Frost

Frost FROST.[277] There was once an old man who had a wife and three daughters. The wife had no love for the eldest of the three, who was her stepdaughter, but was always scolding her. Moreover, she used to make her get up ever so early in the morning, and gave her all the work of the house to do. Before daybreak the girl would feed the cattle and give them to drink, fetch wood and water indoors, light the fire in the stove, give the room a wash, mend the dresses, and set everything in order. Even then her stepmother was never satisfied, but would grumble away at Marfa, exclaiming:-- "What a lazybones! what a slut! Why here's a brush not in its place, and there's something put wrong, and she's left the muck inside the house!" The girl held her peace, and wept; she tried in every way to accommodate herself to her stepmother, and to be of service to her stepsisters. But they, taking pattern by their mother, were always insulting Marfa, quarrelling with her, and making her cry: that was even a pleasure to them! As for them, they lay in bed late, washed themselves in water got ready for them, dried themselves with a clean towel, and didn't sit down to work till after dinner. Well, our girls grew and grew, until they grew up and were old enough to be married. The old man felt sorry for his eldest daughter, whom he loved because she was industrious and obedient, never was obstinate, always did as she was bid, and never uttered a word of contradiction. But he didn't know how he was to help her in her trouble. He was feeble, his wife was a scold, and her daughters were as obstinate as they were indolent. Well, the old folks set to work to consider--the husband how he could get his daughters settled, the wife how she could get rid of the eldest one. One day she says to him:-- "I say, old man! let's get Marfa married." "Gladly," says he, slinking off (to the sleeping-place) above the stove. But his wife called after him:-- "Get up early to-morrow, old man, harness the mare to the sledge, and drive away with Marfa. And, Marfa, get your things together in a basket, and put on a clean shift; you're going away to-morrow on a visit." Poor Marfa was delighted to hear of such a piece of good luck as being invited on a visit, and she slept comfortably all night. Early next morning she got up, washed herself, prayed to God, got all her things together, packed them away in proper order, dressed herself (in her best things), and looked something like a lass!--a bride fit for any place whatsoever! Now it was winter time, and out of doors was a rattling frost. Early in the morning, between daybreak and sunrise, the old man harnessed the mare to the sledge, and led it up to the steps. Then he went indoors, sat down on the window-sill, and said:-- "Now then! I've got everything ready." "Sit down to table and swallow your victuals!" replied the old woman. The old man sat down to table, and made his daughter sit by his side. On the table stood a pannier; he took out a loaf,[278] and cut bread for himself and his daughter. Meantime his wife served up a dish of old cabbage soup, and said:-- "There, my pigeon, eat and be off; I've looked at you quite enough! Drive Marfa to her bridegroom, old man. And look here, old greybeard! drive straight along the road at first, and then turn off from the road to the right, you know, into the forest--right up to the big pine that stands on the hill, and there hand Marfa over to Morozko (Frost)." The old man opened his eyes wide, also his mouth, and stopped eating, and the girl began lamenting. "Now then, what are you hanging your chaps and squealing about?" said her stepmother. "Surely your bridegroom is a beauty, and he's that rich! Why, just see what a lot of things belong to him, the firs, the pine-tops, and the birches, all in their robes of down--ways and means that any one might envy; and he himself a _bogatir_!"[279] The old man silently placed the things on the sledge, made his daughter put on a warm pelisse, and set off on the journey. After a time, he reached the forest, turned off from the road; and drove across the frozen snow.[280] When he got into the depths of the forest, he stopped, made his daughter get out, laid her basket under the tall pine, and said:-- "Sit here, and await the bridegroom. And mind you receive him as pleasantly as you can." Then he turned his horse round and drove off homewards. The girl sat and shivered. The cold had pierced her through. She would fain have cried aloud, but she had not strength enough; only her teeth chattered. Suddenly she heard a sound. Not far off, Frost was cracking away on a fir. From fir to fir was he leaping, and snapping his fingers. Presently he appeared on that very pine under which the maiden was sitting and from above her head he cried:-- "Art thou warm, maiden?" "Warm, warm am I, dear Father Frost," she replied. Frost began to descend lower, all the more cracking and snapping his fingers. To the maiden said Frost:-- "Art thou warm, maiden? Art thou warm, fair one?" The girl could scarcely draw her breath, but still she replied: "Warm am I, Frost dear: warm am I, father dear!" Frost began cracking more than ever, and more loudly did he snap his fingers, and to the maiden he said:-- "Art thou warm, maiden? Art thou warm, pretty one? Art thou warm, my darling?" The girl was by this time numb with cold, and she could scarcely make herself heard as she replied:-- "Oh! quite warm, Frost dearest!" Then Frost took pity on the girl, wrapped her up in furs, and warmed her with blankets. Next morning the old woman said to her husband:-- "Drive out, old greybeard, and wake the young couple!" The old man harnessed his horse and drove off. When he came to where his daughter was, he found she was alive and had got a good pelisse, a costly bridal veil, and a pannier with rich gifts. He stowed everything away on the sledge without saying a word, took his seat on it with his daughter, and drove back. They reached home, and the daughter fell at her stepmother's feet. The old woman was thunderstruck when she saw the girl alive, and the new pelisse and the basket of linen. "Ah, you wretch!" she cries. "But you