“THE SEVEN STARS”
Once upon a time there was a King who had a wonderfully beautiful daughter. But there came a Dragon and stole her away and vanished, leaving not a trace behind.
So the King called his High Chamberlain and commanded him to go forth into the world and seek the Princess, and on no account to come back without her.
The High Chamberlain set out and searched throughout the whole world, but nowhere could he find the slightest trace of the King’s daughter nor the least clew to her whereabouts. However, an old woman advised him to go to such-and-such a country and inquire for the Dragon-mother, for she alone was able to give him information about the stolen Princess.
And, verily, the High Chamberlain followed this counsel. After most toilsome wanderings he at last arrived safely at the Dragon-mother’s house and begged her to give him such information as she had as to the abiding-place of the King’s daughter.
The Dragon-mother answered, “My dear friend, stay here over this night. What God has given us we will share with you—you shall not suffer hunger in my house. As soon as my sons, the Dragons, return home from afar I will ask them about the Princess. I have five sons, each one wiser and cleverer than the other. The first has the power of stealing anything that he takes a fancy to; he could steal the calf from the cow or the foal from the mare, and they never observe it. The second can follow up the trace of any lost object, though it have been lost for years. The third draws a sure arrow upon anything that he can see. The fourth can build an impregnable fortress in an instant, and can hide anything he chooses within it, so that no one can possibly find it. And the fifth is as bold as a falcon and as swift as the lightning when there is anything to be overtaken and caught.”
While she was speaking, her sons, the Dragons, came home, and the mother inquired of them if they knew anything of the whereabouts of the King’s lost daughter.
“To be sure,” they answered. “She is with a more powerful Dragon than we. He stole her away from her father, the King, and now keeps her in one of his castles.”
“I adjure you,” interrupted the High Chamberlain, “help me to find her. I may on no account appear before the King and live unless I bring his daughter with me. My master will not show himself ungrateful to you.”
The Dragons declared themselves quite willing to help him. The second brother traced up the scent, and the first brother stole the lovely maiden and brought her back with him. But the more powerful Dragon pursued after them, took her away, and flew up into the air to carry her to a place of safety.
Then the third brother fitted a bolt to his crossbow, drew it, sped the arrow, and hit that Dragon in the very middle of his heart. With a fearful outcry the Dragon fell from the clouds and was dashed to little bits upon a rock. And thus it would inevitably have been with the King’s daughter, whom the Dragon held tightly clasped, had not the fifth brother flown swiftly and caught up the maiden, so that she was kept safe and sound.
But now ensued a sudden and unlooked-for danger, for the dead Dragon’s brother drew near, and several other monsters with him; and it would soon have been all over with the brothers if the fourth had not speedily erected a strong fortress, in which all the brothers, the King’s daughter, and the High Chamberlain safely concealed themselves.
For a long time those hideous Dragons lay in wait around the fortress; but they finally went away, having accomplished nothing. Then the five brothers, the gracious maiden, and the High Chamberlain came out and went home to the Dragon-mother.
And the eldest son said, “Is it not true, little mother, that the maiden belongs to me, who rescued her from that furious Dragon?” The second brother said, “But you would never have found her nor rescued her if I had not traced up the scent.” The third brother interrupted, “Of what good would it have been that you, eldest brother, rescued her, and you, second brother, traced up the scent, if I had not destroyed the monster at the right moment? Therefore, in all right and reason, the maiden belongs to me.”
Here the fifth brother struck in. “By right the maiden belongs to me; for if I had not caught her up in the very nick of time she would not now be in the land of the living.” And the fourth brother said, “If you will consider the whole matter impartially, you will see that I have the most righteous claim upon the maiden; for all your trouble would have gone for nothing if I had not made the castle at the right moment and hidden her, and you, too, to come within it.”
And now the Chamberlain put in his word. “All your pretensions are idle. The maiden is mine; for if I had not told you that she was stolen away, the first would not have rescued her, nor the second traced up the scent, nor the third destroyed the monster, nor the fifth caught up the maiden, and the fourth would have concealed no one in his castle.”
Thus all the six strove for possession of the maiden, until the Dragon-mother put in her word. “If this is so, then you are all in the right; but the maiden can surely not belong to you all. But you can all take her for your sister and love and protect her as long as you and she live.”
And so they did, and in remembrance thereof they and the maiden were set in the sky, and can be seen there to this day, and men call them “the Seven Stars.”[1] At least, so goes the story.
“Dragons are different from Reinecke and Petz and Isegrim,” observed the little boy.
“Don’t you like them as well?” asked the grandmother.
