Experience the epic tale of “Dobrynya Nikitich’s Long Absence,” a Russian bylina of love, loyalty, and heroic endurance. When Prince Vladimir sends the great bogatyr Dobrynya on a perilous twelve-year mission—to battle a black raven, collect tribute, and subdue the Saracens—he leaves behind his beloved wife Nastasya and his aging mother. Bound by his promise, Nastasya waits faithfully for six years, then six more, refusing all suitors until the Prince forces her to marry the scheming Alyosha Popovich. Meanwhile, Dobrynya completes his impossible quest and races home on his enchanted horse, arriving in disguise as a wandering minstrel at his own wife’s wedding feast. In a dramatic scene of revelation, he offers Nastasya a goblet of wine containing his wedding ring, and she recognizes her true husband—leading to a fierce confrontation with the traitorous Alyosha. Filled with epic battles, heartfelt emotion, and the triumph of fidelity, this legendary story celebrates the unbreakable bond between husband and wife. Perfect for fans of Slavic folklore, heroic epics, and tales of devotion, this beautifully translated bylina captures the soul of old Russia in all its glory and sorrow.
Time passed—how much, no one can say—and Dobrynya Nikitich took a wife: the fair and faithful Nastasya Mikulishna, daughter of the great peasant-hero Mikula Selyaninovich.
They had lived together in peace for barely a year when Prince Vladimir summoned Dobrynya to the palace and spoke these words:
“Enough lounging in your quiet home, Dobrynya. It is time to serve your Prince. Ride out and clear the straight road to the Golden Horde, to Beket Beketovich. An evil black raven haunts that path, and it gives no Russian soul safe passage—neither on foot nor on horseback. Then go to the White-Eyed Chud tribe and collect their tribute for the past ten years. On your way back, stop at the stubborn Saracen Kingdom and make certain they dare not march against Kiev.”
Dobrynya’s heart grew heavy, but a Prince’s command could not be refused.
He returned home and went to his mother, Mamelfa Timofeevna, pouring out his sorrow:
“Mother, why did you give birth to me? You should have wrapped me in a linen rag and cast me like a stone into the blue sea. There I would lie at the bottom, never riding to distant lands, never slaying men, never grieving other mothers, never orphaning little children.”
Mamelfa Timofeevna answered him with gentle wisdom:
“I would have been glad, my dear Dobrynyushka, to give you the courage of Ilya Muromets, the strength of Svyatogor the Bogatyr, the cunning of Volga Vseslavevich, and the beauty of Joseph the Fair—but such things are not in my hands. And yet you are no mean hero yourself, my son. What troubles you so deeply?”
“The Prince sends me to foreign lands—to fight the black raven, to make peace with the Saracens, to collect tribute from the White-Eyed Chud.”
Mamelfa gasped and ran to the chambers of Nastasya Mikulishna:
“Child, why do you sit there stitching a golden shirt? Disaster has come to our door! Our bright falcon is about to fly away—Dobrynyushka is leaving for many years!”
Nastasya rushed from her chamber in nothing but her white shift, without belt or shoes, and threw herself at her husband’s stirrup. Her tears fell like rain as she begged:
“Where are you going, my falcon? For how long? When shall I expect my husband home?”
“Wait for me six years, my wife. And if six years pass and I have not returned—then I have laid down my wild head. You are free to live as you wish: as a widow, or take another husband. You may marry a prince, a boyar, or a simple peasant—only do not marry Alyosha Popovich.”
He raised his hand in farewell, and was gone. He did not take the road nor pass through the gates—he leaped his horse over the city wall, and only a whirlwind of dust marked his departure.
Day after day passed like falling rain, week after week like growing grass, year after year like a flowing river.
Nastasya Mikulishna sat by her chamber window, never taking her eyes from the road, waiting for her beloved husband.
Three years passed—no Dobrynya returned from the open field.
Again the days came and went, the weeks raced by, the years stretched on…
Nastasya wept without ceasing, her eyes never dry, never leaving her post by the window.
Another three years passed—still no Dobrynya.
Not two gray ducks swimming together, not two white swans flying in embrace—but mother and wife sat together, arms entwined, shedding bitter tears. Suddenly, Alyosha Leontyevich appeared at their door with dark tidings:
“I rode past the Saphat River and saw Dobrynya Nikitich. He lies in the open field, his head in a willow bush, his feet on the feather-grass. Through his golden curls the grass has grown; blue flowers have blossomed upon his breast.”
Mamelfa wept so bitterly that her black hair turned silver with grief. And Prince Vladimir began to press Nastasya:
“A young widow’s life is hard. Let me find you a husband—a prince, a boyar, or a mighty Russian bogatyr.”
“I waited six years as Dobrynya commanded,” Nastasya replied. “I will wait another six years of my own free will. If he does not return by then—then do with me as you will, Prince.”
Day by day like falling rain, year by year like the flight of a falcon…
Twelve years had passed. Dobrynya had not returned.
Now Prince Vladimir approached Nastasya once more:
“Enough of widowhood. Marry Alyosha Popovich. If you will not come willingly, we will take you by force.”
How could Nastasya disobey her Prince? They took her by her white hands, stripped her of her widow’s garments, and led her to the wedding feast, seating her beside Alyosha Popovich. There she sat at the banquet, pale as chalk, tears streaming down her cheeks…
Meanwhile, Dobrynya Nikitich had cleared the straight roads, punished the stubborn Saracens, and collected twelve years of tribute from the White-Eyed Chud. At last, he turned his horse homeward.
Near Tsargrad, he stopped to rest, feeding his horse white barley and offering cool spring water—but the steed refused to eat or drink. Instead, it pawed the ground restlessly.
“What troubles you, my faithful horse? Do you sense a foe nearby? Do you sense misfortune?”
