Tales about the Maidan

It was two years ago now, on 16 January 2014, that the parliament of Kiev, under pressure from President Yanukovich, outlawed the hundreds of thousands-strong protests in the Maidan, by then in its second month. Soon the first deadly clashes began between the protesters and the corps of the Berkut, the riot police.

The Western internet portals now mainly remember the anniversary with the photos of Maxim Dondyuk, who achieved his greatest international success with his coverage of the bloody month of the Maidan. In 2015 he was among the Prix Pictet Prize finalists, and won several other awards. The commemorations emphasize the the kinship of his photos with paintings and tales:

“The figures of the Ukrainian civil war appear in iconic settings in his photograph, as if the light and darkness, good and evil clashed with each other.” (Index)

In an interview given to Photography last year, the photographer also points out that his most important sources of inspiration had been not other photos, but paintings, and even battle scenes. The tale-like character of his pictures, however, is not unique. Similar images were taken at the height of the clashes by Mustafa Nayyem, whom we quoted that night, and many other Ukrainian photographers as well. It was apparently a general tendency to take pictures of the Maidan as signs of a supernatural vision, a legend, an apocalyptic struggle between light and darkness.

That this attitude was indeed general, is well illustrated by a fairy tale book published a few months later in Lviv/Lemberg, by the Old Lion publishing house, where the story book on the Ukrainian war was also published later. This book, illustrated in a dreamlike manner by Hristina Lukashchuk – a young writer-architect-designer, author of the highly acclaimed psycho-erotic novel Kurva (Whore, 2013) – also presents the Maidan as a clash between good and evil. It fits the events into the framework of a naively static and mystical, half-Christian and half-pantheistic Ukrainian nationalist worldview, as solemn and devout as cheap prints in folk fairs, through which they take on a universal dimension, and become a heroic example to be followed by the little readers. Its mythology, though in different ways, helps both them and us to understand Ukrainian reality.

Tale about the Maidan

“Once upon a time, very, very long time ago, there was still no heaven, no earth, only the deep blue sea, in the middle of which rose a beautiful green maple tree. The doves of God sat on the branches of the maple tree, and there they cooed, holding council on how to create a wonderful world, and a wonderful man worthy of this wonderful world. They decided to go down to the depths of the sea. When they went down for the first time, they brought a yellow pebble to the surface. This became the Sun. They went down for the second time, and brought up a green net. It became the vault of heaven. They went down for the third time, and brought up a blue stone. It became the Moon. They went down for golden sand: this became the tiny stars. They went down for dark mud: from this they created the black Earth. And this earth produced wheat and rye, and all other crops. And they named this blessed fertile land Ukraine. And in this land a hard-working people settled: the Ukrainians.”

The male representative of the hard-working Ukrainians settling in this land has a striking similarity to the young Stepan Bandera, the father of Ukrainian nationalism, and founder of the Ukrainian Insurgent Army, which collaborated with the Nazis and made did their dirty work in the form of Polish and Jewish genocide. Which is understandable, since he is considered the original coordinates of Ukrainian history by the official Ukrainian historiography and state ideology.


“This land was very, very rich. In one day you could not go around it, you could not run around it by horse. One end of it was washed by the deep sea, where wonderful monsters lived, in the other end high mountains rose. On the peaks of the highest mountains, hundred-year-old Hutsul women sat, and let white clouds fly from the smoke of their pipes. And the white clouds descended into the valleys, and became those stone idols, which watch over the peace of the Ukrainian steppe.”

A 110-year-old Hutsul woman. Verkhovina, 1926. Photo by Mikola Senkovsky.
(The explanatory pictures and commentaries are additions by río Wang)

“At the foot of the mountains, lakes slept. Through the clear water of the lakes you could see a colorful underwater kingdom, the water dwarves, fairies and mermaids. Between the lakes, the Ukrainians built tiny white houses, baked bread, erected high churches. They loved above all God and their land, and raised their children in love.”

