The Classic Fairy Tales (Second Edition) (Norton Critical Editions)

by Edited by Maria Tatar

  Little Thumbling brought news that very night, and this first errand having made his reputation, he could then earn as much as he wanted. The king paid him handsomely to carry orders to the army, but countless ladies gave him any price he named to get news of their lovers, and this became his best source of income. Some wives entrusted him with letters to their husbands, but they paid him so badly, and this activity brought him in so little, that he didn’t even bother to keep track of what he made from it.

  After working as courier for some time and amassing a small fortune, Little Thumbling returned to his father’s house, where everyone was overjoyed to see him again. He saw to it that the entire family lived comfortably, buying newly created positions for his father and brothers. In this way he got them all established at the same time that he managed to do perfectly well for himself at the court.

  Moral

  You never worry about having too many children

  When they are handsome, well bred, strong,

  And when they shine.

  But if one is sickly or mute,

  He is despised, scorned, ridiculed.

  But sometimes it is the little runt

  Who makes the family’s happiness.

  * * *

  †  Charles Perrault, “Le Petit Poucet,” in Histoires ou Contes du temps passé. Avec des Moralités (Paris: Barbin, 1697). Translated for the first edition of this Norton Critical Edition by Maria Tatar. Copyright © 1999 by Maria Tatar.

  ALEXANDER AFANASEV

  Vasilisa the Fair†

  Once upon a time there lived a merchant in a faraway kingdom. Although he had been married twelve years, he had only one child, and she was called Vasilisa the Fair. When Vasilisa was eight years old, her mother fell ill. She called her daughter to her side, took a doll out from under her coverlet, and gave it to the girl, saying: “Listen, Vasilisushka. Pay attention to my last words, and remember what I say. I’m dying, and all I can leave you is my maternal blessing with this doll. Keep the doll with you wherever you go, but don’t show her to anyone. If you get into trouble, just give her some food and ask her advice. After she has eaten, she will tell you what to do.” The mother kissed her daughter farewell and died.

  Following his wife’s death, the merchant mourned her in proper fashion and then began to think about remarrying. He was a handsome man and had no difficulty finding a bride, but he liked a certain widow best. This widow had two daughters of her own, who were almost the same age as Vasilisa, and the merchant thought she would make a good housekeeper and mother. And so he married her, but he was wrong, for she did not turn out to be a good mother for his Vasilisa.

  Vasilisa was the fairest girl in the entire village, and her stepmother and stepsisters were jealous of her beauty. They tormented her by giving her all kinds of work to do, hoping that she would grow bony from toil and weatherbeaten from exposure to the wind and the sun. And indeed, her life was miserable. But she bore it all without complaint and became lovelier with every passing day, while the stepmother and her daughters, who sat around all day doing nothing, grew thin and ugly as a result of spitefulness.

  How did all this come about? Things would have been different without the doll. Without her aid the girl could never have managed all the work. Some days Vasilisa did not eat anything at all. She would wait until everyone was in bed in the evening and then lock herself in the room where she slept. Giving her doll a tasty morsel, she would say: “Eat this, little doll, and listen to my troubles. I live in my father’s house, but I’m deprived of joy. That stepmother of mine is going to be the death of me. Tell me how I should live and what I should do.” First the doll would eat, and then she gave Vasilisa advice and comforted her in her woe. And in the morning she would take care of all the chores, while Vasilisa rested in the shade and picked flowers. The doll weeded the flowerbeds, watered the cabbages, went to the well, and fired the stove. The doll even showed Vasilisa an herb that would protect her against sunburn. Thanks to the doll, Vasilisa’s life was easy.

  The years passed, and Vasilisa grew up, reaching the age of marriage. All the young men in the village wanted to marry her, and they never so much as cast a glance at the stepmother’s daughters. The stepmother grew to hate Vasilisa more than ever. To all the suitors she declared: “I will not give the youngest in marriage before the elder ones.” Then she vented her anger on Vasilisa with cruel blows.

