University of Virginia Library

SERBIAN STORIES FROM CARNIOLA.

IN these we come to a very singular mythological being,
Kurent, who has not, as yet, found a place in the
writings of Slavonic mythologists. With respect to Kurent,
Professor Krek writes as follows: `The question as to the
nature of the Slovinish Kurent is very difficult, especially as
the tradition about him is, in my judgment, very corrupt.
So far as I know, no one has hitherto discussed it scientifically,
and what I am now writing to you is my own subjective
opinion, rapidly formed. The name itself does not
appear to be indigenous, but I think it is of Romance, perhaps
of mediæval Latin origin, though I am not yet able to
say what its signification is. In a mythological point of
view, there is to be observed in the stories about Kurent a
certain mixture of heathen-Slavonic and Christian elements;
but I think the basis is entirely indigenous. If I mistake
not, Kurent is essentially of Dionysiac signification, which
is indicated by the fact that the Slovinish stories connect
him closely with the vine-stock, and with wine in general,
just as is the case with the Greek Dionysos. It is noteworthy
that the Little Russians have the word "Kurent" in
the sense of a merry wedding tune (Zhelechovskij, i. 391),
and that the Slovinish tradition frequently puts Kurent in the
place of "Pust," so that both represent the same mythological
idea. With regard to "Pust," there is no doubt

that, with his orgiastic system, he is just like the Greek
Dionysos, although his name is recent, and rests upon alien
conceptions; indeed, here the fact is of more decisive
import than the name. The name is not connected with
the old Slavonic "pust," desertus, but with "pust" in the old
Slavonic "mesopust," in Bohemian "masopust," which are
identical with the Greek άπόℵρεως, in Latin "carnisprivium."
Of what original names "Kurent" and "Pust" have occupied
the place, it will now never be possible to determine.
It is just in mythological matters, that all manner of old
traditions are unsatisfactory, as everybody knows who has
busied himself at all closely with this subject. Much that
is Christian has similarly become mingled with the original
pagan conceptions in the case of Kurent also, and it is not
easy to separate them from later accretions. I think that
the Slovintzes honoured Kurent with a special solemnity or
festival at the same time that the other Slavonians celebrated
the regeneration of winter, nature, and the birth of the solar
deity. This mythological phenomenon has its analogy in
the myths of other Ario-European nations, a matter so
generally known that there is no need of dilating upon it
now. What I wish to draw attention to is this: that the
Slovinish "Kurent," as also his representative "Pust" is of
Dionysiac signification, and I don't know to what to compare
him more properly than to the Greek Dionysos.
Circumspection is especially necessary in mythological
matters, but I venture to affirm that my opinion will hold
its ground before severe criticism. I purpose treating at
greater length of this matter at a later time, but I do not
think I shall find it necessary to retract any portion of my
opinion.'

Mr. Morfill informs me, moreover, that Kurenta grati is
given by Zhelikovskij in the sense `to play the Kurent,' i.e.,
the air so called.

XLVII.—THE ORIGIN OF MAN.

In the beginning there was nothing but God, and God
slept and dreamed. For ages and ages did this dream last.
But it was fated that he should wake up. Having roused
himself from sleep, he looked round about him, and every
glance transformed itself into a star. God was amazed, and
began to travel, to see what he had created with his eyes.
He travelled and travelled, but nowhere was there either end
or limit. As he travelled, he arrived at our earth also; but
he was already weary; sweat clung to his brow. On the
earth fell a drop of sweat: the drop became alive, and here
you have the first man. He is God's kin, but he was not
created for pleasure: he was produced from sweat; already
in the beginning it was fated for him to toil and sweat.

XLVIII.—GOD'S COCK.

