Woe

Woe

WOE.[233]

In a certain village there lived two peasants, two brothers: one

of them poor, the other rich. The rich one went away to live

in a town, built himself a large house, and enrolled himself

among the traders. Meanwhile the poor man sometimes had

not so much as a morsel of bread, and his children--each one

smaller than the other--were crying and begging for food.

From morning till night the peasant would struggle, like a fish

trying to break through ice, but nothing came of it all. At last

one day he said to his wife:

"Suppose I go to town, and ask my brother whether he won't

do something to help us."

So he went to the rich man and said:

"Ah, brother mine! do help me a bit in my trouble. My

wife and children are without bread. They have to go whole

days without eating."

"Work for me this week, then I'll help you," said his brother.

What was there to be done! The poor man betook himself

to work, swept out the yard, cleaned the horses, fetched water,

chopped firewood.

At the end of the week the rich man gave him a loaf of bread,

and says:

"There's for your work!"

"Thank you all the same," dolefully said the poor man,

making his bow and preparing to go home.

"Stop a bit! come and dine with me to-morrow, and bring

your wife, too: to-morrow is my name-day, you know."

"Ah, brother! how can I? you know very well you'll

be having merchants coming to you in boots and pelisses,

but I have to go about in bast shoes and a miserable old grey

caftan."

"No matter, come! there will be room even for you."

"Very well, brother! I'll come."

The poor man returned home, gave his wife the loaf, and

said:

"Listen, wife! we're invited to a party to-morrow."

"What do you mean by a party? who's invited us?"

"My brother! he keeps his name-day to-morrow."

"Well, well! let's go."

Next day they got up and went to the town, came to the rich

man's house, offered him their congratulations, and sat down on

a bench. A number of the name-day guests were already seated

at table. All of these the host feasted gloriously, but he forgot

even so much as to think of his poor brother and his wife; not

a thing did he offer them; they had to sit and merely look on

at the others eating and drinking.

The dinner came to an end; the guests rose from table,

and expressed their thanks to their host and hostess; and the

poor man did likewise, got up from his bench, and bowed down

to his girdle before his brother. The guests drove off homewards,

full of drink and merriment, shouting, singing songs. But

the poor man had to walk back empty.

"Suppose we sing a song, too," he says to his wife.

"What a fool you are!" says she, "people sing because

they've made a good meal and had lots to drink; but why ever

should you dream of singing?"

"Well, at all events, I've been at my brother's name-day

party. I'm ashamed of trudging along without singing. If I

sing, everybody will think I've been feasted like the rest."

"Sing away, then, if you like; but I won't!"

The peasant began a song. Presently he heard a voice

joining in it. So he stopped, and asked his wife:

"Is it you that's helping me to sing with that thin little

voice?"

"What are you thinking about! I never even dreamt of

such a thing."

"Who is it, then?"

"I don't know," said the woman. "But now, sing away,

and I'll listen."

He began his song again. There was only one person singing,

yet two voices could be heard. So he stopped, and asked:

"Woe, is that you that's helping me to sing?"

"Yes, master," answered Woe: "it's I that's helping you."

"Well then, Woe! let's all go on together."

"Very good, master! I'll never depart from you now."

When the peasant got home, Woe bid him to the kabak or

pot-house.

"I've no money," says the man.

"Out upon you, moujik! What do you want money for? why

you've got on a sheep-skin jacket. What's the good of that? It

will soon be summer; anyhow you won't be wanting to wear it.

Off with the jacket, and to the pot-house we'll go."

So the peasant went with Woe into the pot-house, and they

drank the sheep-skin away.

The next day Woe began groaning--its head ached from

yesterday's drinking--and again bade the master of the house

have a drink.

"I've no money," said the peasant.

"What do we want money for? Take the cart and the

sledge; we've plenty without them."

There was nothing to be done; the peasant could not shake

himself free from Woe. So he took the cart and the sledge,

dragged them to the pot-house, and there he and Woe drank them

away. Next morning Woe began groaning more than ever, and

invited the master of the house to go and drink off the effects

of the debauch. This time the peasant drank away his plough

and his harrow.

