Russian Magic Tales from Pushkin to Platonov (Penguin Classics) (41 page)

The merchant made a great deal of money. He went to look for a present for his young wife. He looked and looked, but there was nothing she did not have already. Nowhere could he find a marvellous wonder.

Sad as sad can be, he was walking down a street. Towards him came an old man.

‘Why so sad, merchant?’

‘Because my wife asked me to bring her a marvellous wonder – but where can I find one?’

‘That’s no sorrow. I can sort one out for you straight away.’

The old man led him into his hut.

‘See who’s walking round the yard?’ he said.

‘There’s a goose walking round the yard,’ said the merchant.

‘Hey, goose!’ said the old man. ‘Come in out of the yard.’

In out of the yard came the goose.

‘Hey, goose!’ said the old man. ‘Get into the pan.’

The goose got into the pan.

The old man lit the stove and put the pan into the oven.

‘Hey, goose!’ said the old man. ‘Roast yourself nicely for me.’

The goose roasted itself till it was crisp and brown.

‘Well then, young man, sit down and have supper with me. Only don’t throw the bones under the table. Pile them up into a single pile.’

The merchant sucked the bones clean and put them one by one on the table. When they’d finished, the old man said, ‘Up you get, goose!’

The goose stood up, whole and hale.

‘Hey, goose, out you go into the yard!’

Out into the yard went the goose.

‘This is truly a marvellous wonder,’ said the merchant. ‘How much do you want for it, old man?’

‘Nothing at all. Just take it home and say to your wife, “I’ve brought you a marvellous wonder, a wonderful goose. The name of the goose is ‘A lesson for a young wife’ ”.’

Off went the merchant. He got back home and said to his wife, ‘I’ve brought you a marvellous wonder.’

‘What kind of a wonder?’

‘A wonderful goose. Its name is “A lesson for a young wife”.’

Along came the goose.

‘Hey, goose!’ said the old man. ‘Get into the pan.’

The goose got into the pan.

‘Hey, goose!’ said the old man. ‘Roast yourself in the stove.’

The goose roasted itself. They took it out of the stove and ate it.

‘Up you get, goose!’

The goose stood up.

‘Hey, goose, out you go into the yard!’

Out into the yard went the goose.

Then the merchant went off to his store. Along came the wife’s lover. They loved each other. They enjoyed themselves. Then the lover said, ‘I’d like something to eat.’

‘Now I’m going to give you a marvellous wonder – a meal you will marvel at.’

The wife called out through the window, ‘Hey, goose, come in out of the yard!’

In came the goose.

‘Hey, goose, get into the pan!’

But the goose didn’t want to get into the pan. The wife thought her friend would laugh at her. She got cross and hit the goose with the pan. And then she and the pan were stuck fast, stuck fast to the goose.

‘Hey, friend!’ she called out. ‘Unstick me!’

Her friend tried to pull her away, but he couldn’t. He was stuck fast, stuck fast to the wife.

‘Goose!’ she called out. ‘Dear lesson for a young wife, release us! Let us go free now.’

But the goose went out into the yard, and they went out after it. They were running along behind it, calling out, ‘A lesson for a young wife! A lesson for a young wife!’

Just then the merchant came along and saw his wife and the young steward stuck fast together.

‘Hm!’ he said. ‘Who’d have thought it? A lesson for a young wife!’

He pulled them apart and gave them a good thrashing. He gave them such a thrashing that they quite forgot about having any more fun together.

So there you are – a lesson for a young wife!

(1910–79)

Fyodor Tumilevich lived most of his life in Rostov, on the mouth of the Don. A teacher of folklore in the university and the teacher-training institute, he published several volumes of the folktales and folksongs of the Don Cossacks.

There were once two fishermen who were neighbours. They caught fish and sold them, but then there were no more fish and they still had to find a way to live. Their wives kept saying, ‘Go on, go and hire yourselves out as labourers!’

In the end they listened to their wives and went off to look for work. They walked for a day, and for a second day, and for a third day. They were tired of walking, but there was no work anywhere. They looked and looked, but no work could they find. They came to one small village, spent the night there and went on their way. On they went through the steppe. It was a hot day and they felt thirsty. They saw a stream, went up to it, drank their fill and went on further. It was not long after noon; the sun was high in the sky.

