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.

[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.