by Unknown
The tsarevich continued on his way. He came to a city. He went to a market and bought something. He took gold coins from his purse, but there were always more left. He decided to stay in this city. He played cards with the merchants and lords, and after a while found himself playing cards with the tsar. The tsar liked playing cards and his daughter often played, too. In the end the tsarevich was playing cards with the tsar’s daughter every evening – and every time he played with her, he lost. The tsarevna began to wonder where all his money was coming from, and she realized he must have a purse that never grew empty. And then one day she gave the tsarevich a sleeping potion and took his purse. The tsarevich was left with nothing at all. And when the tsarevna told her father the tsar what she had done, he ordered the tsarevich to be taken under strict guard to the border and banished forever from his tsardom.
The tsarevich was taken to the border, and he went on his way. ‘Well now,’ he said to himself, ‘it seems I’ve been left with nothing at all. Help me, Bronze Brow, to get out of this trouble. Then I shall make my home in one place and make no more mistakes.’ He walked straight on and he came to a sea. There on the shore were some apple trees, and the apples on them were already ripe. He picked some. He ate one apple; a horn grew on his brow, but he didn’t notice it. He ate another apple – and another horn grew on his brow. He ate a third apple and saw something moving by his feet. He grabbed at it and realized that he had grown a tail. Then he wanted to rub his eyes, but his hand caught on one of his horns. Then he felt the other: yes, he really did have two horns on his brow. The tsarevich took fright. He remembered Bronze Brow, but the horns and the tail remained where they were. He wandered about the shore, then went on further. He walked on for several more days, looking at himself in the water and seeing his horns. Then he came to a place where there was a thicket of thorns, and in between the thorns were some small trees, and on them were some red fruits that looked quite like apples. He picked one of these fruits and thought, ‘Well, it was apples that made the horns and the tail grow. Maybe these fruits will make something else grow. Then I can be a real marvel – maybe that’s the way it has to be!’ He ate one fruit and felt one horn fall off him. He ate a second fruit – and his second horn disappeared. Then he ate a third fruit – and his tail fell off too. He looked at himself in the water and saw it was true: his horns and his tail really had disappeared now. The tsarevich was overjoyed and he picked more of these fruits, thinking, ‘I’ll eat some more. Maybe it will end up even better.’ He ate one more fruit, looked in the water and no longer knew himself at all; he had become more beautiful than pen can portray or storyteller can say. ‘Well,’ he said to himself, ‘I can go back home now. I’ve become another man and no one will know who I am.’
He set off. On the way he picked some of the apples that had made him grow horns and a tail. He reached the border. No one stopped him. He went on till he came to the royal palace. There he began selling apples. Two servant girls slipped out of the palace and he sold them some of the other fruits. They ate these fruits and became so beautiful that they could no longer recognize each other. They talked for a moment, then went to the tsar’s daughter. She didn’t recognize them either; but when they told her their story, she gave them some money and told them to go and buy some more apples. One of the servant girls ran after the tsarevich and asked to buy three more apples, for the tsar’s daughter. The tsarevich took the money and gave her three apples. The servant girl ran back with the apples; the tsarevna went to her room and ate all three of them. She got up to go to the mirror and felt something trailing along behind her; then she looked at herself in the mirror and saw horns growing from her brow. The tsarevna was horrified, and she sent at once for the apple-seller. Along he came. She asked him to cure her. The apple-seller waited there till evening, and the tsarevna strictly forbade her servant girls to say anything to anyone about what had happened. When everyone had gone to bed, the apple-seller took a hammer and struck one of the horns. This hurt the tsarevna, but she endured the pain: anything to remedy her misfortune! Then the apple-seller gave her one of his fruits; she ate it and the horn fell off. Then he gave her another of his fruits, and the other horn fell off too. ‘Well, tsarevna, now we must settle up – and then, tomorrow night your tail will fall off too.’ ‘What shall I give you?’ ‘I love gold. You can pay me in gold.’ The tsarevna took out her purse and took out some gold coins, but the apple-seller saw that it was his own purse and he asked if he could keep it till the following night, since he had nowhere to put all the gold. For a long time the tsarevna refused, but then she gave in; she was thinking he wouldn’t realize it was a magic purse. She handed it to him and asked him to be sure to bring it back the next evening. The apple-seller left the city that night, taking his purse with him and leaving the tsarevna her tail. After a while, he came to the city where he had herded the tsar’s livestock; there he sat down by the palace and began selling apples. The tsarevna came out, bought one of his fruits, ate it and became a great beauty. She invited him into the palace and he told her everything: where he had gone after being banished and all that had befallen him. He went on living at the palace, and the tsarevna asked her father the tsar to make him the palace steward. The steward was open-handed with his gold and he made friends with everyone. The tsar died and the steward became tsar in his place. He and the tsarevna were married. And so he ruled the tsardom, and nowhere was there anyone richer.
