riddles, the first volume in 1861 and the second in 1864.