Prevod

Once upon a time, as never before, and so on. There once lived a hermit in a great wilderness, all alone, with none but the beasts of the forest for neighbours. He was so good in the sight of God that every creature bowed before him whenever it crossed his path. One day the hermit went down to the river that flowed near his hut, and there he saw a little chest drifting on the water, well tarred and tightly sealed. From within it came the cries of a child. He stood awhile in thought, then said a prayer, stepped into the water, and drew the chest ashore with a pole. When he opened it, what should he find inside but a baby boy about two months old! He lifted him out, and the moment he took him in his arms, the child fell silent. There was a little pouch hanging about the baby’s neck, and inside the hermit found a letter. He read it and learned that the infant had been cast away by an emperor’s unmarried daughter, who had succumbed to the temptations of the world. Afraid of her parents, she had abandoned the child, laid him in the little chest, and set him afloat on the river, leaving him in God’s care. With all his heart, the hermit wished to rear the baby God had sent him; but when he thought how he had nothing with which to feed him, he burst into tears and could not stop weeping. He fell to his knees and prayed to God, and, wonder of wonders, a vine suddenly sprang up in a corner of his cell. In no time it grew and climbed as high as the eaves. The hermit looked at it and saw bunches of grapes: some ripe, some just ripening, some still green, and others only in blossom. At once he picked some and gave them to the child to suck.

Seeing him eat, he rejoiced with all his soul and gave thanks to God. He brought the child up on grapes until the little one began to eat other things as well. When the boy grew older, the hermit set about teaching him to read, to gather roots for food, and to hunt. But one day he called the child to him and said, “My son, I feel myself growing weaker and weaker. I am old, as you can see, and you must know that three days from now I shall go to the other world. I am not your true father. I found you on the river, where your mother had set you adrift in a little chest to conceal her shame, for she was an emperor’s daughter. When I fall into the sleep of eternity—you will know it when you find my whole body cold as ice—remember that a lion will come. Do not be frightened, my dear boy. The lion will dig my grave, and you must draw the earth over me. I have nothing to leave you but a horse’s bridle. When you are alone, climb into the loft, take the bridle, and shake it. A horse will come at once and teach you what to do.” Everything happened just as the old man had said. On the third day, the hermit bade farewell to his adopted son, lay down, and fell into his everlasting sleep. Then, straight away, a fearsome lion came roaring up. When it saw the old man dead, it dug him a grave with its claws. The boy buried him and stayed there three days and three nights, weeping beside the grave. At last hunger reminded him that he himself was still alive. He rose from the grave, his heart broken with grief and sorrow, and went to the vine, only to see, to his great distress, that it had withered. Then he remembered the old man’s words and climbed into the loft, where he found the bridle. He shook it, and behold, a winged steed appeared. Standing before him, it said, “What is your command, master?” The boy was terrified, but the horse soothed him and taught him what he needed to know.

The boy told the horse, word for word, all that had happened at the old man’s death, and added, “Here I am, all alone. God has taken away the father He gave me. You must stay with me now; but let us go somewhere else and build ourselves a hut. Here, beside this grave, I do not know why, but I feel like weeping all the time.” “Not so, master,” answered the horse. “We shall go and live where there are many people like yourself.” “What?” asked the boy. “Are there many people like me and Father? And shall we live among them?” “Certainly,” the horse replied. “Then, if that is so,” the child asked again, “why do they not come to us?” “They do not come,” said the horse, “because they have no business here. We must go to them.” “Let us go,” the boy answered joyfully. But when the horse told him he must put on clothes, since other people did not go about naked, the boy was rather at a loss. The horse told him to put his hand into its left ear. He did so and drew out some clothes, which he put on, marvelling at them, for he did not know how they were used. The horse taught him, and then the boy mounted its back and they set off. When they reached the nearest town and he found himself among all those people swarming to and fro, the boy was somewhat frightened by so much noise. He walked timidly, wondering at the beauty of the houses and everything he saw, yet noticing that each thing had its proper order. The horse encouraged him, saying, “You see, master, everything here has its purpose; that is why you too must learn to make a place for yourself.” After staying there a few days, growing more accustomed to people and to life amid the din that fills towns, he took his horse and went on his way. He travelled and travelled until he reached the realm of some fairies. There were three of them, and when he came