Russian Magic Tales from Pushkin to Platonov (Penguin Classics) (18 page)

Ivan Tsarevich mounted the grey wolf. The wolf ran like the wind. With each stride the wolf cleared a mountain or vale, and he swept his tracks clean with his tail. After a long time, or maybe a short time, they came to Tsar Dalmat’s tsardom. The grey wolf stopped by the golden fence that ran round his garden and said, ‘Ivan Tsarevich. This time I’m going into the garden myself. Jump down and walk back the way we’ve just come. Wait for me in the open steppe, under the green oak.’

Ivan Tsarevich did as the wolf said. The grey wolf waited till the dark of night, leapt over the fence and hid in the bushes. All through the next day he sat waiting for Princess Yelena the Beautiful. Only in the evening did she come out into the green garden for a stroll and a breath of fresh air. With her were all her maids and nurses and ladies-in-waiting. Yelena the Beautiful wandered along picking flowers till she came to the bush where the grey wolf lay hidden. The grey wolf leapt out, threw Yelena the Beautiful across his back, leapt over the fence and galloped away with her. He was gone like a flash. He found Ivan Tsarevich under the oak tree and said, ‘Quick! Get on my back with Yelena the Beautiful! They’ll be after us.’

Ivan Tsarevich took Yelena the Beautiful in his arms and mounted the grey wolf. The wolf galloped off as fast as his legs could carry him. Back in the palace gardens all the maids and nurses and ladies-in-waiting were screaming at the tops of their voices. The tsar couldn’t make out what on earth had happened. When he at last understood, he called all his huntsmen
and galloped off after the wolf. But no matter how swiftly they galloped, the grey wolf galloped more swiftly, and the tsar returned empty handed.

After a while, Yelena the Beautiful opened her eyes and found she was in the arms of a handsome young warrior. Riding on the back of the grey wolf, they could hardly have torn themselves apart if they’d wished to. They fell deep in love.

When the grey wolf reached the tsardom of Tsar Kusman, the tsarevich began to weep bitter tears.

‘Why do you grieve, Ivan Tsarevich?’ asked the grey wolf. ‘Why are you weeping?’

‘How, Grey Wolf, can I help weeping? I love Princess Yelena. How can I part with such a beauty?’

The grey wolf looked at them both and said, ‘I’ve done you many services, Ivan Tsarevich, and I can serve you once more. You’ll have to pass me off as Yelena the Beautiful. I’ll strike against the ground and turn myself into a princess. Then you must take me to Tsar Kusman while Yelena waits under that oak over there. Tsar Kusman will give you the horse with the golden mane and the two of you can ride off. In no time at all I’ll catch up with you.’

They put Yelena the Beautiful down by the oak. The grey wolf struck against the ground and turned into her spitting image. Ivan Tsarevich led him into Tsar Kusman’s palace. The tsar was delighted. He had his grooms fetch the horse with the golden mane. He even gave Ivan the golden bridle as well. Ivan Tsarevich mounted the horse and set off. He found Yelena the Beautiful, lifted her up in his arms – and off they rode towards the tsardom of Tsar Afron.

Meanwhile Tsar Kusman prepared to celebrate a splendid wedding. His oak tables were laden with flagons of mead and the sweetest delicacies. The guests sat down and began toasting the bride and groom, shouting, ‘Bitter! Bitter!’ This was the moment for Tsar Kusman to kiss his sweet bride.
²
He leant over towards her, but instead of the soft lips of Yelena the Beautiful he found he was kissing the bristly muzzle of the grey wolf. He jumped back and let out a terrible scream. The grey wolf jumped out of the window, and that was the last any of them saw of him.

The grey wolf caught up with Ivan Tsarevich and Yelena the Beautiful and said, ‘You sit on my back, Ivan Tsarevich. Let the princess ride on the horse with the golden mane.’

Ivan Tsarevich mounted the grey wolf – and off they rode. Just before they came to the tsardom of Tsar Afron, Ivan began looking sad again.

‘What’s the matter, Ivan Tsarevich?’ asked the grey wolf. ‘What are you thinking about?’

‘About the horse with the golden mane. I don’t want to give him away in exchange for the Firebird. But if I don’t, Tsar Afron will spread slanders about me in every land.’

‘Don’t worry, Ivan Tsarevich. Didn’t I promise to serve you in word and in deed? I’ll turn myself into a horse with a golden mane and you can give me away to the tsar.’