shan't trick me!" Well, a little later the old woman says to her husband:-- "Take my daughters, too, to their bridegroom. The presents he's made are nothing to what he'll give them." Well, early next morning the old woman gave her girls their breakfast, dressed them as befitted brides, and sent them off on their journey. In the same way as before the old man left the girls under the pine. There the girls sat, and kept laughing and saying: "Whatever is mother thinking of! All of a sudden to marry both of us off! As if there were no lads in our village, forsooth! Some rubbishy fellow may come, and goodness knows who he may be!" The girls were wrapped up in pelisses, but for all that they felt the cold. "I say, Prascovia! the frost's skinning me alive. Well, if our bridegroom[281] doesn't come quick, we shall be frozen to death here!" "Don't go talking nonsense, Mashka; as if suitors[282] generally turned up in the forenoon. Why it's hardly dinner-time yet!" "But I say, Prascovia! if only one comes, which of us will he take?" "Not you, you stupid goose!" "Then it will be you, I suppose!" "Of course it will be me!" "You, indeed! there now, have done talking stuff and treating people like fools!" Meanwhile, Frost had numbed the girl's hands, so our damsels folded them under their dress, and then went on quarrelling as before. "What, you fright! you sleepy-face! you abominable shrew! why, you don't know so much as how to begin weaving: and as to going on with it, you haven't an idea!" "Aha, boaster! and what is it you know? Why, nothing at all except to go out to merry-makings and lick your lips there. We'll soon see which he'll take first!" While the girls went on scolding like that, they began to freeze in downright earnest. Suddenly they both cried out at once: "Whyever is he so long coming. Do you know, you've turned quite blue!" Now, a good way off, Frost had begun cracking, snapping his fingers, and leaping from fir to fir. To the girls it sounded as if some one was coming. "Listen, Prascovia! He's coming at last, and with bells, too!" "Get along with you! I won't listen; my skin is peeling with cold." "And yet you're still expecting to get married!" Then they began blowing on their fingers. Nearer and nearer came Frost. At length he appeared on the pine, above the heads of the girls, and said to them: "Are ye warm, maidens? Are ye warm, pretty ones? Are ye warm, my darlings?" "Oh, Frost, it's awfully cold! we're utterly perished! We're expecting a bridegroom, but the confounded fellow has disappeared." Frost slid lower down the tree, cracked away more, snapped his fingers oftener than before. "Are ye warm, maidens? Are ye warm, pretty ones?" "Get along with you! Are you blind that you can't see our hands and feet are quite dead?" Still lower descended Frost, still more put forth his might,[283] and said: "Are ye warm, maidens?" "Into the bottomless pit with you! Out of sight, accursed one!" cried the girls--and became lifeless forms.[284] Next morning the old woman said to her husband: "Old man, go and get the sledge harnessed; put an armful of hay in it, and take some sheep-skin wraps. I daresay the girls are half-dead with cold. There's a terrible frost outside! And, mind you, old greybeard, do it quickly!" Before the old man could manage to get a bite he was out of doors and on his way. When he came to where his daughters were, he found them dead. So he lifted the girls on to the sledge, wrapped a blanket round them, and covered them up with a bark mat. The old woman saw him from afar, ran out to meet him, and called out ever so loud: "Where are the girls?" "In the sledge." The old woman lifted the mat, undid the blanket, and found the girls both dead. Then, like a thunderstorm, she broke out against her husband, abusing him saying: "What have you done, you old wretch? You have destroyed my daughters, the children of my own flesh and blood, my never-enough-to-be-gazed-on seedlings, my beautiful berries! I will thrash you with the tongs; I will give it you with the stove-rake." "That's enough, you old goose! You flattered yourself you were going to get riches, but your daughters were too stiff-necked. How was I to blame? it was you yourself would have it." The old woman was in a rage at first, and used bad language; but afterwards she made it up with her stepdaughter, and they all lived together peaceably, and thrived, and bore no malice. A neighbor made an offer of marriage, the wedding was celebrated, and Marfa is now living happily. The old man frightens his grandchildren with (stories about) Frost, and doesn't let them have their own way. In a variant from the Kursk Government (Afanasief IV. No. 42. _b_), the stepdaughter is left by her father "in the open plain." There she sits, "trembling and silently offering up a prayer." Frost draws near, intending "to smite her and to freeze her to death." But when he says to her, "Maiden, maiden, I am Frost the Red-Nosed," she replies "Welcome, Frost; doubtless God has sent you for my sinful soul." Pleased by her "wise words," Frost throws a warm cloak over her, and afterwards presents her with "robes embroidered with silver and gold, and a chest containing rich dowry." The girl puts on the robes, and appears "such a beauty!" Then she sits on the chest and sings songs. Meantime her stepmother is baking cakes and preparing for her funeral. After a time her father sets out in search of her dead body. But the dog beneath the table barks--"Taff! Taff! The master's daughter in silver and gold by the wedding party is borne along, but the mistress's daughter is wooed by none!" In vain does its mistress throw it a cake, and order it to modify its remarks. It eats the cake, but it repeats its offensive observations, until the stepdaughter appears in all her glory. Then the old woman's own daughter is sent afield. Frost comes to have a look at his new guest, expecting "wise words" from her too. But as none are forthcoming, he waxes wroth, and kills her. When the old man goes to fetch her, the dog barks--"Taff! Taff! The master's daughter will be borne along by the bridal train, but the bones of the mistress's daughter are being carried in