to their house he offered to become their servant, just as the horse had advised him. At first the fairies were not very willing to take him into service, but his entreaties softened them, and they accepted him. The horse often came to visit its master, and one day it told him to take careful note of a bath the fairies had in one of their rooms. Once every few years, on an appointed day, liquid gold flowed into that bath, and whoever bathed in it first would have golden hair. It also told him to look for a bundle containing three suits of clothes, which the fairies kept carefully stored in one of the chests in the house. The boy took all the horse’s words to heart, and whenever he had some difficult task to do, he called the horse, which came to his aid. The fairies had given him leave to go through all the rooms, tidying, dusting, and sweeping, but he was forbidden to enter the room with the bath. When they were away, however, he went in and looked carefully at everything the horse had told him about. He also spied the bundle of clothes, neatly laid away in a chest. One day the fairies went to a feast at the home of other fairies. Before leaving, they were careful to order their servant to tear a shingle from the eaves the instant he heard any noise in the bathing room, so that they would know to hurry home, for they knew the time was near when the golden water would begin to flow. The hermit’s son kept watch, and when he saw this marvel he called his horse at once. The horse told him to bathe, and he did. When he came out of the bath, he took the bundle of clothes and fled on his winged horse, which raced like the wind and sped like thought. The moment he crossed the threshold, the house, courtyard, and garden began to shake and howl so terribly that the sound reached the fairies, who hurried home at once. Finding the servant gone and the clothes missing, they set off after him. They pursued him from place to place, and just as they were about to lay hands on him, he crossed the borders of their realm and stopped. Seeing that he had escaped, the fairies were beside themselves with vexation at having failed to catch him. Then they said, “Ah, you rogue, how you have deceived us! At least show us your hair.” He spread his hair down his back, and they gazed at it longingly, unable to take their eyes from it. Then they said, “Even we have never seen such beautiful hair! Go in good health; only be so kind as to give us back our clothes.” But he would not. He kept them in place of the wages the fairies owed him. From there he went to a town, put an animal’s bladder over his head, and begged the emperor’s gardener to take him on as a labourer in the imperial garden. The gardener was not much inclined to listen, but after much pleading he accepted him. He set him to digging, carrying water, and watering the flowers, and taught him to clear caterpillars from the trees and weeds from the beds. Făt-Frumos took to heart everything his master the gardener taught him. The emperor had three daughters, but the affairs of his empire gave him so much trouble that he had forgotten he ought to find them husbands. One day the eldest daughter spoke with her sisters, and they agreed that each should bring a melon of her own choosing to the emperor’s table. When the emperor sat down to eat, the daughters came in, each bearing a melon on a golden tray, and set them before him. Astonished at this, the emperor summoned his council to discover what the gesture might mean. The councillors gathered and cut open the melons. When they saw that one was a little past its prime, the second just right to eat, and the third only beginning to ripen, they said, “Your Majesty, may you live many years! This signifies the ages of Your Majesty’s daughters, and that the time has come to settle them in homes of their own.” Then the emperor resolved to marry them off. He sent word throughout the land, and from the very next day suitors began to arrive on behalf of one emperor’s son and another. The eldest daughter chose the emperor’s son she thought the handsomest, and a grand imperial wedding was held. When the festivities were over, the emperor and his whole court set out to escort his daughter to the borders of his empire. Only the youngest princess stayed at home. Seeing that the gardener too had gone with the procession, Făt-Frumos, the garden labourer, called his horse and put on one of the suits he had taken from the fairies: the one adorned with a meadow of flowers. Letting his golden hair fall down his back, he began to gallop all about the garden, never noticing that the emperor’s daughter was watching him from her window, for her room overlooked the garden. Horse and rider laid waste to the whole garden. When Făt-Frumos saw the damage his merrymaking had done, he dismounted, put on his labourer’s clothes, and began repairing what he had spoiled. When the gardener came home and saw the ruin, he was greatly troubled. He began scolding the labourer for failing to look after the garden and grew so angry that he was on the point of beating him. But the emperor’s daughter, who was watching all this from her window, asked the gardener to send her some flowers. He did what he could, gathering a few little blossoms from here and there in the corners, tied them together, and sent them to the youngest princess. As soon as she received the