“I sense trouble not near, but far. They are forcing Nastasya Mikulishna to the wedding feast with Alyosha Popovich—even now!”
Dobrynya leaped into the saddle and struck his horse’s flanks with his whip. The steed rose like a whirlwind, leaping from hill to hill, vaulting over rivers and lakes. Where his hooves struck the earth, deep wells of boiling water sprang forth.
He raced to Kiev—not through the gates, but over the city wall, past the corner tower, straight into his own courtyard. The servants saw a fearsome stranger burst into the yard—clad in animal skins, tattered boots, his face dark and weathered, his eyes fierce. His horse was shaggy as a wild beast.
He shoved aside the servants, tore the doors from their hinges, and burst into his mother’s chamber. Mamelfa Timofeevna rose, seized her walking stick, and cried out in anger:
“Who are you, rough fellow, to shove my servants and enter my chamber without courtesy, without a bow? If my son Dobrynyushka were alive, he would teach you manners! Be gone, or I will give you a taste of my stick!”
The stranger replied softly:
“Forgive me, Mamelfa Timofeevna. I am your Dobrynya’s sworn brother. He sent me to Kiev to deliver his greetings to his mother and to learn of his young wife.”
Mamelfa burst into tears:
“Why do you mock me, stranger? Dobrynya has been dead these six years. Alyosha Popovich saw him lying dead in the field with his own eyes. I have wept my eyes dry, and today his wife is forced to marry Alyosha Leontyevich—against her will, by the Prince’s command. The wedding feast is in full swing, while I sit here drowning in sorrow.”
Dobrynya’s heart could bear no more:
“Do not weep, Mother. Look at me—I am your son!”
She stared at him, not recognizing his face:
“You mock me to my face! My Dobrynyushka had a fair face—yours is dark. His eyes were bright—yours are clouded. He wore fine clothes and silk sandals—you wear animal skins and tatters.”
“Ah, Mother, war is hard and joyless. After twelve years, eyes grow dim, faces age, fine clothes wear thin, and sandals fall to pieces.”
Mamelfa gasped:
“My Dobrynya has a birthmark beneath his left breast!”
Dobrynya threw open his caftan. His mother saw the mark, rushed to embrace him—but he hurried her:
“Quickly, Mother! Bring my resonant gusli and a skomorokh’s costume! I will go to the wedding feast!”
He dressed in green boots, a sable coat, and a fluffy hat. He took his gusli in his hands—and he was the very image of a traveling minstrel, come to amuse the guests. He went straight to Prince Vladimir’s palace.
At the doors, the doorkeepers tried to block his way, but he pushed past them and strode boldly into the great hall.
“Greetings, Red Sun Vladimir! Tell me—where does the skomorokh sit?”
The Prince answered with a frown:
“You impudent fellow! Your place is behind the tiled stove, in the smoky corner.”
The skomorokh sat behind the stove, laid his gusli on his knees, and surveyed the room. There sat Nastasya Mikulishna, weeping bitterly.
He struck the ringing strings and began to sing. His voice flowed like a river, roared like a torrent, thundered like a storm. His song soared like a falcon among swans. The guests fell silent, lost in the music.
Nastasya whispered:
“The skomorokh sings well—as well as my husband Dobrynyushka.”
The skomorokh broke his golden string, and the song ended.
Prince Vladimir spoke:
“This is no ordinary minstrel—he is surely a Russian bogatyr. Sit where you will, skomorokh: beside me, across from me, or beside the Princess.”
But the skomorokh did not sit beside the Prince or the Princess. He sat across from Nastasya Mikulishna.
The Prince sent him a goblet of sweet wine from his own table.
The skomorokh rose, bowed, and asked:
“May I offer this goblet to whom I choose?”
“Of course, hero.”
Dobrynya dropped his wedding ring into the wine and handed the goblet to Nastasya:
“Drink it to the dregs—and you shall find good fortune. Leave a drop—and no good shall come to you.”
She drained the wine, and the golden ring rolled to her lips. She seized it, placed it on her finger, and rose to her feet:
“He who sits beside me is not my husband—but he who stands before me is!”
She threw herself at Dobrynya’s feet:
“Forgive me, Dobrynya! I did not come willingly—they forced me!”
Dobrynya embraced her:
“I know, my dear wife. My anger is not for you—it is for the Prince and Princess. I fought the black raven for them. I cleared the roads. I stood guard for twelve years. And they gave my beloved wife to another!”
The Prince and Princess bowed their heads in shame.
Dobrynya turned to Alyosha:
“And you, my sworn brother—you knew I was alive!”
Alyosha fell to his knees:
“Forgive me, older brother!”
“I cannot forgive you, Alyosha. You brought them false news that I lay dead. You made my mother weep until her dark hair turned white and her bright eyes grew dim. That wound I cannot heal!”
He seized Alyosha by his golden curls and dragged him across the floor, beating him with his gusli. Alyosha cried out in pain—but the music of the strings drowned his cries. Dobrynya’s rage grew, and he lifted Alyosha to hurl him against the brick floor—and that would have been the end of him.
But old Ilya Muromets caught Dobrynya’s hands:
“Do not kill him, Dobrynya! He is still a Russian bogatyr, needed by our people. He may not have your strength, but he has courage enough.”
Dobrynya released Alyosha, who crawled away whimpering behind the stove. Then Dobrynya took Nastasya by the hand, kissed her sweet lips, and led her home to his white-stone chambers.
And when Mamelfa Timofeevna saw them enter—not the bright moon rising, not the rosy dawn, not the scattered stars, but the red sun itself blazing in her chamber—she wept with joy. Her beloved son and his faithful wife had returned.
They lived as they had before, in peace and harmony, as it had been in the old days—and as it shall be forever.