a bag," and continues to bark in the same strain until the yard-gates open. The old woman runs out to greet her daughter, and "instead of her embraces a cold corpse." To the Russian peasants, it should be observed, Moroz, our own Jack Frost, is a living personage. On Christmas Eve it is customary for the oldest man in each family to take a spoonful of kissel, a sort of pudding, and then, having put his head through the window, to cry: "Frost, Frost, come and eat kissel! Frost, Frost, do not kill our oats! drive our flax and hemp deep into the ground." The Tcheremisses have similar ideas, and are afraid of knocking the icicles off their houses, thinking that, if they do so, Frost will wax wroth and freeze them to death. In one of the Skazkas, a peasant goes out one day to a field of buckwheat, and finds it all broken down. He goes home, and tells the bad news to his wife, who says, "It is Frost who has done this. Go and find him, and make him pay for the damage!" So the peasant goes into the forest and, after wandering about for some time, lights upon a path which leads him to a cottage made of ice, covered with snow, and hung with icicles. He knocks at the door, and out comes an old man--"all white." This is Frost, who presents him with the magic cudgel and table-cloth which work wonders in so many of the tales.[285] In another story, a peasant meets the Sun, the Wind, and the Frost. He bows to all three, but adds an extra salutation to the Wind. This enrages the two others, and the Sun cries out that he will burn up the peasant. But the Wind says, "I will blow cold, and temper the heat." Then the Frost threatens to freeze the peasant to death, but the Wind comforts him, saying, "I will blow warm, and will not let you be hurt."[286] Sometimes the Frost is described by the people as a mighty smith who forges strong chains with which to bind the earth and the waters--as in the saying "The Old One has built a bridge without axe and without knife," _i.e._, the river is frozen over. Sometimes Moroz-Treskun, the Crackling Frost, is spoken of without disguise as the preserver of the hero who is ordered to enter a bath which has been heated red-hot. Frost goes into the bath, and breathes with so icy a breath that the heat of the building turns at once to cold.[287] The story in which Frost so singularly figures is one which is known in many lands, and of which many variants are current in Russia. The jealous hatred of a stepmother, who exposes her stepdaughter to some great peril, has been made the theme of countless tales. What gives its special importance, as well as its poetical charm, to the skazka which has been quoted, is the introduction of Frost as the power to which the stepmother has recourse for the furtherance of her murderous plans, and by which she, in the persons of her own daughters, is ultimately punished. We have already dealt with one specimen of the skazkas of this class, the story of Vasilissa, who is sent to the Baba Yaga's for a light. Another, still more closely connected with that of "Frost," occurs in Khudyakof's collection.[288] A certain woman ordered her husband (says the story) to make away with his daughter by a previous marriage. So he took the girl into the forest, and left her in a kind of hut, telling her to prepare some soup while he was cutting wood. "At that time there was a gale blowing. The old man tied a log to a tree; when the wind blew, the log rattled. She thought the old man was going on cutting wood, but in reality he had gone away home." When the soup was ready, she called out to her father to come to dinner. No reply came from him, "but there was a human head in the forest, and it replied, 'I'm coming immediately!' And when the Head arrived, it cried, 'Maiden, open the door!' She opened it. 'Maiden, Maiden! lift me over the threshold!' She lifted it over. 'Maiden, Maiden! put the dinner on the table!' She did so, and she and the Head sat down to dinner. When they had dined, 'Maiden, Maiden!' said the Head, 'take me off the bench!' She took it off the bench, and cleared the table. It lay down to sleep on the bare floor; she lay on the bench. She fell asleep, but it went into the forest after its servants. The house became bigger; servants, horses, everything one could think of suddenly appeared. The servants came to the maiden, and said, 'Get up! it's time to go for a drive!' So she got into a carriage with the Head, but she took a cock along with her. She told the cock to crow; it crowed. Again she told it to crow; it crowed again. And a third time she told it to crow. When it had crowed for the third time, the Head fell to pieces, and became a heap of golden coins."[289] Then the stepmother sent her own daughter into the forest. Everything occurred as before, until the Head arrived. Then she was so frightened that she tried to hide herself, and she would do nothing for the Head, which had to dish up its own dinner, and eat it by itself. And so "when she lay down to sleep, it ate her up." In a story in Chudinsky's collection, the stepdaughter is sent by night to watch the rye in an _ovin_,[290] or corn-kiln. Presently a stranger appears and asks her to marry him. She replies that she has no wedding-clothes, upon which he brings her everything she asks for. But she is very careful not to ask for more than one thing at a time, and so the cock crows before her list of indispensable necessaries is exhausted. The stranger immediately disappears, and she carries off her presents in triumph. The next night her stepsister is sent to the _ovin_, and the stranger appears as before, and asks her to marry him. She, also, replies that she has no wedding-clothes, and he offers to supply her with what she wants. Whereupon, instead of asking for a number of things one after the other, she demands them all at once--"Stockings, garters, a petticoat, a dress, a comb, earrings, a mirror, soap, white paint and rouge, and everything which her stepsister had got." Then follows the catastrophe. The stranger brought her everything, all at once. "Now then," says he, "will you marry me now?" "Wait a bit," said the stepmother's daughter, "I'll wash and dress, and whiten myself and rouge myself, and then I'll marry you." And straightway she set to work washing and dressing--and she hastened and hurried to get all that done--she wanted so awfully to see herself decked out as a bride. By-and-by she was quite dressed--but the cock had not yet crowed. "Well, maiden!" says he, "will you marry me now?" "I'm quite ready," says she. Thereupon he tore her to pieces.