"Take the flesh for yourself, and lug it under the stove."So the little demon flung his arms round the carcase, and dragged it under the stove. Nothing was left of the old woman but her skin. Into it the old demon inserted himself, and then he lay down just where the witch had been lying.
Presently the daughter came back, bringing a dozen other women with her, and they all set to work laying out the corpse.
"Mammy," says the child, "they've pulled granny's skin off while you were away." "What do you mean by telling such lies?"
"It's quite true, Mammy! There was ever such a blackie came from under the stove, and he pulled the skin off, and got into it him-
self."
"Hold your tongue, naughty child! you're talking nonsense!" cried the old crone's daughter; then she fetched a big cauldron, filled it with cold water, put it on the stove, and heated it till it [Pg 35] boiled furiously. Then the women lifted up the old crone, laid her in a trough, took hold of the cauldron, and poured the whole of the boiling water over her at once. The demon couldn't stand it. He leaped out of the trough, dashed through the doorway, and disappeared, skin and all. The women stared:
"What marvel is this?" they cried. "Here was the dead woman, and now she isn't here. There's nobody left to lay out or to bury. The
demons have carried her off before our very eyes!"[27]
A Russian peasant funeral is preceded or accompanied by a considerable amount of wailing, which answers in some respect to the Irish "keening." To the zaplachki,[28] or laments, which are uttered on such occasions--frequently by hired wailers, who closely resemble the Corsican "vociferators," the modern Greek "myrologists"--allusions are sometimes made in the Skazkas. In the "Fox-wailer,"[29] for example--one of the variants of the well-known "Jack and the Beanstalk" story--an old man puts his wife in a bag and attempts to carry her up the beanstalk to heaven. Becoming tired on the way, he drops the bag, and the old woman is killed. After weeping over her dead body he sets out in search of a Wailer. Meeting a bear, he cries, "Wail a bit, Bear, for my old woman! I'll give you a pair of nice white fowls." The bear growls [Pg 36] out "Oh, dear granny of mine! how I grieve for thee!" "No, no!" says
the old man, "you can't wail." Going a little further he tries a wolf, but the wolf succeeds no better than the bear. At last a fox comes by, and on being appealed to, begins to cry aloud "Turu-Turu, grandmother! grandfather has killed thee!"--a wail which pleases the widower so much that he hands over the fowls to the fox at once, and asks, enraptured, for "that strain again!"[30]
One of the most curious of the stories which relate to a village burial,--one in which also the feeling with which the Russian villag-
ers sometimes regard their clergy finds expression--is that called-- The Treasure.[31]
In a certain kingdom there lived an old couple in great poverty. Sooner or later the old woman died. It was in winter, in severe and frosty weather. The old man went round to his friends and neighbors, begging them to help him to dig a grave for the old woman; but his friends and neighbors, knowing his great poverty, all flatly refused. The old man went to the pope,[32] (but in that village they had an awfully grasping pope, one without any conscience), and says he:--
"Lend a hand, reverend father, to get my old woman buried."
"But have you got any money to pay for the funeral? if so, friend, pay up beforehand!"
"It's no use hiding anything from you. Not a single copeck have I at home. But if you'll wait a little, I'll earn some, and then I'll pay
you with interest--on my word I'll pay you!"
13
The pope wouldn't so much as listen to the old man.
[Pg 37] "If you haven't any money, don't you dare to come here," says he.
"What's to be done?" thinks the old man. "I'll go to the graveyard, dig a grave as I best can, and bury the old woman myself." So he took an axe and a shovel, and went to the graveyard. When he got there he began to prepare a grave. He chopped away the frozen ground on the top with the axe, and then he took to the shovel. He dug and dug, and at last he dug out a metal pot. Looking into it he saw that it was stuffed full of ducats that shone like fire. The old man was immensely delighted, and cried, "Glory be to Thee, O Lord! I shall have wherewithal both to bury my old woman, and to perform the rites of remembrance."
He did not go on digging the grave any longer, but took the pot of gold and carried it home. Well, we all know what money will do--everything went as smooth as oil! In a trice there were found good folks to dig the grave and fashion the coffin. The old man sent his daughter-in-law to purchase meat and drink and different kind of relishes--everything there ought to be at memorial feasts--and he himself took a ducat in his hand and hobbled back again to the pope's. The moment he reached the door, out flew the pope at him.
"You were distinctly told, you old lout, that you were not to come here without money; and now you've slunk back again."
"Don't be angry, batyushka,"[33] said the old man imploringly. "Here's gold for you. If you'll only bury my old woman, I'll never
forget your kindness."
The pope took the money, and didn't know how best to receive the old man, where to seat him, with what words to smooth him
down. "Well now, old friend! Be of good cheer; everything shall be done," said he.
The old man made his bow, and went home, and the pope and his wife began talking about him.
"There now, the old hunks!" they say. "So poor, forsooth, [Pg 38] so poor! And yet he's paid a gold piece. Many a defunct person of quality have I buried in my time, but I never got so from anyone before."
The pope got under weigh with all his retinue, and buried the old crone in proper style. After the funeral the old man invited him to his house, to take part in the feast in memory of the dead. Well, they entered the cottage, and sat down to table--and there appeared from somewhere or other meat and drink and all sorts of snacks, everything in profusion. The (reverend) guest sat down, ate for three people, looked greedily at what was not his. The (other) guests finished their meal, and separated to go to their homes; then the pope also rose from the table. The old man went to speed him on his way. As soon as they got into the farmyard, and the pope saw they were alone at last, he began questioning the old man: "Listen, friend! confess to me, don't leave so much as a single sin on your soul--it's just the same before me as before God! How have you managed to get on at such a pace? You used to be a poor moujik, and now--marry! where did it come from? Confess, friend, whose breath have you stopped? whom have you pillaged?"
"What are you talking about, batyushka? I will tell you the exact truth. I have not robbed, nor plundered, nor killed anyone. A treasure tumbled into my hands of its own accord."
And he told him how it all happened. When the pope heard these words he actually shook all over with greediness. Going home, he
did nothing by night and by day but think, "That such a wretched lout of a moujik should have come in for such a lump of money!
Is there any way of tricking him now, and getting this pot of money out of him?" He told his wife about it, and he and she discussed the matter together, and held counsel over it.
"Listen, mother," says he; "we've a goat, haven't we?" "Yes."
"All right, then; we'll wait until it's night, and then we'll do the job properly."
