The Pot
Once upon a time, there lived a man and his wife. Both were incredibly lazy... Always trying to push their chores onto someone else, just so they wouldn’t have to do anything themselves... They never even bothered to latch the door to their hut: in the morning, they’d just get up, stretch out their hands, and unlatch it again... And so they lived.One day, the wife cooked some porridge. And what porridge it was! Golden and crumbly, each grain separate from the next. She took the porridge out of the oven, set it on the table, and added a bit of butter. They ate the porridge and even licked their spoons clean... But then they noticed that some porridge had stuck to the side and bottom of the pot—it needed to be washed. So the wife said:
"Well, husband, I’ve done my part—I cooked the porridge. Now it’s your turn to wash the pot!"
"Come on now! Washing pots is no job for a man! You can wash it yourself."
"Not a chance!"
"Then I won’t either."
"If you won’t, then let it sit there."
With that, the wife shoved the pot onto the stove shelf and sat down on the bench.
The pot sat there, unwashed.
"Wife, oh wife! We need to wash that pot!"
"I told you—it’s your job, so you wash it!"
"Alright then, wife! A deal is worth more than money: whoever gets up first tomorrow and says the first word will have to wash the pot."
"Fine, go climb onto the stove. We’ll see what happens."
They went to bed. The husband on the stove, the wife on the bench. The dark night passed, and morning came. But in the morning, neither of them got up. Neither moved a muscle—they didn’t want to wash the pot. The wife needed to water and milk the cow and drive it to the pasture, but she didn’t budge from the bench. The neighbors had already driven their cows out.
"What’s going on with Malanya? Is everything alright?"
"Who knows? Maybe she’s running late. Let’s see if we meet her on the way back..."
They walked back—still no sign of Malanya.
"Something’s wrong! Something must have happened!"
A neighbor went to their hut. She pushed the door—it wasn’t latched. Something wasn’t right. She went inside and looked around.
"Malanya, dear!"
But the wife just lay on the bench, staring wide-eyed, not moving a muscle.
"Why didn’t you drive the cow out? Are you feeling unwell?"
The wife stayed silent.
"What’s happened to you? Why won’t you speak?"
The wife said nothing, not a word.
"Good heavens! Where’s your husband?.. Vasily, oh Vasily!"
She looked at the stove, and there lay Vasily, eyes open—not moving.
"What’s wrong with your wife? Has something happened?"
The husband stayed silent, as if he’d swallowed his tongue. The neighbor grew alarmed:
"I’ll go tell the others!"
She ran through the village:
"Oh, women! Something’s wrong with Malanya and Vasily: they’re lying like logs—one on the bench, the other on the stove. Their eyes are open, but they won’t say a word. Could it be a curse?"
The women came running and began wailing around them:
"Dear heavens! What’s happened to you?.. Malanya! Vasily! Why won’t you speak?"
Both lay there like the dead, silent.
"Run, women, fetch the priest! This is serious."
They ran. The priest came.
"Here, Father, they’re both lying there—not moving. Their eyes are open, but they won’t say a word. Could they be cursed?"
The priest smoothed his beard and went to the stove:
"Vasily, servant of God! What’s happened?"
The husband stayed silent. The priest went to the bench:
"Servant of God! What’s wrong with your husband?"
The wife stayed silent.
The neighbors talked and talked—then left the hut. They had their own chores: someone needed to heat the stove, someone to feed the children, others had chickens or pigs to tend to.
The priest said:
"Well, good people, it’s too risky to leave them like this. Someone should stay."
But one was busy, another was busy.
"Here," he said, "let Granny Stepanida stay. She doesn’t have children crying—she lives alone."
But Granny Stepanida bowed and said:
"No, Father, no one will work for free! If you pay me, I’ll stay."
"And what should I pay you with?" asked the priest, glancing around the hut. By the door hung Malanya’s tattered coat, its stuffing dangling in clumps. "Here," said the priest, "take the coat. It’s worn, but it’ll do to cover your legs."
As soon as he said this, the wife, as if scalded, jumped off the bench and stood in the middle of the hut, hands on her hips.
"What’s this?" she said. "Giving away my things? I’ll wear it myself or give it to whoever I please!"
Everyone was stunned. Meanwhile, the husband quietly slid his legs off the stove, leaned over, and said:
"Well, wife, you spoke first—so you’ll wash the pot."
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