Olga Erastovna Ozarovskaya
(1874–1931)
Olga Ozarovskaya was the daughter of an artillery officer. Endowed with a love of travel and a gift for storytelling, she lived a rich and varied life. She herself compared her fate to the ‘diligent’ ball of thread that serves as both guide and path to many folktale heroes and heroines: ‘the ball rolled tirelessly along the ground, tormented by curiosity. It chose unexpected little paths. It rolled safely up to aristocratic mansions. It would rest, curling up into a little grey ball, and then it would unwind again, rolling away, its thread glittering, towards the home of a peasant.’ 1
In 1898, a year after completing a degree in mathematics, Ozarovskaya started work in the Chamber of Weights and Measures; the director was Dmitry Mendeleyev, the discoverer of the Periodic Table. Ozarovskaya was the first woman in Petersburg to be offered work in a major scientific institution.
Ozarovskaya had long been admired as an amateur actress and reciter. After Mendeleyev’s death in 1907, she began to work in this field as a professional, giving public recitals of poems and stories. Her repertoire included humorous stories by Chekhov and Averchenko, Kipling’s Just-So Stories, poems by Balmont and Tyutchev, scenes from novels by Dostoevsky and Hamsun – and folktales. In 1911 she moved to Moscow, where she taught acting and declamation in her Studio of the Living Word.
She especially loved the folktales and heroic epics of the Russian north and between 1915 and 1925 she visited the region four times. She herself played the role of fairy godmother to Mariya Dmitrevna Krivopolyonova, a gifted singer and storyteller whom Ozarovskaya met during the first of these trips. Krivopolyonova, then aged seventy-one, had been orphaned at the age of ten and had lived much of her life as a beggar. Ozarovskaya not only transcribed Krivopolyonova’s songs and stories but also arranged for her to perform, to great acclaim, in most of the main cities of European Russia. In 1921 Anatoly Lunacharsky, the first Bolshevik Commissar of Enlightenment, invited Krivopolyonova to his Kremlin apartment and went to fetch her in his own car. Krivopolyonova, however, was unimpressed. What moved her, it seems, was not the wonders of a modern city but the spirit of the legendary past that she could still sense in Moscow – a past that had been a living present to her in the songs she had been singing throughout her life.
In 1916 Ozarovskaya published A Grandmother’s Past (Babushkiny stariny), a collection of some of the folksongs and tales that Ozarovskaya had recorded from Krivopolyonova, together with an account of their meetings. During the Soviet period Ozarovskaya continued to work both as a
performer and as a teacher. In 1929 she published a memoir about Mendeleyev, and in 1931 she published Five Rivers (Pyatirechiye), a collection of folktales, one of which is included here. She died that same year.
Ozarovskaya’s tact and sensitivity in her dealings with peasant singers and storytellers enabled her to win their trust. ‘I never ask for a particular tale,’ she wrote. ‘I wait for the storyteller himself to choose the first story. An artist always begins with something he can perform with confidence. Later he will tell the story that means most to his soul, and this will be clear from a particular excitement in his voice. 2
The Luck of a Tsarevna
Here is what I once heard – from people of all kinds, from old maids, from old bitches.
