Stan Bolovan

STAN BOLOVAN

Once upon a time what happened did happen, and if it had not happened

this story would never have been told.

On the outskirts of a village just where the oxen were turned out to

pasture, and the pigs roamed about burrowing with their noses among the

roots of the trees, there stood a small house. In the house lived a man

who had a wife, and the wife was sad all day long.

‘Dear wife, what is wrong with you that you hang your head like a

drooping rosebud?’ asked her husband one morning. ‘You have everything

you want; why cannot you be merry like other women?’

‘Leave me alone, and do not seek to know the reason,’ replied she,

bursting into tears, and the man thought that it was no time to question

her, and went away to his work.

He could not, however, forget all about it, and a few days after he

inquired again the reason of her sadness, but only got the same reply.

At length he felt he could bear it no longer, and tried a third time,

and then his wife turned and answered him.

‘Good gracious!’ cried she, ‘why cannot you let things be as they are?

If I were to tell you, you would become just as wretched as myself. If

you would only believe, it is far better for you to know nothing.’

But no man yet was ever content with such an answer. The more you beg

him not to inquire, the greater is his curiosity to learn the whole.

‘Well, if you MUST know,’ said the wife at last, ‘I will tell you. There

is no luck in this house--no luck at all!’

‘Is not your cow the best milker in all the village? Are not your trees

as full of fruit as your hives are full of bees? Has anyone cornfields

like ours? Really you talk nonsense when you say things like that!’

‘Yes, all that you say is true, but we have no children.’

Then Stan understood, and when a man once understands and has his eyes

opened it is no longer well with him. From that day the little house in

the outskirts contained an unhappy man as well as an unhappy woman. And

at the sight of her husband’s misery the woman became more wretched than

ever.

And so matters went on for some time.

Some weeks had passed, and Stan thought he would consult a wise man

who lived a day’s journey from his own house. The wise man was sitting

before his door when he came up, and Stan fell on his knees before him.

‘Give me children, my lord, give me children.’

‘Take care what you are asking,’ replied the wise man. ‘Will not

children be a burden to you? Are you rich enough to feed and clothe

them?’

‘Only give them to me, my lord, and I will manage somehow!’ and at a

sign from the wise man Stan went his way.

He reached home that evening tired and dusty, but with hope in his

heart. As he drew near his house a sound of voices struck upon his ear,

and he looked up to see the whole place full of children. Children

in the garden, children in the yard, children looking out of every

window--it seemed to the man as if all the children in the world must be

gathered there. And none was bigger than the other, but each was smaller

than the other, and every one was more noisy and more impudent and more

daring than the rest, and Stan gazed and grew cold with horror as he

realised that they all belonged to him.

‘Good gracious! how many there are! how many!’ he muttered to himself.

‘Oh, but not one too many,’ smiled his wife, coming up with a crowd more

children clinging to her skirts.

But even she found that it was not so easy to look after a hundred

children, and when a few days had passed and they had eaten up all the

food there was in the house, they began to cry, ‘Father! I am hungry--I

am hungry,’ till Stan scratched his head and wondered what he was to do

next. It was not that he thought there were too many children, for his

life had seemed more full of joy since they appeared, but now it came to

the point he did not know how he was to feed them. The cow had ceased to

give milk, and it was too early for the fruit trees to ripen.

‘Do you know, old woman!’ said he one day to his wife, ‘I must go out

into the world and try to bring back food somehow, though I cannot tell

where it is to come from.’

To the hungry man any road is long, and then there was always the

thought that he had to satisfy a hundred greedy children as well as

himself.

Stan wandered, and wandered, and wandered, till he reached to the end of

the world, where that which is, is mingled with that which is not, and

there he saw, a little way off, a sheepfold, with seven sheep in it. In

the shadow of some trees lay the rest of the flock.

Stan crept up, hoping that he might manage to decoy some of them away

quietly, and drive them home for food for his family, but he soon found

this could not be. For at midnight he heard a rushing noise, and through

the air flew a dragon, who drove apart a ram, a sheep, and a lamb, and

three fine cattle that were lying down close by. And besides these he

took the milk of seventy-seven sheep, and carried it home to his old

mother, that she might bathe in it and grow young again. And this

happened every night.