The usual portrayal of mermaids in Russian luboks, 1866

“In winter, St. Nicholas arrived to the Ukrainian kids. To the good ones he brought gifts, to the bad ones, a birch-rod. And in the spring, the swallows flew up and down, carrying with them news of the rich crops, full granaries and a happy homeland.”


“The winter songs and spring round dances, however, did not last forever. Like wild animals, the envious neighbors watched the beautiful land with yearning. Like the black dragon, they rushed at once to Ukraine, to tear off a piece or two of it.”

The drawing leaves no doubt as to which neighbors are concerned. Whose symbol is the white eagle, the Wulf and Brezhnev-faced bear Misha?


“Ukraine has experienced many kinds of domination. Some came from afar, while others were elected by themselves. The centuries passed, one after the other, and the birds of Evil were gathering over Ukraine, like a black cloud. The leaders of Ukraine rarely managed to keep the sky cloudless. Indeed, very often they only had a black hole in the place of their hearts. It always happens so to those who turn away from God and from the people, and worship golden idols instead. The last leader was particularly greedy. He more and more exploited his country and his people. The poorer the people became, the brighter palaces he erected in his large greed.”

The vozhd’, as corpulent as Yanukovich, with a crowned ushanka on his head, is engrossed in contemplating the extorted treasures. The preciouss, the expropriated wildlife, the ships and factories, and the gold coins are easy-to-understand symbols of wealth. But what about the books? The bookshelf is not the usual epitheton ornans of this kind of tyrant. Except for Yanukovich! He was, as we have seen, a lover of books. It is very likely that his hallmark is this unusual status symbol.



“And the sky over Ukraine increasingly darkened with the black birds. People tolerated it for a long time. But finally they ran out of patience. One day, the Ukrainians went out to the Maidan. They demanded a righteous leader for themselves. They wanted to put an end to injustice and wickedness. Shoulder to shoulder they stood there day and night, the prayer, the song and the word were their only weapon. Thanks to them, the Maidan became a church under the open sky. They were so many, that when it got dark, it was revealed that the sky and its stars moved down to earth. And in the morning, the white wings of the doves brought the new day.”


“But suddenly the black birds of the Evil, the killing eagles [berkut] also appeared above the Maidan. They circled menacingly around the doves, and their circle became increasingly tighter. They shed fear and cold on the people, the chill of death. However, the Maidan did not empty, on the contrary, it was filled to the brim.”


“And then the day came when the eagles attacked. And that fight was not that of life, but that of death. However, the fearless ones, even though they were unarmed, did not retreat a step. They were held steady by their unwavering faith in Love. And the predators could not bear this. They finally fled, with falling black feathers. This was also seen by the leader, the blood-sucking tick, and he was frightened of the wrath of God and people. The people won. But the victory was bitter. Many heroes remained forever in the Maidan – beautiful young boys and their unbreakable brethren…”


“After the battle, the doves descended to the Maidan, and carried the souls of the heroes on their wings far, far away, up into heaven. Up to the Sun. Up to God.”


“And from the blood of the heroes, a new tree grew in the middle of the Maidan. Its crown reaches half of the world, and a new life is sprouting in its shadow. And above, in the deep blue sky, the doves of God are hovering.”

The gift of the magi

It is not so much for the little sentimental story pointed to a moral lesson, but rather for the fine-toned watercolors painted thirty years ago by the Austrian graphic designer Lisbeth Zwerger, that we publish this Christmas story. The author of the story, William Sydney Porter, who mostly published under the name O. Henry, was one of the most popular American authors of the early 20th century, but I wonder how much he is known in other countries.

To the works of Lisbeth Zwerger we will return soon.


One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.


There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name “Mr. James Dillingham Young.”

The “Dillingham” had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called “Jim” and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.


Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn’t go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling – something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.


Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim’s gold watch that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s. The other was Della’s hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: “Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.”


One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the “Sofronie.”

“Will you buy my hair?” asked Della.

“I buy hair,” said Madame. “Take yer hat off and let’s have a sight at the looks of it.”

Down rippled the brown cascade.

