Russian Magic Tales from Pushkin to Platonov (Penguin Classics) (9 page)

Ivan Tsarevich made his way to Marya Morevna. She ran out and threw herself into his arms. ‘How did God bring you
back to life?’ she cried out. He told her all that had happened and then said, ‘Let’s go now!’ ‘But I’m frightened, Ivan Tsarevich! What if Koshchey catches up with us and hacks you to pieces again?’ ‘He won’t catch up with us this time. I have a steed that flies like a bird – a steed fit for a warrior.’ They mounted and set off. As Koshchey the Deathless made his way back in the evening, his steed stumbled beneath him. ‘Why are you stumbling, you old nag? Is something the matter at home?’ ‘Ivan Tsarevich has come and taken Marya Morevna away with him.’ ‘Can we catch up with them?’ ‘I don’t know. Ivan Tsarevich has a steed fit for a warrior. It gallops faster than I do.’ ‘No,’ said Koshchey the Deathless. ‘I won’t stand for it.’ After a long time, or maybe a short time, he caught up with Ivan Tsarevich, leapt to the ground and was about to slash at Ivan with his sharp sabre when Ivan’s steed kicked him with all his might and smashed his skull into splinters. The tsarevich then finished him off with his cudgel. After that Ivan Tsarevich gathered a great heap of wood, lit a bonfire, burned the body of Koshchey the Deathless and scattered the ashes to the four winds.

Marya Morevna mounted Koshchey’s steed, Ivan Tsarevich mounted his own, and off they rode. They went first to the raven, then to the eagle, then to the falcon. In each palace they were greeted with joy: ‘Ivan Tsarevich! We thought we’d never set eyes on you again. Well, now we know why you had to go on all those journeys. There can’t be another such beauty as your wife in the whole world.’

They stayed for a while in each palace, enjoyed many feasts, then set off for their own tsardom. And there they lived, in health and good cheer and free of all fear. There they lived for many a year, free of need and drinking good mead.

Once there lived a prince who married a beautiful princess. But before he had had time to feast his eyes on her, before he had had time to talk and listen to her to his heart’s content, he had to part from her. He had to go on a journey and leave his wife in the hands of people who barely knew her. What else could he do? As they say, a man and woman can’t spend their whole life in embraces. The princess cried and cried. The prince gave her wise advice. He told her not to come down from her tower, not to talk with strangers and not to listen to evil words. The princess promised to do as he said. The prince left. The princess locked herself up in her chamber and never came out.

After a long time, or maybe only a short time, an old woman appeared down below. No one could have looked kinder or more honest. ‘It must be boring and lonely for you up there,’ she said to the princess. ‘Why don’t you come down and have a look at God’s world? At least you could go for a walk in the garden. A breath of fresh air blows away every care!’

For a long time the princess made excuses. She really didn’t want to go down. But then she thought again: what harm, after all, could come to her in the garden? And so down she went – and there in the garden was a crystal spring. ‘It’s a hot day,’ said the woman. ‘The sun’s blazing down and the water’s cool and fresh. Look at it splashing. Why don’t we bathe in it?’ ‘No, no,’ said the princess, ‘I don’t want to!’ But then she thought again: what harm, after all, could come to her in the water? She took off her dress and jumped in. Once she was in the water, the woman struck her on the back. ‘Swim on,’ she said, ‘as a little white duck.’ And the princess swam on as a little white duck.
The witch put on the princess’s dress and jewels, painted her face and sat down to wait for the prince. As soon as the little dog barked and the little bell tinkled, there she was – running towards the prince, throwing herself into his arms, kissing him and saying all kinds of tender words to him. The prince was overjoyed. He embraced the witch and never saw her for who she was.

As for the little white duck, she laid three eggs and hatched out three little children. Two were strong and healthy, but the third was weak and sickly. The little white duck took good care of all three of them. Soon they had learned how to catch gold fish, how to gather up little scraps of cloth and sew themselves fine kaftans, how to swim through the tall reeds, how to climb up onto the green meads. ‘No, no, children, not so far!’ the mother kept telling them. ‘Not
that
way!’ The children did not listen. One day they played about on the bank; the next day they were in the garden. One day they were on the green sward; the next day they were in the great yard. The witch knew them; she sensed who they were and gnashed her teeth. Then she called them after her. She gave them food and drink and put them to bed. Then she went and told her servants to light the fire, to boil the water and sharpen their knives.

