Translated from the Ukrainian by Oles Kovalenko and Vasil Baryshev It wouldn't be inaccurate to say that it is the story-writers who actually introduce kids to the world they live in... Using words, they paint a bizarre yet convincing pattern of the essential human values Love, Beauty, Honesty, Courage as opposed to Hatred, Uglyness, Meanness, Cowardice... This is a massive, wide-ranging collection of tales full of action, ferocious energy and imagination offered by leading Ukrainian authors of several generations. .j Rocking with laughter and dissolving in tears, praising the good and grappling with the evil — these entertaining and brilliantly plotted mysteries have it all!
Have you been to the Ukraine? Do you know the Ukraine? If you have been there and do know the country, you will remember. Otherwise, try to imagine those whitewashed houses which everywhere dot the cherry orchards, and how lovely -how absolutely lovely it is there in springtime, when all the orchards are in blossom and the nightingales trill. In fact, there are so many of those birds singing then, that a person couldn't probably count them all. Once, when I was travelling there, I happened to spend a night in a village, in one of those houses standing in a cherry orchard. We came late at night and went to bed right away. The sun set, and before long voices died away, and the whole village lapsed into quiet. It was very still all about. I could hear only leaves stirring in the trees outside the window, and the water murmuring in the river, over at the mill. Also, not far away, a woman was softly lulling a baby to sleep — and my eyelids became heavy. I dozed off and dreamed that the fast-flowing river, which had glittered so brightly as we were driving past, was now drawing nearer and nearer, and that the trees which grew outside were rustling right over my bed. The unseen baby being lulled to sleep assumed the image of a lively little boy, now overcome with drowsiness, and she who was rocking him took the appearance of a thoughtful,slender young woman. It was then that a nightingale warbled somewhere in the cherry trees just outside, then another a little way off, and yet another until I couldn't really tell how many of them were there, trilling as though calling to one another. They went on like this for a while, and then suddenly began singing all at once, drowning out all the other noises. The rustle of the leaves, the murmur of the river, and the lullaby could be heard no more. I was suddenly wide awake, the nightingales having chased away all my drowsiness and dreams. If I now closed my eyes, their singing seemed to be, if anything, louder and clearer. I felt quite tired, and the drowsiness soon returned, getting worse all the time. But no matter how tired and drowsy I may have been, I still couldn't fall asleep again, because of all that singing. Finally I thought it would be better to get up and sit beside the window for a while. Even now I can still visualize most vividly that narrow street, the little white houses with their dark windows, and, beyond a low wattle fence, cherry trees covered with radiant white flowers. The sickle of a horned new moon was shining faintly, the sky was glowing with stars, and I can still almost feel all that freshness, fragrance and warmth. And then there was that singing, resounding and reverberating all about until dawn. That night the nightingales didn't let me catch a wink of sleep until daybreak. Years ago, there was one such village in the Ukraine. It was small, with about twenty houses in all, and the people who lived in it were rather poor. In one of the houses, which stood near the fields on the edge of the village, there lived a widow who had a son, an only child. Ivan Karmelyuk — that was his name. He was such a good-looking lad, so brave and bright, that to find another just like him, as they say, one would have had to search all over this large world in broad daylight and bright sunshine, carrying a blazing torch as well. Swimming straight across the most terrible rapids and whirlpools, plunging deep into the most impenetrable woods, climbing the tallest trees, descending to the very bottom of the steepest ravines — it all came as natural to him as drinking water comes natural to you and me. Also, wherever he was sent, he could be counted on to find the way, and whatever he began doing, he was sure to get it done. If a friend asked him for something, he would fetch it from the bottom of the sea, rather than turn down a friend's request. And if some humble poor man turned to him for a favor, it seemed he would have moved heaven and earth to do whatever was asked of him. As long as he could help such people, he just didn't care if it might mean hunger and cold, troubles and hardships for him. The older the lad got, the better and more handsome he became, and at eighteen he was such an incredibly, unbelievably handsome young man that whoever saw him then for the first time stopped stunned and speechless and would never forget his face. As for his mother, she just was never able to look at him without a smile and a kiss. They lived more or less like all the other people in the village, being a little better off than some and a little poorer than others. It was then that something went wrong with the young Kar-melyuk,' and trouble came his way. He suddenly became strangely sad, and became sadder with every day and every hour God sent him. What or who had first caused that sadness was more than either his mother, or his friends, or anyone could tell. Before, when with his companions he would speak louder and laugh more heartily than the rest in any group. But now he laughed no more and hardly ever spoke at all. More than that, his friends