flowers, she gave him a handful of money and sent word that he was to forgive the poor labourer, for it was not his fault. Delighted with so handsome a gift, the gardener worked with all his might, and in three weeks he had restored the garden as though nothing had happened. Not long afterwards, the emperor’s middle daughter also chose an emperor’s son and married him. The celebrations were much the same as for her elder sister, and when they were over the emperor escorted her too to the borders of his realm. His youngest daughter did not go; this time she stayed at home pretending to be ill. As soon as the garden labourer found himself alone again, he wished to make merry like all the other servants of the court. Since he could enjoy himself only with his trusty steed, he called the horse, put on another suit of clothes—the one adorned with the starry sky—let his hair fall down his back, and trampled the whole garden. When he noticed that he had wrecked everything once more, he put on his poor clothes and, lamenting, began to mend the damage. As before, the gardener was about to give him a thrashing, but the emperor’s youngest daughter stopped him by asking for flowers and sending him two handfuls of money, with word not to touch the labourer, who was not to blame. The gardener set to work again and had the garden ready in four weeks. Now the emperor had held a great hunt, and, having escaped a terrible danger, he built a pavilion in that forest and invited all his nobles and servants to a magnificent banquet there, in celebration of his deliverance. All the courtiers went at the emperor’s summons; only his daughter remained behind. Finding himself alone, Făt-Frumos called his horse, and, wishing to make merry too, put on the suit with the sun upon the breast, the moon upon the back, and two morning stars upon the shoulders. He let his golden hair fall loose, mounted the horse, and raced it through the garden. This time the garden was so badly ruined that there seemed no way to restore it. When he saw what he had done, he began to lament. He hastily put on his labourer’s clothes, but did not know where to begin the repairs. The gardener’s anger knew no bounds when he came home and saw such devastation. But just as he was about to beat the boy for failing to look after the garden, the emperor’s daughter called from her window and asked him for flowers. The gardener was at his wits’ end and did not know what to do. At last, after searching, he found a couple of little flowers that had barely escaped the winged horse’s hooves, and sent them to her. The princess ordered him to forgive the poor labourer and gave him three handfuls of gold coins. He set about laying out the garden anew, and only after six weeks did he manage to make something that resembled a garden again. As for the labourer, he promised him a thrashing within an inch of his life if such a thing ever happened again, and dismissal into the bargain. The emperor had grown troubled to see his daughter always so sad. Now she would not even leave the house. He therefore resolved to marry her off and began telling her of one emperor’s son and another. She would hear of none of them. Seeing this, the emperor once again summoned his council and his nobles and asked what he should do. One of the nobles advised him to build a platform with a gateway underneath, through which all the sons of emperors and nobles should pass. The girl would hold a golden apple, and whichever man she chose she was to strike with it; the emperor should then give her to him. So it was done. Word went out through the land that the emperor commanded everyone, high and low, to gather and pass beneath the gateway. They all passed through, but she struck not one of them. Many thought the girl had no wish to marry. But an old noble, a man who had been through thick and thin and had heard, seen, and suffered much, said that the people of the court should pass through as well. The gardener went by, and the chief cook, the steward, the servants, the coachmen, and all the stablehands, but to no avail: the girl struck none of them. An inquiry was made to see whether anyone had been left out, and it was discovered that one wretched garden labourer remained, a bald, downtrodden creature without his equal in the world. “Let him pass too,” said the emperor. So they summoned the bald labourer and told him to go through, but he did not dare. At last, with some scolding and some pushing, they made him pass, and as soon as he did, the girl struck him with the apple. The labourer began to scream and run, clutching his head in his hands and crying that she had cracked his skull. When the emperor saw what had happened, he said, “This cannot be! There has been some mistake. It is impossible to believe that my daughter has chosen this bald fellow of all people.” You see, the emperor could not bring himself to give his daughter to a labourer, even though she had struck him with the apple. So he made everyone pass through a second time. Once again his daughter struck the bald fellow on the head, and again he ran away screaming and holding his head in his hands. Deeply distressed, the emperor went back on his word yet again and ordered everyone to pass through a third time. But when he saw that his daughter struck the same bald fellow for the third time, he yielded to the advice of his council