The shepherd bewailed himself in vain: the dragon only laughed, and Stan

saw that this was not the place to get food for his family.

But though he quite understood that it was almost hopeless to fight

against such a powerful monster, yet the thought of the hungry children

at home clung to him like a burr, and would not be shaken off, and at

last he said to the shepherd, ‘What will you give me if I rid you of the

dragon?’

‘One of every three rams, one of every three sheep, one of every three

lambs,’ answered the herd.

‘It is a bargain,’ replied Stan, though at the moment he did not know

how, supposing he DID come off the victor, he would ever be able to

drive so large a flock home.

However, that matter could be settled later. At present night was not

far off, and he must consider how best to fight with the dragon.

Just at midnight, a horrible feeling that was new and strange to him

came over Stan--a feeling that he could not put into words even to

himself, but which almost forced him to give up the battle and take

the shortest road home again. He half turned; then he remembered the

children, and turned back.

‘You or I,’ said Stan to himself, and took up his position on the edge

of the flock.

‘Stop!’ he suddenly cried, as the air was filled with a rushing noise,

and the dragon came dashing past.

‘Dear me!’ exclaimed the dragon, looking round. ‘Who are you, and where

do you come from?’

‘I am Stan Bolovan, who eats rocks all night, and in the day feeds on

the flowers of the mountain; and if you meddle with those sheep I will

carve a cross on your back.’

When the dragon heard these words he stood quite still in the middle of

the road, for he knew he had met with his match.

‘But you will have to fight me first,’ he said in a trembling voice, for

when you faced him properly he was not brave at all.

‘I fight you?’ replied Stan, ‘why I could slay you with one breath!’

Then, stooping to pick up a large cheese which lay at his feet, he

added, ‘Go and get a stone like this out of the river, so that we may

lose no time in seeing who is the best man.’

The dragon did as Stan bade him, and brought back a stone out of the

brook.

‘Can you get buttermilk out of your stone?’ asked Stan.

The dragon picked up his stone with one hand, and squeezed it till it

fell into powder, but no buttermilk flowed from it. ‘Of course I can’t!’

he said, half angrily.

‘Well, if you can’t, I can,’ answered Stan, and he pressed the cheese

till buttermilk flowed through his fingers.

When the dragon saw that, he thought it was time he made the best of his

way home again, but Stan stood in his path.

‘We have still some accounts to settle,’ said he, ‘about what you have

been doing here,’ and the poor dragon was too frightened to stir, lest

Stan should slay him at one breath and bury him among the flowers in the

mountain pastures.

‘Listen to me,’ he said at last. ‘I see you are a very useful person,

and my mother has need of a fellow like you. Suppose you enter her

service for three days, which are as long as one of your years, and she

will pay you each day seven sacks full of ducats.’

Three times seven sacks full of ducats! The offer was very tempting,

and Stan could not resist it. He did not waste words, but nodded to the

dragon, and they started along the road.

It was a long, long way, but when they came to the end they found the

dragon’s mother, who was as old as time itself, expecting them. Stan saw

her eyes shining like lamps from afar, and when they entered the house

they beheld a huge kettle standing on the fire, filled with milk. When

the old mother found that her son had arrived empty-handed she grew very

angry, and fire and flame darted from her nostrils, but before she could

speak the dragon turned to Stan.

‘Stay here,’ said he, ‘and wait for me; I am going to explain things to

my mother.’

Stan was already repenting bitterly that he had ever come to such a

place, but, since he was there, there was nothing for it but to take

everything quietly, and not show that he was afraid.

‘Listen, mother,’ said the dragon as soon as they were alone, ‘I have

brought this man in order to get rid of him. He is a terrific fellow who

eats rocks, and can press buttermilk out of a stone,’ and he told her

all that had happened the night before.

‘Oh, just leave him to me!’ she said. ‘I have never yet let a man slip

through my fingers.’ So Stan had to stay and do the old mother service.