“Twenty dollars,” said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

“Give it to me quick,” said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim’s present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation – as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim’s. It was like him. Quietness and value – the description applied to both.


Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends – a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

“If Jim doesn’t kill me,” she said to herself, “before he takes a second look at me, he’ll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do – oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?”


At 7 o’clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: “Please God, make him think I am still pretty.”


The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two – and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

“Jim, darling,” she cried, “don’t look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn’t have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It’ll grow out again – you won’t mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!’ Jim, and let’s be happy. You don’t know what a nice – what a beautiful, nice gift I’ve got for you.”

“You’ve cut off your hair?” asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

“Cut it off and sold it,” said Della. “Don’t you like me just as well, anyhow? I’m me without my hair, ain’t I?”


Jim looked about the room curiously.

“You say your hair is gone?” he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

“You needn’t look for it,” said Della. “It’s sold, I tell you – sold and gone, too. It’s Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered,” she went on with sudden serious sweetness, “but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?”

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year – what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.


Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

“Don’t make any mistake, Dell,” he said, “about me. I don’t think there’s anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you’ll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first.”

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs – the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims – just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.


But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: “My hair grows so fast, Jim!”

And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, “Oh, oh!”

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

“Isn’t it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You’ll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it.”

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

“Dell,” said he, “let’s put our Christmas presents away and keep ’em a while. They’re too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on.”


The magi, as you know, were wise men – wonderfully wise men – who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

The Fire-bird

As the brave archer the Fire-bird, so we bring this book about them from a far away land, from Odessa, the large book store in Greek Square. The Fire-bird herself landed somewhere along those shores a thousand years ago, following the paths of Greek sailors and Persian traders, to live on in the Russian folk tales. Her tale has been illustrated by many, from the great painters of the Silver Age Viktor Vasnetsov and Ivan Bilibin to Igor Ershov, also popular in the West. The pictures of this 2008 edition were drawn by the perhaps best contemporary Russian book illustrator, Igor Oleynikov, from whom we already published a book for the Chinese New Year, The Great Circle of Time, on the animals of the Chinese zodiac. These drawings made with rich fantasy and great care really live in a large size: it is worth to zoom on each of them (attention: very big files!)

The text of this edition has abridged much on the “canonical” version of the tale. Thus, for the sake of variety, in the Hungarian post we have translated the complete Russian original, while here, in the English post we include Arthur Ransome’s version from his Old Peter’s Russian Tales of 1916, which faithfully follows the Russian original, but also adds a lot of explanations and decorations to it.

The Fire-bird. Russian folk tale. Illustrated by Igor Oleynikov

Once upon a time a strong and powerful Tzar ruled in a country far away. And among his servants was a young archer, and this archer had a horse – a horse of power – such a horse as belonged to the wonderful men of long ago – a great horse with a broad chest, eyes like fire, and hoofs of iron. There are no such horses nowadays. They sleep with the strong men who rode them, the bogatirs, until the time comes when Russia has need of them. Then the great horses will thunder up from under the ground, and the valiant men leap from the graves in the armour they have worn so long. The strong men will sit those horses of power, and there will be swinging of clubs and thunder of hoofs, and the earth will be swept clean from the enemies of God and the Tzar. So my grandfather used to say, and he was as much older than I as I am older than you, little ones, and so he should know.

Well, one day long ago, in the green time of the year, the young archer rode through the forest on his horse of power. The trees were green; there were little blue flowers on the ground under the trees; the squirrels ran in the branches, and the hares in the undergrowth; but no birds sang. The young archer rode along the forest path and listened for the singing of the birds, but there was no singing. The forest was silent, and the only noises in it were the scratching of four-footed beasts, the dropping of fir cones, and the heavy stamping of the horse of power in the soft path.

“What has come to the birds?” said the young archer.

He had scarcely said this before he saw a big curving feather lying in the path before him. The feather was larger than a swan's, larger than an eagle's. It lay in the path, glittering like a flame; for the sun was on it, and it was a feather of pure gold. Then he knew why there was no singing in the forest. For he knew that the fire-bird had flown that way, and that the feather in the path before him was a feather from its burning breast.

