Vasilísa the Fair

Once upon a time, in a distant land, there lived a merchant who had been married for twelve years and had but one daughter, a girl named Vasilísa the Fair. When the child was eight years old, her mother fell gravely ill. On her deathbed, the mother called Vasilísa to her side, took a little doll from under her coverlet, and said, "Listen to my last words, my dear daughter. I am dying, and I leave you my blessing and this doll. Keep it with you always, but show it to no one. As long as you do, no harm can befall you. When you are in trouble, give it food and ask its advice. After it has eaten, it will tell you how to escape your misfortunes." Then the mother kissed her daughter and passed away.

After her death, the merchant mourned as was proper, but in time he thought of remarrying. He was a handsome man and many women were willing to wed him, but he favored a widow who was no longer young and had two daughters of about the same age as Vasilísa. She seemed an experienced housewife and a caring mother. So the merchant married her, but he was mistaken, for she was no good mother to his own daughter.

Vasilísa was the fairest maiden in the whole village, and her stepmother and stepsisters envied her for it. They tormented her by piling on her all the work they could, hoping that she would grow thin and ugly, tanned by the wind and sun. But Vasilísa did her tasks without complaint, and she grew even more beautiful and plump, while her stepmother and stepsisters, out of spite, grew thinner and uglier. Yet they sat all day with folded hands, like fine ladies. How could this be? It was the doll that helped Vasilísa. Without her, the maiden could never have done her work. Vasilísa often ate nothing herself, saving the tastiest morsels for the doll. At night, when everyone else was asleep, she would lock herself in her little room below, give the doll food, and say, "Doll, eat and listen to my misery. I live in my father's house, and my lot is hard. My wicked stepmother wants to crush me. Teach me what I must do to bear this life."

Then the doll would give her good advice, console her, and do all her morning's work. Vasilísa would stroll in the garden, picking flowers, while the flowerbeds were weeded, the coal was brought in, the water jugs were filled, and the hearth was warm. The doll also taught her the secrets of herbs, and so, thanks to the doll, she had a merry life. The years went by.

Vasilísa grew up, and all the young men in the village sought her hand. But no one would look at the stepmother's daughters, and the stepmother grew more wicked than ever. She would tell the suitors, "I will not give my youngest daughter in marriage before the older ones are wed." And she would send them away, and to vent her anger, she rained blows on Vasilísa.

One day, the merchant had to go away on business for a long time. The stepmother took the opportunity to move them all to a new house near a dense, dark forest. In that forest there was a clearing, and in the clearing stood a hut where Bába Yagá, the terrible witch, lived. She would eat people as though they were chickens. While they were moving, the stepmother often sent Vasilísa into the wood on errands, hoping she would be lost, but Vasilísa always returned safely, for the doll showed her the way to avoid Bába Yagá's hut.

When harvest time came, the stepmother gave the three maidens their evening tasks: one was to make lace, another to knit a stocking, and Vasilísa was to spin. Each was given a set amount of work. Then the stepmother put out all the fires in the house, leaving only one candle burning where the maidens were working, and she went to bed. The maidens worked on. The candle burned low, and one of the stepsisters took the snuffers to trim the wick, but the stepmother had told her to snuff it out as if by accident.

"What shall we do now?" they cried. "There is no fire in the house, and our work is not done. We must get a light from Bába Yagá."

"I can see by my needle," said the one making lace.

"I have light enough from my knitting needles," said the second. "You must go and fetch fire. Go to Bába Yagá!" And they drove Vasilísa out of the room.

Vasilísa went to her room, placed food and drink before her doll, and said, "Doll, dear, eat this and listen to my complaint. They are sending me to Bába Yagá for fire, and she will eat me up."

The doll ate, and her eyes glittered like two lamps. She said, "Fear nothing, Vasilísushka. Do as they say, but take me with you. As long as I am with you, Bába Yagá cannot harm you." Vasilísa put the doll in her pocket, crossed herself, and tremblingly walked into the dark forest.

Suddenly a knight on horseback galloped past her, all in white. His cloak, his horse, and his reins were white, and as he passed, it became light. She went on, and another horseman went by, all in red, with a red horse and red clothing, and the sun rose. Vasilísa walked through the night and the next day. By the next evening, she came to the clearing where Bába Yagá's hut stood. The fence around the hut was made of human bones, and on the stakes were skulls with glaring eyes. Instead of doorposts, there were feet; instead of bolts, there were hands; and instead of a lock, there was a mouth with sharp teeth. Vasilísa froze in terror.