The next day she told him that he and her son should try which was the

strongest, and she took down a huge club, bound seven times with iron.

The dragon picked it up as if it had been a feather, and, after whirling

it round his head, flung it lightly three miles away, telling Stan to

beat that if he could.

They walked to the spot where the club lay. Stan stooped and felt

it; then a great fear came over him, for he knew that he and all his

children together would never lift that club from the ground.

‘What are you doing?’ asked the dragon.

‘I was thinking what a beautiful club it was, and what a pity it is that

it should cause your death.’

‘How do you mean--my death?’ asked the dragon.

‘Only that I am afraid that if I throw it you will never see another

dawn. You don’t know how strong I am!’

‘Oh, never mind that be quick and throw.’

‘If you are really in earnest, let us go and feast for three days: that

will at any rate give you three extra days of life.’

Stan spoke so calmly that this time the dragon began to get a little

frightened, though he did not quite believe that things would be as bad

as Stan said.

They returned to the house, took all the food that could be found in the

old mother’s larder, and carried it back to the place where the club was

lying. Then Stan seated himself on the sack of provisions, and remained

quietly watching the setting moon.

‘What are you doing?’ asked the dragon.

‘Waiting till the moon gets out of my way.’

‘What do you mean? I don’t understand.’

‘Don’t you see that the moon is exactly in my way? But of course, if you

like, I will throw the club into the moon.’

At these words the dragon grew uncomfortable for the second time.

He prized the club, which had been left him by his grandfather, very

highly, and had no desire that it should be lost in the moon.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said, after thinking a little. ‘Don’t throw

the club at all. I will throw it a second time, and that will do just as

well.’

‘No, certainly not!’ replied Stan. ‘Just wait till the moon sets.’

But the dragon, in dread lest Stan should fulfil his threats, tried

what bribes could do, and in the end had to promise Stan seven sacks of

ducats before he was suffered to throw back the club himself.

‘Oh, dear me, that is indeed a strong man,’ said the dragon, turning to

his mother. ‘Would you believe that I have had the greatest difficulty

in preventing him from throwing the club into the moon?’

Then the old woman grew uncomfortable too! Only to think of it! It was

no joke to throw things into the moon! So no more was heard of the club,

and the next day they had all something else to think about.

‘Go and fetch me water!’ said the mother, when the morning broke, and

gave them twelve buffalo skins with the order to keep filling them till

night.

They set out at once for the brook, and in the twinkling of an eye the

dragon had filled the whole twelve, carried them into the house, and

brought them back to Stan. Stan was tired: he could scarcely lift the

buckets when they were empty, and he shuddered to think of what would

happen when they were full. But he only took an old knife out of his

pocket and began to scratch up the earth near the brook.

‘What are you doing there? How are you going to carry the water into the

house?’ asked the dragon.

‘How? Dear me, that is easy enough! I shall just take the brook!’

At these words the dragon’s jaw dropped. This was the last thing that

had ever entered his head, for the brook had been as it was since the

days of his grandfather.

‘I’ll tell you what!’ he said. ‘Let me carry your skins for you.’

‘Most certainly not,’ answered Stan, going on with his digging, and the

dragon, in dread lest he should fulfil his threat, tried what bribes

would do, and in the end had again to promise seven sacks of ducats

before Stan would agree to leave the brook alone and let him carry the

water into the house.

On the third day the old mother sent Stan into the forest for wood, and,

as usual, the dragon went with him.

Before you could count three he had pulled up more trees than Stan could

have cut down in a lifetime, and had arranged them neatly in rows. When

the dragon had finished, Stan began to look about him, and, choosing the

biggest of the trees, he climbed up it, and, breaking off a long rope of

wild vine, bound the top of the tree to the one next it. And so he did

to a whole line of trees.

‘What are you doing there?’ asked the dragon.

‘You can see for yourself,’ answered Stan, going quietly on with his

work.

‘Why are you tying the trees together?’

‘Not to give myself unnecessary work; when I pull up one, all the others

will come up too.’

‘But how will you carry them home?’

