The Three
Questions by Leo Tolstoy
The Tsar and The Shirt by Leo Tolstoy
The Courtyard and The Fence by Zakre
The Violinist by A. Kyznitsov
Vanka by
Anton Chekhov
THE THREE QUESTIONS
by Leo Tolstoy
It once occurred to a certain king, that if he always knew the right time to
begin everything; if he knew who were the right people to listen to, and
whom to avoid, and, above all, if he always knew what was the most important
thing to do, he would never fail in anything he might undertake.
And this thought having occurred to him, he had it proclaimed throughout
his kingdom that he would give a great reward to any one who would teach him
what was the right time for every action, and who were the most necessary
people, and how he might know what was the most important thing to do.
And learned men came to the King, but they all answered his questions
differently.
In reply to the first question, some said that to know the right time
for every action, one must draw up in advance, a table of days, months and
years, and must live strictly according to it. Only thus, said they, could
everything be done at its proper time. Others declared that it was
impossible to decide beforehand the right time for every action; but that,
not letting oneself be absorbed in idle pastimes, one should always attend
to all that was going on, and then do what was most needful. Others, again,
said that however attentive the King might be to what was going on, it was
impossible for one man to decide correctly the right time for every action,
but that he should have a Council of Wise Men, who would help him to fix the
proper time for everything.
But then again others said there were some things which could not wait
to be laid before a Council, but about which one had at once to decide
whether to undertake them or not. But in order to decide that, one must know
beforehand what was going to happen. It is only magicians who know that;
and, therefore, in order to know the right time for every action, one must
consult magicians.
Equally various were the answers to the second question. Some said, the
people the King most needed were his councillors; others, the priests;
others, the doctors; while some said the warriors were the most necessary.
To the third question, as to what was the most important occupation:
some replied that the most important thing in the world was science. Others
said it was skill in warfare; and others, again, that it was religious
worship. All the answers being different, the King agreed with none of them,
and gave the reward to none. But still wishing to find the right answers to
his questions, he decided to consult a hermit, widely renowned for his
wisdom.
The hermit lived in a wood which he never quitted, and he received none
but common folk. So the King put on simple clothes, and before reaching the
hermit's cell dismounted from his horse, and, leaving his bodyguard behind,
went on alone. When the King approached, the hermit was digging the ground
in front of his hut. Seeing the King, he greeted him and went on digging.
The hermit was frail and weak, and each time he stuck his spade into the
ground and turned a little earth, he breathed heavily.
The King went up to him and said: "I have come to you, wise hermit, to
ask you to answer three questions: How can I learn to do the right thing at
the right time? Who are the people I most need, and to whom should I,
therefore, pay more attention than to the rest? And, what affairs are the
most important and need my first attention?"
The hermit listened to the King, but answered nothing. He just spat on
his hand and recommenced digging.
"You are tired," said the King, "let me take the spade and work awhile
for you."
"Thanks!" said the hermit, and, giving the spade to the King, he sat
down on the ground.
When he had dug two beds, the King stopped and repeated his questions.
The hermit again gave no answer, but rose, stretched out his hand for the
spade, and said, "Now rest awhile--and let me work a bit." But the King did
not give him the spade, and continued to dig. One hour passed, and another.
The sun began to sink behind the trees, and the King at last stuck the spade
into the ground, and said, "I came to you, wise man, for an answer to my
questions. If you can give me none, tell me so, and I will return home."
"Here comes some one running," said the hermit, "let us see who it is."
The King turned round, and saw a bearded man come running out of the
wood. The man held his hands pressed against his stomach, and blood was
flowing from under them. When he reached the King, he fell fainting on the
ground moaning feebly. The King and the hermit unfastened the man's
clothing. There was a large wound in his stomach. The King washed it as best
he could, and bandaged it with his handkerchief and with a towel the hermit
had. Again and again the King washed and rebandaged the wound. At last the
man revived and asked for something to drink. The King brought fresh water
and gave it to him. Meanwhile the sun had set, and it had become cool. So
the King, with the hermit's help, carried the wounded man into the hut and
laid him on the bed. Lying on the bed the man closed his eyes and was quiet;
but the King was so tired with his walk and with the work he had done, that
he crouched down on the threshold, and also fell asleep--so soundly that he
slept all through the short summer night. When he awoke in the morning, it
was long before he could remember where he was, or who was the strange
bearded man lying on the bed and gazing intently at him with shining eyes.
"Forgive me!" said the bearded man in a weak voice, when he saw that the
King was awake and was looking at him.
"I do not know you, and have nothing to forgive you for," said the King.
