Chapter IV: Magic and Witchcraft (2)

The next day there was a gathering again. In the princely
halls there were more boyars and nobles than a single glance
could take in. The elder brothers rode there. Their younger
brother went there too, but on foot, meekly and modestly, just
as if he hadn't kissed the Princess, and seated himself in a
distant corner. The Princess Helena asked for her bridegroom,
wanted to show him to the world at large, wanted to give him
half her kingdom; but the bridegroom did not put in an appearance!
Search was made for him among the boyars, among
the generals; everyone was examined in his turn--but with no
result! Meanwhile, Vanya looked on, smiling and chuckling,
and waiting till the bride should come to him herself.

"I pleased her then," says he, "when I appeared as a gay
gallant; now let her fall in love with me in my plain caftan."

Then up she rose, looked around with bright eyes that shed
a radiance on all who stood there, and saw and knew her bridegroom,
and made him take his seat by her side, and speedily was
wedded to him. And he--good heavens! how clever he turned
out, and how brave, and what a handsome fellow! Only see
him mount his flying steed, give his cap a cock, and stick his
elbows akimbo! why, you'd say he was a king, a born king!
you'd never suspect he once was only Vanyusha.

The incident of the midnight watch by a father's grave, kept by a son to whom the dead man appears and gives a magic horse, often occurs in the Skazkas. It is thoroughly in accordance with Slavonic ideas about the residence of the dead in their tombs, and their ability to assist their descendants in time of trouble. Appeals for aid to a dead parent are of frequent occurrence in the songs still sung by the Russian peasantry at funerals or over graves; especially in those in which orphans express their grief, calling upon the grave to open, and the dead to appear and listen and help.[336] So in the Indian story of Punchkin, the seven hungry stepmother-persecuted princesses go out every day and sit by their dead mother's tomb, and cry, and say, "Oh, mother, mother, cannot you see your poor children, how unhappy we are," etc., until a tree grows up out of the grave laden with fruits for their relief.[337] So in the German tale,[338] Cinderella is aided by the white bird, which dwells in the hazel tree growing out of her mother's grave.

In one of the Skazkas[339] a stepdaughter is assisted by her cow. The girl, following its instructions, gets in at one ear and out of the other, and finds all her tasks performed, all her difficulties removed. When it is killed, there springs from its bones a tree which befriends the girl, and gains her a lordly husband. In a Servian variant of the story, it is distinctly stated that the protecting cow had been the girl's mother--manifestly in a previous state of existence, a purely Buddhistic idea.[340]

In several of the Skazkas we find an account of a princess who is won in a similar manner to that described in the story of Helena the Fair. In one case,[341] a king promises to give his daughter to anyone "who can pluck her portrait from the house, from the other side of ever so many beams." The youngest brother, Ivan the Simpleton, carries away the portrait and its cover at the third trial. In another, a king offers his daughter and half his kingdom to him "who can kiss the princess through twelve sheets of glass."[342] The usual youngest brother is carried towards her so forcibly by his magic steed that, at the first trial, he breaks through six of the sheets of glass; at the second, says the story, "he smashed all twelve of the sheets of glass, and he kissed the Princess Priceless-Beauty, and she immediately stamped a mark upon his forehead." By this mark, after he has disappeared for some time, he is eventually recognized, and the princess is obliged to marry him.[343] In a third story,[344] the conditions of winning the princely bride are easier, for "he who takes a leap on horseback, and kisses the king's daughter on the balcony, to him will they give her to wife." In a fourth, the princess is to marry the man "who, on horseback, bounds up to her on the third floor." At the first trial, the _Durak_, or Fool, reaches the first floor, at the next, the second; and the third time, "he bounds right up to the princess, and carries off from her a ring."[345]

In the Norse story of "Dapplegrim,"[346] a younger brother saves a princess who had been stolen by a Troll, and hidden in a cave above a steep wall of rock as smooth as glass. Twice his magic horse tries in vain to surmount it, but the third time it succeeds, and the youth carries off the princess, who ultimately becomes his wife. Another Norse story still more closely resembles the Russian tales. In "The Princess on the Glass Hill"[347] the hero gains a Princess as his wife by riding up a hill of glass, on the top of which she sits with three golden apples in her lap, and by carrying off these precious fruits. He is enabled to perform this feat by a magic horse, which he obtains by watching his father's crops on three successive St. John's Nights.

In a Celtic story,[348] a king promises his daughter, and two-thirds of his kingdom, to anyone who can get her out of a turret which "was aloft, on the top of four carraghan towers." The hero Conall kicks "one of the posts that was keeping the turret aloft," the post breaks, and the turret falls, but Conall catches it in his hands before it reaches the ground, a door opens, and out comes the Princess Sunbeam, and throws her arms about Conall's neck.

In most of these stories the wife-gaining leap is so vaguely described that it is allowable to suppose that the original idea has been greatly obscured in the course of travel. In some Eastern stories it is set in a much plainer light; in one modern collection for instance,[349] it occurs four times. A princess is so fond of her marble bath, which is "like a little sea," with high spiked walls all around it, that she vows she will marry no one who cannot jump across it on horseback. Another princess determines to marry him only who can leap into the glass palace in which she dwells, surrounded by a wide river; and many kings and princes perish miserably in attempting to perform the feat. A third king's daughter lives in a garden "hedged round with seven hedges made of bayonets," by which her suitors are generally transfixed. A fourth "has vowed to marry no man who cannot jump on foot over the seven hedges made of spears, and across the seven great ditches that surround her house;" and "hundreds of thousands of Rajahs have tried to do it, and died in the attempt."