The earth was waste: nowhere was there aught but stone.
God was sorry for this, and sent his cock to make the earth
fruitful, as he knew how to do. The cock came down into
a cave in the rock, and fetched out an egg of wondrous
power and purpose. The egg chipped, and seven rivers
trickled out of it. The rivers irrigated the neighbourhood,
and soon all was green: there were all manner of flowers
and fruits; the land, without man's labour, produced wheat,
the trees not only apples and figs, but also the whitest and
sweetest bread. In this paradise men lived without care,
working, not from need, but for amusement and merriment.
Round the paradise were lofty mountains, so that there was
no violence to fear, nor devilish storm to dread. But
further: that men, otherwise their own masters, and free,
might not, from ignorance, suffer damage, God's cock
hovered high in the sky, and crowed to them every day,

when to get up, when to take their meals, and what to do,
and when to do it. The nation was happy, only God's cock
annoyed them by his continual crowing. Men began to
murmur, and pray God to deliver them from the restless
creature: `Let us now settle for ourselves,' said they, `when
to eat, to work, and to rise.' God hearkened to them; the
cock descended from the sky, but crowed to them just once
more: `Woe is me! Beware of the lake!' Men rejoiced,
and said that it was never better; no one any more interfered
with their freedom. After ancient custom, they ate,
worked, and rose, all in the best order, as the cock had
taught them. But, little by little, individuals began to think
that it was unsuitable for a free people to obey the cock's
crowing so slavishly, and began to live after their own
fashion, observing no manner of order. Through this arose
illnesses, and all kinds of distress; men looked again longingly
to the sky, but God's cock was gone for ever. They
wished, at any rate, to pay regard to his last words. But
they did not know how to fathom their meaning. The
cock had warned them to dread the lake, but why? for they
hadn't it in their valley; there flowed quietly, in their own
channel, the seven rivers which had burst out of the egg.
Men therefore conjectured that there was a dangerous lake
somewhere on the other side of the mountains, and sent a
man every day to the top of a hill to see whether he espied
aught. But there was danger from no quarter; the man
went in vain, and people calmed themselves again. Their
pride became greater and greater; the women made brooms
from the wheat-ears, and the men straw mattrasses. They
would not go any more to the tree to gather bread, but set
it on fire from below, that it might fall, and that they might
collect it without trouble. When they had eaten their fill,
they lay down by the rivers, conversed, and spoke all manner
of blasphemies. One cast his eyes on the water, wagged his
head, and jabbered: `Eh! brothers! A wondrous wonder!
I should like to know, at any rate, why the water is exactly
so much, neither more nor less.' `This, too,' another
answered, `was a craze of the cock's; it is disgraceful
enough for us to be listening to orders to beware of a lake,
which never was, and never will be. If my opinion is followed,
the watcher will go to-day for the last time. As
regards the rivers, I think it would be better if there were
more water.' His neighbour at first agreed, but thought,
again, that there was water in abundance; if more, there
would be too much. A corpulent fellow put in energetically
that undoubtedly both were right; it would, therefore, be
the most sensible thing to break the egg up, and drive just
as much water as was wanted into each man's land, and
there was certainly no need of a watchman to look out for
the lake. Scarcely had these sentiments been delivered,
when an outcry arose in the valley; all rushed to the egg to
break it to pieces; all men deplored nothing but this, that
the disgraceful look-out could not be put a stop to before
the morrow. The people stood round the egg, the corpulent
man took up a stone, and banged it against the egg. It
split up with a clap of thunder, and so much water burst
out of it that almost the whole human race perished. The
paradise was filled with water, and became one great lake.
God's cock warned truly, but in vain, for the lawless people
did not understand him. The flood now reached the
highest mountains, just to the place where the watchman
was standing, who was the only survivor from the destruction
of mankind. Seeing the increasing waters, he began to flee.

XLIX.—KURENT THE PRESERVER.

Mankind perished by the flood, and there was only one
who survived, and this was Kranyatz. Kranyatz fled higher

and higher, till the water flooded the last mountain. The
poor wretch saw how the pines and shrubs were covered;
one vine, and one only, was still dry. To it he fled, and
quickly seized hold of it, not from necessity, but from
excessive terror; but how could it help him, being so
slender and weak? Kurent observed this, for the vine was
his stick, when he walked through the wide world. It was
agreeable to him that man should be thought to seek help
from him. It is true that Kurent was a great joker; but he
was also of a kindly nature, and was always glad to deliver
anyone from distress. Hearing Kranyatz lamenting, he
straightened the vine, his stick, and lengthened it more and
more, till it became higher than the clouds. After nine
years the flood ceased, and the earth became dry again.
But Kranyatz preserved himself by hanging on the vine,
and nourishing himself by its grapes and wine. When all
became dry, he got down, and thanked Kurent as his preserver.
But this didn't please Kurent. `It was the vine
that rescued you,' said he to Kranyatz; `thank the vine, and
make a covenant with it, and bind yourself and your posterity,
under a curse, that you will always speak its praises
and love its wine more than any other food and drink.'
Very willingly did the grateful Kranyatz make the engagement
for both himself and his posterity, and to this day
his descendants still keep faith, according to his promise,
loving wine above all things, and joyfully commemorating
Kurent, their ancient benefactor.