"You do not know me, but I know you. I am that enemy of yours who swore
to revenge himself on you, because you executed his brother and seized his
property. I knew you had gone alone to see the hermit, and I resolved to
kill you on your way back. But the day passed and you did not return. So I
came out from my ambush to find you, and I came upon your bodyguard, and
they recognized me, and wounded me. I escaped from them, but should have
bled to death had you not dressed my wound. I wished to kill you, and you
have saved my life. Now, if I live, and if you wish it, I will serve you as
your most faithful slave, and will bid my sons do the same. Forgive me!"
The King was very glad to have made peace with his enemy so easily, and
to have gained him for a friend, and he not only forgave him, but said he
would send his servants and his own physician to attend him, and promised to
restore his property.
Having taken leave of the wounded man, the King went out into the porch
and looked around for the hermit. Before going away he wished once more to
beg an answer to the questions he had put. The hermit was outside, on his
knees, sowing seeds in the beds that had been dug the day before.
The King approached him, and said, "For the last time, I pray you to answer
my questions, wise man."
"You have already been answered!" said the hermit still crouching on his
thin legs, and looking up at the King, who stood before him.
"How answered? What do you mean?" asked the King.
"Do you not see," replied the hermit. "If you had not pitied my weakness
yesterday, and had not dug these beds for me, but had gone your way, that
man would have attacked you, and you would have repented of not having
stayed with me. So the most important time was when you were digging the
beds; and I was the most important man; and to do me good was your most
important business. Afterwards, when that man ran to us, the most important
time was when you were attending to him, for if you had not bound up his
wounds he would have died without having made peace with you. So he was the
most important man, and what you did for him was your most important
business.
Remember then: there is only one time that is important -- and that is
now! It is the most important time because it is the only time when we have
any power.
The most necessary man is he with whom you are, for no man knows whether
he will ever have dealings with any one else.
And the most important thing to do is, to do good, because for that
purpose alone was man sent into this life!"
READ THE STORY IN
RUSSIAN | ÏÐÎ×ÈÒÀÉÒÅ ÏÎ-ÐÓÑÑÊÈ
The greatest happiness is to
be content with a little
RUSSIAN PROVERB
Adapted
from the original Russian
THE TSAR AND THE SHIRT
by Leo Tolstoy
Once there lived a Tsar who fell ill. So eager was he to be well that he
said, "Half of my kingdom will I give to anyone who cures me!" Then were
assembled all the wise men of the kingdom who set about thinking how to cure
the Tsar. (None of them knew for sure.) But one of the wise men said, "To
cure the Tsar we should find a happy man, take his shirt from him, and put
it on the Tsar. In this way the Tsar will recover!"
With that the Tsar commanded that a happy man be found. The Tsar's
subjects searched the whole of the kingdom, far and wide, but such a man who
was completely and altogether happy could not be found: one was rich, but
in poor health. Another was healthy, but poor. Yet another was both
healthy and wealthy, but had a crabby wife. Everyone had something to
grumble about!
One day, however, while the tsarevich* was walking far from home he came
upon a little izbychka* and suddenly he heard someone say, "Thanks to God
for this wonderful day! I did a little work, I had something to eat, and
now I am going to have a nice and peaceful sleep. There is nothing more I
want or need."
At hearing such words, the tsarevich rejoiced! He immediately told the
Tsar’s messengers to go get the man’s shirt, give him some money (whatever
he wanted), and to take the shirt to the Tsar. Ax, how the messengers wanted
the shirt for their Little Father*. But when they came to the happy man,
they found he had no shirt to wear!
* tsarevich: son of the Tsar
* izbychka: a small cottage
* Little Father: an affectionate term the people used long ago for the Tsar
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RUSSIAN | ÏÐÎ×ÈÒÀÉÒÅ ÏÎ-ÐÓÑÑÊÈ
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Leo Tolstoy is
not only one of the greatest writers of Russia, but of the world and of
all time. When he was a little boy, his older brother Nikolai told him
that he wrote the secret of how to make men happy on a green stick and
buried it by a tree by the road side. Of course when Tolstoy grew up, he
knew the story was not true. Nevertheless, he asked to be buried by that
tree when he died. In all of Tolstoy's writing you'll find a yearning
to help people understand life and live it better. To learn more about Leo Tolstoy, we recommend the following beautiful web site: http://www.ltolstoy.com/index.html |
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Ivan Bilibin is
one of Russia's greatest illustrators, and
the most famous illustrator of fairy tales. He also did
amazing costume and set designs for Russia's most
well known operas. . To learn more about Ivan Bilibin and see more of his illustrations, you can visit the following web sites: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ivan_Bilibin http://www.bpib.com/illustrat/bilibin.htm http://www.auburn.edu/academic/liberal_arts/foreign/russian/art/bilibin/ |
A true story from Ingushetia
THE COURTYARD AND THE FENCE
by a man named Zakre
My grandfather Tausi was very old then, and I was the only boy allowed into
his room to play on his big, brightly colored carpet. It was a thick, warm
carpet -- the kind you are always trying hard to dig your toes into. In the
center of it there was a small pattern. It was surrounded by another,
different pattern. And around that was still another pattern. Each one got
bigger and bigger, and brighter and brighter, and more and more beautiful.
