Slavonic Fairy Tales

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"PLAY, OH PIPE, PLAY!"

COLLECTED AND TRANSLATED FROM

Carried Away by the Wind

CARRIED AWAY BY THE WIND.

(from the polish.)

A certain magician being angry with a young peasant, came to the hut where he lived and stuck a new and sharp knife under the threshold, repeating an incantation as he did so, accompanied by this wish: "May this peasant be seized and carried away by the wind into the air, there to remain for seven whole years."

The peasant went into the fields to make hay, when all of a sudden a great wind arose. It scattered the hay over the field, and seized the peasant himself. In vain he struggled, in vain he caught hold with his strong arms of hedge or branch of tree, the invisible power lifted him up and carried him away.

Borne, as if on the wings of the wind, among the clouds, he flew like a wild pigeon. The sun began already to disappear in the west, and the hungry peasant could see the smoke ascending from the cottages in his village, where supper was cooking. At one time he could almost touch the chimney pots with his feet, and he screamed aloud for help. But he screamed and wept in vain; no one heard his cries, or saw his bitter tears.

He was thus carried about in the air for nearly three months, and by that time, from hunger and thirst, had become dried up like a piece of wood. He travelled over a large part of the world, but the wind carried him chiefly over the village where he had lived.

With tears in his eyes he would look on the hut where dwelt his betrothed. He would see her coming out with dinner for some one of the family. He would spread his thin, cold arms towards her, and call her by her name. His voice would die in his throat, while the girl would not even look up.

Away and away the peasant was borne by the wind. Presently he saw the cruel magician standing before his own house. The magician looked up and shouted to him:

"Ah, I have not done with you yet; you shall be thus carried by the wind over your own village for seven long years. You shall suffer constantly, and wish you were dead; but you shall not be able to die."

"Oh, my little father, my master, forgive me if I have offended you!" cried the poor fellow from above. "Look at me; see, my mouth is as dry as a chip! Look at my face and hands—the flesh is gone from them, and the bones only are left! Have mercy upon me!"

The magician whispered a few words, and the peasant stopped in his circular motion, and remained still in the air.

"It is all very well to ask my pardon; but what will you promise to give me if I let you down?"

"All that you ask for," cried the poor peasant; and he put his hands together as in supplication, and knelt down in the air.

"Will you give me your sweetheart?" demanded the magician. "I want her for my wife. If you will promise to give her to me, I will let you come down once more to the earth."

The peasant was silent for a moment. Thought he to himself: "When I am once more on the ground. I'll see what can be done." He therefore called out to the magician,—

"Oh, master! you ask a great sacrifice from me; but if it cannot be otherwise, let it be as you will."

Hereupon the magician blew upon him, and he came down to the ground. Oh, how happy he was when he felt that he could walk, and that the wind had no more power over him!

He hastened home. Before the door he met his betrothed. At the sight of her long lost lover, over whose fate she had often wept, the astonished girl cried out with surprise. The peasant pushed her gently aside, and went into the house. There he saw the farmer who employed him, and said to him, with tears in his eyes,—

"I cannot serve you any longer, nor can I marry your daughter. I love her as dearly as my sight, but she can never be mine."

The countryman looked at him in wonder, and seeing how sorrowful was his thin, pale face, formerly so fat and rosy, he asked the reason why he refused to marry his daughter.

The peasant told him all: his journey in the air, and the promise he had made the magician. The farmer, having heard him out, bade the poor fellow be of good cheer. He then took a purse full of money, and went to a witch for advice. When he returned in the evening, he was smiling and happy, and said to the peasant,—

"Go to-morrow, before daylight, to the witch, and all will be right."

The peasant, weary as he was, went to bed, and soon fell fast asleep. He got up, however, before daylight, and went to the witch. He found her crouching before a fire burning herbs. The witch told him to stand quietly by. The morning was calm and beautiful, but suddenly a strong wind arose, and made the hut tremble. Then the witch took the peasant into the yard, and told him to look up. He raised his eyes and saw the wicked magician, with nothing on but his night-shirt, whirling round and round in the air.