The horse of power spoke and said, –

“Leave the golden feather where it lies. If you take it you will be sorry for it, and know the meaning of fear.”

But the brave young archer sat on the horse of power and looked at the golden feather, and wondered whether to take it or not. He had no wish to learn what it was to be afraid, but he thought, “If I take it and bring it to the Tzar my master, he will be pleased; and he will not send me away with empty hands, for no Tzar in the world has a feather from the burning breast of the fire-bird.” And the more he thought, the more he wanted to carry the feather to the Tzar. And in the end he did not listen to the words of the horse of power.

He leapt from the saddle, picked up the golden feather of the fire-bird, mounted his horse again, and galloped back through the green forest till he came to the palace of the Tzar.

He went into the palace, and bowed before the Tzar and said, –

“O Tzar, I have brought you a feather of the fire-bird.”

The Tzar looked gladly at the feather, and then at the young archer.

“Thank you,” says he; “but if you have brought me a feather of the fire-bird, you will be able to bring me the bird itself. I should like to see it. A feather is not a fit gift to bring to the Tzar. Bring the bird itself, or, I swear by my sword, your head shall no longer sit between your shoulders!”

(It is a beautiful visual play, the shining sword taking the place of the shining feather in the previous picture.)

The young archer bowed his head and went out. Bitterly he wept, for he knew now what it was to be afraid. He went out into the courtyard, where the horse of power was waiting for him, tossing its head and stamping on the ground.

“Master,” says the horse of power, “why do you weep?”

“The Tzar has told me to bring him the fire-bird, and no man on earth can do that,” says the young archer, and he bowed his head on his breast.

“I told you,” says the horse of power, “that if you took the feather you would learn the meaning of fear. Well, do not be frightened yet, and do not weep. The trouble is not now; the trouble lies before you. Go to the Tzar and ask him to have a hundred sacks of maize scattered over the open field, and let this be done at midnight.”

The young archer went back into the palace and begged the Tzar for this, and the Tzar ordered that at midnight a hundred sacks of maize should be scattered in the open field.

Next morning, at the first redness in the sky, the young archer rode out on the horse of power, and came to the open field. The ground was scattered all over with maize. In the middle of the field stood a great oak with spreading boughs. The young archer leapt to the ground, took off the saddle, and let the horse of power loose to wander as he pleased about the field. Then he climbed up into the oak and hid himself among the green boughs.

The sky grew red and gold, and the sun rose. Suddenly there was a noise in the forest round the field. The trees shook and swayed, and almost fell. There was a mighty wind. The sea piled itself into waves with crests of foam, and the fire-bird came flying from the other side of the world. Huge and golden and flaming in the sun, it flew, dropped down with open wings into the field, and began to eat the maize.

The horse of power wandered in the field. This way he went, and that, but always he came a little nearer to the fire-bird. Nearer and nearer came the horse. He came close up to the fire-bird, and then suddenly stepped on one of its spreading fiery wings and pressed it heavily to the ground. The bird struggled, flapping mightily with its fiery wings, but it could not get away. The young archer slipped down from the tree, bound the fire-bird with three strong ropes, swung it on his back, saddled the horse, and rode to the palace of the Tzar.

(The rabbits, just like the supporting characters in the Busy Town series, are in fact the alter egos of the astonished readers.)

The young archer stood before the Tzar, and his back was bent under the great weight of the fire-bird, and the broad wings of the bird hung on either side of him like fiery shields, and there was a trail of golden feathers on the floor. The young archer swung the magic bird to the foot of the throne before the Tzar; and the Tzar was glad, because since the beginning of the world no Tzar had seen the fire-bird flung before him like a wild duck caught in a snare.

The Tzar looked at the fire-bird and laughed with pride. Then he lifted his eyes and looked at the young archer, and says he, –

“As you have known how to take the fire-bird, you will know how to bring me my bride, for whom I have long been waiting. In the land of Never, on the very edge of the world, where the red sun rises in flame from behind the sea, lives the Princess Vasilissa. I will marry none but her. Bring her to me, and I will reward you with silver and gold. But if you do not bring her, then, by my sword, your head will no longer sit between your shoulders!”