[291] There is one other of those personifications of natural forces which play an active part in the Russian tales, about which a few words may be said. It often happens that the heroine-stealer whom the hero of the story has to overcome is called, not Koshchei nor the Snake, but Vikhor,[292] the whirlwind. Here is a brief analysis of part of one of the tales in which this elementary abducer figures. There was a certain king, whose wife went out one day to walk in the garden. "Suddenly a gale (_vyeter_) sprang up. In the gale was the Vikhor-bird. Vikhor seized the Queen, and carried her off." She left three sons, and they, when they came to man's estate, said to their father--"Where is our mother? If she be dead, show us her grave; if she be living, tell us where to find her." "I myself know not where your mother is," replied the King. "Vikhor carried her off." "Well then," they said, "since Vikhor carried her off, and she is alive, give us your blessing. We will go in search of our mother." All three set out, but only the youngest, Prince Vasily, succeeded in climbing the steep hill, whereon stood the palace in which his mother and Vikhor lived. Entering it during Vikhor's absence, the Prince made himself known to his mother, "who straightway gave him to eat, and concealed him in a distant apartment, hiding him behind a number of cushions, so that Vikhor might not easily discover him." And she gave him these instructions. "If Vikhor comes, and begins quarrelling, don't come forth, but if he takes to chatting, come forth and say, 'Hail father!' and seize hold of the little finger of his right hand, and wherever he flies do you go with him." Presently Vikhor came flying in, and addressed the Queen angrily. Prince Vasily remained concealed until his mother gave him a hint to come forth. This he did, and then greeted Vikhor, and caught hold of his right little finger. Vikhor tried to shake him off, flying first about the house and then out of it, but all in vain. At last Vikhor, after soaring on high, struck the ground, and fell to pieces, becoming a fine yellow sand. "But the little finger remained in the possession of Prince Vasily, who scraped together the sand and burnt it in the stove."[293] * * * * * With a mention of two other singular beings who occur in the Skazkas, the present chapter may be brought to a close. The first is a certain Morfei (Morpheus?) who figures in the following variant of a well-known tale. There was a king, and he had a daughter with whom a general who lived over the way fell in love. But the king would not let him marry her unless he went where none had been, and brought back thence what none had seen. After much consideration the general set out and travelled "over swamps, hill, and rivers." At last he reached a wood in which was a hut, and inside the hut was an old crone. To her he told his story, after hearing which, she cried out, "Ho, there! Morfei, dish up the meal!" and immediately a dinner appeared of which the old crone made the general partake. And next day "she presented that cook to the general, ordering him to serve the general honorably, as he had served her. The general took the cook and departed." By-and-by he came to a river and was appealed to for food by a shipwrecked crew. "Morfei, give them to eat!" he cried, and immediately excellent viands appeared, with which the mariners were so pleased that they gave the general a magic volume in exchange for his cook--who, however, did not stay with them but secretly followed his master. A little later the general found another shipwrecked crew, who gave him, in exchange for his cook, a sabre and a towel, each of magic power. Then the general returned to his own city, and his magic properties enabled him to convince the king that he was an eligible suitor for the hand of the Princess.[294] The other is a mysterious personage whose name is "Oh!" The story in which he appears is one with which many countries are familiar, and of which numerous versions are to be found in Russia. A father sets out with his boy for "the bazaar," hoping to find a teacher there who will instruct the child in such science as enables people "to work little, and feed delicately, and dress well." After walking a long way the man becomes weary and exclaims, "Oh! I'm so tired!" Immediately there appears "an old magician," who says-- "Why do you call me?" "I didn't call you," replies the old man. "I don't even know who you are." "My name is Oh," says the magician, "and you cried 'Oh!' Where are you taking that boy?" The father explains what it is he wants, and the magician undertakes to give the boy the requisite education, charging "one assignat rouble" for a year's tuition.[295] The teacher, in this story, is merely called a magician; but as in other Russian versions of it his counterpart is always described as being demoniacal, and is often openly styled a devil, it may be assumed that Oh belongs to the supernatural order of beings. It is often very difficult, however, to distinguish magicians from fiends in storyland, the same powers being generally wielded, and that for the same purposes, by the one set of beings as by the other. Of those powers, and of the end to which the stories represent them as being turned, some mention will be made in the next chapter. FOOTNOTES: [224] The adjective _likhoi_ has two opposite meanings, sometimes signifying what is evil, hurtful, malicious, &c., sometimes what is bold, vigorous, and therefore to be admired. As a substantive, _likho_ conveys the idea of something malevolent or unfortunate. The Polish _licho_ properly signifies _uneven_. But odd numbers are sometimes considered unlucky. Polish housewives, for instance, think it imprudent to allow their hens to sit on an uneven