Section 14 of 21 - Table of Contents
THE GOLDEN FISH.
"This," said old Peter, "is a story against wanting more than enough."
Long ago, near the shore of the blue sea, an old man lived with his
old woman in a little old hut made of earth and moss and logs. They
never had a rouble to spend. A rouble! they never had a kopeck. They
just lived there in the little hut, and the old man caught fish out of
the sea in his old net, and the old woman cooked the fish; and so
they lived, poorly enough in summer and worse in winter. Sometimes
they had a few fish to sell, but not often. In the summer evenings
they sat outside their hut on a broken old bench, and the old man
mended the holes in his ragged old net. There were holes in it a hare
could jump through with his ears standing, let alone one of those
little fishes that live in the sea. The old woman sat on the bench
beside him, and patched his trousers and complained.
Well, one day the old man went fishing, as he always did. All day long
he fished, and caught nothing. And then in the evening, when he was
thinking he might as well give up and go home, he threw his net for
the last time, and when he came to pull it in he began to think he had
caught an island instead of a haul of fish, and a strong and lively
island at that--the net was so heavy and pulled so hard against his
feeble old arms.
"This time," says he, "I have caught a hundred fish at least."
Not a bit of it. The net came in as heavy as if it were full of
fighting fish, but empty ----.
"Empty?" said Maroosia.
"Well, not quite empty," said old Peter, and went on with his tale.
Not quite empty, for when the last of the net came ashore there was
something glittering in it--a golden fish, not very big and not very
little, caught in the meshes. And it was this single golden fish which
had made the net so heavy.
The old fisherman took the golden fish in his hands.
"At least it will be enough for supper," said he.
But the golden fish lay still in his hands, and looked at him with
wise eyes, and spoke--yes, my dears, it spoke, just as if it were you
or I.
"Old man," says the fish, "do not kill me. I beg you throw me back
into the blue waters. Some day I may be able to be of use to you."
"What?" says the old fisherman; "and do you talk with a human voice?"
"I do," says the fish. "And my fish's heart feels pain like yours. It
would be as bitter to me to die as it would be to yourself."
"And is that so?" says the old fisherman. "Well, you shall not die
this time." And he threw the golden fish back into the sea.
You would have thought the golden fish would have splashed with his
tail, and turned head downwards, and swum away into the blue depths of
the sea. Not a bit of it. It stayed there with its tail slowly
flapping in the water so as to keep its head up, and it looked at the
fisherman with its wise eyes, and it spoke again.
"You have given me my life," says the golden fish. "Now ask anything
you wish from me, and you shall have it."
The old fisherman stood there on the shore, combing his beard with his
old fingers, and thinking. Think as he would, he could not call to
mind a single thing he wanted.
"No, fish," he said at last; "I think I have everything I need,"
"Well, if ever you do want anything, come and ask for it," says the
fish, and turns over, flashing gold, and goes down into the blue sea.
The old fisherman went back to his hut, where his wife was waiting for
him.
"What!" she screamed out; "you haven't caught so much as one little
fish for our supper?"
"I caught one fish, mother," says the old man: "a golden fish it was,
and it spoke to me; and I let it go, and it told me to ask for
anything I wanted."
"And what did you ask for? Show me."
"I couldn't think of anything to ask for; so I did not ask for
anything at all."
"Fool," says his wife, "and dolt, and us with no food to put in our
mouths. Go back at once, and ask for some bread."
Well, the poor old fisherman got down his net, and tramped back to the
seashore. And he stood on the shore of the wide blue sea, and he
called out,--
"Head in air and tail in sea,
Fish, fish, listen to me."
And in a moment there was the golden fish with his head out of the
water, flapping his tail below him in the water, and looking at the
fisherman with his wise eyes.
"What is it?" said the fish.
"Be so kind," says the fisherman; "be so kind. We have no bread in the
house."
"Go home," says the fish, and turned over and went down into the sea.
"God be good to me," says the old fisherman; "but what shall I say to
my wife, going home like this without the bread?" And he went home
very wretchedly, and slower than he came.
As soon as he came within sight of his hut he saw his wife, and she
was waving her arms and shouting.
"Stir your old bones," she screamed out. "It's as fine a loaf as ever
I've seen."
And he hurried along, and found his old wife cutting up a huge loaf of
white bread, mind you, not black--a huge loaf of white bread, nearly
as big as Maroosia.
"You did not do so badly after all," said his old wife as they sat
there with the samovar on the table between them, dipping their bread
in the hot tea.
But that night, as they lay sleeping on the stove, the old woman poked
the old man in the ribs with her bony elbow. He groaned and woke up.
"I've been thinking," says his wife, "your fish might have given us a
trough to keep the bread in while he was about it. There is a lot left
over, and without a trough it will go bad, and not be fit for
anything. And our old trough is broken; besides, it's too small.
First thing in the morning off you go, and ask your fish to give us a
new trough to put the bread in."
Early in the morning she woke the old man again, and he had to get up
and go down to the seashore. He was very much afraid, because he
thought the fish would not take it kindly. But at dawn, just as the
red sun was rising out of the sea, he stood on the shore, and called
out in his windy old voice,--
"Head in air and tail in sea,
Fish, fish, listen to me."