The secluded princess of these stories may have been primarily akin to the heroine of the "Sleeping Beauty" tales, but no special significance appears now to be attributable to her isolation. The original idea seems to have been best preserved in the two legends of the wooing of Brynhild by Sigurd, in the first of which he awakens her from her magic sleep, while in the second he gains her hand (for Gunnar) by a daring and difficult ride--for "him only would she have who should ride through the flaming fire that was drawn about her hall." Gunnar fails to do so, but Sigurd succeeds; his horse leaps into the fire, "and a mighty roar arose as the fire burned ever madder, and the earth trembled, and the flames went up even unto the heavens, nor had any dared to ride as he rode, even as it were through the deep murk."[350]

We will take next a story which is a great favorite in Russia, and which will serve as another illustration of the use made of magical "properties" in the Skazkas.

EMILIAN THE FOOL.[351]

There were once three brothers, of whom two were sharp-witted,
but the third was a fool. The elder brothers set off to
sell their goods in the towns down the river,[352] and said to the
fool:

"Now mind, fool! obey our wives, and pay them respect as
if they were your own mothers. We'll buy you red boots, and
a red caftan, and a red shirt."

The fool said to them:

"Very good; I will pay them respect."

They gave the fool their orders and went away to the downstream
towns; but the fool stretched himself on top of the stove
and remained lying there. His brothers' wives say to him--

"What are you about, fool! your brothers ordered you to
pay us respect, and in return for that each of them was going to
bring you a present, but there you lie on the stove and don't do
a bit of work. Go and fetch some water, at all events."

The fool took a couple of pails and went to fetch the water.
As he scooped it up, a pike happened to get into his pail. Says
the fool:

"Glory to God! now I will cook this pike, and will eat it all
myself; I won't give a bit of it to my sisters-in-law. I'm savage
with them!"

The pike says to him with a human voice:

"Don't eat me, fool! if you'll put me back again into the
water you shall have good luck!"

Says the fool, "What sort of good luck shall I get from
you?"

"Why, this sort of good luck: whatever you say, that shall
be done. Say, for instance, 'By the Pike's command, at my
request, go home, ye pails, and be set in your places.'"

As soon as the fool had said this, the pails immediately
went home of their own accord and became set in their places.
The sisters-in-law looked and wondered.

"What sort of a fool is this!" they say. "Why, he's so
knowing, you see, that his pails have come home and gone to
their places of their own accord!"

The fool came back and lay down on the stove. Again did
his brothers' wives begin saying to him--

"What are you lying on the stove for, fool? there's no wood
for the fire; go and fetch some."

The fool took two axes and got into a sledge, but without
harnessing a horse to it.

"By the Pike's command," he says, "at my request, drive,
into the forest, O sledge!"

Away went the sledge at a rattling pace, as if urged on by
some one. The fool had to pass by a town, and the people he
met were jammed into corners by his horseless sledge in a way
that was perfectly awful. They all began crying out:

"Stop him! Catch him!"

But they couldn't lay hands on him. The fool drove into
the forest, got out of the sledge, sat down on a log, and said--

"One of you axes fell the trees, while the other cuts them
up into billets."

Well, the firewood was cut up and piled on the sledge. Then
says the fool:

"Now then, one of you axes! go and cut me a cudgel,[353] as
heavy a one as I can lift."

The axe went and cut him a cudgel, and the cudgel came
and lay on top of the load.

The fool took his seat and drove off. He drove by the
town, but the townspeople had met together and had been looking
out for him for ever so long. So they stopped the fool, laid
hands upon him, and began pulling him about. Says the fool--

"By the Pike's command, at my request, go, O cudgel, and
bestir thyself."

Out jumped the cudgel, and took to thumping and smashing,
and knocked over ever such a lot of people. There they lay on
the ground, strewed about like so many sheaves of corn. The
fool got clear of them and drove home, heaped up the wood,
and then lay down on the stove.

Meanwhile, the townspeople got up a petition against him,
and denounced him to the King, saying:

"Folks say there's no getting hold of him the way we tried;[354]
we must entice him by cunning, and the best way of all will be
to promise him a red shirt, and a red caftan, and red boots."

So the King's runners came for the fool.

"Go to the King," they say, "he will give you red boots, a
red caftan, and a red shirt."

Well, the fool said:

"By the Pike's command, at my request, do thou, O stove,
go to the King!"

He was seated on the stove at the time. The stove went;
the fool arrived at the King's.

The King was going to put him to death, but he had a
daughter, and she took a tremendous liking to the fool. So
she began begging her father to give her in marriage to the fool.
Her father flew into a passion. He had them married, and
then ordered them both to be placed in a tub, and the tub to be
tarred over and thrown into the water; all which was done.

Long did the tub float about on the sea. His wife began to
beseech the fool:

"Do something to get us cast on shore!"

"By the Pike's command, at my request," said the fool,
"cast this tub ashore and tear it open!"