They hid both Princess Yelena and the horse with the golden mane in the forest. The grey wolf struck against the damp earth and became a horse with a golden mane. Ivan Tsarevich jumped onto his back and rode to Tsar Afron’s palace. The tsar came out to meet Ivan Tsarevich in his great courtyard, took him by the right hand and led him into his fine chambers of white stone. He wanted him to stay and eat bread and salt, but Ivan was in a hurry to return to Yelena the Beautiful. The tsar handed him the Firebird in her golden cage. Ivan walked into the forest, sat himself behind Princess Yelena on the back of the horse with the golden mane, picked up the cage again and set off.

Next morning Tsar Afron wanted to ride his new horse in the open steppe. He rode out with his huntsmen. They came to a forest and began to chase different beasts. A fox leapt out of the bushes. The huntsmen all galloped after this fox, but only Tsar Afron could keep up with it. The huntsmen were left far behind.

Suddenly the huntsmen saw the horse with the golden mane stumble and vanish into thin air while a grey wolf leapt out from under the tsar’s legs. The tsar was thrown right up to his shoulders into the mud. The huntsmen galloped up. Somehow or other they dragged the tsar back onto his feet. They wanted to give chase to the wolf, but they couldn’t even find his tracks.

Soon the grey wolf caught up with Ivan Tsarevich and Yelena the Beautiful. Ivan got on his back, and they rode on. When they came to where the wolf had torn Ivan’s horse apart, the wolf stopped and said, ‘Ivan Tsarevich. This is where I killed your horse, and this is as far as I’ll take you. Now I am no longer your servant.’

Ivan Tsarevich bowed to the ground three times before the grey wolf. The wolf said, ‘That’s enough. We’re not saying goodbye forever. You’ll need me again.’

‘Why’s he saying that?’ wondered Ivan Tsarevich. ‘I won’t be needing any more help now.’ He mounted the horse with the golden mane, sat Yelena the Beautiful before him, took the Firebird’s golden cage in one hand and rode on. After some time – maybe a long time, maybe a short time – he reached his father’s tsardom. When he was nearly home, he stopped for a while to rest. Just then his two brothers came past. They had travelled through one country after another, searching for the Firebird. Now they were on their way back, empty handed. And there was Ivan – sleeping on the ground, with the Firebird, Yelena the Beautiful and the horse with the golden mane all lying there beside him. They both had the same thought: ‘Ivan’s already made fools of us once. He plucked the feather from the Firebird’s tail when we couldn’t even stay awake. Now look at what he’s gone and done. I think we should teach him a lesson.’

They drew their swords and slashed off Ivan Tsarevich’s head. Yelena the Beautiful awoke. Seeing that Ivan Tsarevich was dead, she began weeping bitterly. ‘You’re in
our
hands now,’ said Pyotr Tsarevich, holding the tip of his sword to her breast. ‘And you must tell the tsar that
we
won you, and that
we
found the Firebird and the horse with the golden mane. Or shall I put you to death straight away?’

The beautiful princess nearly died of fright then and there. She promised to do as they said. Then Pyotr and Vasily drew lots. Vasily Tsarevich won the horse with the golden mane and Pyotr Tsarevich won Yelena the Beautiful. They sat Yelena the Beautiful on the horse with the golden mane, took the Firebird and set off back home.

Ivan Tsarevich was left in the field. Ravens were circling
overhead, ready to pick at his flesh. And then, as if out of nowhere, the grey wolf appeared. He saw Ivan Tsarevich, sat down to one side and waited. A raven flew down and began to peck at Ivan’s breast. With it was a family of young. The wolf sprang forward and seized one of the young ravens in his jaws. The parent begged him to let it go.

‘Very well,’ said the grey wolf. ‘But first your child must stay with me for a while. I want you to fly far away, beyond thrice-nine lands to the thrice-tenth tsardom and fetch me the water of life and the water of death. Then I’ll give you your child back.’

The raven flew off. He flew for a long time, or maybe a short time, and in the end he came back with two little phials. One was filled with the water of life, the other with the water of death. The grey wolf took the phials, tore the young raven in two, put the two halves next to each other and sprinkled them with the water of death; the two halves grew together. He sprinkled the body with the water of life; the little raven gave a start and shot into the air.

After that the grey wolf placed Ivan’s head on his neck and sprinkled it with the water of death; it grew onto his body. He sprinkled Ivan with the water of life. Ivan came to life and said, ‘Goodness! I must have been sleeping for ages!’

