On Sunday the tsarevna came in her fine clothes to the church and stood in her usual place. The service came to an end; it was time for her to go back. She took a step, but her slipper stuck to the pitch. She went back home with only one slipper. The tsarevich had the other slipper brought to him. He took it back home and then began trying it on all the young girls in the tsardom. The slipper didn’t fit anyone; it only fitted the old woman who stoked the stoves. The tsarevich questioned her; she told him who she was and where she was from. And so he married her. I was at the wedding feast – yes, I drank mead and wine there. No drop passed my lips; it all flowed down my beard.
How great – if we think about it – is God’s world! In it live rich and poor. There is space for all and the Lord watches and judges all. The wealthy live in idleness; the wretched toil. To each his lot is given.
In the tsar’s palace, high above the world in her royal chambers, lived a beautiful tsarevna who wouldn’t laugh. What a life she had! What freedom! What luxury! She had everything, all her heart could wish for. Yet not once did she smile or laugh; it seemed her heart took no joy in anything.
It was painful for the tsar to look on his sad daughter. He welcomed to his royal palace anyone who wished to be his guest. ‘Let them try to entertain the tsarevna who will not laugh!’ he said. ‘Whoever brings her joy may take her for his wife!’ No sooner had he spoken than the palace was surrounded by a dense crowd. From all sides – in carriages, on horseback, on foot – came tsareviches and princes, boyars and noblemen, important generals and simple people. Great feasts were eaten and much mead was drunk – but not once did the tsarevna laugh or smile.
Meanwhile, just outside the city, in a little corner of his own, there lived an honest worker. Every morning he swept his yard; every evening he pastured his livestock; he laboured constantly. His master, who was as just as he was wealthy, wanted to pay the worker his due. At the end of the year the master put a bag of money on the table, said, ‘Take as much as you want’, and left the room. The man went up to the table. ‘How can I avoid sin?’ he wondered. ‘How can I avoid taking too much for my labour?’ In the end he took a single coin. Holding the coin in
his fist, he went to the well for some water. He bent down. The coin fell out of his hand and dropped to the very bottom of the well.
The poor worker was left with nothing. Another man would have wept and grieved and thrown up his hands in despair – but not him. ‘Everything comes from the Lord,’ he thought. ‘The Lord knows to whom to give. Some he rewards generously; from others he takes away their last kopek. I must have been lazy and worked little. From now I shall be more zealous.’ He returned to work. And whatever task he turned his hand to, it was done well – and done in a flash.
Another year passed by, and his master again put a bag of money on the table. ‘Take as much as you want,’ he said, and left the room. The worker thought again about how not to anger God by taking too much for his labour. He took a single coin. Holding it in his fist, he went to the well for some water. He bent down – and somehow he let the coin slip. It fell into the well and dropped down to the very bottom. After that he began working still more zealously, sleeping only a little and eating only a little. And his work bore fruit. While other men’s grain was fading and withering, his master’s filled out and ripened. While other folk’s cattle could barely put one foot in front of the other, his master’s would be capering down the street. While other people’s horses, fearful of slipping, had to be dragged down a steep hill, his master’s could hardly be held back. His master was no fool and he knew whom to thank for all this. At the end of the year he placed a heap of money on the table. ‘Take as much as your soul desires,’ he said. ‘It was your labour and it’s your money.’ And he left the room.
Once again the man took only one coin. Once again he went to the well for a drink of water. But this time his coin stayed safe in his hand and the two coins from before floated up to the surface. He took them, understanding that the Lord had rewarded him for his labours. Full of joy, he said to himself, ‘It’s time I saw more of the wide world. It’s time I learned more about the people who live in it.’ He thought for a little, then set off where his eyes looked. He walked through a field – and a mouse ran up to him and said, ‘Give me a coin, brother. One
day I’ll do you a service!’ So he gave the mouse a coin. He walked through a wood – and a beetle crept up to him and said, ‘Give me a coin, brother. One day I’ll do you a service!’ So he gave the beetle a coin too. He swam across a river – and he met a catfish. The catfish said, ‘Give me a coin, brother. One day I’ll do you a service!’ He did not refuse the catfish either; he gave him his last coin.