  One day Vasilisa’s father had to go on a long journey in order to trade in distant lands. The stepmother moved to another house near the edge of a deep forest. In the glade of that forest was a hut, and in the hut lived Baba Yaga. She never allowed anyone to come near her and ate human beings just as if they were chickens. The merchant’s wife hated Vasilisa so much that, at the new house, she would send her stepdaughter into the woods for one thing or another. But Vasilisa always returned home safe and sound. Her doll showed her the way and kept her well clear of Baba Yaga’s hut.

  One evening in autumn the stepmother gave each of the girls a task. She told the oldest to make lace, the second to knit stockings, and Vasilisa was supposed to spin. Then she snuffed out all the candles in the house except for the one in the room where the girls were working. For a while the girls carried out their tasks quietly. Then the candle began to smoke. One of the stepsisters took a pair of scissors and pretended to trim the wick, but instead, following her mother’s orders, she snuffed it out, as if by accident.

  “What on earth should we do now?” said the stepsisters. “There’s no light in the house, and we haven’t even come close to finishing our tasks. Someone must run to Baba Yaga to get some fire.”

  “I’m not going,” said the girl who was making lace. “I can see by the light of my pins.”

  “I’m not going,” said the girl who was knitting stockings. “I can see by the light of my knitting needles.”

  “That means you have to go,” they both shouted to their stepsister. “Get going! Go and see your friend Baba Yaga!” And they pushed Vasilisa out of the room.

  Vasilisa went into her own little room, laid out the supper she had prepared for her doll, and said: “There, dolly, eat and help me in my need. They want me to go to Baba Yaga for fire, and she will eat me up.” The doll ate her supper. Her eyes glowed like two candles. “Don’t be afraid, Vasilisushka,” she said. “Go where they send you. Only be sure to take me with you. If I’m in your pocket, Baba Yaga can’t hurt you.”

  Vasilisa got ready to go, put the doll in her pocket, and crossed herself before setting out for the deep forest. She trembled with fear as she walked through the woods. Suddenly a horseman galloped past her. His face was white, he was dressed in white, and he was riding a white horse with white reins and stirrups. After that it began to grow light.

  Vasilisa walked deeper into the forest, and a second horseman galloped past her. His face was red, he was dressed in red, and he was riding a red horse. Then the sun began to rise.

  Vasilisa walked all night and all day long. Late on the second evening she arrived in the clearing where Baba Yaga’s hut was standing. The fence around it was made of human bones. Skulls with empty eye sockets stared down from the posts. The gate was made from the bones of human legs; the bolts were made from human hands; and the lock was a jaw with sharp teeth. Vasilisa was terrified and stood rooted to the spot. Suddenly another horseman galloped past her. His face was black, he was dressed in black, and he was riding a black horse. He galloped up to Baba Yaga’s door and vanished, as though the earth had swallowed him up. Then it was night. But it wasn’t dark for long. The eyes on all the skulls on the fence began to gleam, and the clearing grew bright as day. Vasilisa shuddered with fright. She wanted to run away, but didn’t know which way to turn.

  A dreadful noise sounded in the woods. The trees creaked and groaned. The dead leaves rustled and crunched. Baba Yaga appeared, flying in a mortar, prodding it with her pestle, and sweeping her traces with a broom. She rode up to the gate, stopped, and sniffed the air around her. “Foo, Foo!
This place smells of a Russian girl! Who’s there?”

  Vasilisa went up to the old witch and, trembling with fear, bowed down low and said: “It is I, Granny. My stepsisters sent me to get some light.”

  “Very well,” said Baba Yaga. “I know your sisters all right. But before I give you fire you must stay and work for me. If you don’t, I’ll have you for dinner!” Then she turned to the gate and shouted: “Slide back, my strong bolts! Open up, my wide gates!” The gates opened, and Baba Yaga rode in with a shrill whistle. Vasilisa followed her, and then everything closed up again.

  Baba Yaga went into the hut, stretched herself out on a bench, and said to Vasilisa: “I’m hungry. Bring me whatever’s in the oven!” Vasilisa lit a taper from the skulls on the fence and began serving Baba Yaga the food from the oven. There was enough to feed ten people. She brought kvass, mead, beer, and wine from the cellar. The old woman ate and drank everything put before her, leaving for Vasilisa only a little bowl of cabbage soup, a crust of bread, and a scrap of pork.