‘Yes, Ivan Tsarevich. And without me you’d have slept forever. Your brothers chopped off your head. Then they took Yelena the Beautiful, the Firebird and the horse with the golden mane and rode back home. Get on my back now. We must gallop fast. Today’s the wedding of Yelena the Beautiful and Pyotr Tsarevich.’

Ivan Tsarevich mounted the grey wolf. The wolf leapt forward and was off. Outside the city gates he stopped and said, ‘Farewell, Ivan Tsarevich – this time, forever. Quick! There’s no time to lose!’

Ivan Tsarevich walked through the city. Outside the palace was a huge crowd of brightly dressed people. He asked what was happening.
³

‘Today the eldest tsarevich is marrying Yelena the Beautiful,’ they told him.

Ivan Tsarevich ran into the palace. The servants recognized him and ran to tell the tsar. Ivan followed. Pyotr Tsarevich fainted with terror. Yelena the Beautiful rushed up to Ivan Tsarevich and took him by the hand. Then she turned to the tsar and said, ‘This is the man who won me. He is my bridegroom.’

And Yelena told the tsar all that had happened. The tsar was furious with his two elder sons. He banished them from his tsardom and proclaimed Ivan Tsarevich his heir. The wedding was celebrated soon afterwards and there was a feast for the whole world. And Ivan and Yelena lived well, as I’ve heard tell, and they knew every good, as I’ve understood.

(1872–1942)

Several major folktale collections were published shortly before and after the outbreak of the First World War. The most important collector from this period was Nikolay Onchukov. Like Afanasyev and Khudyakov before him, he is a tragic figure.

Onchukov’s mother, his father and his maternal grandmother all died before he was twelve. He trained as a field doctor and worked for several years in the north of European Russia, where he grew increasingly interested in folklore, publishing articles in journals and newspapers and then obtaining sponsorship from the Russian Geographical Society to collect heroic epics and folktales in the far north. In 1908 he published
Northern Tales (Severnye skazki),
a large volume that included not only tales he had collected himself but also tales collected by three other linguists and folklorists. This was the first Russian collection in which the stories were arranged by location, collector and teller, and it served as a model for later collections. In his introduction Onchukov wrote, ‘The bards and storytellers are exceptional people. Though often not even literate, they are the village intelligentsia. They have no school diplomas, but they stand out for their intellectual abilities and often very great artistic gifts […] These poets and artists of the word inspire in anyone who has had real contact with them a deep respect for the intellectual powers of the Russian village and the variety of artistic talent concealed in its depths – for a potential that can only be fully developed through education.’
¹

Between 1900 and 1908 Onchukov spent a great deal of time in the far north; these were the most fruitful years of his
life. Even then, however, he was contending with difficulties that are hard for a modern reader to imagine. In the preface to one of his first publications he writes, ‘I left Petersburg on 2 April and was in Arkhangelsk on the 5th. I left for Pechora the following day […] I had to cover five hundred miles by sleigh, and it was the worst possible time for this. This was the far north and it was still only early spring, but the sun was blazing mercilessly, the snow was melting quickly and the tracks were quickly deteriorating. [ … ] Since a good half of the winter route to Pechora lay along frozen rivers, this was not without danger. The ice cover over the river was now free of snow and shone blue in the sun. Large areas free of ice had begun to appear by the banks and there were sinister patches of open water right by the edge of the sleigh track. Badly worn out, I arrived on 12 April, after covering five hundred miles in six days.’
²
In the course of two months, Onchukov covered 3,500 miles on foot, by boat, on horseback or in carts and sleighs. He does not explain the reason for his extreme haste; probably it was simply a matter of such journeys being easier to make by sleigh, while the ground was still frozen.

After the 1917 Revolution, Onchukov continued to work as a folklorist, a historian and a journalist, but he encountered many obstacles. During the 1920s and 1930s he compiled three more collections of folktales, but none was published until more than fifty years after his death. At some point in the 1920s he wrote, ‘In other countries the study of folklore is treated with due seriousness. It is deeply unfortunate and to our great discredit that Russia, the country with the very richest inheritance of oral folklore, treats this rich inheritance with particular carelessness. Every year ethnographers and folklorists go on excursions to far-flung parts of Russia, make notes, prepare material for publication – and then everything is salted away. When the materials will see the light of day, whether they will ever see the light of day, is uncertain.’
³