In a certain land, in a certain tsardom, in a place as flat as a tablecloth, there lived a tsar and his wife; they had no children. A daughter was born to them. The daughter was christened. The godfather and godmother held her in their arms and said that when the girl grew up, she would be led through the market place and whipped with a knout. The tsar said, ‘How on earth! No, I’ll never let her out of my sight.’
Tales are told quickly; lives are lived slowly. The girl grew up and began begging her father to let her go out and about.
‘Papenka,’ she said, ‘let me go out for a walk. Let me go out with the mothers and nannies and the old ladies. Let me go out into the fields, let me go to the steep shore of the deep blue sea.’
Her father let her go. Off went the tsarevna with the mothers and nannies and the old ladies. Off she went into the fields, to the steep shore of the deep blue sea. There by the shore stood a little ship with sails. The tsarevna climbed into the ship and a fair wind began to blow. The ship took her across the blue sea – far, far away. The tsar searched and searched, but she was gone, quite gone. And the tsarevna stepped out of the ship onto another steep shore. There on the shore was a well. By the well grew a tall, tall tree. The maiden climbed up into the tree and sat on a branch. Now in that tsardom there was a yega baba (that’s a bad word, isn’t it?),1 and this yega baba had a daughter. And the yega baba sent this daughter off to the well, saying, ‘Off with you, you ugly creature. Go and fetch me some water.’
Her daughter went to the well and began drawing out water. There in the well she saw the beautiful tsarevna. She went back to her mother and said, ‘Why do you call me ugly, mother? There’s no one in the world more beautiful than I am.’
Her mother jumped up: ‘What on earth’s got into you?’
‘Come to the well with me and you’ll see what a beauty I am!’
Off they went. They looked in the well and the yega baba saw the beautiful maiden.
‘Don’t be such a fool!’ she said to her daughter. And she looked up into the tree and saw the tsarevna.
‘Climb down from that bush, girl!’
The tsarevna climbed down.
‘You can come and live with me, girl. What skills do you know? Do you know how to embroider a towel?’
‘Yes,’ said the tsarevna. She was very skilled indeed, more than words can say. She began embroidering, and the yega baba took the towels and sold them.
Around that time the tsar made a proclamation: ‘Whoever can set pearls in my crown, him or her I will take to my heart. Be it an old woman, she will become a grandmother to me. Be it an old man – a grandfather. Be it a woman of middle years – an auntie. Be it a man of middle years – an uncle. Be it a man of my age – he shall be my brother. Be it a woman of my age – she shall be my betrothed wife.’
The yega baba heard about all this. ‘My daughter will be able to set the pearls,’ she said. She went back home and said to the tsarevna, ‘Set the tsar’s pearls, daughter.’
The tsarevna laid out all the pearls on the windowsill and set to work. She sewed and sewed and soon there was only one pearl left to be set. It was the central pearl, the one that would lie above the tsar’s nose. There it was, lying on the windowsill. And down flew a raven. The raven pecked the pearl up in its beak – the pearl, after all, was very shiny – and away it flew. Soon the time came to return the crown to the tsar. The yega baba brought it along and said, ‘It’s not the fault of my own daughter. It’s a girl I adopted who was doing the work.’
‘Bring her here at once. She must be put on trial.’
It was decreed that the girl be led through the market place and whipped with a knout.
A poor old woman and her husband appeared. They lived in somebody’s back yard, along with the cattle. The old woman said, ‘Don’t harm the girl’s body, don’t put her to shame. Give her to me as a daughter. We’ve got no one at all.’
And so the old woman took the girl in. She turned out to be a good and obedient daughter. After a while it was the old man’s name day, the day of his angel.