  Baba Yaga got ready for bed and said: “Tomorrow, after I leave, see to it that you sweep the yard, clean the hut, cook supper, wash the linen, and go to the corn bin and sort out a bushel of wheat. And if you haven’t finished by the time I get back, I’ll eat you up!” After giving the orders, Baba Yaga began snoring. Vasilisa took her doll out of her pocket and placed Baba Yaga’s leftovers before it. Then she burst out crying and said: “There, doll, have some food and help me out! Baba Yaga has given me impossible tasks and has threatened to eat me up if I don’t take care of everything. Help me.” The doll replied: “Don’t be afraid, Vasilisa the Fair! Eat your supper, say your prayers, and go to sleep. Mornings are wiser than evenings.”

  Vasilisa got up early. Baba Yaga was already up and about. When Vasilisa looked out the window, she saw that the lights in the skulls’ eyes were fading. Then the white horseman galloped by, and it was daybreak. Baba Yaga went out into the yard and gave a whistle. Her mortar, pestle, and broom appeared. The red horseman flashed by, and the sun rose. Baba Yaga sat down in her mortar, prodded it on with her pestle, and swept over her traces with the broom.

  Vasilisa was alone, and she looked around Baba Yaga’s hut. She had never seen so many things to do in her life and couldn’t figure out where to begin. But lo and behold, all the work was done. The doll was picking out the last bits of chaff from the wheat. “You’ve saved me!” Vasilisa said to her doll. “If it weren’t for you, I would have been gobbled up tonight.”

  “All you have to do now is prepare supper,” said the doll as it climbed back into her pocket. “Cook it with God’s blessing, and then get some rest so that you’ll stay strong.”

  Toward evening Vasilisa set the table and waited for Baba Yaga. It grew dark, and when the black horseman galloped by, it was night. The only light came from the skulls on the fence. The trees creaked and groaned; the dry leaves crackled and crunched. Baba Yaga was on her way. Vasilisa went out to meet her. “Is everything done?” asked Baba Yaga. “See for yourself, Granny,” Vasilisa replied.

  Baba Yaga went all around the hut. She was annoyed that there was nothing to complain about, and said: “Well done.” Then she shouted: “My faithful servants, my dear friends, grind the wheat!” Three pairs of hands appeared. They took the wheat and whisked it away. Baba Yaga ate her fill, made ready to sleep, and again gave Vasilisa her tasks. “Tomorrow,” she ordered, “do just what you did today. Then take the poppy seeds out of the bin and get rid of the dust, speck by speck. Someone threw dust into the bins just to annoy me.” Baba Yaga turned over and began to snore.

  Vasilisa began to feed her doll. The doll ate everything in front of her, and repeated just what she had said the day before: “Pray to God and go to sleep. Mornings are wiser than evenings. Everything will get done, Vasilisushka.”

  The next morning Baba Yaga rode off again in her mortar. With the help of her doll, Vasilisa finished the housework in no time at all. The old witch returned in the evening, looked everything over, and cried out: “My faithful servants, my dear friends, press the oil from these poppy seeds.” Three pairs of hands appeared, took the bin of poppy seeds, and whisked it away. Baba Yaga sat down to dine. Vasilisa stood silently next to her while she ate. “Why don’t you talk to me?” Baba Yaga asked. “You stand there as though you were mute.”

  “I did not dare speak,” said Vasilisa, “but if you’ll give me permission, there is something I’d like to ask.”

  “Ask away!” said Baba Yaga. “But be careful. Not every question has a good answer. If you know too much, you will soon grow old.”

  “Oh, Granny, I only want to ask you about some things I saw on the way here. When I was on my way over here, a horseman with a white face, riding a white horse, and dressed in white overtook me. Who was he?”

  “That was the bright day,” Baba Yaga replied.

  “Then another horseman overtook me. He had a red face, was riding a red horse, and was dressed in red. Who was he?”