number of eggs. But the peasantry also describe by _Licho_ an evil spirit, a sort of devil. (Wojcicki in the "Encyklopedyja Powszechna," xvii. p. 17.) "When Likho sleeps, awake it not," says a proverb common to Poland and South Russia. [225] Afanasief, iii. No. 14. From the Voroneje Government. [226] From an article by Borovikovsky in the "Otech. Zap." 1840, No. 2. [227] "Les Avadânas," vol. i. No. 9, p. 51. [228] In the "Philogische und historische Abhandlungen," of the Berlin Academy of Sciences for 1857, pp. 1-30. See also Buslaef, "Ist. Och.," i. 327-331.; Campbell's "West Highland Tales," i. p. 132, &c. [229] _Ednookie_ (_edno_ or _odno_ = one; _oko_ = eye). A Slavonic equivalent of the name "Arimaspians," from the Scythic _arima_ = one and _spû_ = eye. Mr. Rawlinson associates _arima_, through _farima_, with Goth. _fruma_, Lat. _primus_, &c., and _spû_ with Lat. root _spic_ or _spec_--in _specio_, _specto_, &c., and with our "spy," &c. [230] Grimm, No. 130, &c. [231] Afanasief, vi. No. 55. [232] See the "Songs of the Russian People," p. 30. [233] Afanasief, v. No. 34. From the Novgorod Government. [234] _Opokhmyelit'sya_: "to drink off the effects of his debauch." [235] Erlenvein, No. 21. [236] Our "Sunday gown." [237] Afanasief, viii. p. 408. [238] Properly speaking "grief," that which morally _krushìt_ or crushes a man. [239] _Kruchìna_, as an abstract idea, is of the feminine gender. But it is here personified as a male being. [240] Afanasief, v. p. 237. [241] _Spasibo_ is the word in popular use as an expression of thanks, and it now means nothing more than "thank you!" But it is really a contraction of _spasi Bog!_ "God save (you)!" as our "Good-bye!" is of "God be with you!" [242] Maksimovich, "Tri Skazki" (quoted by Afanasief, viii. p. 406). [243] Vuk Karajich, No. 13. [244] Afanasief, viii. No. 21. [245] _Schastie_ and _Neschastie_--Luck and Bad-luck--the exact counterparts of the Indian Lakshmí and Alakshmí. [246] Afanasief, iii. No. 9. [247] Afanasief viii. pp. 32-4. [248] _Bezdolny_ (_bez_ = without; _dolya_ = lot, share, etc.). [249] Everyone knows how frequent are the allusions to good and bad fortune in Oriental fiction, so that there is no occasion to do more than allude to the stories in which they occur--one of the most interesting of which is that of Víra-vara in the "Hitopadesa" (chap. iii. Fable 9), who finds one night a young and beautiful woman, richly decked with jewels, weeping outside the city in which dwells his royal master Sudraka, and asks her who she is, and why she weeps. To which (in Mr. Johnson's translation) she replies "I am the Fortune of this King Sudraka, beneath the shadow of whose arm I have long reposed very happily. Through the fault of the queen the king will die on the third day. I shall be without a protector, and shall stay no longer; therefore do I weep." On the variants of this story, see Benfey's "Panchatantra," i. pp. 415-16. [250] From _pyat_ = five, Friday being the fifth working day. Similarly Tuesday is called _Vtornik_, from _vtoroi_ = second; Wednesday is _Sereda_, "the middle;" Thursday _Chetverg_, from _chetverty_ = fourth. But Saturday is _Subbòta_. [251] _P.V.S._, i. 230. See also Buslaef, "Ist. Och." pp. 323, 503-4. [252] A tradition of our own relates that the Lords of the Admiralty, wishing to prove the absurdity of the English sailor's horror of Friday, commenced a ship on a Friday, launched her on a Friday, named her "The Friday," procured a Captain Friday to command her, and sent her to sea on a Friday, and--she was never heard of again. [253] Afanasief, "Legendui," No. 13. From the Tambof Government. [254] For an account of various similar superstitions connected with Wednesday and Thursday, see Mannhardt's "Germanische Mythen," p. 15, 16, and W. Schmidt's "Das Jahr und seine Tage," p. 19. [255] Khudyakof, No. 166. From the Orel Government. [256] Doubtful. The Russian word is "Svarit," properly "to cook." [257] Compare the English nursery rhyme addressed to the lady-bird: "Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home, Your house is a-fire, your children at home." [258] Wednesday in this, and Friday in the preceding story, are the exact counterparts of Lithuanian Laumes. According to Schleicher ("Lituanica," p. 109), Thursday evening is called in Lithuania _Laumiú vákars_, the Laume's Eve. No work ought to be done on a Thursday evening, and it is especially imprudent to spin then. For at night, when the Laumes come, as they are accustomed to do between Thursday evening and Friday morning, they seize any spinning which has been begun, work away at it till cock-crow, and then carry it off. In modern Greece the women attribute all nightly meddling with their spinning to the _Neraïdes_ (the representatives of the Hellenic Nereids. See Bernhard Schmidt's "Volksleben der Neugriechen," p. 111). In some respects the _Neraïda_ closely resemble the _Lamia_, and both of them have many features in common with the _Laume_. The latter name (which in Lettish is written Lauma) has never been satisfactorily explained. Can it be connected with the Greek _Lamia_ which is now written also as Λάμνια, Λάμνα and Λάμνισσα? [259] The word _Nedyelya_ now means "a week." But it originally meant Sunday, the non-working day (_ne_ = not, _dyelat'_ = to do or work.) After a time, the name for the first day of the week became transferred to the week itself. [260] That of "Wilisch Witiâsu," Schott, No. 11. [261] That of "Trandafíru," Schott, No. 23. [262] J. Wenzig's "Westslawischer Märchenschatz," pp. 144-155. According to Wenzig Nedĕlka is "the personified first Sunday after the new moon." The part here attributed to St. Nedĕlka is played by a Vila in one of the Songs of Montenegro. According to an ancient Indian tradition, the Aswattha-tree "is to be touched only on a Sunday, for on every other day Poverty or Misfortune abides in it: on Sunday it is the residence of Lakshmí" (Good Fortune). H. H. Wilson "Works," iii. 70. [263] "Songs of the Russian People," pp. 120-153. [264] Afanasief, vii. No. 33. The name Léshy or Lyeshy is derived from _lyes_, a forest. [265] Literally "as a _lun_," a kind of hawk (_falco