He and his wife stepped out of the tub. Then she again
began imploring him to build some sort of a house. The fool
said:

"By the Pike's command, at my request, let a marble palace
be built, and let it stand immediately opposite the King's
palace!"

This was all done in an instant. In the morning the King
saw the new palace, and sent to enquire who it was that lived
in it. As soon as he learnt that his daughter lived there, that
very minute he summoned her and her husband. They came.
The King pardoned them, and they all began living together
and flourishing.[355]

"The Pike," observes Afanasief, "is a fish of great repute in northern mythology." One of the old Russian songs still sung at Christmas, tells how a Pike comes from Novgorod, its scales of silver and gold, its back woven with pearls, a costly diamond gleaming in its head instead of eyes. And this song is one which promises wealth, a fact connecting the Russian fish with that Scandinavian pike which was a shape assumed by Andvari--the dwarf-guardian of the famous treasure, from which sprang the woes recounted in the _Voelsunga Saga_ and the _Nibelungenlied_. According to a Lithuanian tradition,[356] there is a certain lake which is ruled by the monstrous pike Strukis. It sleeps only once a year, and then only for a single hour. It used always to sleep on St. John's Night, but a fisherman once took advantage of its slumber to catch a quantity of its scaly subjects. Strukis awoke in time to upset the fisherman's boat; but fearing a repetition of the attempt, it now changes each year the hour of its annual sleep. A gigantic pike figures also in the _Kalevala_.

It would be easy to fill with similar stories, not only a section of a chapter, but a whole volume; but instead of quoting any more of them, I will take a few specimens from a different, though a somewhat kindred group of tales--those which relate to the magic powers supposed to be wielded in modern times by dealers in the Black Art. Such narratives as these are to be found in every land, but Russia is specially rich in them, the faith of the peasantry in the existence of Witches and Wizards, Turnskins and Vampires, not having been as yet seriously shaken. Some of the stories relating to the supernatural Witch, who evidently belongs to the demon world, have already been given. In those which I am about to quote, the wizard or witch who is mentioned is a human being, but one who has made a compact with evil spirits, and has thereby become endowed with strange powers. Such monsters as these are, throughout their lives, a terror to the district they inhabit; nor does their evil influence die with them, for after they have been laid in the earth, they assume their direst aspect, and as Vampires bent on blood, night after night, they go forth from their graves to destroy. As I have elsewhere given some account of Slavonic beliefs in witchcraft,[357] I will do little more at present than allow the stories to speak for themselves. They will be recognized as being akin to the tales about sorcery current farther west, but they are of a more savage nature. The rustic warlocks and witches of whom we are accustomed to hear have little, if any, of that thirst for blood which so unfavorably characterizes their Slavonic counterparts. Here is a story, by way of example, of a most gloomy nature.

THE WITCH GIRL.[358]

Late one evening, a Cossack rode into a village, pulled up at
its last cottage, and cried--

"Heigh, master! will you let me spend the night here?"

"Come in, if you don't fear death!"

"What sort of a reply is that?" thought the Cossack, as he
put his horse up in the stable. After he had given it its food
he went into the cottage. There he saw its inmates, men and
women and little children, all sobbing and crying and praying to
God; and when they had done praying, they began putting on
clean shirts.

"What are you crying about?" asked the Cossack.

"Why you see," replied the master of the house, "in our
village Death goes about at night. Into whatsoever cottage she
looks, there, next morning, one has to put all the people who
lived in it into coffins, and carry them off to the graveyard. To-night
it's our turn."

"Never fear, master! 'Without God's will, no pig gets its
fill!'"

The people of the house lay down to sleep; but the Cossack
was on the look-out and never closed an eye. Exactly at midnight
the window opened. At the window appeared a witch all
in white. She took a sprinkler, passed her arm into the cottage,
and was just on the point of sprinkling--when the Cossack
suddenly gave his sabre a sweep, and cut her arm off close to
the shoulder. The witch howled, squealed, yelped like a dog,
and fled away. But the Cossack picked up the severed arm,
hid it under his cloak, washed away the stains of blood, and lay
down to sleep.

Next morning the master and mistress awoke, and saw that
everyone, without a single exception, was alive and well, and
they were delighted beyond expression.

"If you like," says the Cossack, "I'll show you Death!
Call together all the Sotniks and Desyatniks[359] as quickly as
possible, and let's go through the village and look for her."

Straightway all the Sotniks and Desyatniks came together
and went from house to house. In this one there's nothing, in
that one there's nothing, until at last they come to the Ponomar's[360]
cottage.

"Is all your family present?" asks the Cossack.

"No, my own! one of my daughters is ill. She's lying on
the stove there."

The Cossack looked towards the stove--one of the girl's arms
had evidently been cut off. Thereupon he told the whole story
of what had taken place, and he brought out and showed the
arm which had been cut off. The commune rewarded the
Cossack with a sum of money, and ordered that witch to be
drowned.