‘We’re going, daughter, to the holy liturgy, to pray to God. You stay behind and prepare the food. There’s cooking to be done, and baking. When everything’s ready, you must lay the table, put out the food and then go out onto the porch. There you must bow to all four sides and say, “Luck of my Grandfather, please eat and drink with me – eat bread and salt with me, and all kinds of dishes.” ’
And so the girl did. She went out onto the porch, bowed and said:
Luck of my Grandfather,
Please eat and drink with me –
Eat bread and salt with me,
And all kinds of dishes.
Along came Grandfather’s Luck. She was splendidly dressed; she looked truly magnificent. She sat down at the table. She ate and drank, but there was still as much food and drink on the table as ever. She poured a heap of silver coins onto the table, thanked the girl and went on her way. The old people came back from the church and asked, ‘Well, daughter, who came?’
‘Grandfather’s Luck came. She ate and drank, but there was still as much food and drink on the table as ever. She poured out a heap of silver.’
The following day was the name day of the old woman.
‘You must cook and bake,’ she said to the girl, ‘and then invite my Luck to the table.’
The girl cooked and baked. She laid the table, put out the food and went out onto the porch. She bowed to all four sides and said:
Luck of my Grandmother,
Please eat and drink with me –
Eat bread and salt with me,
And all kinds of dishes.
Grandmother’s Luck was no less finely dressed. She ate and drank, but there was still as much food and drink on the table as ever. She poured out a heap of gold coins and thanked the girl. The old people came back from the church and the girl told them everything.
‘Well, daughter,’ they said to her. ‘Tomorrow’s your own name day. You must cook and bake. Then you must invite your own Luck to the table. But don’t let her go without paying something for her dinner – even if you have to demand it of her!’
The girl cooked and baked. She laid the table, put out the food and went out onto the porch. She bowed to all four sides and said:
Bitter Luck, bitter lot of my own,
Please eat and drink with me –
Eat bread and salt with me,
And all kinds of dishes.
Along came her Luck. She was ugly as ugly can be, and all in rags. She looked well and truly horrible. She sat down at the table and gobbled everything up. Not a scrap of food was left. And off she went without so much as a word of thanks. The girl chased after her. ‘Bitter Luck, bitter lot of my own,’ she said, ‘you must pay me something for your dinner. You’ve eaten and drunk everything I put out. Now you must give me something in return.’
Her Luck tried to creep away into a pit, but the girl grabbed hold of her rags and did not let go. ‘No!’ she repeated, ‘you have to give me at least something.’
Her Luck tore off a little bundle and threw it to the girl. She did the same with a second bundle, and a third bundle. The girl picked up the three bundles and set off back home.
She felt sad. ‘What will Grandfa
ther and Grandmother say?’ she was thinking.
The old people came back from the church: ‘Well, daughter, did your Luck come and eat her meal?’
‘Yes, she did. She was ugly as ugly can be, and all in rags. She looked truly horrible. She gobbled up everything I gave her.’
‘Did she give you anything?’
‘She gave me three bundles of rags.’
‘Let’s have a look at them.’
The girl showed them the three bundles. The first bundle was simply a bundle of rags. The second bundle was simply a bundle of rags. But in the third bundle were a golden hook and a golden eye.
‘Well, daughter, these are worth keeping. One day they’ll come in useful.’
Soon afterwards the tsar made another proclamation. He was sewing a kaftan; he was sewing himself a royal garment. But he did not have enough gold for the last hook and eye. He had asked everywhere, but there was none in his kingdom. ‘Who,’ he asked, ‘can bring me a golden hook and a golden eye to match the ones I already have?’
‘Go along, daughter,’ said the old people. ‘Maybe your hook and eye will be just what he needs!’
Off she went. She showed her hook and eye to the tsar. Her own hook and eye were just like the tsar’s hook and eye. They could have been cast from the same mould. The tsar said then and there, ‘You shall be my betrothed wife!’
They celebrated their wedding with a merry feast. They lived and prospered. Good things came their way, and they kept evil at bay. One day they went for a walk in their garden. All of a sudden a raven flew over their heads.