A month hadn't passed before he had got rid of everything

he possessed. Even his very cottage he pledged to a neighbor,

and the money he got that way he took to the pot-house.

Yet another time did Woe come close beside him and say:

"Let us go, let us go to the pot-house!"

"No, no, Woe! it's all very well, but there's nothing more

to be squeezed out."

"How can you say that? Your wife has got two petticoats:

leave her one, but the other we must turn into drink."

The peasant took the petticoat, drank it away, and said to

himself:

"We're cleaned out at last, my wife as well as myself. Not

a stick nor a stone is left!"

Next morning Woe saw, on waking, that there was nothing

more to be got out of the peasant, so it said:

"Master!"

"Well, Woe?"

"Why, look here. Go to your neighbor, and ask him to

lend you a cart and a pair of oxen."

The peasant went to the neighbor's.

"Be so good as to lend me a cart and a pair of oxen for a

short time," says he. "I'll do a week's work for you in return."

"But what do you want them for?"

"To go to the forest for firewood."

"Well then, take them; only don't overburthen them."

"How could you think of such a thing, kind friend!"

So he brought the pair of oxen, and Woe got into the cart

with him, and away he drove into the open plain.

"Master!" asks Woe, "do you know the big stone on this

plain?"

"Of course I do."

"Well then if you know it, drive straight up to it."

They came to the place where it was, stopped, and got out

of the cart. Woe told the peasant to lift the stone; the peasant

lifted it, Woe helping him. Well, when they had lifted it there

was a pit underneath chock full of gold.

"Now then, what are you staring at!" said Woe to the

peasant, "be quick and pitch it into the cart."

The peasant set to work and filled the cart with gold;

cleared the pit to the very last ducat. When he saw there was

nothing more left:

"Just give a look, Woe," he said; "isn't there some money

left in there?"

"Where?" said Woe, bending down; "I can't see a thing."

"Why there; something is shining in yon corner!"

"No, I can't see anything," said Woe.

"Get into the pit; you'll see it then."

Woe jumped in: no sooner had it got there than the peasant

closed the mouth of the pit with the stone.

"Things will be much better like that," said the peasant:

"if I were to take you home with me, O Woeful Woe, sooner

or later you'd be sure to drink away all this money, too!"

The peasant got home, shovelled the money into his cellar,

took the oxen back to his neighbor, and set about considering

how he should manage. It ended in his buying a wood, building

a large homestead, and becoming twice as rich as his

brother.

After a time he went into the town to invite his brother and

sister-in-law to spend his name-day with him.

"What an idea!" said his rich brother: "you haven't a

thing to eat, and yet you ask people to spend your name-day

with you!"

"Well, there was a time when I had nothing to eat, but

now, thank God! I've as much as you. If you come, you'll see

for yourself."

"So be it! I'll come," said his brother.

Next day the rich brother and his wife got ready, and went

to the name-day party. They could see that the former beggar

had got a new house, a lofty one, such as few merchants had!

And the moujik treated them hospitably, regaled them with all

sorts of dishes, gave them all sorts of meads and spirits to

drink. At length the rich man asked his brother:

"Do tell me by what good luck have you grown rich?"

The peasant made a clean breast of everything--how Woe

the Woeful had attached itself to him, how he and Woe had

drunk away all that he had, to the very last thread, so that the

only thing that was left him was the soul in his body. How

Woe showed him a treasure in the open field, how he took that

treasure, and freed himself from Woe into the bargain. The

rich man became envious.

"Suppose I go to the open field," thinks he, "and lift up the

stone and let Woe out. Of a surety it will utterly destroy my

brother, and then he will no longer brag of his riches before me!"

So he sent his wife home, but he himself hastened into the

plain. When he came to the big stone, he pushed it aside, and

knelt down to see what was under it. Before he had managed

to get his head down low enough, Woe had already leapt out

and seated itself on his shoulders.

"Ha!" it cried, "you wanted to starve me to death in here!

No, no! Now will I never on any account depart from you."

