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Updated: May 17, 2025
"Your lips conformed, but all the while your mind made verses, Jurgen. And poetry is man's rebellion against being what he is." " And besides, you call me a fellow rebel. Now, how can it be possible that Koshchei, who made all things as they are, should be a rebel? unless, indeed, there is some power above even Koshchei. I would very much like to have that explained to me, sir."
'It is possible to sow barley, to wait till it grows up, to reap it and thresh it, to brew beer, to drink ourselves drunk on it, to sleep our fill, and then to set off in pursuit and yet to be in time. Koshchei galloped off, caught up Prince Ivan: 'Didn't I tell you that you should not see Marya Morevna any more than your own ears? And he took her away and carried her off home with him.
"Yet how may I be sure," thought Jurgen, instantly, "that this black gentleman was really Koshchei? He said he was? Why, yes; and Horvendile to all intents told me that Horvendile was Koshchei. Aha, and what else did Horvendile say!
That would never do. So why do you not convey her to this Heaven which she believes in, and thus put an end to the matter?" "But, sir," they told him, "there is no such place." Then Koshchei reflected. "It is certainly strange that a place which does not exist should be a matter of public knowledge in another place. Where does this woman come from?" "From Earth," they told him.
'You'd have gone on sleeping a good deal longer if it hadn't been for us, replied his brothers-in-law. 'Now come and pay us a visit. 'Not so, brothers; I shall go and look for Marya Morevna. And when he had found her, he said to her: 'Find out from Koshchei the Deathless whence he got so good a steed. So Marya Morevna chose a favourable moment, and began asking Koshchei about it.
Why, Koshchei, who made all things as they are Koshchei, no less was now doing for Jurgen Koshchei's utmost: and that utmost amounted to getting for Jurgen what Jurgen had once, with the aid of youth and impudence, got for himself.
"I do not know, sir. But I suspect that my quest is ended, and that you are Koshchei the Deathless." The black gentleman nodded. "Something of the sort. Koshchei, or Ardnari, or Ptha, or Jaldalaoth, or Abraxas, it is all one what I may be called hereabouts. My real name you never heard: no man has ever heard my name. So that matter we need hardly go into." "Precisely, Prince.
"Why, every Sunday morning the priest discoursed to us about Heaven, and of how happy we would be there after death." "Has this woman died, then?" asked Koshchei. "Yes, sir," they told him, "recently. And she will believe nothing we explain to her, but demands to be taken to Heaven." "Now, this is very vexing," Koshchei said, "and I cannot, of course, put up with such scepticism.
So Steinvor talked of her children: and Koshchei, who made all things, listened very attentively. Of Coth she told him, of her only son, confessing Coth was the finest boy that ever lived, "a little wild, sir, at first, but then you know what boys are," and telling of how well Coth had done in business and of how he had even risen to be an alderman.
For now I have never begun, and now there is no word of truth in anything which you remember of the year just past. Now none of these things has ever happened." "But how can that be, Prince?" "Why should I tell you, Jurgen? Let it suffice that what I will, not only happens, but has already happened, beyond the ancientest memory of man and his mother. How otherwise could I be Koshchei?
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