‘Dear me! don’t you understand that I am going to take the whole forest

back with me?’ said Stan, tying two other trees as he spoke.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ cried the dragon, trembling with fear at the

thought of such a thing; ‘let me carry the wood for you, and you shall

have seven times seven sacks full of ducats.’

‘You are a good fellow, and I agree to your proposal,’ answered Stan,

and the dragon carried the wood.

Now the three days’ service which were to be reckoned as a year were

over, and the only thing that disturbed Stan was, how to get all those

ducats back to his home!

In the evening the dragon and his mother had a long talk, but Stan heard

every word through a crack in the ceiling.

‘Woe be to us, mother,’ said the dragon; ‘this man will soon get us into

his power. Give him his money, and let us be rid of him.’

But the old mother was fond of money, and did not like this.

‘Listen to me,’ said she; ‘you must murder him this very night.’

‘I am afraid,’ answered he.

‘There is nothing to fear,’ replied the old mother. ‘When he is asleep

take the club, and hit him on the head with it. It is easily done.’

And so it would have been, had not Stan heard all about it. And when the

dragon and his mother had put out their lights, he took the pigs’ trough

and filled it with earth, and placed it in his bed, and covered it with

clothes. Then he hid himself underneath, and began to snore loudly.

Very soon the dragon stole softly into the room, and gave a tremendous

blow on the spot where Stan’s head should have been. Stan groaned loudly

from under the bed, and the dragon went away as softly as he had come.

Directly he had closed the door, Stan lifted out the pigs’ trough, and

lay down himself, after making everything clean and tidy, but he was

wise enough not to shut his eyes that night.

The next morning he came into the room when the dragon and his mother

were having their breakfast.

‘Good morning,’ said he.

‘Good morning. How did you sleep?’

‘Oh, very well, but I dreamed that a flea had bitten me, and I seem to

feel it still.’

The dragon and his mother looked at each other. ‘Do you hear that?’

whispered he. ‘He talks of a flea. I broke my club on his head.’

This time the mother grew as frightened as her son. There was nothing to

be done with a man like this, and she made all haste to fill the sacks

with ducats, so as to get rid of Stan as soon as possible. But on his

side Stan was trembling like an aspen, as he could not lift even one

sack from the ground. So he stood still and looked at them.

‘What are you standing there for?’ asked the dragon.

‘Oh, I was standing here because it has just occurred to me that I

should like to stay in your service for another year. I am ashamed that

when I get home they should see I have brought back so little. I know

that they will cry out, “Just look at Stan Bolovan, who in one year has

grown as weak as a dragon.”’

Here a shriek of dismay was heard both from the dragon and his mother,

who declared they would give him seven or even seven times seven the

number of sacks if he would only go away.

‘I’ll tell you what!’ said Stan at last. ‘I see you don’t want me to

stay, and I should be very sorry to make myself disagreeable. I will

go at once, but only on condition that you shall carry the money home

yourself, so that I may not be put to shame before my friends.’

The words were hardly out of his mouth before the dragon had snatched up

the sacks and piled them on his back. Then he and Stan set forth.

The way, though really not far, was yet too long for Stan, but at length

he heard his children’s voices, and stopped short. He did not wish the

dragon to know where he lived, lest some day he should come to take back

his treasure. Was there nothing he could say to get rid of the monster?

Suddenly an idea came into Stan’s head, and he turned round.

‘I hardly know what to do,’ said he. ‘I have a hundred children, and I

am afraid they may do you harm, as they are always ready for a fight.

However, I will do my best to protect you.’

A hundred children! That was indeed no joke! The dragon let fall the

sacks from terror, and then picked them up again. But the children, who

had had nothing to eat since their father had left them, came rushing

towards him, waving knives in their right hands and forks in their left,

and crying, ‘Give us dragon’s flesh; we will have dragon’s flesh.’

At this dreadful sight the dragon waited no longer: he flung down his

sacks where he stood and took flight as fast as he could, so terrified

at the fate that awaited him that from that day he has never dared to

show his face in the world again.

(Adapted from Rumanische Marchen.)