Danilushko replied, ‘I’d like to see it.’
At this, Katya became agitated: ‘What are you saying, Danilushko! Surely you’re not weary of this world already, are you?’ She started crying. Prokopich and the other craftsmen were not slow to grasp why. They began to poke fun at the old master: ‘Grandad, you’re going soft in the head. You and your fairy tales! Why lead the lad astray?’
At this the old man lost his temper. Banging his fist on the table, he said,
‘There
is
such a flower! What the lad says is true: we don’t understand the stone. Well, that flower shows us true beauty.’
The masters laughed: ‘You’ve had one too many, Grandad!’
But he kept on: ‘The stone flower exists!’
The guests left, but Danilushko was unable to forget this conversation. He began going back to the forest, wandering about near his moonflower, and he was no longer saying anything about a wedding. Prokopich began to press him: ‘Why bring shame upon the girl? How many years are you going to keep her waiting? Soon people will start laughing at her. It’s not as though there’s any shortage of gossips round here!’
Danilushko returned to his old refrain: ‘Wait a bit longer! I just need to decide what I want and then find the right stone.’
And he began going to the copper mine at Gumeshki. Sometimes he’d go right down into the mine and explore the workface; sometimes he would stay at the surface and sort through the stones he found there. Once, as he was turning over a stone and examining it, he said aloud, ‘No, not this one …’
No sooner had he spoken than a voice said, ‘You need to look somewhere else … at Snake Hill.’
Danilushko looked round – no one was there. Who could it be? Someone playing a joke … Only there didn’t seem to be anywhere they could be hiding. He looked around again and set off back home. Once again someone called out, ‘Did you hear, Master Danilko? Snake Hill, I tell you.’
Danilushko looked around. He could just about make out a woman, but she was no more than a bluish haze. And then there was nothing.
‘What’s this?’ he thought. ‘It couldn’t be her, could it? Perhaps I really should go to Snake Hill?’
Danilushko knew Snake Hill well. It was near by, not far from Gumeshki. Now the hill is no more, it was all levelled long ago, but in earlier times they used to take stone from the top of it.
Well, the next day Danilushko went to Snake Hill. The hill was small but steep. From one side it looked like it had been sheared off. The rock face couldn’t have been better: the strata were all beautifully clear.
Danilushko went up closer and found a large malachite rock. It had been torn out of the hill. It was a huge stone, too
heavy for him to lift, and it seemed to have been worked into the shape of a little bush. Danilushko began to examine his find. It was exactly what he needed: the colour was deeper at the bottom, the veins were all just where he wanted them. Well, it was perfect … Danilushko was overjoyed, he ran for a horse, brought the stone home and said to Prokopich, ‘Just look at this stone! It could have been made for me. Now I’ll get the work done in no time. Then we can have the wedding. Katya must be well and truly fed up with waiting for me. Well it’s not been easy for me, either. It’s only this job that’s been stopping me. Now I can finish it off!’
So Danilushko set to work on the stone. He worked around the clock. Prokopich said nothing: perhaps the lad would calm down when he had realized his dream. The work was going quickly. Danilushko had finished the bottom of the stone. It was the spitting image of a moonflower bush. The broad leaves, the jagged edges, the veins – everything was perfect. Even Prokopich said the bush seemed alive – so alive you wanted to reach out and touch it.
But as Danilushko began work on the very top part, he got stuck. He had turned the stem: the leaves lying close against the sides were so slender it was a miracle they held fast! The cup was just like the cup of a real moonflower, but something was wrong … It had gone dead; it had lost its beauty. Now Danilushko was unable to sleep at all. He would sit at the chalice, trying to decide how to put it right, what to do to make it better. Prokopich and the other masters couldn’t believe it – what more could the lad want? He had made a chalice the likes of which no one had ever seen, yet he was unhappy. The lad’s wits were wandering, he needed treatment. Katya heard what people were saying and she took to weeping. This made Danilushko begin to see reason.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll stop. It’s clear I can’t reach any higher, I’m never going to capture the power of the stone.’ And now it was he who was impatient to get married. But what was there to be impatient about when the bride had got everything ready long ago? They chose the day and Danilushko became more cheerful. He told the steward about the chalice. The steward
rushed round to look at it: yes, it was quite something! The steward wanted to send the chalice to the squire straight away, but Danilushko said, ‘Wait a little, it still needs a few finishing touches.’
