Old Peter's Russian Tales
Arthur Ransome
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Book Info Category: Short Stories Sections: 21 What's this? Table of Contents |
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NOTE
The stories in this book are those that Russian peasants tell their
children and each other. In Russia hardly anybody is too old for
fairy stories, and I have even heard soldiers on their way to the war
talking of very wise and very beautiful princesses as they drank their
tea by the side of the road. I think there must be more fairy stories
told in Russia than anywhere else in the world. In this book are a few
of those I like best. I have taken my own way with them more or less,
writing them mostly from memory. They, or versions like them, are to
be found in the coloured chap-books, in Afanasiev's great collection,
or in solemn, serious volumes of folklorists writing for the learned.
My book is not for the learned, or indeed for grown-up people at all.
No people who really like fairy stories ever grow up altogether. This
is a book written far away in Russia, for English children who play in
deep lanes with wild roses above them in the high hedges, or by the
small singing becks that dance down the gray fells at home. Russian
fairyland is quite different. Under my windows the wavelets of the
Volkhov (which has its part in one of the stories) are beating quietly
in the dusk. A gold light burns on a timber raft floating down the
river. Beyond the river in the blue midsummer twilight are the broad
Russian plain and the distant forest. Somewhere in that forest of
great trees--a forest so big that the forests of England are little
woods beside it--is the hut where old Peter sits at night and tells
these stories to his grandchildren.
A.R.
VERGEZHA.
CONTENTS
THE HUT IN THE FOREST
THE TALE OF THE SILVER SAUCER AND THE
TRANSPARENT APPLE
SADKO
FROST
THE FOOL OF THE WORLD AND THE FLYING
SHIP
BABA YAGA
THE CAT WHO BECAME HEAD-FORESTER
SPRING IN THE FOREST
THE LITTLE DAUGHTER OF THE SNOW
PRINCE IVAN, THE WITCH BABY, AND THE LITTLE
SISTER OF THE SUN
THE STOLEN TURNIPS, THE MAGIC TABLECLOTH,
THE SNEEZING GOAT, AND THE WOODEN
WHISTLE
LITTLE MASTER MISERY
A CHAPTER OF FISH
THE GOLDEN FISH
WHO LIVED IN THE SKULL?
ALENOUSHKA AND HER BROTHER
THE FIRE-BIRD, THE HORSE OF POWER, AND THE
PRINCESS VASILISSA
THE HUNTER AND HIS WIFE
THE THREE MEN OF POWER--EVENING, MIDNIGHT,
AND SUNRISE
SALT
THE CHRISTENING IN THE VILLAGE
LIST OF COLOUR PLATES
They sailed away once more over the blue sea.
_Frontispiece_
There she was, a good fur cloak about her
shoulders and costly blankets round her
feet.
There she was, beating with the pestle and sweeping
with the besom.
Misery seated himself firmly on his shoulders
and pulled out handfuls of his hair.
"Head in air and tail in sea,
Fish, fish, listen to me."
He stepped on one of its fiery wings and pressed it to the ground.
It caught up the three lovely princesses and carried them up into the
air.
OLD PETER'S RUSSIAN TALES.
THE HUT IN THE FOREST.
Outside in the forest there was deep snow. The white snow had crusted
the branches of the pine trees, and piled itself up them till they
bent under its weight. Now and then a snow-laden branch would bend too
far, and huge lumps of snow fell crashing to the ground under the
trees. Then the branch would swing up, and the snow covered it again
with a cold white burden. Sitting in the hut you could hear the
crashing again and again out in the forest, as the tired branches
flung down their loads of snow. Yes, and now and then there was the
howling of wolves far away.
Little Maroosia heard them, and thought of them out there in the dark
as they galloped over the snow. She sat closer to Vanya, her brother,
and they were both as near as they could get to the door of the
stove, where they could see the red fire burning busily, keeping the
whole hut warm. The stove filled a quarter of the hut, but that was
because it was a bed as well. There were blankets on it, and in those
blankets Vanya and Maroosia rolled up and went to sleep at night, as
warm as little baking cakes.
The hut was made of pine logs cut from the forest. You could see the
marks of the axe. Old Peter was the grandfather of Maroosia and Vanya.
He lived alone with them in the hut in the forest, because their
father and mother were both dead. Maroosia and Vanya could hardly
remember them, and they were very happy with old Peter, who was very
kind to them and did all he could to keep them warm and well fed. He
let them help him in everything, even in stuffing the windows with
moss to keep the cold out when winter began. The moss kept the light
out too, but that did not matter. It would be all the jollier in the
spring when the sun came pouring in.