L.—KURENT AND MAN.

Kurent and man contended which should rule the earth.
Neither Kurent would yield to man nor man to Kurent, for
he (man) was so gigantic—he wouldn't even have noticed it,
if nine of the people of the present day had danced up and

down his nostrils. `Come,' said Kurent, `let us see which
is the stronger; whether it is I or you that is to rule the
earth. Yonder is a broad sea; the one that springs across
it best shall have both the earth and all that is on the other
side of the sea, and that is, in faith, a hundred times more
valuable than this wilderness.' Man agreed. Kurent took
off his coat and jumped across the sea, so that just one foot
was wetted when he sprang on to dry land. Now he began
to jeer at the man; but the man held his tongue, didn't get
out of temper, neither did he take off his coat, but stepped
without effort and quite easily over the sea, as over a brook,
and came on to dry land without even wetting a foot. `I'm
the stronger,' said man to Kurent; `see how my foot is
dry and yours is wet.' `The first time you have overcome
me,' answered Kurent; `yours are the plains, yours is the
sea, and what is beyond the sea; but that isn't all the earth,
there is also some beneath us and above us; come, then,
let us see a second time which is the stronger.' Kurent
stood on a hollow rock, and stamped on it with his foot,
so that it burst with a noise like thunder, and split in pieces.
The rock broke up, and a cavern was seen where dragons
were brooding. Now the man also stamped, and the earth
quaked and broke up right to the bottom, just where pure
gold flowed like a broad river, and the dragons fell down
and were drowned in the river. `This trial, too, is yours,'
said Kurent; `but I don't acknowledge you emperor till you
overpower me in a third fierce contest. Yonder is a very
lofty mountain. It rises above the clouds; it reaches to the
celestial table, where the cock sits and watches God's provisions.
Now, then, take you an arrow and shoot, and so
will I; the one which shoots highest is the stronger, and
his is the earth, and all that is beneath and above it.'
Kurent shot, and his arrow wasn't back for eight days; then
the man shot, and his arrow flew for nine days, and when,
on the tenth day, it fell, the celestial cock that guarded God's
provisions fell also, spitted upon it. `You are emperor,'
said cunning Kurent. `I make obeisance to you, as befits
a subject.' But the man was good-natured, and made a
covenant of adoptive brotherhood with Kurent, and went
off to enjoy his imperial dignity. Kurent, too, went off, but
he was annoyed that the man had put him to shame; where
he could not prevail by strength, he determined to succeed
by craft. `You are a hero, man,' he would say, `I am
witness thereto; but beware of me, if you are a hero also
in simplicity; I go to bring you a gift, that I have devised
entirely by myself.'

He said and squeezed the vine, his stick, and pure red wine
burst out of it. `Here's a gift for you; now, then, where
are you?' He found the man on the earth the other side
of the sea, where he was enjoying a bowl of sweet stir-about.
`What are you doing, my lord?' said Kurent. `I've
mixed a bowl of stirabout from white wheat and red fruit,
and, see, here I am eating it and drinking water.' `My
poor lord! you are emperor of the world and drinking
water! hand me a cup, that I may present you with better
drink, which I, your humble servant, have prepared for you
myself.' The man was deceived, took the cup with red
wine, and drank some of it. `Thank you, adopted brother;
you are very kind, but your drink is naught.' Kurent was
disgusted, went off again, and thought and thought how to
cheat the man. Again he squeezed his stick, again red
wine burst forth from it, but Kurent did not allow it to
remain pure, but the rascal mixed hellebore with it, which
Vilas and prophetesses pluck by moonlight to nourish
themselves with. A second time he went in search of the
man, and found him at the bottom of the earth, where the
pure gold was flowing like a broad river. `What are you
doing, my lord?' asked Kurent. `I am getting myself a