Suddenly another horseman pranced by. He was all in black, on a jet-black horse, with a jet-black cloak. He sprang to the door and vanished as if the earth had swallowed him, and night fell. But the darkness did not last, for the eyes of the skulls on the fence glowed, lighting the whole green clearing.

Vasilísa trembled with fear, but she stood still, not knowing how to escape. Then a terrible noise came from the forest: the trees creaked, the dry leaves crackled, and out of the woods drove Bába Yagá in a mortar, pushing it with a pestle and sweeping away her tracks with a broom. At the door she stopped, sniffed all around, and cried out:

"Fee, Fo, Fi, Fum, I smell the blood of a Russian mum! Who is there?"

Vasilísa, shaking with dread, stepped forward, bowed low, and said, "It is I, Mother. My stepsisters sent me to you to ask for fire."

"Very well," said Bába Yagá. "I know them. Stay with me, work for me, and I will give you fire. If not, I shall eat you up."

Then she went to the door and shouted, "Ho! My strong bolts, draw back! My strong door, spring open!" The door sprang open, and Bába Yagá went in whistling and whirring, and Vasilísa followed.

The door closed behind them, and Bába Yagá stretched herself in the room and said, "Give me whatever is in the oven. I am hungry." Vasilísa lit a splinter from the skulls on the fence and fetched food from the oven—enough to feed ten men. From the cellar she brought kvas, mead, and wine. Bába Yagá ate and drank it all, leaving only a little soup, a crust of bread, and a snippet of pork for Vasilísa.

Then Bába Yagá lay down to sleep and said, "Tomorrow morning, when I go out, you must clean the courtyard, sweep the room, cook dinner, do the washing, go to the field, gather a quarter of oats, sift them all out, and see that all is done before I return. Otherwise, I will eat you up." So saying, she began to snore.

Vasilísa put the leftovers before the doll and said, "Doll, eat and listen to my woe. The tasks Bába Yagá has given me are heavy, and she threatens to eat me if I don't do them all. Help me!"

"Have no fear, Vasilísa the Fair," said the doll. "Eat, pray, and go to sleep, for the morning is wiser than the evening."

Very early the next day, Vasilísa woke. Bába Yagá was already up, looking out of the window. The light in the skulls had dimmed; the white horseman raced by, and dawn broke. Bába Yagá went into the courtyard, whistled, and the mortar, pestle, and broom appeared. The red horseman came by, and the sun rose. Bába Yagá got into the mortar and drove off, sweeping away her tracks behind her.

Vasilísa was left alone. She looked around the witch's house, marveling at all the wealth, and wondered where to begin. But when she looked, all the work was already done, and the doll had sifted out the very last ear of oats.

"Oh, my savior!" said Vasilísa. "You have helped me in my great need."

"You only have to cook dinner," said the doll, climbing back into her pocket. "With God's help, get it ready, and then wait quietly."

In the evening, Vasilísa laid the table and waited for Bába Yagá. The gloaming came, the black horseman passed, and darkness fell, but the skulls' eyes glowed. The trees shuddered, the leaves crackled, and Bába Yagá drove in. Vasilísa met her.

"Is it all done?" asked Bába Yagá.

"Yes, Grandmother, see for yourself," said Vasilísa.

Bába Yagá looked everywhere but found nothing to complain about. "Very well," she said, but she was angry. Then she cried, "Ye my faithful servants, friends of my heart! Store up my oats!" Three pairs of hands appeared, seized the oats, and carried them away.

Bába Yagá had supper, and before sleeping, she gave Vasilísa more orders: "Tomorrow do the same as today, but also take the hay that lies in my field, clean every trace of soil from it, every single ear. Somebody has spitefully mixed earth with it." Then she turned to the wall and snored.

Vasilísa immediately fetched her doll, who ate and said, as before, "Pray and go to sleep; everything shall be done, Vasilísushka."

The next morning, Bába Yagá rose, stood at the window, then went into the courtyard and whistled. The mortar, pestle, and broom appeared, the red horseman rode by, and the sun rose. Bába Yagá mounted the mortar and flew off, sweeping away her traces.

With the doll's help, Vasilísa did all the tasks. When the old woman returned, she inspected everything and said, "Ho, my faithful servants, friends of my heart! Make me some poppy oil." Then three pairs of hands came, took the poppies, and carried them off.

Bába Yagá sat down to supper, and Vasilísa stood silently before her. "Why don't you speak?" asked the witch. "Why do you stay there as if you were dumb?"

"I did not dare speak," said Vasilísa, "but if I may, I would like to ask some questions."

"Ask," said the witch, "but not every question turns out well. Too much knowing makes one too old."