Stories of this kind are common in all lands, but the witches about whom they are told generally assume the forms of beasts of prey, especially of wolves, or of cats. A long string of similar tales will be found in Dr. Wilhelm Hertz's excellent and exhaustive monograph on werwolves.[361] Very important also is the Polish story told by Wojcicki[362] of the village which is attacked by the Plague, embodied in the form of a woman, who roams from house to house in search of victims. One night, as she goes her rounds, all doors and windows have been barred against her except one casement. This has been left open by a nobleman who is ready to sacrifice himself for the sake of others. The Pest Maiden arrives, and thrusts her arm in at his window. The nobleman cuts it off, and so rids the village of its fatal visitor. In an Indian story,[363] a hero undertakes to watch beside the couch of a haunted princess. When all is still a Rakshasa appears on the threshold, opens the door, and thrusts into the room an arm--which the hero cuts off. The fiend disappears howling, and leaves his arm behind.

The horror of the next story is somewhat mitigated by a slight infusion of the grotesque--but this may arise from a mere accident, and be due to the exceptional cheerfulness of some link in the chain of its narrators.

THE HEADLESS PRINCESS.[364]

In a certain country there lived a King; and this King had a
daughter who was an enchantress. Near the royal palace there
dwelt a priest, and the priest had a boy of ten years old, who
went every day to an old woman to learn reading and writing.
Now it happened one day that he came away from his lessons
late in the evening, and as he passed by the palace he looked
in at one of the windows. At that window the Princess happened
to be sitting and dressing herself. She took off her head,
lathered it with soap, washed it with clean water, combed its
hair, plaited its long back braid, and then put it back again in
its proper place. The boy was lost in wonder.

"What a clever creature!" thinks he. "A downright
witch!"

And when he got home he began telling every one how he
had seen the Princess without her head.

All of a sudden the King's daughter fell grievously ill, and
she sent for her father, and strictly enjoined him, saying--

"If I die, make the priest's son read the psalter over me
three nights running."

The Princess died; they placed her in a coffin, and carried
it to church. Then the king summoned the priest, and said--

"Have you got a son?"

"I have, your majesty."

"Well then," said the King, "let him read the psalter over
my daughter three nights running."

The priest returned home, and told his son to get ready. In
the morning the priest's son went to his lessons, and sat over
his book looking ever so gloomy.

"What are you unhappy about?" asked the old woman.

"How can I help being unhappy, when I'm utterly done
for?"

"Why what's the matter? Speak out plainly."

"Well then, granny, I've got to read psalms over the princess,
and, do you know, she's a witch!"

"I knew that before you did! But don't be frightened,
there's a knife for you. When you go into the church, trace a
circle round you; then read away from your psalter and don't
look behind you. Whatever happens there, whatever horrors
may appear, mind your own business and go on reading, reading.
But if you look behind you, it will be all over with you!"

In the evening the boy went to the church, traced a circle
round him with the knife, and betook himself to the psalter.
Twelve o'clock struck. The lid of the coffin flew up; the Princess
arose, leapt out, and cried--

"Now I'll teach you to go peeping through my windows, and
telling people what you saw!"

She began rushing at the priest's son, but she couldn't anyhow
break into the circle. Then she began to conjure up all
sorts of horrors. But in spite of all that she did, he went on
reading and reading, and never gave a look round. And at daybreak
the Princess rushed at her coffin, and tumbled into it at
full length, all of a heap.

The next night everything went on just the same. The
priest's son wasn't a bit afraid, went on reading without a stop
right up to daybreak, and in the morning went to the old woman.
She asked him--

"Well! have you seen horrors?"

"Yes, granny!"

"It will be still more horrible this time. Here's a hammer
for you and four nails. Knock them into the four corners of the
coffin, and when you begin reading the psalter, stick up the
hammer in front of you."

In the evening the priest's son went to the church, and did
everything just as the old woman had told him. Twelve o'clock
struck, the coffin lid fell to the ground, the Princess jumped up
and began tearing from side to side, and threatening the youth.
Then she conjured up horrors, this time worse than before. It
seemed to him as if a fire had broken out in the church; all
the walls were wrapped in flames! But he held his ground
and went on reading, never once looking behind him. Just before
daybreak the Princess rushed to her coffin--then the fire
seemed to go out immediately, and all the deviltry vanished!

In the morning the King came to the church, and saw that
the coffin was open, and in the coffin lay the princess, face downwards.

"What's the meaning of all this?" says he.

The lad told him everything that had taken place. Then the
king gave orders that an aspen stake should be driven into his
daughter's breast, and that her body should be thrust into a hole
in the ground. But he rewarded the priest's son with a heap of
money and various lands.

Perhaps the most remarkable among the stories of this class is the following, which comes from Little Russia. Those readers who are acquainted with the works of Gogol, the great Russian novelist, who was a native of that part of the country, will observe how closely he has kept to popular traditions in his thrilling story of the _Vy_, which has been translated into English, from the French, under the title of "The King of the Gnomes."[365]

THE SOLDIER'S MIDNIGHT WATCH.[366]

Once upon a time there was a Soldier who served God and the
great Gosudar for fifteen years, without ever setting eyes on his
parents. At the end of that time there came an order from the
Tsar to grant leave to the soldiers--to twenty-five of each company
at a time--to go and see their families. Together with
the rest our Soldier, too, got leave to go, and set off to pay a
visit to his home in the government of Kief. After a time he
reached Kief, visited the _Lavra_, prayed to God, bowed down
before the holy relics, and then started again for his birthplace,
a provincial town not far off. Well, he walked and walked.
Suddenly there happens to meet him a fair maiden who was the
daughter of a merchant in that same town; a most remarkable
beauty. Now everyone knows that if a soldier catches sight of
a pretty girl, nothing will make him pass her by quietly, but he
hooks on to her somehow or other. And so this Soldier gets
alongside of the merchant's daughter, and says to her jokingly--

"How now, fair damsel! not broken in to harness yet?"