now saw very little of him, and whenever they came across him, he was pale and tight-mouthed. Where before he would join his friends for a stroll and a chat every evening after work, he now seemed to avoid them, slinking away all alone somewhere into the woods, or the fields, or just roaming off into the steppe. His mother was at a total loss, not knowing what to think or do. She'd been racking her brains trying to figure out whether he might want this or that, or something else again; for if she only knew, she would have been willing and ready to give him whatever it was he did want. But no: he didn't want anything. People wondered what was the matter with him. They began talking about it and making guesses, and word spread that it had all happened since he had begun to go to other villages where he encountered all kinds of strange people. It was believed that he might have been mixed up with some evil man: hence all that sadness and sorrow. As soon as the gossip reached his mother's ears, she went to ask him. "You go to all sorts of places, my lad," she said (he was going to country fairs, to hamlets, villages and towns, selling his own, and sometimes others' rye, grain, vegetables and fruits; and wayfaring like that was what he liked doing best). "So what kind of people do you see there?" she asked him. "What kind of people do I see there?" Karmelyuk answered. "They're all of two kinds -- rich and poor." "And what people do you associate with?" his mother went on. "I make friends with the poor and needy," Karmelyuk told her. "Those are friends for me!" Naturally his mother supposed that one of the rich had harmed or hurt him, so she pressed him further. "Has somebody harmed you, my darling? Who's hurt you? Come on, tell me!" She embraced her son and held him close, waiting for him to tell her, so that she could soothe and comfort him. But he only stared back at her and said nothing. The mother became even more alarmed and anxious, not knowing what to think, and imagining all kinds of horrible things happening to him. So she continued entreating and imploring him to tell her what had happened. "No," Karmelyuk said. "I've been neither harmed nor hurt." "Is that really so, my dear, my jewel, my treasure? Is it true that nobody's hurt you?" "It's true," he said. "Then what's happened to you? What's bothering you? Is there something you want?" So then Karmelyuk told her. "Whenever I go, whichever way I look, I see poor people who work hard but stay poor. That's what torments my soul! That's what rends my heart!" His mother tried to reassure and comfort him. "You see, that's the way it's been in this world as long as anyone can remember," she told him. "And for all we know, that's the way it's going to be. It seems it just can't be helped." She went on soothing and persuading him as best she could, and where she was lacking in words, she made up in tenderness and caresses. But nothing could console him, nothing could set his mind at rest. One evening in spring - it was one of those wonderful evenings when spring songs come naturally to one's lips -- the Karmelyuk widow lay in her house, brooding and wondering what kind of misfortune had come upon her Ivan. The sun had already set, and stars were shimmering in the window. The sound of girls' voices singing spring songs could be heard from afar. A faint fragrance of flowers, not yet in full bloom, was in the air; and the nightingales were just beginning to sing. Then she heard soft steps; the door opened and Karmelyuk came into the house. He looked about but failed to see his mother and went and sat by the window. Perhaps it was just that faint evening light which added pallor to his face, but it seemed to his mother that he was terribly pale and wan, and her heart was gripped with such pity for her dear child that she was speechless, unable to utter a word. She didn't speak nor stir, and just lay there watching him. He looked through the window for some time and then began to sing. It was quite something, that song he sang! Full of sadness and sorrow, it was the kind of song that could only come from the bottom of a pure heart. Oh, the days come and go, The hours are winging, Not for me happiness, But bitter woe bringing! In misfortune I was born, In misfortune I shall die, Oh, my mother gave me birth When misfortune was nigh. A young man, it would seem, Should not know any sorrow — Yet drown dead in a stream From grief, on the morrow. My poor head is so pain-wracked That I close tight my eyes; Don't know why, for what reason Upon me grief lies! Pauper people! All forsaken! I see you everywhere; Your torments thoughts waken — Tears with you I share. Spring of my life, that joys unroll, You scatter gifts round, But for my unhappy soul — Never a one is found. I see their eyes everywhere, Their faces grown pale, Begging hands of the bowed with care - Hands wearied, grown frail. And among fragrant flowers, 'Neath streaming gold sunlight, And among bright leafy bowers 'Neath the silvery moonlight — Daytime or night, or evenfall, Whatever the hour! Nought consoles me at all — Death from grief overpowers,* He finished his song and remained silent. It was only then that the old woman came to her senses. "Ivan," she asked. "Just where did you learn this song?" On hearing her voice, Karmelyuk started, but then he realized it was his mother. "It just came to me," he said. And it was really something to hear him sing those songs he composed himself! By God, they were simply enchanting! There were some who happened to overhear him while he was singing and learned them from him. Only those songs'weren't intended for joy or merry-making, and they made those who learned or simply heard them bow their heads and start thinking.