"Only hear me, Woe!" said the merchant: "it wasn't I at

all who put you under the stone."

"Who was it then, if it wasn't you?"

"It was my brother put you there, but I came on purpose to

let you out."

"No, no! that's a lie. You tricked me once; you shan't

trick me a second time!"

Woe gripped the rich merchant tight by the neck; the man

had to carry it home, and there everything began to go wrong

with him. From the very first day Woe began again to play

its usual part, every day it called on the merchant to renew his

drinking.[234] Many were the valuables which went in the pot-house.

"Impossible to go on living like this!" says the merchant to

himself. "Surely I've made sport enough for Woe! It's time

to get rid of it--but how?"

He thought and thought, and hit on an idea. Going into the

large yard, he cut two oaken wedges, took a new wheel, and

drove a wedge firmly into one end of its axle-box. Then he

went to where Woe was:

"Hallo, Woe! why are you always idly sprawling there?"

"Why, what is there left for me to do?"

"What is there to do! let's go into the yard and play at

hide-and-seek."

Woe liked the idea. Out they went into the yard. First

the merchant hid himself; Woe found him immediately. Then

it was Woe's turn to hide.

"Now then," says Woe, "you won't find me in a hurry!

There isn't a chink I can't get into!"

"Get along with you!" answered the merchant. "Why you

couldn't creep into that wheel there, and yet you talk about

chinks!"

"I can't creep into that wheel? See if I don't go clean out

of sight in it!"

Woe slipped into the wheel; the merchant caught up the

oaken wedge, and drove it into the axle-box from the other

side. Then he seized the wheel and flung it, with Woe in it,

into the river. Woe was drowned, and the merchant began to

live again as he had been wont to do of old.

In a variant of this story found in the Tula Government we have, in

the place of woe, Nuzhda, or Need. The poor brother and his wife are

returning home disconsolately from a party given by the rich brother

in honor of his son's marriage. But a draught of water which they take

by the way gets into their heads, and they set up a song.

"There are two of them singing (says the story), but three voices

prolong the strain.

"'Whoever is that?' say they.

"'Thy Need,' answers some one or other.

"'What, my good mother Need!'

"So saying the man laid hold of her, and took her down from his

shoulders--for she was sitting on them. And he found a horse's head

and put her inside it, and flung it into a swamp. And afterwards he

began to lead a new life--impossible to live more prosperously."

Of course the rich brother becomes envious and takes Need out of the

swamp, whereupon she clings to him so tightly that he cannot get rid

of her, and he becomes utterly ruined.[235]

In another story, from the Viatka Government, the poor man is invited

to a house-warming at his rich brother's, but he has no present to

take with him.

"We might borrow, but who would trust us?" says he.

"Why there's Need!" replies his wife with a bitter laugh. "Perhaps

she'll make us a present. Surely we've lived on friendly terms with

her for an age!"

"Take the feast-day sarafan,"[236] cries Need from behind the stove;

"and with the money you get for it buy a ham and take it to your

brother's."

"Have you been living here long, Need?" asks the moujik.

"Yes, ever since you and your brother separated."

"And have you been comfortable here?"

"Thanks be to God, I get on tolerably!"

The moujik follows the advice of Need, but meets with a cold reception

at his brother's. On returning sadly home he finds a horse standing by

the road side, with a couple of bags slung across its back. He strikes

it with his glove, and it disappears, leaving behind it the bags,

which turn out to be full of gold. This he gathers up, and then goes

indoors. After finding out from his wife where she has taken up her

quarters for the night, he says:

"And where are you, Need?"

"In the pitcher which stands on the stove."