The young archer wept bitter tears, and went out into the courtyard, where the horse of power was, stamping the ground with its hoofs of iron and tossing its thick mane.

“Master, why do you weep?” asked the horse of power.

“The Tzar has ordered me to go to the land of Never, and to bring back the Princess Vasilissa.”

“Do not weep – do not grieve. The trouble is not yet; the trouble is to come. Go to the Tzar and ask him for a silver tent with a golden roof, and for all kinds of food and drink to take with us on the journey.”

The young archer went in and asked the Tzar for this, and the Tzar gave him a silver tent with silver hangings and a gold-embroidered roof, and every kind of rich wine and the tastiest of foods.

Then the young archer mounted the horse of power and rode off to the land of Never.

On and on he rode, many days and nights, and came at last to the edge of the world, where the red sun rises in flame from behind the deep blue sea.

On the shore of the sea the young archer reined in the horse of power, and the heavy hoofs of the horse sank in the sand. He shaded his eyes and looked out over the blue water, and there was the Princess Vasilissa in a little silver boat, rowing with golden oars.

The young archer rode back a little way to where the sand ended and the green world began. There he loosed the horse to wander where he pleased, and to feed on the green grass. Then on the edge of the shore, where the green grass ended and grew thin and the sand began, he set up the shining tent, with its silver hangings and its gold embroidered roof. In the tent he set out the tasty dishes and the rich flagons of wine which the Tzar had given him, and he sat himself down in the tent and began to regale himself, while he waited for the Princess Vasilissa.

The Princess Vasilissa dipped her golden oars in the blue water, and the little silver boat moved lightly through the dancing waves. She sat in the little boat and looked over the blue sea to the edge of the world, and there, between the golden sand and the green earth, she saw the tent standing, silver and gold in the sun. She dipped her oars, and came nearer to see it the better. The nearer she came the fairer seemed the tent, and at last she rowed to the shore and grounded her little boat on the golden sand, and stepped out daintily and came up to the tent. She was a little frightened, and now and again she stopped and looked back to where the silver boat lay on the sand with the blue sea beyond it. The young archer said not a word, but went on regaling himself on the pleasant dishes he had set out there in the tent.

At last the Princess Vasilissa came up to the tent and looked in.

The young archer rose and bowed before her. Says he, –

“Good-day to you, Princess! Be so kind as to come in and take bread and salt with me, and taste my foreign wines.”

And the Princess Vasilissa came into the tent and sat down with the young archer, and ate sweetmeats with him, and drank his health in a golden goblet of the wine the Tzar had given him. Now this wine was heavy, and the last drop from the goblet had no sooner trickled down her little slender throat than her eyes closed against her will, once, twice, and again.

“Ah me!” says the Princess, “it is as if the night itself had perched on my eyelids, and yet it is but noon.”

And the golden goblet dropped to the ground from her little fingers, and she leant back on a cushion and fell instantly asleep. If she had been beautiful before, she was lovelier still when she lay in that deep sleep in the shadow of the tent.

Quickly the young archer called to the horse of power. Lightly he lifted the Princess in his strong young arms. Swiftly he leapt with her into the saddle. Like a feather she lay in the hollow of his left arm, and slept while the iron hoofs of the great horse thundered over the ground.

(The half woman and half bird creatures sitting on the carved rocks are the sirins and alkonosts, which came from the Greek and Persian mythology to the Russian folk literature and luboks.)

They came to the Tzar's palace, and the young archer leapt from the horse of power and carried the Princess into the palace. Great was the joy of the Tzar; but it did not last for long.

“Go, sound the trumpets for our wedding,” he said to his servants; “let all the bells be rung.”

The bells rang out and the trumpets sounded, and at the noise of the horns and the ringing of the bells the Princess Vasilissa woke up and looked about her.

“What is this ringing of bells,” says she, “and this noise of trumpets? And where, oh, where is the blue sea, and my little silver boat with its golden oars?” And the Princess put her hand to her eyes.