II
One day Karmelyuk went off to a mill which was in another village about a dozen miles away. He left early at dawn and drove for a while across the fields. The sky was crystal clear, and the weather warm and wonderful. The fields spread out like green velvet, and the dew-drops glistened everywhere. The sun was rising, and larks were singing in the sky. It had rained that night, so dust hardly rose from the road at all. The fields appeared boundless in their blissful beauty, and the air was so fresh that he couldn't breathe his fill of it. He sang as he drove, sometimes just humming to himself, and sometimes raising his voice until his song reverberated all over the fields. But even on this untroubled cloudless morning, he was singing the same melancholy and inquiring songs, almost like asking for guidance, consolation and peace of mind. For as his gaze wandered all about those blooming fields, he must have visualized the same miserable figures of the poor. He soon reached a large forest through which the road ran. Old oaks, huge and mighty, stood motionless and silent. Scattered amongst them were snowball trees and wild rose bushes, and the ground was carpeted with thick grass and all kinds of herbs. As Karmelyuk drove through that forest, singing, he saw a young girl picking herbs at the edge of the road. She was crying bitterly, and was so desperate and in such distress that she hardly turned her head at the sound of his song. As soon as Karmelyuk saw this, he jumped from his waggon and approached her. "Good morning," he said. "Good morning," the girl replied, and as she lifted her sorrowful eyes to him, they dried up at once. For never in her life, not even in a dream, had she seen such a handsome man as the man now standing before her. She didn't even hear him ask, "Why are you crying, young lady?" Waiting for her to answer, he stared fixedly at her, as though what he saw could somehow give him a clue. And he saw that she was a poor girl, deeply embittered by life. Her milk-white shoulders could be seen through a threadbare blouse, her skirt was faded and patched; there was no colour in her young face, and her rosy lips were obviously not accustomed to smiling. Her eyes were sad and sunken, and the tears which had stopped rolling at the sight of him were still trembling on her cheeks. There she stood holding a bunch of herbs. "Why are you crying, young lady?" Karmelyuk asked again. This time the girl heard his question, but even so she made no attempts to answer and only turned her eyes away, staring into the forest. "Who are you, young lady? Where do you come from?" he went on. "I'm a servant working for the Knishes over at the village of Lany," the girl said. "They must be bad folks, those Knishes, eh?" he said. She didn't speak and just resumed picking her herbs. Karmelyuk went along, picking the same herbs and giving them to her, and asking her about her life and all. But as soon as he began saying that it must be pretty tough and joyless to live as hired help in somebody else's home, the girl burst out crying again, bitter tears streaming down her fair face. Karmelyuk felt such pity for the girl that he thought he could even die for her. "Come on, stop crying!" he urged her. "I wish I could," she said. "But the tears just flow anyway." And she shed tears while standing there for quite a while, as if there was something sweet in crying herself out like that. Finally she said, "It's time for me to go. My mistress is waiting for the herbs." Two final tears rolled down her face, her rosy lips parted in a smile which was sad but also charming, and her lovely clear eyes looked up at him, candidly. "Goodbye," she said. But it seemed to Karmelyuk that he'd sooner die than part with her. So he told her, "Come on, get onto the waggon, and I'll take you to Lany, as I'm also going that way." He looked around for his waggon and saw that it was quite far off, his oxen having turned off the road to graze. He ran over to them, drove them back onto the road, helped the girl onto the waggon, got on next to her, and off they went. Both were silent and thoughtful as they drove through the green forest. They felt that they had suddenly found themselves in an earthly paradise, where a fleeting bliss had engulfed them. The girl's face flushed with lively colour, and her lips parted slightly, as if her heart were beating faster. It seemed to them that they reached the village in no time at all, as though they were a couple of fast-flying birds. They left the forest behind and caught sight of Lany, a big and prosperous-looking village. A manor house built of white stone and surrounded with shady lanes and gay-coloured flower-beds stood like a palace on a hill, rising above the entire village. It was a luxurious building, and it was all that luxury which caught Karmelyuk's eye. At the sight of it, his handsome face clouded. The girl happened to be looking at him at that very moment, and her bright eyes dimmed. "Do you know this building?" she asked softly. "It's the first time I've ever seen it," Karmelyuk said. "But I've seen many like it everywhere." They entered the village and crossed three streets. Here the girl jumped off the waggon, thanked him and said farewell. She turned round the corner and vanished. Karmelyuk started off again. And as he drove on, he constantly glanced back at the village, wishing the girl hadn't left him, and promising himself that he would see her again soon. He was still thinking of her when he came to the mill and went to question the miller about the Knishes, trying to find out how they were placed and what sort of people they were. But the miller was a very taciturn man, quite tall and with very long moustaches. He didn't like to talk, and liked answering questions even less; so Karmelyuk would have never learned anything at all had it not been for the miller's daughter. For the miller's daughter did like to talk and liked answering questions even more, but best of all she liked asking them. So she started by asking Karmelyuk all sorts of questions but got precious little out of him. For he