"There is your enemy," said the witch; "he will hurt you no more. If you wish him to see your wedding, do as I will tell you. For the rest, he will suffer the same punishment as he had designed for you."

The delighted peasant ran back home. In a month's time he was married. When the guests were dancing at his wedding, the peasant went into the yard, looked up, and saw above the hut the magician spinning round and round in the air. He took a new knife, and aiming at the magician, threw it with all his might. The magician fell down, and then it was seen that he was nailed by the foot to the ground; thus he was obliged to stand by the window, a miserable witness of the happiness of the peasant and his friends.

On the following morning the magician had disappeared from before the hut. Some people said they saw him flying through the air over a large lake some miles off; before and behind him were large flocks of crows, which, by their croaking, told of his continued flight through space.

Why is the Sole of Man's Foot Uneven?

WHY IS THE SOLE OF MAN'S FOOT UNEVEN?

(from the servian.)

When the evil angels rebelled against heaven and escaped to the earth, they took the sun with them. Their prince, the archfiend, stuck it on a lance, and carried it on his shoulder.

When, however, the earth complained to heaven that it would be quite burnt up by the sun, an archangel was sent down to see how he could take the sun away from the archfiend. The archangel descended to the earth, and made friends with the prince of the rebels, who, however, at once divined the object of the visit, and stood, accordingly, on his guard.

One day, as they walked together on the earth, they came to the sea, and agreed to bathe in it. The archfiend stuck the lance, with the sun on the top of it, in the ground. After a little while the archangel said,—

"Let us dive and see who will go down the deepest."

"Good; do you begin," said the arch fiend.

The archangel dived and brought up some sand between his teeth from the bottom of the sea.

It was now the other's turn to dive; but the archfiend was afraid that, during his absence, the archangel might fly away with the sun. Suddenly a thought struck him. He spat upon the ground, and a magpie arose out of it. This bird was to keep watch over the sun while the archfiend also made his plunge and brought up some sand from the bottom of the sea between his teeth.

As soon as the fiend had dived, the archangel made the sign of the cross with his hand, and the sea was immediately covered with ice nine ells thick. Then he seized the sun and flew away with it to heaven.

The magpie screamed with all her might. The archfiend, hearing her voice, guessed at once what had happened, and hastened back. When he came up, however, he found he could not make his way through, as the sea was frozen over. He therefore dived again to the bottom, brought up a large stone, broke the ice with it, and then rushed after the archangel.

The archangel fled through the air with the utmost speed, followed by the fiend. Just as the angel had one foot in heaven, the fiend overtook him, and with his claws, as he tried to stop him, tore off a large piece of flesh from the sole of the other foot.

The archangel, severely wounded, appeared with the sun in heaven, and weeping, said, "What shall I do, so mutilated as I am?"

And it was said to him, "Cease from thy tears, and despair not. It shall happen that, henceforth, man also, like you, shall have a hollow in the sole of his foot."

As it was said, so it came to pass. From that day there appeared a small hollow in the sole of man's foot, and thus it has remained unto this day.

The Snow-Child

THE SNOW-CHILD.

(from the russian.)

In a certain village lived a peasant named Ivan, and his wife Mary. They were very fond of each other, and had lived happily together for many years, but unfortunately they had no children. The poor people were sad on that account. Their hearts, however, were gladdened at the sight of their neighbours' children. What could be done? It was evidently the will of Heaven; and in this world, Heaven's will be done!

One day, in winter, after a great quantity of snow had fallen on the ground, the children of the village where Ivan and Mary lived ran into the fields to play. The old couple looked at them from the window. The children ran about, played all sorts of frolics together, and at last began to make a snow-man. Ivan and Mary sat down quietly watching them. Suddenly Ivan smiled and said,—

"I say, wife, let us go out and make a snow-man too."

Mary was also in a merry mood.

"Yes," she answered; "let us go out and play, though we are old. But why should we make a snow-man? Better to make a snow-child, since Heaven will not grant us a live one."

"Very good," said Ivan.

He put on his cap, and went with his wife into the garden.