My grandfather was a very wise man. I knew it even as a small boy. But
I am not saying it just because he was my grandfather, or because he loved
me. Everyone said so. He lived in the land of my ancestors, a land called
Ingushetia. High in the mountains you can still see the tower of my
ancestors. No one is living in our tower now. I have heard, though, that
sometimes it is used by shepherds for shelter.
Long ago these towers were used to protect our land. And now I can hear
you asking, "Why were your ancestors living in towers for fighting?" The
answer is because our land is so beautiful. There are mountains whose rocky
peaks turn to gold at noon, and then purple when the sun sets at night. The
valleys are always as soft and thick as if it just rained. In the summer
there are fields filled with rye and wheat, and fields of tall, tender
grasses where children play hide-and-seek. And everywhere there are small,
chattering rivers and streams -- so many that it has never been possible to
give them all names. But for all this beauty we have had to pay a price.
All our history has been a story of fighting for our small, beautiful land.
In one thing my grandfather was absolutely different from everyone
else. It was not his wisdom. There were other wise men. It was not his
bravery. There were other brave men. What made my grandfather different,
was that he was always staying on the side of truth. That is how he was
described. He was a just man. This reputation he wore like a warm,
well-made coat all his life.
When my grandfather was very old he told me a story. This story lives
in my heart as if he told me only this morning.
One day while my grandfather was sitting in his room, he heard his son
(my uncle) arguing with a Russian neighbor who was putting up a new fence.
My grandfather did not understand Russian. He was very old even at that
time, with a beautiful, white beard. My grandfather went to his oldest son
and asked him, "What are you arguing so loudly about with our neighbor?"
His son replied that their Russian neighbor had moved his fence one-half
meter into my grandfather's courtyard.
Then my grandfather said something very quietly, so quietly that his son
and the Russian could hardly hear him, and so they had to stop their arguing
and listen.
"Say to our neighbor," my grandfather ordered his son, "Do not move your
fence one-half meter inside my courtyard. Move it one whole meter!"
After that my uncle said it to the Russian who was standing and staring
at my grandfather with his long, white beard without understanding him
(because my grandfather was speaking in the Ingush language). Do you know
what the Russian did? He moved his fence one whole meter into his own
courtyard! My uncle could hardly believe his eyes!
When my grandfather told me this story, I understood that he wanted me
to remember it always. From that day I understood that the example he had
given his son was more important than a half-meter of land.
And now you know it, too.
READ THIS STORY IN RUSSIAN | ÏÐÎ×ÈÒÀÉÒÅ ÏÎ-ÐÓÑÑÊÈ
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The republic
of Ingushetia is in the northern slopes of the Caucasus Mountains.
Ingushetia is one of the smallest republics in Russia surrounded by many
different peoples and languages. To the east is Chechnya and Daghestan,
to the north the Kumyk peoples, to the west Ossetia, and to the south,
South Ossetia and Georgia. Historical records say that since the Middle
Ages, the Ingush inhabited the high mountain regions. At the time of
the first Russian conquest of the Caucasus in the 1800s, the Ingush were
moved to the lowlands. Even today, Ingush people can trace their
family, or clan as they say, to a village in the highlands and to their
own ancestral stone tower. The towers are famed in the Caucasus, being
built with incredible skill. The Ingush people are a very handsome
people and live with a strong sense of moral obligation to their
traditions and families. One of the most important recorded facts about the Ingush is that "In all of recorded history and reconstructable prehistory, the Chechen and Ingush . . . have never undertaken battle except in defense." [Johanna Nichols. UCB, Berkeley, CA] |
Adapted from the original Russian
THE VIOLINIST
by A. Kyznetsov
In a large city, in the public garden, a poor blind man sat every evening
playing his violin. His faithful dog could always be found sitting beside
him holding her master's cap in her mouth -- into which people would toss a
little change.
But one evening, as people strolled about, no one, it seems, noticed the
poor blind man, and thus his cap remained completely empty. Only one young
man took the time to pause, listen to the unfortunate man's playing, and
feel a bit of pity for him. The poor, needy man played on until his hands
became so weary that he could no longer hold his violin. He set it aside
and sadly put his head in his hands.