simply ignored her questions and just kept on asking his own, not unlike a newborn baby which keeps turning its eyes and stretching out its hands to the light, ignoring everything else. Seeing this, the miller's daughter stopped asking questions and began to talk. She was small and lively like a bird, but no bird could have done as much chirping in an hour as she did then. Before long, Karmelyuk learned from her that the Knishes were rather rich, having seven pairs of oxen and two cows; that they had a good harvest of wheat the year before and were probably going to have one again that year; that their daughter had married a boy who was also from a rich family, so that she now wore caps embroidered with gold; that the old Knishes had a servant girl by the name of Marusya, an orphan, unmarried and no relatives; and that for Marusya, the job meant long hours and little pay. The miller's daughter would probably have chattered on and on had Karmelyuk put in a word of his own every now and then. But he sat there like a mute so that in the end she must have become bored with such a taciturn guest, because she cut short her prattle, picked up her needlework and went and sat at a distance from him, striking up a song. The song rang out merrily, her work went on rapidly, and the old miller, standing gloomily in the doorway of his mill, watched it all and thought to himself, "There's probably nothing as gay and carefree in this world as those silly young girls. And nothing could be as frivolous. Isn't it funny, the way that vain creature keeps looking into the water, as if she can't see enough of herself?" His daughter did cast frequent glances at the water which mirrored her dark-skinned, rosy-cheeked bright-eyed face. But then it was probably not only her own face she was admiring, for along with it, the water also reflected the entire grass-covered slope where she was sitting, the old oak trees the miller was so proud of, and the young man who was so deeply immersed in thought that he seemed unaware of the whole world around him and of everything that was in it. So it was not necessarily her own face that the miller's daughter kept glancing at. But, as we said already, the miller was a gloomy man, whom nothing could move. Years ago, having buried his wife, he had come across seven mirrors among her things, and from that time had been convinced that every female, no matter how plain or humble-looking, used at least seven mirrors to look at herself; that conviction was as unshakable as if it had been nailed to him. So the miller's daughter... Well, we'd rather leave the miller's daughter to herself now, because we aren't really interested in what she may have done or sung after that. The miller called Karmelyuk, they loaded up the waggon with flour, Karmelyuk paid and left for home. All he was able to think about on his way back was the servant girl. When he went through the village of Lany, he drove as slowly as though he were carrying somebody very ill, his eyes darting here and there all about him. However, she was nowhere to be seen, and he sighed for the rest of the way until he pulled up at his house. He simply couldn't oust the girl from his mind. He spent a day alone with his thoughts, and discovered that it was difficult but sweet as well. He spent another, only to find that it had become even more difficult and sweeter. Early in the third day he could stand it no longer. His head burned, his heart throbbed, and his entire body ached. He somehow managed to endure it until noon, then got out a waggon, harnessed a horse to it and drove to Lany. He was hardly aware of what he was doing as he flew across the fields and sped through the forest. He just kept whipping the horse, as it seemed to him that the fields were running away from him, getting broader and longer, that the forest had never been thicker and would never end. He eventually did reach Lany, however. When he got there, it was a quiet afternoon, and the sun was already low in the sky. Most people weren't yet back from work, so the village was deserted, except for some children playing and fooling around in the streets, and a couple of servant girls going towards the river for water. Karmelyuk told himself that she, too, would sooner or later come to the river, and, turning his horse in that direction, went to wait for her on the bank. And when she appeared with the pails in her hands, the mere sight of her took his breath away so that he couldn't even say "Oh!" And when she saw him, a flush spread across her face, as if it had suddenly been enveloped by flames. There was nobody on the bank except the two of them. "Will you marry me, my love?" Karmelyuk asked her. And she told him simply, "I'm yours." They sat down side by side on the low grassy riverbank, and when the stars appeared in the sky, they found them still sitting here together. That night, Marusya the servant girl did not even hear her mistress as she nagged and scolded her, reproaching her for being late; and her heart became impervious to bitterness, throbbing with the newly discovered sweet ecstasy of love. And after everybody had gone to bed, Marusya sat beside the window and stared at the stars twinkling in the cloudless sky. Karmelyuk was meanwhile slowly driving home, and he, too, was staring at the bright stars in the clear sky. Only those who are very much in love here on earth can gaze up at the sky like that. "I'm going to marry," Karmelyuk announced to his mother. "Her name's Marusya and she's a servant." His mother tried to persuade him to change his mind. "Don't marry this Marusya, my dear," she pleaded. "Why does it have to be a servant? Better look around for somebody rich." "Mother!" Karmelyuk cried out, trembling and shaking all over. "Are you not my mother?" His face and reaction frightened the old woman, and she gave in. "All right," she said. "Go ahead and marry Marusya, my darling. If she's so dear to you, she'll make a good daughter-in-law to me as well." This is how Karmelyuk came to marry Marusya the servant girl.
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