“I like them,” answered the little boy, “but I don’t know them as well as I know Reinecke and Isegrim. I am not used to them, grandmother.”
“You will get used to them while you are at your other grandmother’s, where you are going to-morrow,” said the grandmother. “The stories of her commune are not at all the same as the stories of this commune.”
“Why not, grandmother?” asked the little boy.
“I don’t know why not,” answered the grandmother, “but it is always so. Every commune has its own stories. There are many dragons in those of your other grandmother’s commune. Now you are going out into the world, you will get very wise, for you will know the stories of two communes.”
[1] The Pleiades.
CHAPTER XIV
MOTHER’S-MOTHER
The happy day had come. The little boy was all ready for the journey, dressed in a colored shirt hanging over his full trousers—the white shirt must be kept clean for Sunday, you know—his kaftan well belted down and with a small fur collar at the neck, and on his head a high kolpak, or fur hat, just like his father’s. His legs were covered by onontchi, well wrapped around and cross-gartered with colored strings, and on his feet he had fur-lined shoes, for third-class cars are very cold. The little boy’s mother had on all her warm clothes, with a long fur overcoat, just like that the father wore, over all her other wraps; and the father, besides his great fur overcoat, had on his fur kolpak and high fur-lined boots, into the wide tops of which his full trousers were tucked. He had a great basket in his hand, containing food for the journey and a pair of fowls and some other things for the mother’s-mother whom they were going to visit. In his inside pocket the father had the papers of the mir which he must carry to the zemstvo. So they were all ready.
All the men and children of the village accompanied them to the station, which was in the midst of a wide plain a quarter of a league beyond the last house. There was a good while to wait; the train was not due for half an hour, but that did not matter. The grown folk had a deal of talking to do—all the privileges that they hoped the starosta would secure from the zemstvo for the commune. As for the children! Well, this was the chance of their lives, for their station had a playground, with swings, wooden horses, and giant’s strides, and it was not often they had such privileges, especially the uniformed school-children. For when once a Russian child puts on the school uniform, play is pretty nearly over for him for the rest of his life. So they made the most of their opportunity. It was not a cold day for January, and if it had been they would not have minded.
When the train came lumbering in, as it did after a while, half a dozen more children jumped down from the second and third class cars and ran to the playground. The other children made way for them, for station playgrounds are for travelling children, and they had the first right. Yet there was room for them all. But the little boy was impatient to be on his travels, so he ran to his mother, and was very glad when the men of the commune had said their last words to their representative, and the starosta led his wife and little boy to a good place in a compartment where there was room for the samovar. Presently the first warning was given. The children came running from the playground; there was a chorus of good-bys. The second warning sounded, and the train jolted away. The little boy was a travelling child at last!
At every stop where there was a playground—there was not one at every station—he would run out and have a swing, his mother going with him, for he was a little boy to be among strangers. After a while he was hungry, and then his mother unpacked her basket and set the samovar a-going, and gave a lump of bread and a big piece of sausage to each, with unlimited cups of scalding tea that made them nice and warm. After that the little boy leaned his head against his mother, and then—most wonderful!—they were already at the capital, and the stars were shining. Where had the afternoon gone?
He had not time to ask, for his father had swung him upon his shoulder and was carrying him through the crowd, and there, outside the wicket, was a little old woman, with such a nice face, who fell upon his mother’s neck and kissed her again and again.
“That is your other grandmother,” said his father. “Your mother has not seen her since she was married, and that is many years ago.”
And then the other grandmother caught the little boy from his father’s arms and kissed him and cried over him, till the little boy did not know whether he ought to cry or not.
He became very well acquainted with the other grandmother the next day. She did not seem like his own dear little grandmother at home, but she was very nice. He called her mother’s-mother, because she was not his real grandmother, he thought; and the other grandmother laughed and said that would do very well.
In the afternoon, when his father had gone back to the zemstvo, and his mother was clearing up after dinner, which she said her mother was not to do while she was there, the little boy went and stood by his other grandmother’s chair.
“Mother’s-mother,” he said, “little grandmamma told me that you knew some nice stories.”
“Yes,” said mother’s-mother, “I suppose I do. They are not like your little grandmamma’s stories. The stories of this commune are different. They are more about the Vilas than those of your commune are. Yours are mostly about Reinecke and the other beasts, are they not?”
“I like Reinecke and the beasts,” said the little boy. “But I should like the Vilas, too, mother’s-mother.”
“Then I will tell you about them,” said the other grandmother. “Sit down on that stool—it was your mother’s when she was a little girl. That is right. Now I will tell you about