"Still, I should like to ask about some things I saw. On my way here, I met a white horseman, all in white. Who was he?"

"That was the bright day," said Bába Yagá.

"Then a red horseman on a red horse passed me. Who was he?"

"That was the red sun."

"And what about the black horseman who met me at your door, Grandmother?"

"That was the dark night. They are my faithful servants."

Vasilísa thought of the three pairs of hands but said nothing.

"Why don't you ask more?" demanded the witch.

"I know enough," said Vasilísa, "for you yourself said, 'Too knowing is too old.'"

"It is well you asked only about things within the courtyard," said Bába Yagá, "and not about things outside it. I do not like people who spread tales, and I eat anyone who is too curious. But now, tell me: how did you manage to do all the work I gave you?"

"By my mother's blessing," replied Vasilísa.

"Ah, then be off with you, blessed daughter! No one who is blessed may stay with me." So she pushed Vasilísa out of the room, kicked her to the gate, took a skull with burning eyes from the fence, put it on a stick, and gave it to her. "Here is fire for your stepmother's daughters," she said. "That is why they sent you here."

Vasilísa ran home as fast as she could, carrying the skull on the stick. The light of the skull guided her through the forest, but it went out at dawn.

By the next evening, she reached her stepmother's house. She was about to throw the skull away when a hollow voice came from it, saying, "Do not throw me away. Bring me to your stepmother's house." Vasilísa looked at the house and saw no light in any window, so she decided to enter with the skull. She was welcomed, and the sisters told her that since she had gone, they had had no fire; they could not make any, and all they borrowed from neighbors went out as soon as it entered the room.

"Perhaps your fire will burn," said the stepmother. So they brought the skull into the room. The burning eyes in the skull looked at the stepmother and her daughters, and flames shot from them, singeing their eyes. Wherever they went, they could not escape, for the eyes followed them everywhere, and by morning they were all burned to ashes. Only Vasilísa was left alive.

Then Vasilísa buried the skull in the earth, locked the house, and went into the town. She asked a poor old woman to take her in and feed her until her father returned. To the old woman she said, "Mother, sitting here idle makes me sad. Go and buy me some of the finest flax, for I wish to spin."

The old woman brought the flax, and Vasilísa set to work. The work went merrily, and the thread was as fine as hair. When she had spun a great deal, no one could weave such fine thread, so she turned to her doll. The doll said, "Bring me an old comb, an old spindle, an old shuttle, and some horsehair, and I will do the weaving."

Vasilísa went to bed, and the doll wove a splendid loom during the night. By the end of winter, all the linen was woven, so fine that it could pass through the eye of a needle. In the spring, they bleached the linen, and Vasilísa told the old woman, "Go and sell the cloth, and keep the money for yourself."

The old woman saw the cloth and marveled at its beauty. "Oh, my child," she said, "no one but the Tsar could wear such fine linen. I will take it to the court."

So the old woman went to the Tsar's palace and walked up and down before it.

The Tsar saw her and asked, "What do you want, old woman?"

"Mighty Tsar," she said, "I bring you wonderful goods, which I will show to no one but you."

The Tsar ordered her to be admitted. When he saw the linen, he admired it greatly. "What do you want for it?" he asked.

"It is priceless, Bátyushka," she said. "I give it to you as a gift."

The Tsar thought it over and sent her away with rich rewards.

Now the Tsar wanted shirts made of this same linen, but he could not find any seamstress to undertake the work. He thought for a long time, and at last he sent for the old woman and said, "If you could spin and weave this linen, perhaps you can also make shirts from it?"

"I cannot weave or spin," said the old woman, "but there is a maiden staying with me who can."

"Then let her do the work," said the Tsar.

So the old woman went home and told Vasilísa everything.

"I knew I should have to do it," said Vasilísa. She locked herself in her room, set to work, and never rested until she had sewn a dozen shirts.

The old woman took the shirts to the Tsar. Meanwhile, Vasilísa washed, combed her hair, dressed herself, and sat by the window, waiting. Soon a royal messenger came and said, "The Tsar wishes to see the artist who sewed the shirts, that he may reward her with his own hands."

So Vasilísa the Fair went to the Tsar. When he saw her, he fell deeply in love with her. "No, fairest maiden," he said, "I will never part from you. You shall be my wife."

So the Tsar took Vasilísa, placed her beside him, and ordered the bells to ring for the wedding. Vasilísa's father returned home and rejoiced at her good fortune, and he stayed with his daughter. Vasilísa also took the old woman to live with her, and the doll ever remained in her pocket.