The two strong brothers went straight to sleep. But the little sickly one felt too cold. Usually his brothers did as their mother said and kept him warm in their bosoms – but this time they had forgotten. Towards midnight the witch crept up to the door. ‘Little ones, are you asleep yet?’ she called. She heard a little voice answer:

We’re asleep yet not asleep.

We are thinking a strange thought,

Thinking we are to be slaughtered,

That cranberry branches are burning,

That cauldrons are steaming,

That steel knives are being sharpened.

‘Not asleep yet,’ the witch said to herself. She went away, walked about for a while, then asked again, ‘Little ones, are you asleep yet?’ The little sickly one gave the same answer:

We’re asleep yet not asleep.

We are thinking a strange thought,

Thinking we are to be slaughtered,

That cranberry branches are burning,

That cauldrons are steaming,

That steel knives are being sharpened
.

‘Why’s there only one voice?’ thought the witch. She gently opened the door and looked in. The two strong brothers were fast asleep. She touched them with a dead hand and they died.
¹
In the morning the little white duck called for her ducklings, but no one came. Her heart guessed what had happened, and she flew straight to the courtyard.

There side by side lay her children, white as handkerchiefs and cold as stones. She rushed towards them, stretched out her wings and wrapped them over her children. In the voice of a mother, she began to lament:

Krya-krya-krya, little children!

Quack-quack, my little doves!

Though we lived in need, I gave you my all.

I gave you my own tears to drink;

I lay awake through the darkest nights;

All that was sweet was yours to eat.

‘Listen, wife! Who’d have believed it? There’s a duck out here that can talk.’

‘What’s the matter with you, husband? You must be dreaming. Anyway, what’s the duck doing in the yard? Tell someone to drive it away.’

The prince had the duck driven away. She flew straight back again and began to sing to her children:

Krya-krya-krya, little children!

Quack-quack, my little doves!

A cruel snake has destroyed you,

An evil witch has been the death of you.

She took you away from your father,

She took you from my dear husband,

She drowned us in a swift stream,

She turned us into white ducks

So she can strut, strut, strut about the palace.

‘What’s all this?’ thought the prince. And then he shouted out, ‘Catch me the little white duck!’ Everyone rushed about, but the little white duck always kept just out of their reach. Then the prince tried himself – and she flew straight into his hands.

He held her by one wing and said, ‘Be a silver birch behind me! Be a fair maiden before me!’ A silver birch sprang up behind him and a fair maiden appeared before him – and this fair maiden was his young princess. Then they caught a magpie, tied two little vials to her legs and told her to fetch life-giving water in one and talking water in the other. The magpie flew off and brought back the water. The parents sprinkled their little ones with life-giving water – and the children gave a start. They sprinkled them with talking water – and the children began to talk.

And so the prince now had a whole family, and together they began to live and prosper and forget past evil. As for the witch, they tied her to a horse’s tail and dragged her across the open steppe. Where her legs snapped off, there appeared two shovels. Where her arms snapped off, there appeared two rakes. Where her head snapped off, there appeared a bush and a log. Birds flew down and pecked at her flesh. Winds got up and swept away her bones. Not a trace, not a memory was left of her.

In a certain land, in a certain tsardom, there lived a tsar and tsaritsa. They had three young sons, all of them braver and more handsome than storyteller can say or pen can portray. The youngest was called Ivan Tsarevich. One day the tsar said to his sons, ‘It’s time you were married, sons. You must each take one arrow, draw your stout bows and loose your arrows. Where your three arrows land will be where your three brides stand.’

The eldest brother’s arrow landed in the courtyard of a nobleman; the daughter of the house picked it up and handed it back to him. The second brother’s arrow landed in the fine porch of a merchant’s house; the merchant’s daughter picked it up and handed it back to him. The youngest brother’s arrow landed in a foul bog – and was found by a croaking frog.

Ivan went back to his father and said, ‘How can I marry a frog? A frog’s no equal of mine!’ ‘Marry her,’ said his father. ‘Your fate is your fate – it can’t be escaped.’