They really set about making a baby of snow. They made the body; then arms and legs; then put on the top a ball of snow for a head.

"Heaven help you!" cried one who passed by,

"Many thanks," replied Ivan.

"Heaven's help is always acceptable," added Mary.

"What are you doing?" continuued the stranger.

"What you yourself see," answered Ivan.

"We are making a Snyegurka!" cried Mary, laughing.

Then they made a little nose and a chin, two little holes for eyes, and as soon as Ivan had finished—oh, wonderful!—a sweet breath came out of its mouth! Ivan lifted up his arms and stared. The little holes were no longer holes; in their place were two bright blue eyes, and the tiny lips smiled lovingly upon him.

"Mercy on us! What is this?" cried Ivan, devoutly crossing himself.

The snow-child turned its head towards him—it was really alive! It moved its arms and legs inside the snow, like an infant in swaddling clothes.

"Oh, Ivan," cried Mary, trembling with joy, "Heaven has at last given us a baby!" and she seized the child in her arms.

The snow fell off "Snyegurka," as Mary called her, like the shell from a chicken. Mary, delighted beyond measure, held in her arms a beautiful, living girl.

"Oh, my love! my love! My darling Snyegurka!" cried the kind-hearted woman, tenderly embracing her long-wished for, and now unexpectedly granted child. Then she rushed into the hut with the infant in her arms. Ivan was astounded at this wonderful event; as to Mary, she was beside herself with joy.

Snyegurka grew every hour; each day she looked more beautiful than before. Ivan and Mary were delighted with her, and their hut, once so quiet and lonely, was now full of life and merriment. The girls of the village visited them constantly; dressed and played with Snyegurka as if she were a doll; talked to to her; sang songs to her; joined her with them in all their games, and taught her all they knew themselves. Snyegurka was very clever, and quickly learnt everything she was told. During the winter she grew up as tall as a girl of thirteen years old; she understood and could talk about most things around her, and had such a sweet voice that one would never tire of listening to it. Besides this, she was kind, obedient, and affectionate. Her flesh was as white as snow; her eyes looked like two forget-me-nots; and her hair was of a light flaxen colour. Her cheeks only had no rosy hue in them, because there was no blood in her veins. In spite of this she was so beautiful, that, having once seen her, you would wish to see her again and again. It would have done your heart good to see how she enjoyed herself, and how happy she was when at play. Everybody loved her; she was idolised by Mary, who would often say to her husband, "Heaven has granted us joy in our old age; sorrow has left my heart!"

Ivan would answer, "Heaven be praised! But in this world happiness is seldom lasting, and sorrow is good for us all."

The long winter had gradually glided away. The glorious sun again shone in the sky, and warmed the cold earth. Where the snow melted, green grass appeared, and the skylark poured forth its sweet notes. The girls of the village collected together, and welcomed the spring with a song:—

"Beautiful Spring! How did you come to us? How did you make your journey? On a plough or on a harrow?"

From a gay, sprightly girl, Snyegurka suddenly became sad.

"What is the matter with you, my dearest child?" Mary would often ask, drawing Snyegurka nearer to her heart. "Are you ill? You are not so happy as you used to be. Perhaps an evil eye has glanced at you?"

Snyegurka would simply answer, "I am well; mother."

The snow had now completely melted away, and the genial spring appeared with its warm and sunny days. The meadows and gardens began to be covered with radiant and sweet-scented flowers. The nightingale and other songsters of the woods and fields resumed their beautiful melodies. In a word, all nature became brighter and more charming.

Snyegurka alone grew sadder and sadder. She began to shun her playfellows, and to hide herself from the rays of the sun like the May-flower under the tree. She would only play near a well of spring water—splashing and dabbling in it with her hand—beneath the shade of a green willow. She grew daily fonder of the shade, the cool air, and the rain shower. During rain, and in the evening, she would become more gay. When the sky became overcast with dark clouds, and a thick shower of hail came pouring down, Snyegurka was as pleased as any other girl would have been at the sight of a pearl necklace. When the hail melted and disappeared beneath the warm rays of the sun, Snyegurka cried bitterly, as if she herself would melt into tears; as an affectionate sister might weep over a lost brother.