And there in the morning sunlight was the golden fish, looking at him
with its wise eyes.
"I beg your pardon," says the old man, "but could you, just to oblige
my wife, give us some sort of trough to put the bread in?"
"Go home," says the fish; and down it goes into the blue sea.
The old man went home, and there, outside the hut, was the old woman,
looking at the handsomest bread trough that ever was seen on earth.
Painted it was, with little flowers, in three colours, and there were
strips of gilding about its handles.
"Look at this," grumbled the old woman. "This is far too fine a trough
for a tumbledown hut like ours. Why, there is scarcely a place in the
roof where the rain does not come through. If we were to keep this
trough in such a hut, it would be spoiled in a month. You must go back
to your fish and ask it for a new hut."
"I hardly like to do that," says the old man.
"Get along with you," says his wife. "If the fish can make a trough
like this, a hut will be no trouble to him. And, after all, you must
not forget he owes his life to you."
"I suppose that is true," says the old man; but he went back to the
shore with a heavy heart. He stood on the edge of the sea and called
out, doubtfully,--
"Head in air and tail in sea,
Fish, fish, listen to me."
Instantly there was a ripple in the water, and the golden fish was
looking at him with its wise eyes.
"Well?" says the fish.
"My old woman is so pleased with the trough that she wants a new hut
to keep it in, because ours, if you could only see it, is really
falling to pieces, and the rain comes in and ----."
"Go home," says the fish.
The old fisherman went home, but he could not find his old hut at all.
At first he thought he had lost his way. But then he saw his wife. And
she was walking about, first one way and then the other, looking at
the finest hut that God ever gave a poor moujik to keep him from the
rain and the cold, and the too great heat of the sun. It was built of
sound logs, neatly finished at the ends and carved. And the
overhanging of the roof was cut in patterns, so neat, so pretty, you
could never think how they had been done. The old woman looked at it
from all sides. And the old man stood, wondering. Then they went in
together. And everything within the hut was new and clean. There were
a fine big stove, and strong wooden benches, and a good table, and a
fire lit in the stove, and logs ready to put in, and a samovar already
on the boil--a fine new samovar of glittering brass.
You would have thought the old woman would have been satisfied with
that. Not a bit of it.
"You don't know how to lift your eyes from the ground," says she. "You
don't know what to ask. I am tired of being a peasant woman and a
moujik's wife. I was made for something better. I want to be a lady,
and have good people to do the work, and see folk bow and curtsy to me
when I meet them walking abroad. Go back at once to the fish, you old
fool, and ask him for that, instead of bothering him for little
trifles like bread troughs and moujiks' huts. Off with you."
The old fisherman went back to the shore with a sad heart; but he was
afraid of his wife, and he dared not disobey her. He stood on the
shore, and called out in his windy old voice,--
"Head in air and tail in sea,
Fish, fish, listen to me."
Instantly there was the golden fish looking at him with its wise eyes.
"Well?" says the fish.
"My old woman won't give me a moment's peace," says the old man; "and
since she has the new hut--which is a fine one, I must say; as good a
hut as ever I saw--she won't be content at all. She is tired of being
a peasant's wife, and wants to be a lady with a house and servants,
and to see the good folk curtsy to her when she meets them walking
abroad."
"Go home," says the fish.
The old man went home, thinking about the hut, and how pleasant it
would be to live in it, even if his wife were a lady.
But when he got home the hut had gone, and in its place there was a
fine brick house, three stories high. There were servants running this
way and that in the courtyard. There was a cook in the kitchen, and
there was his old woman, in a dress of rich brocade, sitting idle in a
tall carved chair, and giving orders right and left.
"Good health to you, wife," says the old man.
"Ah, you, clown that you are, how dare you call me your wife! Can't
you see that I'm a lady? Here! Off with this fellow to the stables,
and see that he gets a beating he won't forget in a hurry."
Instantly the servants seized the old man by the collar and lugged him
along to the stables. There the grooms treated him to such a whipping
that he could hardly stand on his feet. After that the old woman made
him doorkeeper. She ordered that a besom should be given him to clean
up the courtyard, and said that he was to have his meals in the
kitchen. A wretched life the old man lived. All day long he was
sweeping up the courtyard, and if there was a speck of dirt to be seen
in it anywhere, he paid for it at once in the stable under the whips
of the grooms.
Time went on, and the old woman grew tired of being only a lady. And
at last there came a day when she sent into the yard to tell the old
man to come before her. The poor old man combed his hair and cleaned
his boots, and came into the house, and bowed low before the old
woman.
"Be off with you, you old good-for-nothing!" says she. "Go and find
your golden fish, and tell him from me that I am tired of being a
lady. I want to be Tzaritza, with generals and courtiers and men of
state to do whatever I tell them."
The old man went along to the seashore, glad enough to be out of the
courtyard and out of reach of the stablemen with their whips. He came
to the shore, and cried out in his windy old voice,--
"Head in air and tail in sea,
Fish, fish, listen to me."
