The Simpleton went down into the cellar, got hold of the goat’s head, and asked:—
“Was your Diachok dark-haired?”
“He was.”
“And had he a beard?”
“Yes, he’d a beard.”
“And horns?”
“What horns are you talking about, Simpleton?”
“Well, see for yourselves,” said he, tossing up the head to them. They looked, saw it was a goat’s, spat in the Simpleton’s face, and went their ways home.
One of the most popular simpleton-tales in the world is that of the fond parents who harrow their feelings by conjuring up the misfortunes which may possibly await their as yet unborn grandchildren. In Scotland it is told, in a slightly different form, of two old maids who were once found bathed in tears, and who were obliged to confess that they had been day-dreaming and supposing—if they had been married, and one had had a boy and the other a girl; and if the children, when they grew up, had married, and had had a little child; and if it had tumbled out of the window and been killed—what a dreadful thing it would have been. At which terrible idea they both gave way to not unnatural tears. In one of its Russian forms, it is told of the old parents of a boy named Lutonya, who weep over the hypothetical death of an imaginary grandchild, thinking how sad it would have been if a log which the old woman has dropped had killed that as yet merely potential infant. The parent’s grief appears to Lutonya so uncalled for that he leaves home, declaring that he will not return until he has found people more foolish than they. He travels long and far, and witnesses several foolish doings, most of which are familiar to us. In one place, a cow is being hoisted on to a roof in order that it may eat the grass growing thereon; in another a horse is being inserted into its collar by sheer force; in a third, a woman is fetching milk from the cellar, a spoonful at a time. But the story comes to an end before its hero has discovered the surpassing stupidity of which he is in quest. In another Russian story of a similar nature Lutonya goes from home in search of some one more foolish than his mother, who has been tricked by a cunning sharper. First he finds carpenters attempting to stretch a beam which is not long enough, and earns their gratitude by showing them how to add a piece to it. Then he comes to a place where sickles are unknown, and harvesters are in the habit of biting off the ears of corn, so he makes a sickle for them, thrusts it into a sheaf and leaves it there. They take it for a monstrous worm, tie a cord to it, and drag it away to the bank of the river. There they fasten one of their number to a log and set him afloat, giving him the end of the cord, in order that he may drag the “worm” after him into the water. The log turns over, and the moujik with it, so that his head is under water while his legs appear above it. “Why, brother!” they call to him from the bank, “why are you so particular about your leggings? If they do get wet, you can dry them at the fire.” But he makes no reply, only drowns. Finally Lutonya meets the counterpart of the well-known Irishman who, when counting the party to which he belongs, always forgets to count himself, and so gets into numerical difficulties. After which he returns home.[65]
It would be easy to multiply examples of this style of humor—to find in the folk-tales current all over Russia the equivalents of our own facetious narratives about the wise men of Gotham, the old woman whose petticoats were cut short by the pedlar whose name was Stout, and a number of other inhabitants of Fool-land, to whom the heart of childhood is still closely attached, and also of the exaggeration-stories, the German Lügenmährchen, on which was founded the narrative of Baron Munchausen’s surprising adventures. But instead of doing this, before passing on to the more important groups of the Skazkas, I will quote, as this chapter’s final illustrations of the Russian story-teller’s art, an “animal story” and a “legend.” Here is the former:—