  “He is my red sun,” Baba Yaga replied.

  “Then who was the black horseman I met at your gate, Granny?”

  “He is my dark night. The three of them are my faithful servants.”

  Vasilisa remembered the three pairs of hands, but kept her mouth shut. “Don’t you want to ask about anything else?” Baba Yaga said.

  “No, Granny, that’s enough. You were the one who said that the more you know, the sooner you grow old.”

  “You are wise,” Baba Yaga said, “to ask only about things you saw outside my house, not inside it. I don’t like to have my dirty linen aired in public, and if people get too curious, I eat them up. And now I have a question for you. How did you get all that work done so fast?”

  “I was helped by my mother’s blessing,” said Vasilisa.

  “Oh, so that’s how you did it!” Baba Yaga shrieked. “Get out of here, blessed daughter! I don’t want any blessed ones in my house.” She dragged Vasilisa out of the room and pushed her out through the gate. Then she took one of the skulls with blazing eyes from the fence, stuck it on the end of a stick, and gave it to the girl, saying: “Here’s fire for your stepsisters. Take it. That’s what you came here for, isn’t it?”

  Vasilisa ran home, using the fire from the skull to light the path. At dawn the fire went out, and by evening she reached the house. As she was approaching the gate, she was about to throw the skull away, thinking that her stepsisters surely already had fire, when she heard a muffled voice coming from the skull: “Don’t throw me away. Take me to your stepmother.” She looked at the stepmother’s house and, seeing that there was no light in the window, decided to enter with her skull. For the first time the stepmother and stepsisters received her kindly. They told her that since she had left, they had had no fire at all in the house. They had been unable to produce a flame themselves. They had tried to bring one back from the neighbors, but it went out as soon as they crossed the threshold.

  “Perhaps your fire will last,” said the stepmother. Vasilisa carried the skull in. Its eyes began to stare at the stepmother and two sisters. It burned them. They tried to hide, but the eyes followed them wherever they went. By morning they had turned into three heaps of ashes on the floor. Only Vasilisa remained untouched by the fire.

  Vasilisa buried the skull in the garden, locked up the house, and went to the nearest town. An old woman without children gave her shelter, and there she lived, waiting for her father’s return. One day she said to the woman, “I am weary of sitting here with nothing to do, Granny. Buy me the best flax you can find. Then at least I’ll get some spinning done.”

  The old woman bought some of the best flax around, and Vasilisa set to work. She spun as fast as lightning, and her threads were even and fine as hair. She spun a great deal of yarn. It was time to start weaving it, but there were no combs fine enough for Vasilisa’s yarn, and no one was willing to make one. Vasilisa asked her doll for help. The doll said: “Bring me an old comb, an old shuttle, and a horse’s mane
. I will make a loom for you.” Vasilisa did as the doll said, went to sleep, and found a wonderful loom waiting for her the next morning.

  By the end of the winter the linen was woven. It was so fine that you could pass it through the eye of a needle. In the spring, the linen was bleached, and Vasilisa said to the old woman: “Granny, sell this linen and keep the money for yourself.”

  The old woman looked at the cloth and gasped. “No, my child! No one can wear linen like this except the tsar. I shall take it to the palace.”

  The old woman went to the tsar’s palace and began walking back and forth beneath the windows. The tsar saw her and asked: “What do you want, Granny?”

  “Your Majesty,” she answered, “I have brought some rare merchandise. I don’t want to show it to anyone but you.”

  The tsar ordered the old lady to appear before him, and when he saw the linen, he gazed at it in amazement. “What do you want for it?” he asked.

  “I can’t put a price on it, Little Father Tsar! It’s a gift.” The tsar thanked her and loaded her down with presents.

  The tsar ordered shirts made from the linen. He had them cut, but no one could find a seamstress who was willing to sew them. Finally, he summoned the old woman and said: “You were able to spin and weave this linen. You must be able to sew it into shirts for me.”

  “I was not the one who spun and wove this linen, Your Majesty,” said the old woman. “This is the work of a girl to whom I gave shelter.”