"God knows, soldier, who breaks in whom," replies the girl.
"I may do it to you, or you to me."

So saying she laughed and went her way. Well, the Soldier
arrived at home, greeted his family, and rejoiced greatly at finding
they were all in good health.

Now he had an old grandfather, as white as a _lun_, who had
lived a hundred years and a bit. The Soldier was gossiping
with him, and said:

"As I was coming home, grandfather, I happened to meet
an uncommonly fine girl, and, sinner that I am, I chaffed her,
and she said to me:

"'God knows, soldier, whether you'll break me in to harness,
or I'll break you.'"

"Eh, sirs! whatever have you done? Why that's the
daughter of our merchant here, an awful witch! She's sent
more than one fine young fellow out of the white world."

"Well, well! I'm not one of the timid ones, either! You
won't frighten me in a hurry. We'll wait and see what God will
send."

"No, no, grandson!" says the grandfather. "If you don't
listen to me, you won't be alive to-morrow!"

"Here's a nice fix!" says the Soldier.

"Yes, such a fix that you've never known anything half so
awful, even when soldiering."

"What must I do then, grandfather?"

"Why this. Provide yourself with a bridle, and take a thick
aspen cudgel, and sit quietly in the izba--don't stir a step anywhere.
During the night she will come running in, and if she
manages to say before you can 'Stand still, my steed!' you
will straightway turn into a horse. Then she will jump upon
your back, and will make you gallop about until she has ridden
you to death. But if you manage to say before she speaks,
'Tprru! stand still, jade!' she will be turned into a mare.
Then you must bridle her and jump on her back. She will run
away with you over hill and dale, but do you hold your own; hit
her over the head with the aspen cudgel, and go on hitting her
until you beat her to death."

The Soldier hadn't expected such a job as this, but there
was no help for it. So he followed his grandfather's advice,
provided himself with a bridle and an aspen cudgel, took his
seat in a corner, and waited to see what would happen. At the
midnight hour the passage door creaked and the sound of steps
was heard; the witch was coming! The moment the door of
the room opened, the Soldier immediately cried out--

"Tprru! stand still, jade!"

The witch turned into a mare, and he bridled her, led her
into the yard, and jumped on her back. The mare carried him
off over hills and dales and ravines, and did all she could to try
and throw her rider. But no! the Soldier stuck on tight, and
thumped her over the head like anything with the aspen cudgel,
and went on treating her with a taste of the cudgel until he
knocked her off her feet, and then pitched into her as she lay on
the ground, gave her another half-dozen blows or so, and at last
beat her to death.

By daybreak he got home.

"Well, my friend! how have you got on?" asks his grandfather.

"Glory be to God, grandfather! I've beaten her to death!"

"All right! now lie down and go to sleep."

The Soldier lay down and fell into a deep slumber. Towards
evening the old man awoke him--

"Get up, grandson."

He got up.

"What's to be done now? As the merchant's daughter is
dead, you see, her father will come after you, and will bid you
to his house to read psalms over the dead body."

"Well, grandfather, am I to go, or not?"

"If you go, there'll be an end of you; and if you don't go,
there'll be an end of you! Still, it's best to go."

"But if anything happens, how shall I get out of it?"

"Listen, grandson! When you go to the merchant's he will
offer you brandy; don't you drink much--drink only a moderate
allowance. Afterwards the merchant will take you into the room
in which his daughter is lying in her coffin, and will lock you in
there. You will read out from the psalter all the evening, and
up to midnight. Exactly at midnight a strong wind will suddenly
begin to blow, the coffin will begin to shake, its lid will
fall off. Well, as soon as these horrors begin, jump on to the
stove as quick as you can, squeeze yourself into a corner, and
silently offer up prayers. She won't find you there."

Half an hour later came the merchant, and besought the
Soldier, crying:

"Ah, Soldier! there's a daughter of mine dead; come and
read the psalter over her."

The Soldier took a psalter and went off to the merchant's
house. The merchant was greatly pleased, seated him at his
table, and began offering him brandy to drink. The Soldier
drank, but only moderately, and declined to drink any more.
The merchant took him by the hand and led him to the room in
which the corpse lay.

"Now then," he says, "read away at your psalter."

Then he went out and locked the door. There was no help
for it, so the Soldier took to his psalter and read and read.
Exactly at midnight there was a great blast of wind, the coffin
began to rock, its lid flew off. The Soldier jumped quickly on
to the stove, hid himself in a corner, guarded himself by a sign
of the cross, and began whispering prayers. Meanwhile the
witch had leapt out of the coffin, and was rushing about from
side to side--now here, now there. Then there came running
up to her countless swarms of evil spirits; the room was full of
them!

"What are you looking for?" say they.

"A soldier. He was reading here a moment ago, and now
he's vanished!"

The devils eagerly set to work to hunt him up. They
searched and searched, they rummaged in all the corners. At
last they cast their eyes on the stove; at that moment, luckily
for the Soldier, the cocks began to crow. In the twinkling of
an eye all the devils had vanished, and the witch lay all of a
heap on the floor. The Soldier got down from the stove, laid
her body in the coffin, covered it up all right with the lid, and
betook himself again to his psalter. At daybreak came the
master of the house, opened the door, and said--

"Hail, Soldier!"