And there was the golden fish looking at him with its wise eyes.
"What's the matter now, old man?" says the fish.
"My old woman is going on worse than ever," says the old fisherman.
"My back is sore with the whips of her grooms. And now she says it
isn't enough for her to be a lady; she wants to be a Tzaritza."
"Never you worry about it," says the fish. "Go home and praise God;"
and with that the fish turned over and went down into the sea.
The old man went home slowly, for he did not know what his wife would
do to him if the golden fish did not make her into a Tzaritza.
But as soon as he came near he heard the noise of trumpets and the
beating of drums, and there where the fine stone house had been was
now a great palace with a golden roof. Behind it was a big garden of
flowers, that are fair to look at but have no fruit, and before it was
a meadow of fine green grass. And on the meadow was an army of
soldiers drawn up in squares and all dressed alike. And suddenly the
fisherman saw his old woman in the gold and silver dress of a Tzaritza
come stalking out on the balcony with her generals and boyars to hold
a review of her troops. And the drums beat and the trumpets sounded,
and the soldiers cried "Hurrah!" And the poor old fisherman found a
dark corner in one of the barns, and lay down in the straw.
Time went on, and at last the old woman was tired of being Tzaritza.
She thought she was made for something better. And one day she said to
her chamberlain,--
"Find me that ragged old beggar who is always hanging about in the
courtyard. Find him, and bring him here."
The chamberlain told his officers, and the officers told the servants,
and the servants looked for the old man, and found him at last asleep
on the straw in the corner of one of the barns. They took some of the
dirt off him, and brought him before the Tzaritza, sitting proudly on
her golden throne.
"Listen, old fool!" says she. "Be off to your golden fish, and tell it
I am tired of being Tzaritza. Anybody can be Tzaritza. I want to be
the ruler of the seas, so that all the waters shall obey me, and all
the fishes shall be my servants."
"I don't like to ask that," said the old man, trembling.
"What's that?" she screamed at him. "Do you dare to answer the
Tzaritza? If you do not set off this minute, I'll have your head cut
off and your body thrown to the dogs."
Unwillingly the old man hobbled off. He came to the shore, and cried
out with a windy, quavering old voice,--
"Head in air and tail in sea,
Fish, fish, listen to me."
Nothing happened.
The old man thought of his wife, and what would happen to him if she
were still Tzaritza when he came home. Again he called out,--
"Head in air and tail in sea,
Fish, fish, listen to me."
Nothing happened, nothing at all.
A third time, with the tears running down his face, he called out in
his windy, creaky, quavering old voice,--
"Head in air and tail in sea,
Fish, fish, listen to me."
Suddenly there was a loud noise, louder and louder over the sea. The
sun hid itself. The sea broke into waves, and the waves piled
themselves one upon another. The sky and the sea turned black, and
there was a great roaring wind that lifted the white crests of the
waves and tossed them abroad over the waters. The golden fish came up
out of the storm and spoke out of the sea.
"What is it now?" says he, in a voice more terrible than the voice of
the storm itself.
"O fish," says the old man, trembling like a reed shaken by the storm,
"my old woman is worse than before. She is tired of being Tzaritza.
She wants to be the ruler of the seas, so that all the waters shall
obey her and all the fishes be her servants."
The golden fish said nothing, nothing at all. He turned over and went
down into the deep seas. And the wind from the sea was so strong that
the old man could hardly stand against it. For a long time he waited,
afraid to go home; but at last the storm calmed, and it grew towards
evening, and he hobbled back, thinking to creep in and hide amongst
the straw.
As he came near, he listened for the trumpets and the drums. He heard
nothing except the wind from the sea rustling the little leaves of
birch trees. He looked for the palace. It was gone, and where it had
been was a little tumbledown hut of earth and logs. It seemed to the
old fisherman that he knew the little hut, and he looked at it with
joy. And he went to the door of the hut, and there was sitting his old
woman in a ragged dress, cleaning out a saucepan, and singing in a
creaky old voice. And this time she was glad to see him, and they sat
down together on the bench and drank tea without sugar, because they
had not any money.
They began to live again as they used to live, and the old man grew
happier every day. He fished and fished, and many were the fish that
he caught, and of many kinds; but never again did he catch another
golden fish that could talk like a human being. I doubt whether he
would have said anything to his wife about it, even if he had caught
one every day.
* * * * *
"What a horrid old woman!" said Maroosia.
"I wonder the old fisherman forgave her," said Ivan.
"I think he might have beaten her a little," said Maroosia. "she
deserved it."
"Well," said old Peter, "supposing we could have everything we wanted
for the asking, I wonder how it would be. Perhaps God knew what He
was doing when He made those golden fishes rare."
"Are there really any of them?" asked Vanya.
"Well, there was once one, anyhow," said old Peter; and then he rolled
his nets neatly together, hung them on the fence, and went into the
hut to make the dinner. And Vanya and Maroosia went in with him to
help him as much as they could; though Vanya was wondering all the
time whether he could make a net, and throw it in the little river
where old Peter fished, and perhaps pull out a golden fish that would
speak to him with the voice of a human being.
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