The man made his way into the city. So many people! So many doors! He gazed about him; he turned in one direction after another, but he didn’t know which way to go. In front of him stood the tsar’s palace, decked with silver and gold. And sitting at her window, looking straight at him, was the tsarevna who wouldn’t laugh. What should he do with himself? Where could he hide? His eyes clouded over, sleep dropped down on him, and he fell flat on his face in the mud. And straight away, as if out of nowhere, appeared the big-whiskered catfish, the beetling beetle and little Miss Mouse. There they all were, and they quickly got down to work. The mouse took the man’s coat off; the beetle cleaned his boots; and the catfish drove the flies away with his big whiskers. The tsarevna who wouldn’t laugh couldn’t take her eyes off all this. She burst out laughing.
‘Who has brought joy to my daughter?’ asked the tsar. ‘I did!’ said one man. ‘
I
did!’ said another. ‘No!’ said the tsarevna who wouldn’t laugh. ‘It was him!’ And she pointed to the worker down below. He was led into the palace at once, and there before the tsar he became a handsome young fellow. And the tsar kept his royal oath; the young couple were betrothed that very evening.
‘Didn’t the worker just dream all this?’ I sometimes say. But people tell me this is the honest truth – and so we must believe it.
In a certain village there once lived two brothers. One was poor, the other rich. The rich brother went to live in the city, built himself a fine house and became a merchant. But the poor brother often didn’t have so much as a crust of bread in the house; his little children, each littler than the next, were always weeping and begging for something to put in their mouths. From morning till night the man struggled to keep his head above water – but all in vain. One day he said to his wife, ‘I’m going to the city to see my brother. Maybe he’ll help us out.’ He found his rich brother and said, ‘Dear brother, help me a little in my misery. My wife and children are without bread. They’re going hungry for days on end.’ ‘Do a week’s work for me – then I’ll help you.’ What could the poor brother do? He set to work. He swept the yard; he groomed the horses; he fetched water and he chopped wood. At the end of the week the rich brother gave him a loaf of bread. ‘Here you are!’ he said. ‘This is for the work you’ve done.’ ‘For this,’ said the poor brother, ‘I thank you.’ He bowed low and was about to set off back home. ‘Wait a moment,’ said the rich brother. ‘Come back tomorrow. Be my guest. And bring your wife too. Tomorrow’s my name day.’ ‘What do you mean, brother? How can I? Your other guests will be merchants. They’ll be wearing boots and fur coats. But I’ve only got my bast sandals and my old grey kaftan.’ ‘That doesn’t matter. Come along anyway. There’ll be a place for you too.’ ‘All right, brother, I’ll come.’ The poor brother went back home, gave the loaf of bread to his wife and said, ‘Listen, wife! We’ve been invited to a feast tomorrow.’ ‘What do you mean? Who by?’ ‘By my brother. Tomorrow’s his
name day.’ ‘All right then, let’s go.’ The following morning they went straight to the city. They went to the house of the rich brother, gave him their congratulations and sat down on a bench. Sitting at the table were many distinguished guests, and the rich brother was feasting them all splendidly. But he completely forgot about the poor brother and his wife. He didn’t give them anything to eat at all. Their only entertainment was to sit and watch everyone else eating and drinking. When the dinner was over, the guests rose from the table and began to thank their host and hostess. The poor brother got to his feet too, then bowed to the ground before his brother. And the guests went off in their carriages, drunken and merry, singing at the tops of their voices.
The poor brother had to walk home on foot, and with an empty stomach. But he said to his wife, ‘We must sing a song too!’ ‘What do you mean, you fool? People sing because they’ve eaten and drunk their fill. But what have we got to sing about?’ ‘I’ve just been at a feast – the name day of my own brother. I’m ashamed to walk home without singing. If I sing, people will think I’ve had a good time.’ ‘All right then,
you
sing if you must – but I won’t!’ The peasant began to sing. What he heard, though, was not one voice but two. He stopped and said to his wife, ‘Was it you just then, singing along with me in a high voice?’ ‘What do you mean? I wasn’t doing anything of the kind.’ ‘Who was it then?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said the wife. ‘But try singing again. I’ll listen.’ The husband began to sing a second time. He was singing alone, but there were two voices. ‘Is that you, Misery, singing along with me?’ And Misery replied, ‘Yes, Master, it was me.’ ‘Well, Misery, come back home with us then!’ ‘Yes, Master, I’m not going to leave you now.’