Besides old Peter and Maroosia and Vanya there were Vladimir and
Bayan. Vladimir was a cat, a big black cat, as stately as an emperor,
and just now he was lying in Vanya's arms fast asleep. Bayan was a
dog, a tall gray wolf-dog. He could jump over the table with a single
bound. When he was in the hut he usually lay underneath the table,
because that was the only place where he could lie without being in
the way. And, of course at meal times he was in the way even there.
Just now he was out with old Peter.
"I wonder what story it will be to-night?" said Maroosia.
"So do I," said Vanya. "I wish they'd be quick and come back."
Vladimir stirred suddenly in Vanya's lap, and a minute later they
heard the scrunch of boots in the snow, and the stamping of old
Peter's feet trying to get the snow off his boots. Then the door
opened, and Bayan pushed his way in and shook himself, and licked
Maroosia and Vanya and startled Vladimir, and lay down under the table
and came out again, because he was so pleased to be home. And old
Peter came in after him, with his gun on his back and a hare in his
hand. He shook himself just like Bayan, and the snow flew off like
spray. He hung up his gun, flung the hare into a corner of the hut,
and laughed.
"You are snug in here, little pigeons," he said.
Vanya and Maroosia had jumped up to welcome him, and when he opened
his big sheepskin coat, they tumbled into it together and clung to his
belt. Then he closed the big woolly coat over the top of them and they
squealed; and he opened it a little way and looked down at them over
his beard, and then closed it again for a moment before letting them
out. He did this every night, and Bayan always barked when they were
shut up inside.
Then old Peter took his big coat off and lifted down the samovar from
the shelf. The samovar is like a big tea-urn, with a red-hot fire in
the middle of it keeping the water boiling. It hums like a bee on the
tea-table, and the steam rises in a little jet from a tiny hole in the
top. The boiling water comes out of a tap at the bottom. Old Peter
threw in the lighted sticks and charcoal, and made a draught to draw
the heat, and then set the samovar on the table with the little fire
crackling in its inside. Then he cut some big lumps of black bread.
Then he took a great saucepan full of soup, that was simmering on the
stove, and emptied it into a big wooden bowl. Then he went to the wall
where, on three nails, hung three wooden spoons, deep like ladles.
There were one big spoon, for old Peter; and two little spoons, one
for Vanya and one for Maroosia.
And all the time that old Peter was getting supper ready he was
answering questions and making jokes--old ones, of course, that he
made every day--about how plump the children were, and how fat was
better to eat than butter, and what the Man in the Moon said when he
fell out, and what the wolf said who caught his own tail and ate
himself up before he found out his mistake.
And Vanya and Maroosia danced about the hut and chuckled.
Then they had supper, all three dipping their wooden spoons in the big
bowl together, and eating a tremendous lot of black bread. And, of
course, there were scraps for Vladimir and a bone for Bayan.
After that they had tea with sugar but no milk, because they were
Russians and liked it that way.
Then came the stories. Old Peter made another glass of tea for
himself, not for the children. His throat was old, he said, and took a
lot of keeping wet; and they were young, and would not sleep if they
drank tea too near bedtime. Then he threw a log of wood into the
stove. Then he lit a short little pipe, full of very strong tobacco,
called Mahorka, which has a smell like hot tin. And he puffed, and the
smoke got in his eyes, and he wiped them with the back of his big
hand.
All the time he was doing this Vanya and Maroosia were snuggling
together close by the stove, thinking what story they would ask for,
and listening to the crashing of the snow as it fell from the trees
outside. Now that old Peter was at home, the noise made them feel
comfortable and warm. Before, perhaps, it made them feel a little
frightened.
"Well, little pigeons, little hawks, little bear cubs, what is it to
be?" said old Peter.
"We don't know," said Maroosia.
"Long hair, short sense, little she-pigeon," said old Peter. "All this
time and not thought of a story? Would you like the tale of the little
Snow Girl who was not loved so much as a hen?"
"Not to-night, grandfather," said Vanya.
"We'd like that tale when the snow melts," said Maroosia.
"To-night we'd like a story we've never heard before," said Vanya.
"Well, well," said old Peter, combing his great gray beard with his
fingers, and looking out at them with twinkling eyes from under his
big bushy eyebrows. "Have I ever told you the story of 'The Silver
Saucer and the Transparent Apple'?"
"No, no, never," cried Vanya and Maroosia at once.
Old Peter took a last pull at his pipe, and Vanya and Maroosia
wriggled with excitement. Then he drank a sip of tea. Then he began.
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