They felt tired and hungry.

‘I’m tired. I can’t go on any further,’ said one of them. ‘Let’s have a rest.’

‘No, you rest if you like – but I’ll go on to the next village and ask for some bread.’

So one fisherman went on into the village, while the other stayed where he was. He saw a stone and sat down on it. But lying underneath this stone was a snake. The fisherman was squashing this snake. He heard a voice from underneath the stone, ‘Set me free, fisherman!’

The man felt sorry for the snake. He got to his feet and lifted up the stone. The snake slid out and wrapped itself round his neck. It was about to bite him, but he asked, ‘What are you doing, snake? People repay good with good, but you want to repay good with evil. Don’t bite me.’

The snake slid back down onto the ground and said, ‘Let’s go on our way, man. If we meet anyone, we’ll ask what they do: how do
they
repay good?’

The man agreed, and they set off together. After a while, they met a bull coming towards them. The fisherman said to the bull, ‘Tell us. How do people repay good?’

The bull replied, ‘People repay good with evil. I plough my master’s land for him, I sow it and I fetch water for him. But when the time comes, my master will slaughter me, cook my meat, take off my hide, spread it out on the ground and walk on me.’

‘Well, fisherman,’ said the snake. ‘You must let me bite you.’

‘No, snake, let’s go on further.’

They went on. After a while, they met a horse. The fisherman said to the horse, ‘Tell us, horse. How do people repay good? The snake and I have been arguing. I say that good is repaid with good, but the snake says it is repaid with evil.’

The horse listened, then replied, ‘I’ve served my master for twenty years. I’m old now. He doesn’t feed me any longer, and he threatens to slaughter me and skin me. You’re wrong – people repay good with evil.’

‘Well, fisherman,’ said the snake. ‘Did you hear what the horse says? I must bite you now.’

‘No, snake, let’s ask a third time.’

After a while, they saw a donkey coming towards them. They said to the donkey, ‘Tell us, donkey. How do people repay good?’

The donkey replied, ‘With evil.’

After that, the fisherman said to the snake, ‘Now you can bite me.’

But the snake said, ‘No, fisherman, I shall believe you. I shall repay your good with good.’

The snake led the man back to the stone, slid underneath it, gave the man a little gold and said, ‘Come to me whenever you need money.’

The fisherman took the gold and left. He gave up working. Instead, he lived off this gold. When he had spent all the gold, he went back to the snake and the snake gave him some more.
He spent all that too, then went back to the snake once again. The snake gave him more gold. The fisherman went off, thinking, ‘Why does the snake give me so very little?’

He spent all this gold too. Off he went to the snake again, thinking, ‘Why does the snake give me so very little? I’ll kill it. Then I can take all the gold, and I’ll start to live well.’

So the fisherman thought. But the snake could hear the fisherman’s thoughts. The fisherman went up to the snake, and the snake bit him. And the fisherman died.

(1888–1962)

Bardin lectured at the Orenburg (between 1938 and 1957 the city was called Chkalov) Pedagogical Institute. He was both a collector of the region’s folklore and an active participant in the creation of what is sometimes called ‘Soviet fakelore’. His
Folklore of the Chkalov Province
was published in 1940; his
Soviet Folklore of the Chkalov Province
in 1947. Even by the standards of his time, Bardin appears to have been shockingly blatant in his readiness to create ‘fakelore’; in 1947, as the Stalin cult was at its apogee, he was criticized for requiring all his students to compose (!) ‘folklore’ about Soviet achievements.
¹
The following brief tale is, no doubt, entirely genuine – there are many folktales in a similar vein – but it is obvious enough that the hostile treatment of the rich peasant would have made this a particularly safe tale to publish in Soviet times.