"I wish you good health, master merchant."

"Have you spent the night comfortably?"

"Glory be to God! yes."

"There are fifty roubles for you, but come again, friend, and
read another night."

"Very good, I'll come."

The Soldier returned home, lay down on the bench, and
slept till evening. Then he awoke and said--

"Grandfather, the merchant bid me go and read the psalter
another night. Should I go or not?"

"If you go, you won't remain alive, and if you don't go, just
the same! But you'd better go. Don't drink much brandy,
drink just what is right; and when the wind blows, and the
coffin begins to rock, slip straight into the stove. There no one
will find you."

The Soldier got ready and went to the merchant's, who
seated him at table, and began plying him with brandy. Afterwards
he took him to where the corpse was, and locked him into
the room.

The Soldier went on reading, reading. Midnight came, the
wind blew, the coffin began to rock, the coffin lid fell afar off on
the ground. He was into the stove in a moment. Out jumped
the witch and began rushing about; round her swarmed devils,
the room was full of them!

"What are you looking for?" they cry.

"Why, there he was reading a moment ago, and now he's
vanished out of sight. I can't find him."

The devils flung themselves on the stove.

"Here's the place," they cried, "where he was last night!"

There was the place, but he wasn't there! This way and
that they rushed. Suddenly the cocks began to crow, the devils
vanished, the witch lay stretched on the floor.

The Soldier stayed awhile to recover his breath, crept out
of the stove, put the merchant's daughter back in her coffin, and
took to reading the psalter again. Presently he looks round,
the day has already dawned. His host arrives:

"Hail, Soldier!" says he.

"I wish you good health, master merchant."

"Has the night passed comfortably?"

"Glory be to God! yes."

"Come along here, then."

The merchant led him out of the room, gave him a hundred
roubles, and said--

"Come, please, and read here a third night; I sha'n't treat
you badly."

"Good, I'll come."

The Soldier returned home.

"Well, grandson, what has God sent you?" says his grandfather.

"Nothing much, grandfather! The merchant told me to
come again. Should I go or not?"

"If you go, you won't remain alive, and if you don't go, you
won't remain alive! But you'd better go."

"But if anything happens where must I hide?"

"I'll tell you, grandson. Buy yourself a frying-pan, and hide
it so that the merchant sha'n't see it. When you go to his house
he'll try to force a lot of brandy on you. You look out, don't
drink much, drink just what you can stand. At midnight, as
soon as the wind begins to roar, and the coffin to rock, do you
that very moment climb on to the stove-pipe, and cover yourself
over with the frying-pan. There no one will find you out."

The Soldier had a good sleep, bought himself a frying-pan,[367]
hid it under his cloak, and towards evening went to the merchant's
house. The merchant seated him at table and took to plying
him with liquor--tried every possible kind of invitation and
cajolery on him.

"No," says the Soldier, "that will do. I've had my whack.
I won't have any more."

"Well, then, if you won't drink, come along and read your
psalter."

The merchant took him to his dead daughter, left him alone
with her, and locked the door.

The Soldier read and read. Midnight came, the wind blew,
the coffin began to rock, the cover flew afar off. The Soldier
jumped up on the stove-pipe, covered himself with the frying-pan,
protected himself with a sign of the cross, and awaited what was
going to happen. Out jumped the witch and began rushing
about. Round her came swarming countless devils, the izba
was full of them! They rushed about in search of the Soldier;
they looked into the stove--

"Here's the place," they cried, "where he was last night."

"There's the place, but he's not there."

This way and that they rush,--cannot see him anywhere.
Presently there stepped across the threshold a very old devil.

"What are you looking for?"

"The Soldier. He was reading here a moment ago, and now
he's disappeared."

"Ah! no eyes! And who's that sitting on the stove-pipe
there?"

The Soldier's heart thumped like anything; he all but tumbled
down on the ground!

"There he is, sure enough!" cried the devils, "but how are
we to settle him. Surely it's impossible to reach him there?"

"Impossible, forsooth! Run and lay your hands on a candle-end
which has been lighted without a blessing having been
uttered over it."

In an instant the devils brought the candle-end, piled up a
lot of wood right under the stove-pipe, and set it alight. The
flame leapt high into the air, the Soldier began to roast: first one
foot, then the other, he drew up under him.

"Now," thinks he, "my death has come!"

All of a sudden, luckily for him, the cocks began to crow,
the devils vanished, the witch fell flat on the floor. The soldier
jumped down from the stove-pipe, and began putting out the
fire. When he had put it out he set every thing to rights, placed
the merchant's daughter in her coffin, covered it up with the
lid, and betook himself to reading the psalter. At daybreak
came the merchant, and listened at the door to find out whether
the Soldier was alive or not. When he heard his voice he
opened the door and said--

"Hail, Soldier!"

"I wish you good health, master merchant."

"Have you passed the night comfortably?"

"Glory be to God, I've seen nothing bad."

The merchant gave him a hundred and fifty roubles, and
said--

"You've done a deal of work, Soldier! do a little more.
Come here to-night and carry my daughter to the graveyard."

"Good, I'll come."