rusticolus_). _Lun_ also means a greyish light. [266] _Ottogo ya i cyed chto chortof dyed._ [267] Afanasief, _P.V.S._, ii. 226. [268] Afanasief, iv. No. 40. From the Tver Government. [269] Translated literally from Afanasief, _P.V.S._ ii. 227. [270] Yastreb = vulture or goshawk [271] Quoted from Borichefsky (pp. 183-5) by Afanasief. [272] Tereshchenko, v. 43, 44. [273] Literally "Life disgusted them worse than a bitter radish." [274] Translated literally from Afanasief, _P.V.S._ ii. 230. [275] "Deutsche Mythologie," 462. [276] Afanasief, _loc. cit._ p. 231. [277] Afanasief, iv. No. 42. From the Vologda Government. [278] _Chelpan_, a sort of dough cake, or pie without stuffing. [279] _Bogatir_ is the regular term for a Russian "hero of romance." Its origin is disputed, but it appears to be of Tartar extraction. [280] _Nast_, snow that has thawed and frozen again. [281] _Suzhenoi-ryazhenoi._ [282] _Zhenikhi._ [283] _Sil'no priudaril_, mightily smote harder. [284] _Okostenyeli_, were petrified. [285] Afanasief, _P.V.S._ i. 318-19. [286] Ibid. i. 312. [287] As with Der Frostige in the German story of "Die sechs Diener," _KM._, No. 134, p. 519, and "The Man with the White Hat," in that of "Sechse kommen durch die ganze Welt," No. 71, p. 295, and their variants in different lands. See Grimm, iii. p. 122. [288] No. 13, "The Stepmother's Daughter and the Stepdaughter," written down in Kazan. [289] This is a thoroughly Buddhistic idea. According to Buddhist belief, the treasure which has belonged to anyone in a former existence may come to him in the shape of a man who, when killed, turns to gold. The first story of the fifth book of the "Panchatantra," is based upon an idea of this kind. A man is told in a vision to kill a monk. He does so, and the monk becomes a heap of gold. A barber, seeing this, kills several monks, but to no purpose. See Benfey's Introduction, pp. 477-8. [290] For an account of the _ovin_, and the respect paid to it or to the demons supposed to haunt it see "The Songs of the Russian People," p. 257. [291] Chudinsky, No. 13. "The Daughter and the Stepdaughter." From the Nijegorod Government. [292] _Vikhr'_ or _Vikhor'_ from _vit'_, to whirl or twist. [293] Khudyakof, No. 82. The story ends in the same way as that of Norka. See supra, p. 73. [294] Khudyakof, No. 86. Morfei the Cook is merely a development of the magic cudgel which in so many stories (_e.g._ the sixth of the Calmuck tales) is often exchanged for other treasures by its master, to whom it soon returns--it being itself a degraded form of the hammer of Thor, the lance of Indra, which always came back to the divine hand that had hurled it. [295] Khudyakof, No. 19. The rest of the story is that of "Der Gaudief un sin Meester," Grimm's _KM._ No. 68. (See also vol. iii. p. 118 of that work, where a long list is given of similar stories in various languages.) CHAPTER IV. MAGIC AND WITCHCRAFT. Most of the magical "properties" of the "skazka-drama," closely resemble those which have already been rendered familiar to us by well-known folk-tales. Of such as these--of "caps of darkness," of "seven-leagued boots," of "magic cudgels," of "Fortunatus's purses," and the like[296]--it is unnecessary, for the present, to say more than that they are of as common occurrence in Slavonic as in other stories. But there are some among them which materially differ from their counterparts in more western lands, and are therefore worthy of special notice. To the latter class belong the Dolls of which mention has already been made, and the Waters of Life and Death of which I am now about to speak. A Water of Life plays an important part in the folk-tales of every land.[297] When the hero of a "fairy story" has been done to death by evil hands, his resuscitation by means of a healing and vivifying lotion or ointment[298] follows almost as a matter of course. And by common consent the Raven (or some sort of crow) is supposed to know where this invaluable specific is to be found,[299] a knowledge which it shares with various supernatural beings as well as with some human adepts in magic, and sometimes with the Snake. In all these matters the Russian and the Western tales agree, but the Skazka differs from most stories of its kind in this respect, that it almost invariably speaks of _two_ kinds of magic waters as being employed for the restoration of life. We have already seen in the story of "Marya Morevna," that one of these, sometimes called the _mertvaya voda_--the "dead water," or "Water of Death"--when sprinkled over a mutilated corpse, heals all its wounds; while the other, which bears the name of the _zhivaya voda_,--the "living water," or "Water of Life"--endows it once more with vitality. [In a Norse tale in Asbjörnsen's new series, No. 72, mention is made of a Water of Death, as opposed to a Water of Life. The Death Water (_Doasens Vana_) throws all whom it touches into a magic sleep, from which only Life Water (_Livsens Vand_) can rouse them (p. 57). In the Rámáyana, Hanuman fetches four different kinds of herbs in order to resuscitate his dead monkeys: "the first restore the dead to life, the second drive away all pain, the third join broken parts, the fourth cure all wounds, &c." Talboys Wheeler, "History of India," ii. 368. In the Egyptian story already mentioned (at p. 113), Satou's corpse quivers and opens its eyes when his heart has become saturated with a healing liquid. But he does not actually come to life till the remainder of the liquid has been poured down his throat. In a Kirghiz story, quoted by Bronevsky,[300] a golden-haired hero finds, after long search, the maiden to whom he had in very early life been betrothed. Her father has him murdered. She persuades the murderer to show her the body of her dead love, and weeps over it bitterly. A spirit appears and tells her to sprinkle it with water from a neighboring well. The well is very deep, but she induces the murderer to allow her to lower him into it by means of her remarkably long hair. He descends and hands up to her a cup of water. Having received it, she cuts off her hair, and lets the murderer drop and be drowned. Then she sprinkles her lover's corpse with