The peasant got back home. Misery invited him along to the tavern with him. The peasant said, ‘But I haven’t got any money!’ ‘Who cares about that? What do you need money for? You’re wearing a sheepskin, but it’ll be summer soon and you won’t need it then. Let’s go to the tavern – and off with that sheepskin!’ The peasant and Misery went to the tavern and drank away the sheepskin. The next morning Misery was moaning and groaning. Misery had a hangover from the night
before and he wanted the peasant to go back to the tavern with him for some more vodka. ‘But I haven’t got any money!’ ‘Who cares about that? What do you need money for? Take your sleigh and your cart – that’ll be more than enough.’ What could the peasant do? There’s no getting away from Misery. He took his sleigh and his cart and dragged them along to the tavern; then he and Misery drank them away too. The morning after, Misery was moaning and groaning more than ever. He had to drink away his hangover; he got the peasant to go back to the tavern yet again. This time the peasant drank away his harrow and plough. Before a month had gone by, the peasant had squandered everything he possessed. He had even pawned his hut to a neighbour and drunk away all the money the neighbour had given him for it. But there’s no getting away from Misery. ‘Come on, friend, let’s go to the tavern!’ ‘No, Misery, I’ll do what you will – but there’s nothing more I can sell.’ ‘What do you mean? Your wife has two dresses. You can leave your wife one of them – but we must drink away the other.’ The peasant took one of the dresses, drank it away and said to himself, ‘Now I truly am cleaned out. Neither house nor home. Neither my wife nor I have anything left.’
Misery woke up the next morning, saw there was nothing more he could take from the peasant and said, ‘Master!’ ‘What is it, Misery?’ ‘Listen now. You must go round to your neighbour and ask if you can borrow a cart and a pair of oxen.’ The peasant did as Misery told him. He said to his neighbour, ‘Let me borrow your cart and a pair of oxen, just for a little while. In return I’ll do a week’s work for you.’ ‘What do you want them for?’ ‘To go to the forest for firewood.’ ‘All right then, but mind you don’t overload the cart.’ ‘Certainly not, my friend!’ The peasant took the oxen, sat down with Misery in the cart and drove out into the steppe. ‘Master,’ said Misery, ‘do you know the big stone over there?’ ‘How could I not know it?’ ‘Well then, drive right up to it.’ They came to the stone, stopped and got down from the cart. Misery told the peasant to lift up the stone. The peasant lifted the stone, and Misery helped too. Beneath the stone lay a pit filled with gold. ‘Come on then,’ said Misery. ‘Don’t just stand and stare. Load it into the cart.’
The peasant got to work. He filled the cart with gold. He completely emptied the pit, down to the very last gold rouble. When he was quite sure there was nothing left, he said to Misery, ‘Have a look, Misery. Are you sure there isn’t anything left there?’ Misery leaned down over the pit. ‘Where? I can’t see anything myself.’ ‘There – in the corner! I can see a coin glittering.’ ‘I can’t see anything at all.’ Misery crawled down. As soon as he was safely in the pit, the peasant laid the stone back on top of him. ‘It’ll be better like this,’ said the peasant. ‘If I were to take you back with me, O miserable Misery, you’d drink our way through all this too. Yes, sooner or later you’d drink away every last piece of gold.’ The peasant went back home, stored the money in his cellar, returned the oxen to his neighbour and began to think about how best to establish himself in the world. First, he bought plenty of wood and built himself a fine house – and soon he was living twice as wealthily as his brother the merchant.
Time passed – maybe a long time, maybe a short time. One day he rode to the city to invite his rich brother to his name-day party. ‘What do you mean?’ asked the brother. ‘You’ve got nothing to eat yourself. How can you be celebrating your name day?’ ‘There was a time when I had nothing to eat. But now – thanks are to God – I have no less than you. Come along and you’ll see!’ ‘Very well then, I’ll come.’ The following day the rich brother and his wife set off to the feast. They could hardly believe their eyes: this wretched pauper now had a grand new house – grander than many a merchant’s. And he was treating them to one delicacy after another – and to every kind of mead and wine. ‘Tell me,’ said the rich brother, ‘what turn of fate has brought you these riches!’ The poor brother told him the honest truth, how Misery had fastened on him; how he and this miserable miserybags had gone to the tavern and drunk away all he owned, down to his last thread of clothing, until there was nothing left to him but the soul in his body; how Misery had taken him to a store of buried treasure out in the steppe; how he had taken the treasure for himself and said goodbye forever to Misery.