At that very moment a young man stooped over the poor beggar and reached
for his violin. "While you rest, I will take a turn," said the stranger who
lifted the violin to his shoulder and began to play. Everyone who passed by
was so impressed with the young man's playing, that soon people began to
gather around.
In no more than a minute a crowd was circled around the musician and the
cap, which the poor man's dog still held in her mouth expectantly, was soon
overflowing.
When the violinist finished, he laid it next to the old man and quietly
vanished from the garden. "Who was that?" asked the poor beggar when he
realized that the man was suddenly gone.
"It was our famous violinist!" yelled someone from the crowd.
(This is said to be a
true story.)
READ THIS STORY IN
RUSSIAN | ÏÐÎ×ÈÒÀÉÒÅ ÏÎ-ÐÓÑÑÊÈ
An abridged version adapted from
"The Elementary Russian Reader"
George Z. Patrick, Ph.D, Pitman Publishing Co. 1943
VANKA
by Anton Chekhov
Vanka Zhukov, a boy of nine, had been apprenticed to a shoemaker.
Once, on the night before Christmas, when his master and the apprentices
had left, he did not go to bed. He took out of his master's cupboard a
bottle of ink and a pen with a rusty nib, and, spreading out a crumpled
sheet of paper in front of him, began to write. Before he wrote the first
letter, several times he looked round fearfully at the door and windows. The
paper lay on the bench while he knelt before it.
"Dear grandfather, Konstantin Makarovich," he wrote, "I am writing you a
letter. I wish you a happy Christmas, and all blessings from the Lord God. I
have neither father nor mother, you are the only one left me."
Vanka sighed, dipped his pen, and went on writing:
"Yesterday I had a thrashing. The master whacked me because I
accidentally fell asleep while I was rocking the baby in the cradle. The
workmen laugh at me and there is little to eat. In the morning they give me
bread, for dinner, porridge, and in the evening, bread again. I am put to
sleep in the passage. When the baby cries I get no sleep at all, but have
to rock the cradle.
"Dear grandfather, have mercy, take me away from here, home to the
village. I do not have the strength to live here anymore. I beg you, take
me away from here or I shall die."
Vanka's mouth twisted a little, he rubbed his eyes with his black fist,
and began to cry.
"Come get me, dear grandfather," continued Vanka. "Have pity on an
unhappy orphan like me and take me away from here. Everyone hits me, and I
so want to eat; I can't tell you what misery it is. I am always crying. I
send greetings to Alyona, Yegorka, and the coachman. Don't give my accordion
to anyone. I remain, your grandson, Ivan Zhukov.* Dear grandfather, do
come."
Vanka folded the sheet of writing-paper twice, and put it into an
envelope he had bought the day before for a kopeck.
After thinking a little, he dipped the pen and wrote the address:
TO
GRANDFATHER IN THE VILLAGE
Then he scratched his head, thought a little more, and added:
TO
GRANDFATHER IN THE VILLAGE
KONSTANTIN MAKAROVICH
*Vanka is a diminutive of the name Ivan
READ THE STORY IN RUSSIAN | ÏÐÎ×ÈÒÀÉÒÅ ÏÎ-ÐÓÑÑÊÈ
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Anton
Chekhov was one of Russia's most talented authors at the end of the 19th
century. He was born in 1860 to a peasant family living in Taganrog (in
southern Russia). Peasants were the poorest people in Russia. His
father had been a serf, but when the serfs were given their freedom he
became a shopkeeper. Young Chekhov, however, wanted a better life. He
dreamed of studying at a university. He begged his mother to convince
his father to let him go to Moscow, rather than requiring him to work in
his father's grocery store. In the end, Chekhov was allowed to go to medical school in Moscow, but had to pay his own way. To do this, he wrote short stories, often humorous, for magazines and newspapers. In 1884, at the age of 24, he finished medical school. Yet, just 2 years after getting his degree he put all his energies into writing, though he continued to practice medicine in addition. Much of what he earned from both vocations he sent to help his family. Chekhov knew life well, especially the great differences between the rich and poor. You can learn much about life, and about Russia society, by reading his stories as he continually searched for the meaning of life and its truth. You can find over 200 of his stories by visiting the following web site: http://chekhov2.tripod.com/ |
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Alexei
Venetsianov was primarily a portrait painter. He played a very
important role among Russian artists as the first painter to paint the
lives of peasants. He depicted their harsh lives gently and kindly —
but to paint them at all was bold in the early 1800s when he working.
He eventually started a school for painters and allowed many peasants
and common people to study there, thus helping them out of their
poverty. Although at the time he was living, the Russian Academy of
Arts did not approve of his work, Tsar Nicholas I found his work
valuable and appointed him a court painter. You can see more of his paintings by going to the following web site: http://www.abcgallery.com/V/venetsianov/venetsianov.html |