the water, and he revives. But he lives only three days. She refuses to survive him, and is buried by his side. From the graves of the lovers spring two willows, which mingle their boughs as if in an embrace. And the neighbors set up near the spot three statues, his and hers and her nurse's. Such is the story, says Bronevsky, which the Kirghiz tell with respect to some statues of unknown origin which stand (or used to stand) near the Ayaguza, a river falling into Lake Balkhash. A somewhat similar Armenian story is quoted by Haxthausen in his Transcaucasia (p. 350 of the English translation). In the Kalevala, when Lemmenkäinen has been torn to pieces, his mother collects his scattered remains, and by a dexterous synthetical operation restores him to physical unity. But the silence of death still possesses him. Then she entreats the Bee to bring vivifying honey. After two fruitless journeys, the Bee succeeds in bringing back honey "from the cellar of the Creator." When this has been applied, the dead man returns to life, sits up, and says in the words of the Russian heroes--"How long I have slept!"[301] Here is another instance of a life-giving operation of a double nature. There is a well-known Indian story about four suitors for the hand of one girl. She dies, but is restored to life by one of her lovers, who happens one day to see a dead child resuscitated, and learns how to perform similar miracles. In two Sanskrit versions of the "Vetálapanchavinsati,"[302] as well as in the Hindi version,[303] the life-giving charm consists in a spell taken from a book of magic. But in the Tamil version, the process is described as being of a different and double nature. According to it, the mother of the murdered child "by the charm called _sisupàbam_ re-created the body, and, by the incantation called _sanjìvi_, restored it to life." The suitor, having learnt the charm and the incantation, "took the bones and the ashes (of the dead girl), and having created out of them the body, by virtue of the charm _sisupàbam_ gave life to that body by the _sanjìvi_ incantation." According to Mr. Babington, "Sanjìvi is defined by the Tamuls to be a medicine which restores to life by dissipating a mortal swoon.... In the text the word is used for the art of using this medicine."[304]] As a general rule, the two waters of which mention is made in the Skazkas possess the virtues, and are employed in the manner, mentioned above; but there are cases in which their powers are of a different nature. Sometimes we meet with two magic fluids, one of which heals all wounds, and restores sight to the blind and vigor to the cripple, while the other destroys all that it touches. Sometimes, also, recourse is had to magic draughts of two kinds, the one of which strengthens him who quaffs it, while the other produces the opposite effect. Such liquors as these are known as the "Waters of Strength and Weakness," and are usually described as being stowed away in the cellar of some many-headed Snake. For the Snake is often mentioned as the possessor, or at least the guardian, of magic fluids. Thus one of the Skazkas[305] speaks of a wondrous garden, in which are two springs of healing and vivifying water, and around that garden is coiled like a ring a mighty serpent. Another tells how a flying Snake brought two heroes to a lake, into which they flung a green bough, and immediately the bough broke into flame and was consumed. Then it took them to another lake, into which they cast a mouldy log. And the log straightway began to put forth buds and blossoms.[306] In some cases the magic waters are the property, not of a Snake, but of one of the mighty heroines who so often occur in these stories, and who bear so great a resemblance to Brynhild, as well in other respects as in that of her enchanted sleep. Thus in one of the Skazkas[307] an aged king dreams that "beyond thrice nine lands, in the thirtieth country, there is a fair maiden from whose hands and feet water is flowing, of which water he who drinks will become thirty years younger." His sons go forth in search of this youth-giving liquid, and, after many adventures, the youngest is directed to the golden castle in which lives the "fair maiden," whom his father has seen in his vision. He has been told that when she is awake her custom is to divert herself in the green fields with her Amazon host--"for nine days she rambles about, and then for nine days she sleeps a heroic slumber." The Prince hides himself among the bushes near the castle, and sees a fair maiden come out of it surrounded by an armed band, "and all the band consists of maidens, each one more beautiful than the other. And the most beautiful, the most never-enough-to-be-gazed-upon, is the Queen herself." For nine days he watches the fair band of Amazons as they ramble about. On the tenth day all is still, and he enters the castle. In the midst of her slumbering guards sleeps the Queen on a couch of down, the healing water flowing from her hands and feet. With it he fills two flasks, and then he retires. When the Queen awakes, she becomes conscious of the theft and pursues the Prince. Coming up with him, she slays him with a single blow, but then takes compassion on him, and restores him to life. In another version of the story, the precious fluid is contained in a flask which is hidden under the pillow of the slumbering "Tsar Maiden." The Prince steals it and flees, but he bears on him the weight of sin, and so, when he tries to clear the fence which girds the enchanted castle, his horse strikes one of the cords attached to it, and the spell is broken which maintains the magic sleep in which the realm is locked. The Tsar Maiden pursues the thief, but does not succeed in catching him. He is killed, however, by his elder brothers, who "cut him into small pieces," and then take the flask of magic water to their father. The murdered prince is resuscitated by the mythical bird known by the name of the _Zhar-Ptitsa_, which collects his scattered fragments, puts them together, and sprinkles them first with "dead water" and then with "live-water,"--conveyed for that purpose in its beak--after which the prince gets up, thanks his reviver, and goes his way.