After a time the moujik asks his wife if she is asleep. "Not yet,"

she replies. Then he puts the same question to Need, who gives no

answer, having gone to sleep. So he takes his wife's last sarafan,

wraps up the pitcher in it, and flings the bundle into an

ice-hole.[237]

In one of the "chap-book" stories (a lubochnaya skazka), a poor man

"obtained a crust of bread and took it home to provide his wife and

boy with a meal, but just as he was beginning to cut it, suddenly out

from behind the stove jumped Kruchìna,[238] snatched the crust from

his hands, and fled back again behind the stove. Then the old man

began to bow down before Kruchìna and to beseech him[239] to give back

the bread, seeing that he and his had nothing to eat. Thereupon

Kruchìna replied, "I will not give you back your crust, but in return

for it I will make you a present of a duck which will lay a golden egg

every day," and kept his word.[240]

In Little-Russia the peasantry believe in the existence of small

beings, of vaguely defined form, called Zluidni who bring zlo or

evil to every habitation in which they take up their quarters. "May

the Zluidni strike him!" is a Little-Russian curse, and "The Zluidni

have got leave for three days; not in three years will you get rid of

them!" is a White-Russian proverb. In a Little-Russian skazka a poor

man catches a fish and takes it as a present to his rich brother, who

says, "A splendid fish! thank you, brother, thank you!" but evinces no

other sign of gratitude. On his way home the poor man meets an old

stranger and tells him his story--how he had taken his brother a fish

and had got nothing in return but a "thank ye."

"How!" cries the old man. "A spasibo[241] is no small thing. Sell it

to me!"

"How can one sell it?" replies the moujik. "Take it pray, as a

present!"

"So the spasibo is mine!" says the old man, and disappears, leaving

in the peasant's hands a purse full of gold.

The peasant grows rich, and moves into another house. After a time his

wife says to him--

"We've been wrong, Ivan, in leaving our mill-stones in the old house.

They nourished us, you see, when we were poor; but now, when they're

no longer necessary to us, we've quite forgotten them!"

"Right you are," replies Ivan, and sets off to fetch them. When he

reaches his old dwelling, he hears a voice saying--

"A bad fellow, that Ivan! now he's rich, he's abandoned us!"

"Who are you?" asks Ivan. "I don't know you a bit."

"Not know us! you've forgotten our faithful service, it seems! Why,

we're your Zluidni!"

"God be with you!" says he. "I don't want you!"

"No, no! we will never part from you now!"

"Wait a bit!" thinks Ivan, and then continues aloud, "Very good, I'll

take you; but only on condition that you bring home my mill-stones for

me."

So he laid the mill-stones on their backs, and made them go on in

front of him. They all had to pass along a bridge over a deep river;

the moujik managed to give the Zluidni a shove, and over they went,

mill-stones and all, and sank straight to the bottom.[242]

There is a very curious Servian story of two brothers, one of whom is

industrious and unlucky, and the other idle and prosperous. The poor

brother one day sees a flock of sheep, and near them a fair maiden

spinning a golden thread.

"Whose sheep are these?" he asks.

"The sheep are his whose I myself am," she replies.

"And whose art thou?" he asks.

"I am thy brother's Luck," she answers.

"But where is my Luck?" he continues

"Far away from thee is thy Luck," she replies.

"But can I find her?" he asks.

"Thou canst; go and seek her," she replies.

So the poor man wanders away in search of her. One day he sees a

grey-haired old woman asleep under an oak in a great forest, who

proves to be his Luck. He asks who it is that has given him such a

poor Luck, and is told that it is Fate. So he goes in search of Fate.

When he finds her, she is living at ease in a large house, but day by

day her riches wane and her house contracts. She explains to her

visitor that her condition at any given hour affects the whole lives

of all children born at that time, and that he had come into the world

at a most unpropitious moment; and she advises him to take his niece

Militsa (who had been born at a lucky time) to live in his house, and

to call all he might acquire her property. This advice he follows, and

all goes well with him. One day, as he is gazing at a splendid field

of corn, a stranger asks him to whom it belongs. In a forgetful moment

he replies, "It is mine," and immediately the whole crop begins to

burn. He runs after the stranger and cries, "Stop, brother! that field

isn't mine, but my niece Militsa's," whereupon the fire goes out and

the crop is saved.[243]

On this idea of a personal Fortune is founded the quaint opening of

one of the Russian stories. A certain peasant, known as Ivan the

Unlucky, in despair at his constant want of success, goes to the king

for advice. The king lays the matter before "his nobles and generals,"

but they can make nothing of it. At last the king's daughter enters

the council chamber and says, "This is my opinion, my father. If he

were to be married, the Lord might allot him another sort of Fortune."