It was autumn. The wedding was to be held around the time of the Day of the Snake. Someone happened to mention that all the snakes would soon be gathering in one spot. This made an impression on Danilushko. He remembered all the talk about the malachite flower. It was as if something were pulling him: ‘Perhaps I should go one last time to Snake Hill? Maybe there’s still a chance I could learn something there?’ And he remembered the stone: ‘It’s as if someone had put it there specially for me! And that voice telling me to go to Snake Hill!’
And so Danilushko went. The ground had already begun to frost over, and there was a dusting of snow. Danilushko went up to the steep slope where he had found the stone. He looked around. Right at the spot where the stone had been there was now a big hollow, as if someone had been quarrying. Without stopping to think about who this could have been, Danilushko stepped down into the hollow. ‘I’ll sit down and have a rest from the wind,’ he thought. ‘It’s warmer down here.’ Beside one of the walls of the hollow he saw a grey rock shaped like a chair. Danilushko sat on it, and fell deep into thought. He was looking down at the ground; he just couldn’t stop thinking about that stone flower. ‘If only I could have just one glimpse of it!’
All of a sudden it felt warm, as if summer had returned. Danilushko looked up: sitting opposite him, by the far wall, was the Mistress of the Copper Mountain. Danilushko knew her at once by her beauty and her malachite dress. Only he thought, ‘Maybe I’m just dreaming this. Maybe there isn’t really anyone at all.’ He went on silently sitting there, looking right at the spot where the Mistress was sitting, acting as if he saw nothing. She, too, was silent, as if lost in thought. Then she asked, ‘So, Master Danilko, did your moonflower chalice not work out?’
‘No,’ he answered. ‘It didn’t.’
‘Don’t be downhearted! Try again! You shall have stone according to your wish.’
‘No,’ he answered, ‘I can’t go on. I’m worn out, and it’s all gone wrong. Show me the stone flower.’
‘That’s easily done,’ she said, ‘only you’ll end up regretting it.’
‘Are you saying you won’t let me leave the mountain?’
‘What do you mean, not let you leave! The way is open, it’s just that people always return to me.’
‘Show me the flower, I beg you!’
Once again she tried to dissuade him: ‘Why not try once more to do it on your own!’ She talked about Prokopich: ‘He took pity on you, now it’s your turn to pity him.’ She talked about his betrothed: ‘The lass adores you, but you always have your eyes elsewhere.’
‘I know,’ Danilushko shouted, ‘but without the flower, life is nothing to me. Show it to me!’
‘In that case,’ she said, ‘let us go to my garden, Master Danilko.’
She stood up. At that moment there was a rustling noise like a landslide. Danilushko saw that the walls of the hollow had disappeared. Towering above him were tall trees, only they weren’t like ordinary trees – these trees were made of stone. Some were marble, some were of serpentine. Yes, every kind of stone. And they were alive, with branches and little leaves. They were swaying in the wind; there was a sound as if someone was tossing handfuls of shingle about. The grass below was also of stone. Azure, red, many-coloured … Though there was no sun to be seen, everything was lit up like just before sunset. Little golden snakes were fluttering and dancing between the trees. They radiated light.
And so the Mistress led Danilushko to a large clearing. Here the earth was like ordinary clay; on it, though, were bushes as black as velvet. And adorning these bushes were large green bell-shaped malachite flowers, and in each bell was a little antimony star. Above these flowers glimmered fiery bees, and the little stars were quietly chiming; it was as if they were singing.
‘Well, master craftsman Danilko, have you had your look?’ asked the Mistress.
‘How would I ever find the stone to make anything like this?’ replied Danilushko.
‘Had you thought up this flower yourself, I’d have given you the stone, but now I can’t.’
With that, she gave a wave of her hand.
Once again there was a rustling noise – and once again Danilushko was sitting on the chair-shaped stone in the hollow. The wind was whistling. Well, as we know, it was autumn.
Danilushko went back home. That very evening his betrothed was holding a party. At first Danilushko sang and danced and seemed full of cheer, but then it was as if a cloud came over him. Katya took fright: ‘What’s happened? You look like you’re at a funeral!’