"Well, friend, what has God given?"

"Glory be to God, grandfather, I've got off safe! The merchant
has asked me to be at his house to-night, to carry his
daughter to the graveyard. Should I go or not?"

"If you go, you won't be alive, and if you don't go, you won't
be alive. But you must go; it will be better so."

"But what must I do? tell me."

"Well this. When you get to the merchant's, everything will
be ready there. At ten o'clock the relations of the deceased will
begin taking leave of her; and afterwards they will fasten three
iron hoops round the coffin, and place it on the funeral car; and
at eleven o'clock they will tell you to take it to the graveyard.
Do you drive off with the coffin, but keep a sharp look-out. One
of the hoops will snap. Never fear, keep your seat bravely; a
second will snap, keep your seat all the same; but when the
third hoop snaps, instantly jump on to the horse's back and
through the _duga_ (the wooden arch above its neck), and run
away backwards. Do that, and no harm will come to you."

The Soldier lay down to sleep, slept till the evening, and then
went to the merchant's. At ten o'clock the relations began
taking leave of the deceased; then they set to work to fasten
iron hoops round the coffin. They fastened the hoops, set the
coffin on the funeral car, and cried--

"Now then, Soldier! drive off, and God speed you!"

The Soldier got into the car and set off: at first he drove
slowly, but as soon as he was out of sight he let the horse go
full split. Away he galloped, but all the while he kept an eye on
the coffin. Snap went one hoop--and then another. The witch
began gnashing her teeth.

"Stop!" she cried, "you sha'n't escape! I shall eat you up
in another moment."

"No, dovey! Soldiers are crown property; no one is allowed
to eat them."

Here the last hoop snapped: on to the horse jumped the
Soldier, and through the _duga_, and then set off running backwards.
The witch leapt out of the coffin and tore away in pursuit.
Lighting on the Soldier's footsteps she followed them back
to the horse, ran right round it, saw the soldier wasn't there, and
set off again in pursuit of him. She ran and ran, lighted again
on his footsteps, and again came back to the horse. Utterly at
her wit's end, she did the same thing some ten times over. Suddenly
the cocks began crowing. There lay the witch stretched
out flat on the road! The Soldier picked her up, put her in the
coffin, slammed the lid down, and drove her to the graveyard.
When he got there he lowered the coffin into the grave, shovelled
the earth on top of it, and returned to the merchant's house.

"I've done it all," says he; "catch hold of your horse."

When the merchant saw the Soldier he stared at him with
wide-open eyes.

"Well, Soldier!" said he, "I know a good deal! and as to
my daughter, we needn't speak of her. She was awfully sharp,
she was! But, really, you know more than we do!"

"Come now, master merchant! pay me for my work."

So the merchant handed him over two hundred roubles. The
soldier took them, thanked him, and then went home, and gave
his family a feast.

[The next chapter will contain a number of vampire
stories which, in some respects, resemble these tales
of homicidal corpses. But most of them belong, I
think, to a separate group, due to a different myth or
superstition from that which has given rise to such
tales as those quoted above. The vampire is actuated
by a thirst which can be quenched only by blood, and
which impels it to go forth from the grave and
destroy. But the enchanted corpses which rise at
midnight, and attempt to rend their watchers, appear
to owe their ferocity to demoniacal possession. After
the death of a witch her body is liable, says popular
tradition, to be tenanted by a devil (as may be seen
from No. iii.), and to corpses thus possessed have
been attributed by the storytellers the terrible deeds
which Indian tales relate of Rakshasas and other evil
spirits. Thus in the story of Nischayadatta, in the
seventh book of the "Kathasaritsagara," the hero and
the four pilgrims, his companions, have to pass a
night in a deserted temple of Siva. It is haunted by a
_Yakshini_, a female demon, who turns men by spells
into brutes, and then eats them; so they sit watching
and praying beside a fire round which they have traced
a circle of ashes. At midnight the demon-enchantress
arrives, dancing and "blowing on a flute made of a
dead man's bone." Fixing her eyes on one of the
pilgrims, she mutters a spell, accompanied by a wild
dance. Out of the head of the doomed man grows a horn;
he loses all command over himself, leaps up, and
dances into the flames. The _Yakshini_ seizes his
half-burnt corpse and devours it. Then she treats the
second and the third pilgrim in the same way. But just
as she is turning to the fourth, she lays her flute on
the ground. In an instant the hero seizes it, and
begins to blow it and to dance wildly around the
_Yakshini_, fixing his eyes upon her and applying to
her the words of her own spell. Deprived by it of all
power, she submits, and from that time forward renders
the hero good service.[368]]