“The blue sea is far away,” says the Tzar, “and for your little silver boat I give you a golden throne. The trumpets sound for our wedding, and the bells are ringing for our joy.”

But the Princess turned her face away from the Tzar; and there was no wonder in that, for he was old, and his eyes were not kind.

And she looked with love at the young archer; and there was no wonder in that either, for he was a young man fit to ride the horse of power.

The Tzar was angry with the Princess Vasilissa, but his anger was as useless as his joy.

“Why, Princess,” says he, “will you not marry me, and forget your blue sea and your silver boat?”

“In the middle of the deep blue sea lies a great stone,” says the Princess, “and under that stone is hidden my wedding dress. If I cannot wear that dress I will marry nobody at all.”

Instantly the Tzar turned to the young archer, who was waiting before the throne.

“Ride swiftly back,” says he, “to the land of Never, where the red sun rises in flame. There – do you hear what the Princess says? – a great stone lies in the middle of the sea. Under that stone is hidden her wedding dress. Ride swiftly. Bring back that dress, or, by my sword, your head shall no longer sit between your shoulders!”

The young archer wept bitter tears, and went out into the courtyard, where the horse of power was waiting for him, champing its golden bit.

“There is no way of escaping death this time,” he said.

“Master, why do you weep?” asked the horse of power.

“The Tzar has ordered me to ride to the land of Never, to fetch the wedding dress of the Princess Vasilissa from the bottom of the deep blue sea. Besides, the dress is wanted for the Tzar's wedding, and I love the Princess myself.”

“What did I tell you?” says the horse of power. “I told you that there would be trouble if you picked up the golden feather from the fire-bird's burning breast. Well, do not be afraid. The trouble is not yet; the trouble is to come. Up! into the saddle with you, and away for the wedding dress of the Princess Vasilissa!”

The young archer leapt into the saddle, and the horse of power, with his thundering hoofs, carried him swiftly through the green forests and over the bare plains, till they came to the edge of the world, to the land of Never, where the red sun rises in flame from behind the deep blue sea. There they rested, at the very edge of the sea.

The young archer looked sadly over the wide waters, but the horse of power tossed its mane and did not look at the sea, but on the shore. This way and that it looked, and saw at last a huge lobster moving slowly, sideways, along the golden sand.

Nearer and nearer came the lobster, and it was a giant among lobsters, the Tzar of all the lobsters; and it moved slowly along the shore, while the horse of power moved carefully and as if by accident, until it stood between the lobster and the sea. Then, when the lobster came close by, the horse of power lifted an iron hoof and set it firmly on the lobster's tail.

“You will be the death of me!” screamed the lobster – as well he might, with the heavy foot of the horse of power pressing his tail into the sand. “Let me live, and I will do whatever you ask of me.”

“Very well,” says the horse of power; “we will let you live,” and he slowly lifted his foot. “But this is what you shall do for us. In the middle of the blue sea lies a great stone, and under that stone is hidden the wedding dress of the Princess Vasilissa. Bring it here.”

The lobster groaned with the pain in his tail. Then he cried out in a voice that could be heard all over the deep blue sea. And the sea was disturbed, and from all sides lobsters in thousands made their way towards the bank. And the huge lobster that was the oldest of them all and the Tzar of all the lobsters that live between the rising and the setting of the sun, gave them the order and sent them back into the sea. And the young archer sat on the horse of power and waited.

After a little time the sea was disturbed again, and the lobsters in their thousands came to the shore, and with them they brought a golden casket in which was the wedding dress of the Princess Vasilissa. They had taken it from under the great stone that lay in the middle of the sea.

The Tzar of all the lobsters raised himself painfully on his bruised tail and gave the casket into the hands of the young archer, and instantly the horse of power turned himself about and galloped back to the palace of the Tzar, far, far away, at the other side of the green forests and beyond the treeless plains.