He said, ‘My head’s hurting. All I can see is black and green and red. I can’t see light anywhere.’
The party came to an end. As was the custom, the bride and her girlfriends began to walk the groom back to his home. It was no distance at all, just one or two houses away. Katya said, ‘Let’s go the long way round, girls. We’ll walk to the end of the street, then come back down Yelanskaya Street.’
To herself she was thinking: ‘Perhaps he just needs some air, maybe he’ll perk up again once he’s outside.’
Her girlfriends were happy enough to go along with this. ‘Yes,’ they called out. ‘Of course, we must walk him home properly. He lives awfully close – we haven’t yet had time to sing him a proper parting song.’
It was a quiet night, and snow was falling – just right for a walk. And so on they went. The bride and groom walked ahead, while the bride’s girlfriends and the young men who had been at the party fell a little behind. The girls started up their parting song. It was long and plaintive, like a funeral lament. This was the last thing Katya wanted. Her Danilushko had been gloomy enough anyway: why did they have to go and sing him a funeral song?
She tried to distract Danilushko. He talked a little, but then he turned sad and silent again. In the meantime Katya’s girlfriends had come to the end of their parting song and moved on to more cheerful ones. The girls were lively and full of laughter, but Danilushko seemed more dejected than ever. No matter how she tried, there was nothing Katya could do to cheer him
up. And so they came to his home. The friends of the bride and groom began to go their separate ways, while Danilushko silently, without observing the rituals, walked the bride back to her door and then went back home again.
Prokopich had long since gone to bed. Danilushko quietly lit a lamp, dragged his chalices into the middle of the hut and stood there looking at them. Just then Prokopich was seized by a coughing fit. He was choking and gasping. You see, he was old and he had become quite ill. This coughing cut through Danilushko’s heart like a knife. Memories of the whole of his life with Prokopich flashed through his mind. He felt terribly sorry for the old man. As for Prokopich, when he had finished coughing, he asked, ‘What are you doing with the chalices?’
‘Oh, I’m just wondering if it’s time to hand them over.’
‘You should have done that long ago,’ said Prokopich. ‘They’re simply taking up space here. And there’s certainly nothing you can do to improve them.’
Well, they talked a little longer, then Prokopich fell back to sleep. And Danilushko lay down too, only he couldn’t get to sleep at all. He tossed and turned, got up again, lit a lamp, had another look at the chalices and walked over to Prokopich. For a while he just stood there, looking down at the old man and sighing …
Then he took a hammer and smashed it down onto the moonflower. The chalice shattered with a crunch. As for the other chalice, the one made from the squire’s drawing, he didn’t even touch it. He merely spat into the centre of it and ran out of the hut. And from that moment Danilushko was nowhere to be found.
Some said that he had gone crazy and disappeared into the forest; some said that the Mistress had taken him as one of her mountain masters.
But really it was all very different. And that is another story.
Katya, Danilko’s betrothed, remained unmarried. It was two or three years since Danilko had gone missing, and she had passed the usual age for marrying. In our parts, among the factory folk, a girl over twenty was considered past her prime. Young lads would seldom marry such girls – more often the girls would end up marrying widowers. This Katya, though, was a comely girl, and the young men were still asking for her hand. But her reply was always the same: ‘I’m promised to Danilko.’
They tried to talk her round: ‘Well, it can’t be helped! You were promised to him but you never married. No use thinking about all that now. The man died long ago.’
Katya would not budge: ‘I’m promised to Danilko. And maybe he will come back after all.’
‘He is not among the living,’ they would repeat. ‘That’s for sure.’
But she held fast: ‘No one has seen him dead. To me he’s as alive as ever.’
They decided the lass was not quite right in the head, and they left her alone. Others even started to mock her; they began calling her the corpse’s bride. The name stuck. From then on, it was as if she had no other name but Katya Corpse-Bride.
Then there was an outbreak of some kind of disease, and Katya’s elderly parents both died. She had a large family: three brothers, all of them with wives, and a number of married sisters. They fell out over who should live in their father’s house. Seeing they had reached a deadlock, Katya said, ‘I’ll go and live in Danilushko’s hut. Prokopich is quite elderly now. At least I’ll be able to look after him.’