In one of the skazkas a malignant witch is destroyed by a benignant female power. It had been predicted that a certain baby princess would begin flying about the world as soon as she was fifteen. So her parents shut her up in a building in which she never saw the light of day, nor the face of a man. For it was illuminated by artificial means, and none but women had access to it. But one day, when her nurses and _Mamzeli_ had gone to a feast at the palace, she found a door unlocked, and made her way into the sunlight. After this her attendants were obliged to allow her to go where she wished, when her parents were away. As she went roaming about the palace she came to a cage "in which a _Zhar-Ptitsa_,[369] lay [as if] dead." This bird, her guardians told her, slept soundly all day, but at night her papa flew about on it. Farther on she came to a veiled portrait. When the veil was lifted, she cried in astonishment "Can such beauty be?" and determined to fly on the _Zhar-Ptitsa_ to the original of the picture. So at night she sought the _Zhar-Ptitsa_, which was sitting up and flapping its wings, and asked whether she might fly abroad on its back. The bird consented and bore her far away. Three times it carried her to the room of the prince whose portrait she had so much admired. On the first and second occasion he remained asleep during her visit, having been plunged into a magic slumber by the _Zhar-Ptitsa_. But during her third visit he awoke, "and he and she wept and wept, and exchanged betrothal rings." So long did they remain talking that, before the _Zhar-Ptitsa_ and his rider could get back, "the day began to dawn--the bird sank lower and lower and fell to the ground." Then the princess, thinking it was really dead, buried it in the earth--having first cut off its wings, and "attached them to herself so as to walk more lightly."

After various adventures she comes to a land of mourning. "Why are you so mournful?" she asks. "Because our king's son has gone out of his mind," is the reply. "He eats a man every night." Thereupon she goes to the king and obtains leave to watch the prince by night. As the clock strikes twelve the prince, who is laden with chains, makes a rush at her; but the wings of the _Zhar-Ptitsa_ rustle around her, and he sits down again. This takes place three times, after which the light goes out. She leaves the room in search of the means of rekindling it, sees a glimmer in the distance, and sets off with a lantern in search of it. Presently she finds an old witch who is sitting before a fire, above which seethes a cauldron. "What have you got there?" she asks. "When this cauldron seethes," replies the witch, "within it does the heart of Prince Ivan rage madly."

Pretending to be merely getting a light, the Princess contrives to splash the seething liquid over the witch, who immediately falls dead. Then she looks into the cauldron, and there, in truth, she sees the Prince's heart. When she returns to his room he has recovered his senses. "Thank you for bringing a light," he says. "Why am I in chains?" "Thus and thus," says she. "You went out of your mind and ate people." Whereat he wonders greatly.[370]

The _Zhar-Ptitsa_, or Fire-Bird, which plays so important a part in this story, is worthy of special notice. Its name is sufficient to show its close connection with flame or light,[371] and its appearance corresponds with its designation. Its feathers blaze with silvery or golden sheen, its eyes shine like crystal, it dwells in a golden cage. In the depth of the night it flies into a garden, and lights it up as brightly as could a thousand burning fires. A single feather from its tail illuminates a dark room. It feeds upon golden apples which have the power of bestowing youth and beauty, or according to a Croatian version, on magic-grasses. Its song, according to Bohemian legends, heals the sick and restores sight to the blind. We have already seen that, as the Phoenix, of which it seems to be a Slavonic counterpart, dies in the flame from which it springs again into life, so the _Zhar-Ptitsa_ sinks into a death-like slumber when the day dawns, to awake to fresh life after the sunset.

One of the skazkas[372] about the _Zhar-Ptitsa_ closely resembles the well-known German tale of the Golden Bird.[373] But it is a "Chap-book" story, and therefore of doubtful origin. King Vuislaf has an apple-tree which bears golden fruits. These are stolen by a _Zhar-Ptitsa_ which flies every night into the garden, so he orders his sons to keep watch there by turns. The elder brothers cannot keep awake, and see nothing; but the youngest of the three, Prince Ivan, though he fails to capture the bird, secures one of its tail-feathers. After a time he leaves his home and goes forth in search of the bird. Aided by a wolf, he reaches the garden in which the _Zhar-Ptitsa_ lives, and succeeds in taking it out of its golden cage. But trying, in spite of the wolf's warning, to carry off the cage itself, an alarm is sounded, and he is taken prisoner. After various other adventures he is killed by his envious brothers, but of course all comes right in the end. In a version of the story which comes from the Bukovina, one of the incidents is detailed at greater length than in either the German or the Russian tale. When the hero has been killed by his brothers, and they have carried off the _Zhar-Ptitsa_, and their victim's golden steed, and his betrothed princess--as long as he lies dead, the princess remains mute and mournful, the horse refuses to eat, the bird is silent, and its cage is lustreless. But as soon as he comes back to life, the princess regains her spirits, and the horse its appetite. The _Zhar-Ptitsa_ recommences its magic song, and its cage flashes anew like fire.

In another skazka[374] a sportsman finds in a forest "a golden feather of the _Zhar-Ptitsa_; like fire does the feather shine!" Against the advice of his "heroic steed," he picks up the feather and takes it to the king, who sends him in search of the bird itself. Then he has wheat scattered on the ground, and at dawn he hides behind a tree near it. "Presently the forest begins to roar, the sea rises in waves, and the _Zhar-Ptitsa_ flies up, lights upon the ground and begins to peck the wheat." Then the "heroic steed" gallops up, sets its hoof upon the bird's wing, and presses it to the ground, so that the shooter is able to bind it with cords, and take it to the king. In a variant of the story the bird is captured by means of a trap--a cage in which "pearls large and small" have been strewed.

* * * * *

I had intended to say something about the various golden haired or golden-horned animals which figure in the Skazkas, but it will be sufficient for the present to refer to the notices of them which occur in Prof. de Gubernatis's "Zoological Mythology." And now I will bring this chapter to a close with the following weird story of

THE WARLOCK.[375]