Ilya had ridden through the open fields for many years. He had grown old, his beard had grown long, his colorful clothes were worn and tattered, and his gold was spent. He longed for rest and wished to live in Kiev for a while.
“I have traveled through all the Lithuanian lands,” he thought, “and through all the Hordes. But I have not visited Kiev in a long time. I shall ride to Kiev and see how the people live in the capital.”
He galloped into Kiev and rode into the Prince’s courtyard. Prince Vladimir was hosting a merry feast. At the table sat boyars, wealthy merchants, and mighty Russian bogatyrs.
Ilya entered the Prince’s hall, stood by the door, and bowed with learned courtesy—to all four corners, and to Prince Vladimir and the Princess especially.
“Greetings, Prince Vladimir of Kiev! Do you give food and drink to traveling bogatyrs?”
Vladimir did not recognize him and asked:
“Where do you come from, old man? What is your name?”
“I am Nikita Zaoleshanin.”
“Well, sit down, Nikita, and eat bread with us. There is a place at the far end of the table—sit there on the edge of the bench. All the other places are taken. I have honored guests today—princes, boyars, and Russian bogatyrs—not your kind, peasant.”
The servants seated Ilya at the humblest end of the table. Ilya’s voice thundered through the hall:
“A bogatyr is not made glorious by his birth, but by his deeds! This place is not for me—not by my deeds, not by my strength! You sit with ravens, Prince, and you seat me with foolish crows!”
He wanted to sit more comfortably. He broke the oak benches, bent the iron supports, and pressed all the guests into a corner.
This displeased Prince Vladimir. He darkened like an autumn night and roared like a wild beast:
“What have you done, Nikita Zaoleshanin? You have disturbed all my honored places, bent the iron supports! Those supports were placed between the bogatyrs’ seats so they would not push each other or start quarrels! What is this disorder you have brought?! You Russian bogatyrs, why do you tolerate a peasant calling you crows? Take him by the arms and throw him out of the hall!”
Three bogatyrs leaped up and began to push and pull Ilya—but he stood firm, not swaying, his cap not even shifting.
“If you wish to amuse yourself, Prince Vladimir,” said Ilya, “send me three more bogatyrs!”
Three more came—six of them grabbed him—but he did not move.
“Still too few, Prince—send three more!”
Nine bogatyrs could not budge him. The old man stood like a century-old oak, unmovable.
Ilya grew angry:
“Now, Prince, it is my turn for amusement!”
He began shoving the bogatyrs, kicking them, knocking them down. They scattered across the hall—none could stand. The Prince himself hid behind the stove, wrapped in his sable coat, trembling.
Ilya left the hall, slammed the doors—they flew off their hinges—and clapped the gates—they collapsed. He walked into the courtyard, drew his powerful bow, fitted sharp arrows, and spoke to them:
“Fly, arrows, to the high roofs! Knock down the golden cupolas from the towers!”
Golden cupolas rained down from the Prince’s palace. Ilya cried out with all his might:
“Gather, poor and naked people! Pick up the golden cupolas, take them to the tavern, drink wine, and eat your fill of kalachi!”
The poor and naked gathered, picked up the cupolas, and began to feast and celebrate with Ilya.
Ilya urged them on:
“Eat and drink, poor brothers! Do not fear Prince Vladimir. Perhaps tomorrow I will be Prince of Kiev, and I will make you all my helpers!”
Word reached Vladimir:
“Nikita has knocked down your cupolas, Prince, and is feasting with the poor, boasting that he will be Prince of Kiev.”
The Prince grew frightened and began to think.
Then Dobrynya Nikitich rose:
“Prince Vladimir, Red Sun! That is not Nikita Zaoleshanin—that is Ilya Muromets himself! We must bring him back, humble ourselves before him, or worse will come!”
They debated who to send. Alyosha Popovich would not know how to call him. Churila Plenkovich was only skilled in fine dress. They chose Dobrynya Nikitich, whom Ilya called brother.
Dobrynya walked through the streets, thinking: “Terrible is Ilya in his anger. Are you walking to your death, Dobrynyushka?”
He arrived and saw Ilya drinking and celebrating. He thought: “If I approach from the front, he will strike me dead on the spot. Better to come from behind.”
He came up behind Ilya, embraced his mighty shoulders:
“Ah, brother Ilya Ivanovich! Restrain your mighty hands, calm your angry heart—envoys are not beaten or hanged. Prince Vladimir sent me to beg your forgiveness. He did not recognize you, Ilya Ivanovich, and seated you in an unworthy place. Now he asks you to return. He will welcome you with honor and glory.”
Ilya turned:
“You are fortunate, Dobrynyushka, that you came from behind! If you had come from the front, only your bones would remain. But I will not harm you, brother. Since you ask, I will go back to Prince Vladimir—but I will bring all my guests. Let the Prince not be angry!”
Ilya gathered all his drinking companions—all the poor and naked—and led them to the Prince’s court.
Prince Vladimir met him, took his hands, kissed him on the lips:
“Welcome, old Ilya Muromets! Sit in the highest place of honor!”
But Ilya did not take the honored place. He sat in the middle and seated all his poor guests beside him.
“If not for Dobrynyushka,” Ilya said, “I would have killed you today, Prince Vladimir. This time I will forgive you.”
The servants brought modest refreshments—a small cup each, a dry roll.
Ilya’s anger flared again:
“Is this how you honor my guests, Prince? With tiny cups?”
Vladimir bristled:
“I have sweet wine in my cellars—enough for a full barrel for each guest. If what is on the table is not to their liking, let them fetch it themselves. They are not great boyars.”
“Prince Vladimir, is this how you feast your guests? To fetch their own food and drink? It seems I must be the host!”
Ilya leaped up, ran to the cellars, took one barrel under one arm, another under the other, and rolled a third with his foot. He rolled them into the courtyard:
“Take the wine, guests—I will bring more!”
He went back down into the cellars.
Prince Vladimir flew into a rage and shouted:
“Faithful servants! Run quickly! Close the cellar doors, drop the iron grating, cover it with yellow sand, and pile century-old oaks on top! Let Ilya die a hungry death there!”
The servants rushed and locked Ilya in, covered the doors with sand, dropped the iron grating—destroying the faithful, old, mighty Ilya Muromets!
The poor guests were driven from the courtyard with whips.
This displeased the Russian bogatyrs.
They rose from the table without finishing their meal, left the Prince’s palace, mounted their horses, and rode away.
“We will no longer live in Kiev! We will no longer serve Prince Vladimir!”
And so, in that time, Prince Vladimir was left without any bogatyrs in Kiev.