golden shirt, and I am tired and very thirsty; but there's
no water here, and it's a long way to the world—seven years'
journey.' `I am at your service,' said Kurent; `here's a
cup of wine for you; better never saw the red sun.' The
man was deceived, took it, and drank it up. `Thank you,
Kurent; you are good, and your drink is good, too.' Kurent
was going to pour him out a fresh cupful, but the man
would not allow it, for his nature was still sober and
sensible. Kurent was disgusted, and went off to see whether
he could not devise something better. For the third time
he squeezed his stick; wine burst out more strongly, but
this time it did not remain pure nor without sin. The
rascal applied an arrow, opened a vein and let some black
blood flow into the wine. Again he went in search of the
man, and found him on the high mountain at God's table,
where he was feasting on roast meat, which had not been
roasted for him, but for God himself. `What are you
doing, my lord?' asked Kurent in amazement and joy, when
he saw that the man was sinning abominably. `Here I
am, sitting and eating roast meat; but take yourself off, for
I am afraid of God, lest he should come up and smite me.'
`Never fear!' was Kurent's advice; `how do you like God's
roast meat?' `It's nice, but it's heavy. I can scarcely
swallow it.' `I am at your service,' said Kurent; `here is
wine for you, the like of which isn't on earth or in heaven,
but only with me.' The third time the man was deceived,
but cruelly. `Thank you, Kurent,' he said; `you are good,
but your drink is better; draw me some more, as becomes
a faithful servant.' Kurent did so, and the man's eye
became dim and his mind became dim, and he thought no
more of God, but remained at table. Suddenly God returned,
and seeing the man dozing and eating roast meat at
his table, became angry, and smote him down the mountain
with his mighty hand, where he lay, half dead, for
many years, all bruised and hurt. When he got well again
his strength had diminished; he could neither step across
the sea, nor go down to the bottom of the earth, nor uphill
to the celestial table. Thus Kurent ruled the world
and man, and mankind have been weak and dwarfed from
that time forth.

LI.—THE HUNDRED-LEAVED ROSE.

The man contended with Kurent for the earth. Unable to
decide their dispute by agreement, they seized each other,
and struggled together up and down the earth for full seven
years; but neither could Kurent overcome the man, nor
the man Kurent. At that time they kicked the earth about
and broke it up, so that it became such as it now is: where
there was formerly nothing but wide plains, they dug out
ravines with their heels, and piled up mountains and hills.
When they were wearied with fighting, they both fell down
like dead corpses, and lay for a hundred and a hundred
years; and the mighty Dobrin hastened to the earth, bound
both the man and Kurent, and ruled the world. But the
two woke up, and, looking about them, observed Dobrin's
cords, and wondered who had thrown spider's webs over
them. Raising themselves, they broke their bonds as mere
spiders' webs, seized Dobrin, bound him with golden fetters,
and handed him over to a fiery dragon, to plait the lady-dragon's
hair and wash her white hands. Then said Kurent
to the man: `See, by quarrelling we got tired out, and fell
asleep, and a good-for-nothing came to us and ruled the
world. We have handed him over to the fiery dragon, but
if we contend as before, a stronger than Dobrin will come to
us, and will conquer both me and you, and we shall suffer
like silly Dobrin. But let us give up disputing; you are a
hero, and I think I am, too; the hills and abysses are our

