Discover the timeless Russian epic of “Volga and Mikula Selyaninovich,” a tale that celebrates the quiet, unshakable strength of the common people. Prince Volga Svyatoslavovich sets out with his elite druzhina to collect tribute, but along the way, he encounters a peasant plowing a field with superhuman strength—tossing boulders and uprooting ancient trees as if they were nothing. When Volga asks the peasant to join him, the farmer agrees, but their journey reveals an astonishing truth: the peasant’s humble plow is so heavy that Volga’s entire army cannot lift it, yet the farmer pulls it from the earth with one hand. The peasant reveals himself as Mikula Selyaninovich, a man who draws his power not from noble birth or magic, but from the sacred bond between farmer and soil. This epic bylina offers a powerful commentary on the true heroes of Russia—not kings or warriors, but the laborers who feed the nation. Perfect for fans of Slavic mythology, heroic folklore, and stories of humble greatness, this tale reminds us that real strength often lies where we least expect it. Beautifully translated and vividly told, “Volga and Mikula Selyaninovich” is a masterpiece of Russian epic poetry that will resonate with readers of all backgrounds.
In the ancient days, when the Russian land was ruled by the Princes of Kiev, they exacted tribute from the people—furs and linens, fish and honey, silver and gold. They sent their trusted servants to the villages to gather these taxes, and woe to any peasant who could not pay.
One day, young Prince Volga Svyatoslavovich set out with his druzhina—his loyal band of warriors—to collect the tribute from the distant settlements. They rode across the open steppe, the wind whipping their cloaks, when a remarkable sight caught their eyes. In the middle of a vast field, a peasant was plowing—but this was no ordinary farmer. Where his plow passed, enormous boulders tumbled into piles; ancient tree stumps and gnarled roots were torn from the earth as if they were mere weeds. The ground yielded to him like butter beneath a hot knife.
Prince Volga reined in his horse and watched in wonder. The peasant, noticing the approaching riders, paused his work and called out:
“Where are you headed, Prince Volga? Are you going to collect tribute? If so, you should know—the road ahead is dangerous. Robbers and bandits lurk in those parts. You might not reach your destination alive.”
A chill ran down Volga’s spine. He studied the peasant’s broad shoulders and massive arms—this man was no ordinary tiller of the soil; he was a bogatyr in disguise! Volga spurred his horse forward and pleaded:
“Ride with me, good fellow! Be my companion, my brother-in-arms! I need a man of your strength at my side!”
The peasant smiled and agreed. He unhitched his humble mare from the plow, swung onto her back, and spurred her forward. To Volga’s astonishment, the scruffy little mare galloped so swiftly that the Prince’s fine war-horse struggled to keep pace. Dust flew in their wake as they raced across the steppe.
After they had traveled a good distance from the plowed field, the peasant reined in his mare and spoke:
“Prince, I have left my plow in the furrow. It is a good plow—it will serve the farmers of this land well. We should pull it from the earth and hide it beneath a bush, so that no thief or storm may damage it.”
Volga nodded and ordered five of his warriors: “Go back to the field. Pull that plow from the ground and hide it under the willow bush.”
The five warriors rode back, dismounted, and grabbed the plow. They heaved and strained. Their muscles bulged. Their faces turned red with effort. But the plow did not budge—it was as if it were rooted to the very heart of the earth.
Volga sent five more. Ten warriors now tugged and pulled with all their might. The plow remained immovable.
Frustrated, Volga commanded his entire druzhina—all twenty-nine of his strongest men—to seize the plow and wrench it from the ground. They threw themselves at it, grunting and sweating, pulling until their hands blistered and their backs ached. The plow did not move an inch.
The peasant watched in silence, a gentle smile playing on his lips. Then he turned his mare and trotted back to the field. He dismounted, walked to the plow, and with one hand—one single, massive hand—he gripped the wooden handle and lifted the plow from the furrow as if it weighed no more than a feather. He carried it to the nearest bush and laid it gently beneath the branches.
Prince Volga stared, his jaw hanging open. He approached the peasant with newfound respect and asked:
“Who are you, good fellow? What is your name? What is your lineage? You are no mere farmer—you are a hero!”
The peasant looked the Prince straight in the eye and answered with quiet dignity:
“I am a simple peasant, Prince. I till the soil. I grow the grain that feeds all of Rus’. My name is Mikula Selyaninovich—son of the soil, servant of the land. I ask for no titles and seek no glory. I work the earth, and the earth gives back life to our people.”
And Prince Volga, who had come to collect tribute, realized that he had found something far more valuable than gold or furs: he had found the living heart of Russia—the strength of its farmers, the spirit of its soil. He bowed low to Mikula, not as a prince to a subject, but as one hero to another.