The spring now ended, the summer came, and the Feast of St. John was close at hand. All the girls from the village went into the wood to play. Several of them came to the hut, and asked Mistress Mary to allow Snyegurka to go with them. Mary was at first afraid to let Snyegurka go, and the girl herself did not care about it, but they could not very well refuse the invitation. Then Mary thought it would perhaps amuse Snyegurka. She therefore kissed her tenderly, saying,—

"Go, my dear child; go and enjoy yourself. And you, my good girls, take care of my Snyegurka. You know she is as dear to me as my very sight."

"All right! we'll take care!" cried the girls; and they caught hold of Snyegurka by the arms, and ran away together to the forest.

There they made garlands and bouquets of flowers, and sang songs, while Snyegurka took part in their play.

After sunset the girls piled up a small heap of dry grass and brushwood, lighted it, and, with garlands on their heads, stood in a line, one close upon the other. They put Snyegurka at the end, and said, "When you see us running, you run after us." Then they began to sing, and to jump over the fire.

Suddenly they heard a painful cry. They turned round quickly, but could see nothing. Greatly surprised, they looked at each other, and then noticed that Snyegurka was missing. "Oh, the mischievous puss!" cried the girls; "she has hidden herself."

They ran in every direction in search of her, but all in vain. They called her by her name, "Snyegurka!" but there was no answer.

"Perhaps she has gone home," cried some of the girls. They all ran back to the village—Snyegurka was not there!

They searched for her the whole night, the following, and the third day; they examined the forest,—every tree, every bush; but all to no purpose, Snyegurka was gone!

Old Ivan and Mary were almost broken-hearted at the loss of their beloved Snyegurka. Every day Mary went to the forest to look for her lost child. Poor woman! like a tender mother full of grief and yearning for her young one, she cried aloud,—

"Ah, me! my Snyegurka! Ah, me! my darling dove! Where art thou?"

She often fancied she could hear her dear Snyegurka's painful cry when she disappeared. Alas! alas! Snyegurka was nowhere to be found.

Where had Snyegurka gone? Had some wild beast seized and dragged her into his lair? or a bird of prey carried her across the dark blue sea to its nest? No; neither bird nor beast had carried the girl away. When Snyegurka, following her companions, sprang over the fire, she melted away and changed in an instant into a beautiful white cloud, rose up, and disappeared in the sky for ever!

The Demon's Dance

THE DEMON'S DANCE.

(from the polish.)

When the wind throws the dust up in the air, and whirls it round in a dry eddy, it shows the dance of an evil spirit. Whenever you see this, shut up at once all the doors and windows in your hut, or it will certainly do some mischief to your bones. If, however, you are courageous, and wish to obtain riches at the sacrifice of your soul, take a new knife that has been sprinkled with holy water, and throw it dexterously into the very middle of the whirlwind.

One day, a fearless young peasant, angry with the demon, who, in the shape of a hurricane, had blown off the roof of his barn, took up a new, consecrated knife, and stuck it in the ground in the very centre of the dust-eddy. In a moment the demon appeared, bent double, as if suffering great pain, and trembling with fear. He asked the peasant what he wanted with him.

"Mend my barn," cried the man in a great fury. "Fill up my potato hole with gold; then bring to my hut a keg of brandy and three sides of bacon."

"I will do it all," answered the demon; "but first take the knife out of the ground. It hurts me cruelly."

"No!" cried the peasant; "first do what I tell you."

The obedient spirit did all that was demanded of him. Some time after this the young peasant fell sick. As he was about to die, his friends, who were gathered round him, saw the demon standing at the head of the bed waiting for his soul. They all lamented his miserable fate, and his godfather said,—

"If, instead of asking for money, he had shot the demon with a silver button, he would have lived to be an old man, and have saved his soul."

The Plague-Omen

THE PLAGUE-OMEN.

(from the polish.)

A peasant, having lost his wife and children by the plague, fled from his desolate hut and sought refuge in the forest.