The king flies into a passion and exclaims:

"Since you've settled the question better than all of us, go and marry

him yourself!"

The marriage takes place, and brings Ivan good luck along with

it.[244]

Similar references to a man's good or bad luck frequently occur in

the skazkas. Thus in one of them (from the Grodno Government) a poor

man meets "two ladies (pannui), and those ladies are--the one

Fortune and the other Misfortune."[245] He tells them how poor he is,

and they agree that it will be well to bestow something on him. "Since

he is one of yours," says Luck, "do you make him a present." At length

they take out ten roubles and give them to him. He hides the money in

a pot, and his wife gives it away to a neighbor. Again they assist

him, giving him twenty roubles, and again his wife gives them away

unwittingly. Then the ladies bestow on him two farthings (groshi),

telling him to give them to fishermen, and bid them make a cast "for

his luck." He obeys, and the result is the capture of a fish which

brings him in wealth.[246]

In another story[247] a young man, the son of a wealthy merchant, is

so unlucky that nothing will prosper with him. Having lost all that

his father has left him, he hires himself out, first as a laborer,

then as a herdsman. But as, in each capacity, he involves his masters

in heavy losses, he soon finds himself without employment. Then he

tries another country, in which the king gives him a post as a sort of

stoker in the royal distillery, which he soon all but burns down. The

king is at first bent upon punishing him, but pardons him after

hearing his sad tale. "He bestowed on him the name of Luckless,[248]

and gave orders that a stamp should be set on his forehead, that no

tolls or taxes should be demanded from him, and that wherever he

appeared he should be given free board and lodging, but that he should

never be allowed to stop more than twenty-four hours in any one

place." These orders are obeyed, and wherever Luckless goes, "nobody

ever asks him for his billet or his passport, but they give him food

to eat, and liquor to drink, and a place to spend the night in; and

next morning they take him by the scruff of the neck and turn him out

of doors."[249]

We will now turn from the forms under which popular fiction has

embodied some of the ideas connected with Fortune and Misfortune, to

another strange group of figures--the personifications of certain days

of the week. Of these, by far the most important is that of Friday.

The Russian name for that day, Pyatnitsa,[250] has no such

mythological significance as have our own Friday and the French

Vendredi. But the day was undoubtedly consecrated by the old

Slavonians to some goddess akin to Venus or Freyja, and her worship in

ancient times accounts for the superstitions now connected with the

name of Friday. According to Afanasief,[251] the Carinthian name for

the day, Sibne dan, is a clear proof that it was once holy to Siva,

the Lithuanian Seewa, the Slavonic goddess answering to Ceres. In

Christian times the personality of the goddess (by whatever name she

may have been known) to whom Friday was consecrated became merged in

that of St. Prascovia, and she is now frequently addressed by the

compound name of "Mother Pyatnitsa-Prascovia." As she is supposed to

wander about the houses of the peasants on her holy day, and to be

offended if she finds certain kinds of work going on, they are (or at

least they used to be) frequently suspended on Fridays. It is a sin,

says a time-honored tradition, for a woman to sew, or spin, or weave,

or buck linen on a Friday, and similarly for a man to plait bast

shoes, twine cord, and the like. Spinning and weaving are especially

obnoxious to "Mother Friday," for the dust and refuse thus produced

injure her eyes. When this takes place, she revenges herself by

plagues of sore-eyes, whitlows and agnails. In some places the

villagers go to bed early on Friday evening, believing that "St.

Pyatinka" will punish all whom she finds awake when she roams through

the cottage. In others they sweep their floors every Thursday evening,

that she may not be annoyed by dust or the like when she comes next

day. Sometimes, however, she has been seen, says the popular voice,

"all pricked with the needles and pierced by the spindles" of the

careless woman who sewed and spun on the day they ought to have kept

holy in her honor. As for any work begun on a Friday, it is sure to go

wrong.[252]

These remarks will be sufficient to render intelligible the following

story of--