and gave her to him. The wedding was held almost in secret. Afterwards the emperor cast them both aside and would neither hear nor know anything of them. Only grudgingly, and out of pity, did he allow them to live within the palace grounds. They were given an earth hut in a corner of the courtyard, and the labourer became the court’s water carrier. All the emperor’s servants laughed at him and threw their refuse onto his hut. Inside, however, the winged horse had brought them all the loveliest things in the world: the emperor’s own palace held nothing to match what was in that humble hut. The emperors’ sons who had come to woo the youngest princess were furious at the humiliation they had suffered when she chose the bald fellow, and agreed among themselves to raise a great army against her father. The emperor was deeply grieved when he heard what his neighbours had decided; but what could he do? He prepared for war, having no other choice. Both his sons-in-law raised armies and came to their father-in-law’s aid. Făt-Frumos too sent his wife to ask the emperor’s permission for him to go to battle. “Get out of my sight, foolish girl!” he said. “It is because of you that my peace has been disturbed. I never wish to set eyes on you again, worthless creatures that you are!” But after much pleading he relented and ordered that the fellow be allowed at least to carry water for the army. They made ready and set out. Făt-Frumos went ahead in his poor clothes, riding a lame old mare. The army caught up with him in a marsh, where his mare had sunk into the mud and he was struggling to raise her, pulling now at her tail, now at her head, now at her legs. The soldiers laughed, as did the emperor and his two noble sons-in-law, and they all went on their way. But once they were out of sight, Făt-Frumos pulled the mare from the mire, called his horse, put on the suit adorned with the meadow of flowers, and set off for the battlefield. Arriving there, he climbed a nearby mountain to see which side was the stronger. The armies met and clashed. When Făt-Frumos saw that the enemy was greater in number and stronger, he charged down upon them from the mountaintop. Like a whirlwind he swept through their midst, sword in hand, cutting down everyone he met to right and left. His speed, the splendour of his clothes, and the swiftness of his horse struck such terror into them that the whole army turned and fled, each man running wherever his eyes led him, scattering like a brood of partridges. When the emperor saw this marvel, he thanked God for sending His angel to save him from his enemy’s hands, and returned home rejoicing. On the way he once again came upon Făt-Frumos, disguised as the labourer and struggling to pull his mare out of the mud. Being in good spirits, the emperor said to a few of his men, “Go and pull that poor wretch out of the mire as well.” They had scarcely settled back at home when word came to the emperor that his enemies had risen against him with an even greater army. Once more he made ready for war and went out to meet them. Făt-Frumos again begged to be allowed to go, and again they jeered at him. But once he had gained permission, he set off with his mare. This time too he became the army’s laughingstock when they saw that he had once more become bogged down and could not pull his mare from the mud, and they left him behind. Yet he reached the battlefield before them, transformed into Făt-Frumos, mounted on his winged horse and dressed in the suit adorned with the starry sky. The drums and trumpets sounded, and the armies clashed. When Făt-Frumos saw that the enemy was stronger, he charged down from the mountain and put them to flight. Once more the emperor returned rejoicing, thanking God for the help He had given him, and once more he ordered his soldiers to pull his wretched water carrier from the mire. Făt-Frumos was at peace with his conscience and rejoiced secretly in his victories. The emperor was shaken to the depths of his heart when he heard that his enemies were rising against him for the third time with an even larger army, and had reached the borders of his empire in numbers like the leaves and the grass. He burst into such weeping as God preserve us from, and wept and wept until he felt his sight begin to fail. Then he too gathered his whole army and set out to battle, placing his hope in God. Făt-Frumos set off again on the same old nag. When the entire army had passed him, laughing at his struggles to pull the mare from the mud, he put on the suit with the sun upon the breast, the moon upon the back, and two morning stars upon the shoulders. He let his golden hair fall down his back, mounted his horse, and in a moment was once more upon the mountain, waiting to see what would happen. The armies met, clashed on several fronts, and cut one another down without mercy, so fierce were the soldiers. Towards evening, when Făt-Frumos saw that the enemy army was about to put the emperor’s forces to flight, he suddenly hurtled down from the mountain like a flash of lightning and struck in their midst with such force that they were terrified and no longer knew what to do. The dazzling splendour of Făt-Frumos’s clothes blinded and bewildered the enemy until the soldiers scarcely knew where they stood. Făt-Frumos swung his sword mightily on every side. Terror entered his enemies’ hearts.