He wandered about the whole day; towards evening he made a hut of branches, lit a fire, and being tired soon fell asleep. It was already past midnight when he was awakened by a great noise. He jumped up and listened. He could hear, at a distance, merry songs, accompanied by the music of drums and pipes. He was greatly surprised at these rejoicings, especially when he remembered that the Plague was depopulating the country.

The music approached, and the terror-stricken peasant saw Homen advancing through a wide road. "Homen" consisted of a number of spectres of the most extraordinary shapes and kinds. In the midst of them was a high, black waggon, on the top of which sat the Plague. The ghastly company increased at every step; for almost everything they met on the road changed into a spectre and followed the rest.

The peasant's fire was nearly out,—there remained only a good sized, half-burnt stem. As soon as Homen approached, the fire-brand stood up, spread out two arms from its sides, and the red embers changed into two shining eyes. It joined at once the train of the Plague, and began also to sing.

The peasant was thunderstruck. Almost beside himself with terror, he seized his axe and tried to strike the nearest spectre; but the axe fell from his hands, and was immediately changed into the shape of a tall woman. She shook her dark hair before his eyes, joined the throng, and began also to sing.

Homen passed on; the astonished peasant saw how trees, bushes, even owls, and other night birds, assumed various forms, and swelled the horrible company—the dreadful harbinger of wide-spread death. He fell senseless on the ground.

In the morning, when the warm sun awakened him, he found that all he had brought with him was broken to pieces: his goods spoiled, his clothes torn. He knew at once that it was nothing else than Homen who had done him so much injury; and thanking Heaven that at least his life was spared, he went further on in search of food and shelter.

Story of Gol Voyansky

STORY OF GOL VOYANSKY.

(from the russian.)

A moujik was once ploughing a field with a miserable, lame mare. The poor beast was greatly tormented by gadflies and gnats. The moujik raised his whip, and with one stroke of the thong killed thirty-three gadflies, and a great number of gnats. The moujik reflected a little, and said to himself:—

"O-ho! I've become a hero. At one blow I've killed thirty-three knights and no end of common soldiers."

The moujik was called Gol (the naked, or needy). Gol began to think himself a great man; he unharnessed his mare, scrambled on to her back, and rode on till he came to a high road. There he dismounted, cut down a tree, and set it up as a sign-post with the following inscription: "Here passed Gol Voyansky. He en the infidels, and at one blow killed thirty-three knights and a countless multitude of common soldiers. Should any knight pass this way, let him read this inscription, and follow Gol Voyansky." He then remounted his mare and started off afresh.

Soon afterwards, Churila Plenkovich passed by the post, and, having read the inscription, was greatly surprised at the announcement of such astonishing prowess. Although he had never heard of Gol before, he was very anxious to make friends with so valiant a knight. Churila galloped after Gol, and soon overtook him.

"Did not a knight called Gol Voyansky pass this way?" he cried.

"I am Gol," answered the moujik. "And who may you be?"

"Churila Plenkovich," the young knight replied, with a bow, saying to himself as he did so, "Well, this is something wonderful! A common moujik on a sorry horse! Why, it is really disgraceful to be found in such company!"

"Go on my left side," said Gol.

Churila, full of wonder, did so, staring all the time at our hero and his miserable steed.

Meanwhile Eruslan Lazarevich came to the post, and having also read the inscription, galloped after Gol. He soon came up with him, and seeing his friend Churila, asked him whether he had seen Knight Gol. Churila pointed to his companion. Eruslan Lazarevich bowed to Gol. He, too, was greatly surprised at the appearance of the self-made knight!

"Go on my right side," said Gol to him.

At that moment another knight approached; it was Prince Bova, who, having read the inscription, was anxious to find Gol, the famous conqueror of the infidels. He, also, was much astonished at the sight of a moujik on a wretched beast, and two valiant knights riding by his side, and conversing with him. Gol was saying to them,—

"You are welcome, companions in arms!"

Prince Bova bowed to Gol, and asked his name.

"Gol Voyansky," answered the moujik. "And your name?"

