Just about then a decree was issued by the Tsar that his daughter, Eléna Tsarévna the Fair, had ordered a temple to be built for her, with twelve columns and twelve wreaths. She was going to sit in this temple on a lofty throne, and was going to wait for the bridegroom⁠—the valiant man who should on a flying horse, at a single spring, kiss her on the lips. All the young folks were bustling about, washing themselves clean, combing their hair, and considering to whom should the great honour fall.

“Brothers,” Vanyúshka said, “our father is dead: who of us will go and read prayers on his grave?”

“Whoever wishes may go,” answered the brothers.

So the youngest went. But the elders got ready and mounted their horses, curled their hair, dyed their hair; and all their kinsmen gathered round.

Then the second night came: “Brothers, I read the prayers last night,” Ványa said; “it’s your turn; which of you will go?”