The Tale of the Priest and His Worker Balda

Once upon a time, there lived a priest,
With a forehead as thick as oatmeal.
One day, he went to the market
To look for some goods.
Along came Balda,
Walking aimlessly, not knowing where.
“Why, father, are you up so early?
What are you seeking?”
The priest replied, “I need a worker:
A cook, a groom, and a carpenter.
But where can I find such a servant,
One who won’t cost me too much?”
Balda said, “I’ll serve you well,
Diligently and efficiently,
For three clicks on your forehead each year.
Just give me boiled spelt to eat.”
The priest thought it over,
Scratching his forehead.
A click is no small thing,
But he trusted in the Russian “maybe.”
The priest said to Balda, “Fine.
It won’t be a burden for either of us.
Come live in my yard,
Show your diligence and skill.”
Balda lived in the priest’s house,
Slept on straw,
Ate for four,
Worked for seven;
Before dawn, he’d dance,
Harness the horse, plow the field.
He’d light the stove, prepare everything, shop,
Bake an egg and peel it himself.
The priest’s wife couldn’t praise Balda enough,
The priest’s daughter only sighed for Balda,
The priest’s son called him “daddy”;
He’d cook porridge and babysit the child.
Only the priest didn’t like Balda,
Never showed him affection,
Often thought of the payment due;
Time passed, and the deadline approached.
The priest couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep at night:
His forehead was already cracking in anticipation.
Finally, he confessed to his wife:
“What’s to be done?”
A woman’s mind is quick,
Skilled in all sorts of tricks.
The priest’s wife said, “I know a way
To rid us of this misfortune:
Give Balda a task he can’t possibly do,
But demand he completes it exactly.
That way, you’ll save your forehead from punishment
And send Balda away without paying.”
The priest’s heart grew lighter.
He began to look at Balda more boldly.
He called out, “Come here,
My faithful worker Balda.
Listen: the devils owe me a tribute,
Payable upon my death;
There’s no better income,
But they’re three years behind.
Once you’ve eaten your spelt,
Go collect the full tribute from the devils.”
Balda, without arguing with the priest,
Went and sat by the sea;
There, he began twisting a rope
And dipped its end into the sea.
Out crawled an old devil:
“Why, Balda, have you come here?”
“I want to wrinkle the sea with this rope
And torment you, cursed tribe.”
The old devil grew gloomy.
“Tell me, why such displeasure?”
“Why? You don’t pay your tribute,
You’ve forgotten the due date;
Now we’ll have some fun,
A great trouble for you, dogs.”
“Balda, wait, don’t wrinkle the sea,
You’ll get your tribute soon.
Wait, I’ll send my grandson to you.”
Balda thought, “This one’s easy to fool!”
Out popped the little devil,
Meowing like a hungry kitten:
“Hello, Balda, peasant;
What tribute do you need?
We’ve never heard of such a thing,
It’s caused us devils great sorrow.
Well, fine—take it, but on one condition,
By our common agreement—
To avoid future trouble:
Whoever runs around the sea faster,
He’ll take the full tribute,
Meanwhile, they’ll prepare the sack.”
Balda laughed slyly:
“What have you come up with, really?
How can you compete with me,
With me, with Balda himself?
What a foe they’ve sent!
Wait for my little brother.”
Balda went to the nearby woods,
Caught two hares, and put them in a sack.
He returned to the sea,
Found the little devil there.
Balda held one hare by the ears:
“Dance to our balalaika;
You, little devil, are still young,
Too weak to compete with me;
It would just waste time.
First, catch up to my brother.
One, two, three! Catch him.”
Off ran the little devil and the hare:
The devil along the seashore,
The hare into the woods toward home.
After running around the sea,
Sticking out his tongue, lifting his snout,
The little devil returned, panting,
All wet, wiping his face with his paw,
Thinking: he’d outsmarted Balda.
But look—Balda was petting his brother,
Saying, “My dear brother,
Tired, poor thing! Rest, my dear.”
The little devil was stunned,
Tucked his tail, completely subdued,
Glancing sideways at the brother.
“Wait,” he said, “I’ll fetch the tribute.”
He went to his grandfather, saying, “Trouble!
The younger Balda outran me!”
The old devil began to think.
Meanwhile, Balda made such a noise,
That the whole sea stirred,
And the waves rose high.
Out came the little devil: “Enough, peasant,
We’ll send you the full tribute—
But listen. See this stick?
Choose any mark.
Whoever throws the stick farther,
He’ll take the tribute.
What? Afraid to strain your arm?
What are you waiting for?”
“I’m waiting for that cloud;
I’ll toss your stick there,
And start a fight with you, devils.”
The little devil got scared and ran to his grandfather,
To tell of Balda’s victory,
While Balda made noise by the sea again,
Threatening the devils with his rope.
Out came the little devil again: “Why are you fussing?
You’ll get your tribute, if you want...”
“No,” said Balda,
“Now it’s my turn,
I’ll set the terms myself,
Give you a task, little devil.
Let’s see how strong you are.
See that gray mare over there?
Lift her up
And carry her half a verst;
If you carry her, the tribute is yours;
If not, it’s mine.”
The poor devil
Crawled under the mare,
Strained,
Pushed,
Lifted the mare, took two steps,
On the third, he fell, legs stretched out.
And Balda said, “Stupid devil,
Why did you challenge us?
You couldn’t even carry her with your hands,
But watch, I’ll carry her between my legs.”
Balda mounted the mare
And galloped a verst, raising a cloud of dust.
The little devil got scared and ran to his grandfather,
To tell of such a victory.
The devils gathered in a circle,
What could they do?—they collected the tribute
And loaded the sack onto Balda.
Balda walked, groaning,
While the priest, seeing Balda, jumped up,
Hid behind his wife,
Twisted in fear.
Balda found him,
Handed over the tribute, and demanded payment.
The poor priest
Offered his forehead:
With the first click,
The priest jumped to the ceiling;
With the second click,
He lost his tongue;
With the third click,
It knocked the sense out of the old man.
And Balda said reproachfully:
“You shouldn’t have chased cheapness, priest.”

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The Tale of the Priest and His Worker Balda

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