witnesses, when they crashed under our heels. Hear, therefore,
and follow my advice. I have a garden, and in my
garden is a mysterious plant, the hundred-leaved rose. By
the root it is attached to the bottom of the earth, imprisoning
a terrible creature—the living fire. In vain does the creature
endeavour to release and free itself from its bonds, the roots.
But woe to us, if you pull up the hundred-leaved rose out of
the earth! The creature `living-fire' would force its way
through, and the earth, and all that is in it, would become
nothing but a mighty desert where the water has dried up.
Such is the root of the hundred-leaved rose. But don't
seize hold of its top, either. It is in your power to pull it
off, it is neither too strong nor lofty, but it conceals within
it wondrous powers—lightning and thunder. They would
knock to pieces both you and the earth, and all that is
beneath it and above it; the hundred-leaved rose would
alone remain; but a hundred and a hundred of God's years
would elapse before a new earth grew up around it, and a
living race was again produced. Such is the garden of the
hundred-leaved rose. But it also possesses extraordinary
petals. I have often sat a day at a time under them, and
the petals would comfort me, and sing songs sweeter than
even the slender throat of a Vila singing ever uttered. But
from the petals there is no danger; pluck them, and
next morning they will sprout forth handsomer than ever.
But up to the present time I have not injured them, but
have noticed in the night, how they fell and raised themselves
again; and I easily understood how the stars and
the moon go round, for all came up in the sky just like the
petals of the hundred-leaved rose. Come, then; let us ask
the wondrous plant, and then make peace together. The
first petal is yours, the second mine, the third belongs to
neither of us, and so on till we pluck all the petals: let him
who pulls off the last petal be ruler on the earth, but not for
ever, for that would be a disgrace to a hero, but for one of
God's hours, a hundred terrestrial years; and when the
hour passes, let that one rule again to whom that luck does
not fall the first time, whether it be I or you, so that we may
arrange to succeed each other in a friendly manner without
dispute and dangerous discord. But the beginning is difficult;
let us have no suspicion, either I as to you, or you as
to me, but let all be of goodwill, and without trickery; let
us ask the hundred-leaved rose, with whom there is no unrighteousness.
The man agreed to what Kurent said; one
hero trusted the other. They went off to the garden, and
asked the hundred-leaved rose. The man pulled a petal,
Kurent pulled one, and the third petal remained unowned.
`I am yours,' `you are mine,' `each is his own;' `I am
yours,' `you are mine,' `each is his own;' so said both
heroes, as they pulled the mysterious petals. But it was
not the will of the hundred-leaved rose that one autocrat
should rule the earth. There were still three petals, the
first belonging to the man, the second to Kurent, and the
third to neither, and this was the only one remaining on the
hundred-leaved rose. Kurent and the man saw that it was
not destined for either to rule or to humble himself; they
parted in grief, and roamed through the wide world, each
afraid of the other, so that they did not venture even to go
to sleep at night. An hour of God, a hundred terrestrial
years, elapsed, and then both heroes met again. For the
second time they consulted the hundred-leaved rose, and it
arranged it so, that Kurent was to humble himself, and the
man, who pulled off the last petal, was to rule. The hero
humbled himself to him, but the man did not know how to
rule, but allowed himself to be deluded, and lay down on a
plain to rest and sleep. Thus he lay for a whole hour of
God, a hundred terrestrial years, and the wild beasts came
up and made game of him: foxes littered in his ear, and
predaceous kites nested in his thick hair. The man was a
great simpleton, but also a mighty hero, as tall, as a plain,
the end of which you cannot see, is long, and as shaggy as
a wooded mountain. But the hour of God had elapsed,
and Kurent came to the sleeper, and woke him up in no
agreeable fashion. The man saw that he had slept through
his term of rule, and that it was his, according to the agreement,
to serve during an hour of God, a hundred terrestrial
years. Kurent began to rule, but he didn't go to sleep, but
made use of his rule, and exercised his power to the full.
He invited the man to dinner, and treated him in a courteous
and friendly manner, that he might soon forget his
servitude. Kurent kept this in view, and drew him a cup of
wine straight from his own vineyard. The simpleton was
tricked, and drank it up; but it tasted sour to him, so he
grumbled: `Bad drink at a bad host's!' Kurent did not
get angry at this, but drew him a second cup of old red
wine: `Drink, and don't find fault with what is God's.' The
second time the man was tricked and drank it up. It did not
taste sour to him, but he said: `Wondrous drink at a wondrous
host's!' Kurent drew him a third cup, of wonderful
wine, which the first plant, the first planted, yielded, of the
first autumn in the first created year. The third time the
man was tricked, but for ever. After drinking it up, he
threw his arms round Kurent's neck, and cried out: `Oh,
good drink at a good host's! Treat me with this wine, and
rule both my body and soul, not only for one hour of God,
but from henceforth for evermore.' Kurent was delighted,
and plied the man with sweet wine, and the man drank, and
cried without ceasing, that he had no need of freedom so
long as there was wine to be had with Kurent. Kurent
laughed at him, seeing how the man's powers had decayed
through wine, and that nobody could any more contend
with him for the sovereignty of the earth.