Vasilisa the Beautiful

Once upon a time, and once there was not, there lay a young mother upon her deathbed, her face as white as the waxen roses in the church vestry nearby. Her little daughter and her husband sat at the foot of the wooden bed, praying to God.

The mother called Vassilissa to her side, and the little girl, in her red boots and white apron, knelt beside her.

“Here, my dearest, this doll is for you,” whispered the mother. From beneath the covers she drew out a tiny doll, dressed exactly like Vassilissa herself — with red boots, a white apron, a black skirt, and an embroidered bodice.

“If you lose your way, or ever find yourself in need, ask this doll what to do. Keep it always with you, speak of it to no one, and feed it when it is hungry.”

Then the mother’s breath sank deep into her body, gathered her soul, and fled softly from her lips.

The child and her father wept long and bitterly. Yet, as a field torn by war greens again, so too did the father’s life renew itself, and he married a widow with two daughters.

Though the stepmother’s daughters had fine manners and smiled like true ladies, behind their smiles lurked something gnawing — something the father did not see. When alone with Vassilissa, they tormented her, forced her to serve them, and sent her to chop wood. They hated her, for she possessed a beauty not of this earth.

One day the stepmother and her daughters could bear her no longer.

“Let the fire go out,” they whispered, squealing like creatures that dwell in darkness, “and send her into the forest to ask Baba Yaga for fire. Then Baba Yaga will kill her — and eat her.”

That evening, when Vassilissa returned from gathering wood, the house was in darkness.

“How shall we cook?” she asked the stepmother. “How shall we see in this gloom?”

“Stupid girl,” said the stepmother, “of course we have no fire. You must go to Baba Yaga and ask her for a live coal to rekindle it.”

“Very well,” said Vassilissa, and she set out.

As she walked, the forest grew darker and darker, and the twigs crackling beneath her feet filled her with fear. She slipped her hand into the pocket of her apron where she kept the little doll, and at once her heart grew lighter. At every crossroads she reached into her pocket and consulted the doll, who showed her which way to go.

Suddenly, a man dressed all in white on a white horse galloped past, and the forest grew lighter. Soon after, a man dressed in red on a red horse rode by — and the sun rose.

On and on Vassilissa walked until she came to the dwelling of Baba Yaga. Just then, a horseman dressed in black on a black horse entered the hut — and night fell.

Baba Yaga herself was a terrifying creature. She traveled in a mortar that moved of its own accord, steering it with a pestle while sweeping away her tracks with a broom made of long-dead human hair. The mortar flew through the air, Baba Yaga’s greasy hair streaming behind her. Her long chin curved upward, and her nose bent downward, so that the two met in the middle. She had a pointed white beard and skin covered with warts. Her long black nails were thick and curved, so long she could not close her hand into a fist.

Strangest of all was her house. It stood on a heap of yellow chicken legs, and it could walk about on its own — even spin like a dancer in ecstasy. The door handles and window latches were made of human fingers and toes, and the bolt was a grinning snout filled with sharp teeth.

Vassilissa consulted her doll, who told her this was indeed the house she sought. Then suddenly, Baba Yaga swooped down in her mortar, shrieking, “What do you want?”

Trembling, Vassilissa answered, “Grandmother, I have come for fire — I need some fire.”

“Oh, yes, I know you, and I know your kind,” hissed Baba Yaga. “So, useless creature, you have let your fire die out. And what makes you think I should give you flame?”

Vassilissa consulted her doll again and replied, “Because I ask for it.”

Baba Yaga smiled, satisfied. “You are lucky. That is the right answer.”

And Vassilissa felt very lucky indeed.

“But I will not give you fire,” Baba Yaga snarled, “until you have done some work for me. If you complete these tasks, you shall have the flame. If not…” — her eyes turned to glowing coals — “if not, my dear child, you will die.”

Baba Yaga ordered Vassilissa to bring her what was cooking in the oven. Inside was food enough for ten people, and Baba Yaga devoured it all, leaving only a crust of bread and a spoonful of soup for Vassilissa.

“Wash my clothes, sweep the yard and the house, separate the good grain from the bad, and see that all is in order. If it is not done when I return, you will be my feast.” Then Baba Yaga flew off in her mortar, and night fell again.

When she was gone, the doll comforted Vassilissa, telling her all would be well, to eat something and sleep. Vassilissa fed the doll a crumb, lay down, and slept.

By morning, everything was done, and only the meal remained to prepare. When Baba Yaga returned and saw that nothing was left undone, she hissed, half pleased and half displeased, “You are a very lucky girl.”

Then she called her faithful servants to grind the wheat, and three pairs of hands appeared in midair, scraping and pounding the grain. The chaff flew through the hut like golden snow. When it was finished, Baba Yaga sat to eat. She ate for hours, then ordered Vassilissa to clean the house again, sweep the yard, and wash her clothes.

“In that pile of dirt,” she said, “there are many poppy seeds. By morning I want two piles — one of poppy seeds, one of dirt — well separated.”

That night, Baba Yaga slept like a dormouse. Vassilissa tried to pick out the poppy seeds, but after a while the doll said, “Now sleep. All will be well.” And by morning, everything was done.

When Baba Yaga returned, she called her servants again to press oil from the poppy seeds.

As she smeared her lips with the fat from her stew, Vassilissa stood nearby.

“May I ask you a question, Grandmother?” she said.

“Ask, but remember — the more you know, the sooner you will grow old.”

Vassilissa asked about the man in white on the white horse.

“That is my Day,” said Baba Yaga softly.

“And the man in red on the red horse?”

“That is my Rising Sun.”

“And the man on the black horse?”

“That is my Night. Come now, child, have you more questions?”

Vassilissa was about to ask about the strange hands, but the doll stirred in her pocket, so she said, “No, Grandmother. As you said — the more one knows, the sooner one grows old.”

“Ah,” said Baba Yaga, “you are wiser than your years. And how did you become so?”

“By my mother’s blessing,” Vassilissa replied, smiling.

“Blessing?” snarled Baba Yaga. “We need no blessings here! You had better be gone!”

She shoved Vassilissa out of the house, but before she left, gave her a skull with burning eyes fixed upon a stick.

“Here, take your fire, and bring it home.”

Vassilissa ran through the forest, following the way her doll showed her. Night had fallen, and the skull upon the stick glowed, flames flickering from its eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. Suddenly she felt afraid of the eerie light and thought to throw it away, but the skull spoke to her gently, urging her to keep calm and go on.

At home, her stepmother and stepsisters saw a strange light dancing in the woods. Nearer and nearer it came, until they recognized Vassilissa and ran to meet her, crying that they had had no fire since she had gone.

Vassilissa entered the house in quiet triumph. But the skull on the stick watched every move of the stepmother and her daughters. By morning, its fiery eyes had burned them all to ash.