"I am Prince Bova," replied the knight.

"Come and join us in our adventures," said Gol; "you are neither too soon nor too late. Ride by the side of Eruslan."

The knights followed Gol, and soon reached some forbidden meadows belonging to a heroine princess.

"We must not enter here," said Eruslan.

"Nonsense!" cried Gol. "Let the horses go on into the field."

"Gol Voyansky," said Eruslan, "the Princess is very powerful. She has at her command twenty-two knights and a dragon called Zilant, the brother of Tugarin."

"That's a mere trifle for me," said Gol. "You are not afraid of them? I could kill them all as easily as flies."

"Very well," said Eruslan; "if that is the case, let us go into the meadows. We shall soon have to fight."

They entered the field, dismounted, and let their horses loose to graze. Seeing a white, empty tent, they went into it, sat down at the opening, and began to look about them. Gol, being tired, took off his jacket, lay down on the ground, and was soon fast asleep.

"Gol has great confidence in himself," remarked Prince Bova.

Meanwhile the alarm was raised in the Princess's castle; bells rang and trumpets sounded. A company of soldiers was despatched, headed by three knights fully armed, to fight the trespassers.

"Get up, Gol!" cried Churila, "the enemy is upon us!"

Gol opened his eyes, and gaping, cried,—

"What's the matter? Three knights—three gadflies; a company of soldiers—gnats. They won't let me sleep, eh? Here, Churila, go you and fight them. Kill them all but one; send him to the Princess, and let him tell her that I, Knight Gol Voyansky, am come to marry her." Having said this he went to sleep again.

Churila mounted his horse, fought for a long time, and finally succeeded in slaying his opponents. He spared one man only, and sent him to the Princess with Gol's message. But instead of a verbal answer, the Princess sent out six knights and three companies of soldiers.

The knights again awakened Gol.

"That's nothing!" cried our hero. "At one blow I could kill them all. Here, Prince Bova, go you and make an end of them; spare one, and send him to the Princess."

Prince Bova killed the knights and routed the little army. Hereupon the Princess sent out twelve knights and six companies of soldiers. They advanced amid the clash of arms and the sound of trumpets.

"O-ho!" cried Gol, getting up; "how many are there of them? Twelve gadflies and a great many gnats. Here, Eruslan, go and fight them; if you can't beat them, I'll come and help you."

Eruslan mounted his steed, and drew his trusty sword. How he hewed about him—right and left! He slew all the knights; the soldiers, terrified, fled from the field. The Princess saw it was a hopeless case. As a last resource, however, she sent out Zilant the Dragon.

Zilant roared tremendously as he came out of his iron nest. It was suspended in the air by twelve iron chains, tied to twelve oak trees. He flew out like an arrow, and called upon the intruders to prepare for the fight.

"It's my turn now," said Gol to his knights-companions. "Alas!" he thought within himself, "I must go—to die! It's all over with me, but I shall at least fall like a hero."

Having devoutly crossed himself, he mounted his mare, waved his axe, and, shutting his eyes, rode to meet the dragon.

Zilant roared more furiously than ever at the sight of Gol, thinking the moujik was sent out to mock him. Meanwhile, poor Gol, whispering to himself, "Oh, my father and brothers! remember my name—think of me when I am gone!" awaited the approach of death.

Zilant stared at the peasant. "Surely," he thought, "there is some trickery here. A moujik—and on such a beast—sent out to fight me! Why, with a click of a little finger he could be tossed half a dozen yards."

In his fear of treachery he stooped, and began to examine Gol's saddle. In an instant Gol rose up, and gave the dragon such a tremendous blow on the head with his axe that he fell down stunned, and rolled over on the sand. Then Gol cut and chopped at him until he had hewn him into pieces like so much wood. Having killed the dragon, Gol took his helmet, and returned with it to his companions. Hereupon the Princress ordered the gates of her palace to be opened, and invited the knights to an entertaiment. When she saw Gol she greatly wondered wherein his strength lay. She put her hand upon his shoulder, and pressed him down so heavily that Gol could with difficulty stand under it.