A man was returning home after his twenty-five years as a soldier. He walked all through the day. Night fell. He climbed up onto a tall oak, and after a while, he saw an old man down below. The old man’s hair was as white as the moon and he had a long white beard. The old man went right up to the oak tree and sounded a horn. Out of nowhere appeared twelve wolves. The old man took a loaf of bread from his bag, divided it into thirteen pieces and gave one piece to each wolf. Then he gave the remaining piece to the soldier. The soldier took the piece of bread and greedily began eating it. But, no matter how much he ate, the piece did not get any smaller. At dawn the old man sounded his horn again and the wolves ran off in different directions. The soldier climbed down from the oak and went on his way. In time he came to a village. He asked a rich peasant to let him stay the night in his hut. The soldier went into the hut and sat down at the table. He had walked a long way and he was hungry. He took out the piece of bread and began to eat. The rich peasant saw that the piece of bread was not getting any smaller. ‘Sell me that piece of bread, soldier!’ he said.

‘No,’ said the soldier, ‘it’s an everlasting piece. With it, I’ll be all right. I need never go hungry again.’

The peasant began to question the soldier: how had he acquired this piece of bread that would last forever? The soldier told him. And when morning came, the soldier went on his way.

In the evening the rich peasant went into the forest, climbed up into the oak and waited for the old man. He did not have
to wait long. The old man went right up to the oak tree and sounded his horn. Twelve wolves came running up to him. The old man took a loaf of bread from his bag, divided it into eleven parts and gave them to the wolves. One wolf was left without any bread. The old man pointed up at the peasant. The wolf leaped up into the oak and tore the rich peasant to pieces.

(1927–2000)

Balashov’s father was an actor and his mother an artist. As well as publishing collections of folk ballads, songs and stories, Balashov wrote historical novels. From 1972 he lived in a village on the shore of Lake Onega, and from 1983 in Novgorod. In 2000, while in his home in a village in the Novgorod region, he was murdered; it is not known why.

Once there were two neighbours. One was rich and the other was poor. The poor neighbour had a son, but the rich neighbour had a daughter. One evening the daughter went off to a party, but before the party she and the poor neighbour’s son had been in the bathhouse and he had pinched her. Yes – his father had been bringing back the hay, he had been mowing the hay – and the poor neighbour’s son had gone and pinched her on the breast. And she had said to him, ‘Come round, friend, in the evening!’

‘The rich girl is calling me,’ he said to himself. ‘I’ll go as quick as I can.’

He ate and drank and put on his best clothes. Along he went – but everyone there was already on horseback. Out from the bathhouse she came and struck him with a whip. ‘Once a young lad,’ she said, ‘but now a fine stallion!’

She mounted him – and off she rode. Forty of them came together in the steppe – forty such maidens on forty such stallions. And they galloped and galloped. Which of them could strike their stallion the most? Which of them could make their stallion run wildest?

Towards morning they all went back to their homes. But first they all gathered at the same bathhouse. The girls struck their whips and said, ‘Once a fine stallion, but now a young lad!’

Now young lads once again, back home they all went, swaying as they walked. They had galloped all through the night – those girls had worn them out. ‘Come round, friend, in the evening!’ called out the rich neighbour’s daughter.

‘No,’ he thought. ‘I’ve had enough.’

Back home he went. His father began to scold him: ‘What have you been doing? Out revelling all night! It’s already time we were off to the forest – and you’re only just back from your revels!’

But the stepmother took the lad’s side. ‘You were young once,’ she said to her husband. ‘You used to go out all night too!’

The father went off to the forest, but the young lad stayed at home. And the stepmother began asking questions: ‘Where were you? What have you been up to?’

‘Well, yesterday we were bringing in the hay, and the neighbour’s daughter was there, and she said to me, “Come round, friend, in the evening!” So I go to the bathhouse, but she strikes me with a whip and says, “Once a young lad, but now a fine stallion!” And she mounted me and was off. And there were forty of them out in the steppe, and they rode us all night, and towards morning they all went back to the same bathhouse as before and they struck us with their whips and said, “Once a fine stallion, but now a young lad!” And off we all went, swaying as we walked.’

‘Did she tell you to come again?’ asked the stepmother.

‘Yes, she did. She called out, “Come round, friend, in the evening!” – but I’m not going.’

‘No,’ said the stepmother. ‘You must go. I’ll tell you what to do.’