They were thrown into such confusion that they forgot all about the battle and thought only of saving their lives. They took to their heels, each running wherever his eyes led him, tumbling over one another and breaking their necks. But Făt-Frumos pursued them, mowing them down like so many noxious weeds. The emperor saw that his hand was bleeding, for he had cut it himself, and gave him his handkerchief to bind it. Then he set off home, delivered from danger. On their return they again found Făt-Frumos in the mud with his mare, and once more the emperor ordered that he be pulled out. But when the emperor reached home, his eyes grew sick and he went blind. All the healers and all the wise men who read the stars were brought before him, yet none could help him. One day, waking from sleep, the emperor said that he had seen an old man in a dream, who told him that if he washed his eyes with the milk of a wild red goat and drank some of it, he would regain his sight. Hearing this, his two elder sons-in-law set off together, without taking the youngest, or even allowing him to accompany them. But Făt-Frumos called his horse and rode with him through the marshes, where he found wild red goats and milked them. On his way back he dressed himself as a shepherd and went out to meet his brothers-in-law, carrying a wooden pail full of milk. They asked him what milk he had there, and, pretending not to know them, he replied that he was taking red goat’s milk to the emperor, who had dreamed that his sight would return if he bathed his eyes with it. They tried to buy the milk from him, but the shepherd answered that his milk was not for sale: if they wanted red goat’s milk, they must declare themselves his slaves and allow him to brand their backs with his mark, though afterward they might go their way and never come near him again. The two sons-in-law reasoned that, being emperors themselves and an emperor’s sons-in-law, they had nothing to fear. So they let him brand their backs, then took the milk and carried it away, saying to one another as they went, “If the fool tries to say anything against us, we shall call him mad, and people will believe us rather than him.” They returned to the emperor and gave him the milk. He bathed his eyes with it and drank some, but it did him no good. Afterward his youngest daughter came to him and said, “Father, here, take this milk too, which my husband has brought. Bathe your eyes with it as well, I beg you.” “What good has that simpleton of a husband of yours ever done,” answered the emperor, “that he should do anything worthwhile now? My sons-in-law, who have helped me so much in battle, could do nothing, and is that fool to be the one to help me? Besides, did I not tell you that you were never to show your faces before me again? How have you dared to disobey my command?” “I submit to whatever punishment you choose to give me, Father; only bathe your eyes, I beg you, with this milk your humble servant brings you.” Seeing how earnestly his daughter pleaded, the emperor relented and took the milk she had brought. He bathed his eyes with it one day, then a second, and, to his great astonishment, felt as though he were beginning to see, as through a sieve. When he bathed them a third day, he could see as clearly as anyone whose eyes were sound. Once he had recovered, he gave a great feast for all the boyars and counsellors of his realm, and at their entreaty he allowed Făt-Frumos to sit at the foot of the table. While the guests were making merry and enjoying the feast, Făt-Frumos rose and, begging their pardon, asked, “Mighty emperor, may slaves sit at table with their masters?” “No, certainly not,” replied the emperor. “Then, if that is so, and since the whole world knows you for a just man, grant me justice too, and have those two guests seated at Your Majesty’s right and left rise from the table, for they are my slaves. If you wish to know that I speak the truth, have them examined, and you will find my brand upon their backs.” When the emperor’s sons-in-law heard this, they lost their boldness and confessed that it was true. They were at once obliged to leave their seats and stand. The eyes of the emperor and all the others were opened. Toward the end of the feast, Făt-Frumos drew out the handkerchief the emperor had given him in battle. “How did my handkerchief come into your hands?” asked the emperor. “I gave it to the angel of the Lord who helped us in the war.” “No, mighty emperor, it was to me that you gave it.” “Then, if that is so, was it you who came to our aid?” “It was I, mighty emperor.” “It cannot be!” the emperor quickly added. “If you want me to believe you, show yourself as the man to whom I gave the handkerchief appeared that day.” So Făt-Frumos rose from the table and went to put on his garments with the sun upon the breast, the moon upon the back, and two bright stars upon the shoulders. He let his hair fall down his back and appeared before the emperor and the whole company. As soon as the guests saw him, they rose in wonder: Făt-Frumos was so handsome and radiant that one could look at the sun, but not at him. After praising his daughter for her wise choice, the emperor stepped down from his throne and raised his son-in-law Făt-Frumos to it. And the first thing Făt-Frumos did was to release his brothers-in-law from slavery, and there was great rejoicing throughout the realm. I too was there, at the emperor’s feast: I carried wood to the hearth upon a roasting spit, and brought jests to the table by the bucketful. For my reward I got a thimbleful of broth and a sound clout with the oven rake, such as those who spin long tales deserve. Then I mounted a saddle and told you the tale; I mounted a little short spoon, to tap the nose of whoever will not listen.