The young archer went into the palace and gave the casket into the hands of the Princess, and looked at her with sadness in his eyes, and she looked at him with love. Then she went away into an inner chamber, and came back in her wedding dress, fairer than the spring itself. Great was the joy of the Tzar. The wedding feast was made ready, and the bells rang, and flags waved above the palace.

The Tzar held out his hand to the Princess, and looked at her with his old eyes. But she would not take his hand.

“No,” says she; “I will marry nobody until the man who brought me here has done penance in boiling water.”

Instantly the Tzar turned to his servants and ordered them to make a great fire, and to fill a great cauldron with water and set it on the fire, and, when the water should be at its hottest, to take the young archer and throw him into it, to do penance for having taken the Princess Vasilissa away from the land of Never.

There was no gratitude in the mind of that Tzar.

Swiftly the servants brought wood and made a mighty fire, and on it they laid a huge cauldron of water, and built the fire round the walls of the cauldron. The fire burned hot and the water steamed. The fire burned hotter, and the water bubbled and seethed. They made ready to take the young archer, to throw him into the cauldron.

“Oh, misery!” thought the young archer. “Why did I ever take the golden feather that had fallen from the fire-bird's burning breast? Why did I not listen to the wise words of the horse of power?” And he remembered the horse of power, and he begged the Tzar, –

“O lord Tzar, I do not complain. I shall presently die in the heat of the water on the fire. Suffer me, before I die, once more to see my horse.”

“Let him see his horse,” says the Princess.

“Very well,” says the Tzar. “Say good-bye to your horse, for you will not ride him again. But let your farewells be short, for we are waiting.”

The young archer crossed the courtyard and came to the horse of power, who was scraping the ground with his iron hoofs.

“Farewell, my horse of power,” says the young archer. “I should have listened to your words of wisdom, for now the end is come, and we shall never more see the green trees pass above us and the ground disappear beneath us, as we race the wind between the earth and the sky.”

“Why so?” says the horse of power.

“The Tzar has ordered that I am to be boiled to death – thrown into that cauldron that is seething on the great fire.”

“Fear not,” says the horse of power, “for the Princess Vasilissa has made him do this, and the end of these things is better than I thought. Go back, and when they are ready to throw you in the cauldron, do you run boldly and leap yourself into the boiling water.”

(Oleynikov’s tale here follows a thread of his own:
“Well, this is no half trouble only, this is trouble itself! But I will do whatever I can do with my power, and it is highly possible that Princess Vasilissa will also help us. Don’t fear – hope!

It is a beautiful visual solution as the endless Anglo-Celtic strands, which in the previous images suggested the magic power of the horse, now also radiate with a great force onto the archer entering the cauldron..)

The young archer went back across the courtyard, and the servants made ready to throw him into the cauldron.

“Are you sure that the water is boiling?” says the Princess Vasilissa.

“It bubbles and seethes,” said the servants.

“Let me see for myself,” says the Princess, and she went to the fire and waved her hand above the cauldron. And some say there was something in her hand, and some say there was not.

“It is boiling,” says she, and the servants laid hands on the young archer; but he threw them from him, and ran and leapt boldly before them all into the very middle of the cauldron.

Twice he sank below the surface, borne round with the bubbles and foam of the boiling water. Then he leapt from the cauldron and stood before the Tzar and the Princess. He had become so beautiful a youth that all who saw cried aloud in wonder.

“This is a miracle,” says the Tzar. And the Tzar looked at the beautiful young archer, and thought of himself – of his age, of his bent back, and his gray beard, and his toothless gums. “I too will become beautiful,” thinks he, and he rose from his throne and clambered into the cauldron, and was boiled to death in a moment.

(Oleynikov adds: For neither the horse of power, nor Princes Vasilissa protected him with their love.)

And the end of the story? They buried the Tzar, and made the young archer Tzar in his place. He married the Princess Vasilissa, and lived many years with her in love and good fellowship. And he built a golden stable for the horse of power, and never forgot what he owed to him.

(Oleynikov does not forget about the creature giving title to the tale: “And they lived in such a great happiness that the Fire-bird never wanted to fly away from their garden.”)