The three brothers married. The eldest brother married the nobleman’s daughter; the second brother married the merchant’s daughter; and Ivan married the croaking frog. After a while the tsar called his three sons together and said, ‘For tomorrow I want each of your wives to bake me a loaf of soft white bread.’ Ivan walked gloomily back, his bold head below his broad shoulders. ‘Kva, kva, Ivan Tsarevich! What are you looking so sad about?’ asked the frog. ‘Has your father said something unkind?’ ‘How can I not look sad? My father commands you to bake him a loaf of soft white bread for tomorrow.’ ‘Don’t grieve, Ivan Tsarevich,’ said the frog. ‘Go to bed and have a good sleep. Mornings are wiser than evenings.’ She put
the tsarevich to bed, shook off her frog skin and turned into a fair maiden – Vasilisa the Wise. She stepped out onto the fine porch, clapped her hands and called out in a loud voice, ‘Women! Servants! Bakers! Bake me a loaf of soft white bread by tomorrow morning – one like we used to eat on holidays in the home of my dear father!’

Ivan Tsarevich got up next morning and found that the frog’s loaf was already baked. It was a loaf to take your breath away, more beautiful than pen can portray or anyone but a storyteller can say. It was embellished in many ways, and on each side of the loaf could be seen a gated city. Ivan was overjoyed. He took the loaf to his father. And along came his two brothers with the loaves that their own wives had baked.

First the tsar looked at the loaf brought by his eldest son. He turned it over, looked at it from all sides – and had it sent down to the kitchen. Then he did the same with the loaf brought by his second son. Then he looked at Ivan’s loaf and said, ‘Now this is bread. This is what I call bread. This is the kind of bread you eat on a holiday.’ He ordered it to be served at his own table.

Then he said to his sons, ‘Now I want each of your wives to weave me a carpet. And I want the carpets ready by tomorrow morning.’ Ivan walked gloomily back, his bold head below his broad shoulders. ‘Kva, kva, Ivan Tsarevich! What are you looking so sad about? Did your father not like the loaf I baked him? Has he said something cross or cruel?’ ‘How can I not look sad? My father thanks you for the bread and commands you to sew him a silk carpet by tomorrow morning.’ ‘Don’t grieve, Ivan Tsarevich. Go to bed and have a good sleep. Mornings are wiser than evenings.’

She put the tsarevich to bed, shook off her frog skin and turned into a fair maiden – Vasilisa the Wise. She stepped out onto the fine porch, clapped her hands and called out in a loud voice, ‘Women! Servants! Weavers! Make me a silk carpet by tomorrow morning – one like I used to sit on in the home of my dear father!’

Ivan Tsarevich awoke in the morning and found the carpet already finished. It was the most sumptuous carpet you’ve ever
set eyes on, more beautiful than in any dream, more beautiful than pen can portray or anyone but a storyteller can say. It was flecked with silver and gold and on it could be seen the entire tsardom – every city and village, every mountain and forest, every river and lake. Ivan Tsarevich was overjoyed. He took the carpet to his father. And along came his two brothers with the carpets that their own wives had woven.

First the tsar looked at the carpet brought by his eldest son. He had it spread out on the floor, looked at it carefully and said, ‘Thank you! This is a carpet to lay on the threshold.’ Then he looked at the carpet brought by his second son. He felt it between his fingers and said, ‘Thank you! This is a carpet to wipe one’s boots on.’

Then he had Ivan’s carpet spread out on the floor. Everyone gasped. The tsar took it in his hands and gazed at it. He turned to his servants and said, ‘And I want this carpet beneath my royal throne.’ And then the tsar ordered his three sons to bring their wives to a banquet that evening.

Ivan walked gloomily back, his bold head below his broad shoulders. ‘Kva, kva, Ivan Tsarevich! Why are you looking so sad? Has your father said something cross or cruel?’ ‘How can I not look sad? My father’s asked me to bring you to a banquet this evening. What can I do? How can I show you to so many people?’

‘Don’t grieve, Ivan Tsarevich. You go first and I’ll follow. When you hear loud cracks of thunder, say, “That’s my little frog, riding along in her little box”.’