[308] In one of the numerous variants of the story in which a prince is exposed to various dangers by his sister--who is induced to plot against his life by her demon lover, the Snake--the hero is sent in search of "a healing and a vivifying water," preserved between two lofty mountains which cleave closely together, except during "two or three minutes" of each day. He follows his instructions, rides to a certain spot, and there awaits the hour at which the mountains fly apart. "Suddenly a terrible hurricane arose, a mighty thunder smote, and the two mountains were torn asunder. Prince Ivan spurred his heroic steed, flew like a dart between the mountains, dipped two flasks in the waters, and instantly turned back." He himself escapes safe and sound, but the hind legs of his horse are caught between the closing cliffs, and smashed to pieces. The magic waters, of course, soon remedy this temporary inconvenience.[309] In a Slovak version of this story, a murderous mother sends her son to two mountains, each of which is cleft open once in every twenty-four hours--the one opening at midday and the other at midnight; the former disclosing the Water of Life, the latter the Water of Death.[310] In a similar story from the Ukraine, mention is made of two springs of healing and life-giving water, which are guarded by iron-beaked ravens, and the way to which lies between grinding hills. The Fox and the Hare are sent in quest of the magic fluid. The Fox goes and returns in safety, but the Hare, on her way back, is not in time quite to clear the meeting cliffs, and her tail is jammed in between them. Since that time, hares have had no tails.[311] On the Waters of Strength and Weakness much stress is laid in many of the tales about the many-headed Snakes which carry off men's wives and daughters to their metallic castles. In one of these, for instance, the golden-haired Queen Anastasia has been torn away by a whirlwind from her husband "Tsar Byel Byelyanin" [the White King]. As in the variant of the story already quoted,[312] her sons go in search of her, and the youngest of them, after finding three palaces--the first of copper, the second of silver, the third of gold, each containing a princess held captive by Vikhor, the whirlwind--comes to a fourth palace gleaming with diamonds and other precious stones. In it he discovers his long-lost mother, who gladly greets him, and at once takes him into Vikhor's cellar. Here is the account of what ensued. Well, they entered the cellar; there stood two tubs of water, the one on the right hand, the other on the left. Says the Queen-- "Take a draught of the water that stands on the right hand." Prince Ivan drank of it. "Now then, how strong do you feel?" said she. "So strong that I could upset the whole palace with one hand," he replied. "Come now, drink again." The Prince drank once more. "How strong do you feel now?" she asked. "Why now, if I wanted, I could give the whole world a jolt." "Oh that's plenty then! Now make these tubs change places--that which stands on the right, set on the left: and that which is on the left, change to the right." Prince Ivan took the tubs and made them change places. Says the Queen-- "See now, my dear son; in one of these tubs is the 'Water of Strength,' in the other is the 'Water of Weakness.'[313] He who drinks of the former becomes a mighty hero, but he who drinks of the second loses all his vigor. Vikhor always quaffs the Strong Water, and places it on the right-hand side; therefore you must deceive him, or you will never be able to hold out against him." The Queen proceeds to tell her son that, when Vikhor comes home, he must hide beneath her purple cloak, and watch for an opportunity of seizing her gaoler's magic mace.[314] Vikhor will fly about till he is tired, and will then have recourse to what he supposes is the "Strong Water;" this will render him so feeble that the Prince will be able to kill him. Having received these instructions, and having been warned not to strike Vikhor after he is dead, the Prince conceals himself. Suddenly the day becomes darkened, the palace quivers, and Vikhor arrives; stamping on the ground, he becomes a noble gallant, who enters the palace, "holding in his hands a battle mace." This Prince Ivan seizes, and a long struggle takes place between him and Vikhor, who flies away with him over seas and into the clouds. At last, Vikhor becomes exhausted and seeks the place where he expects to find the invigorating draught on which he is accustomed to rely. The result is as follows: Dropping right into his cellar, Vikhor ran to the tub which stood on the right, and began drinking the Water of Weakness. But Prince Ivan rushed to the left, quaffed a deep draught of the Water of Strength, and became the mightiest hero in the whole world. Then seeing that Vikhor was perfectly enfeebled, he snatched from him his keen faulchion, and with a single blow struck off his head. Behind him voices began to cry: "Strike again! strike again! or he will come to life!" "No," replied the Prince, "a hero's hand does not strike twice, but finishes its work with a single blow." And straightway he lighted a fire, burnt the head and the trunk, and scattered the ashes to the winds.[315] The part played by the Water of Strength in this story may be compared with "the important share which the exhilarating juice of the Soma-plant assumes in bracing Indra for his conflict with the hostile powers in the atmosphere," and Vikhor's sudden debility with that of Indra when the Asura Namuchi "drank up Indra's strength along with a draught of wine and soma."[316] Sometimes, as has already been remarked, one of the two magic waters is even more injurious than the Water of Weakness.[317] The following may be taken as a specimen of the stories in which there is introduced a true Water of Death--one of those deadly springs which bear the same relation to the healing and vivifying founts that the enfeebling bears to the strengthening water. The Baba Yaga who figures in it is, as is so often the case, replaced by a Snake in the variant to which allusion has already been made.