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To this day there is a common idea nobody really questions. If you ask a Russian who should enter a new home first, it is highly likely they’ll answer without thinking: it’s a cat.
Cats figure prominently in Russian lore: cats are the first to cross the threshold of a new house. Cats tell the best stories. Cats can bargain with witches and fight off evil spirits. Cats also eat people.
We are going to explore and explain each of these ideas here.
In several cultures, cats, as well as roosters, dogs, pigs (or even humans, if we look far enough back into the history of this tradition), used to be sacrificed to make sure that a freshly built house wouldn’t crumble down. Exchanging a life for a building’s stability is a startlingly common tradition. A sacrificed animal or person was buried under the building’s foundation to keep the evil of any kind away. The logic of our ancestors in this case is rather simple: new places are hungry; they should be fed. So we’d better give them something before they ask for it.
The later version of the same superstition says that a cat who is the first to enter a new house gathers every bad thing that could reach its inhabitants. The idea is the same: evil entities hunt whatever creature is the first to enter a new place. In some regions there’s also a belief that «the first one to enter is going to be the first one to be carried out» (after their death). So you’d better make it a cat, since its lifespan is naturally shorter.
There is no particular reasoning behind it being a cat as opposed to another type of animal, but it is fairly safe to assume that the connection to domestic guardian spirits like domovoi is in play here. The second favourite in this sacrificial chart is a rooster, since this bird is strongly associated with dawn and sunlight.
Nowadays, the old sacrificial tradition isn’t followed anymore (or at least we very much hope it isn’t). But the idea that the first living being entering any new building is doomed persists in the most surprising form. Even if someone moves to a new address and there is no way for the building to have been freshly built, the cat has become a symbolic creature that should always enter first. I have personally been commissioned to paint a cat for a family moving into a different flat. It is the symbol that matters, not the sacrifice.
Similar to most European cultures, the idea of cats being generally demonic in nature isn’t new for Russians. The connection between a cat and a demon, though, is rather peculiar.
After 988, when Vladimir the Saint had converted to Christianity a vast number of lands that were under his rule at the time, most local pagan beliefs got intertwined with the Eastern Orthodox Christianity on a deep, visceral level.
As a result, it is a common idea in Russian folklore that when the rebellious angels were banished from heaven, they turned into all kinds of unseelie creatures upon their fall. If an angel fell into a forest, they became a leshy (woodland spirit). If an angel fell into a river, they became a vodyanoi (water entity). If an angel fell onto a house, they became a domovoi (a supernatural being protecting the house they inhabit), and so on. If an angel fell down onto some sort of a border, a fence, or any line that divides one land from another they became a chort (чёрт).
Etymologically, some ethnography scholars associate the word «чёрт» with the word «черта» — a line, a border, a threshold. A liminal space.
A chort belongs to no place in particular. This might be the main feature that distinguishes a slavic chort when compared to a classical Christian demon from other cultures.
If you see a black cat, it is most likely a demon in a more socially acceptable form. That combined with the belief that archangel Michael actively seeks and destroys demons with lightning led to the superstition that no black cat should remain indoors during a thunderstorm.
Curiously enough, not only black cats are considered to be supernatural. A white or a grey cat is a shape traditionally favoured by witches and sorcerers. A large black or grey tabby cat could be the chosen shape of kikimora, a noisy and malevolent house spirit, or a domovoi. In his fairytale that dates back to 1829, Orest Somov describes a kikimora as an incredibly ugly grey cat with cold paws.
A cat also counts as a demon who must be destroyed if it is noticed during a rather obscure ritual of «plowing around the village». This tradition used to be quite persistent: at the very least, the recordings of it being still carried out date back to 1903. The idea is to make a circle in the ground around a village to ward off all the evil that might enter it, but the devil is in the details. The «plowing» should be performed in secret by a council of women (at least one widow, at least one maiden, the exact numbers differ from region to region) at nighttime. Several other details follow as such: the plow should be stolen; the widow is to be the one who acts as the animal who usually moves the plow, harness and all. The weirder version of the ritual also includes holding up an icon of a Christian saint, usually the Mother Mary. Given the fact this ritual hardly has anything to do with Christianity, even the Eastern Orthodox one, it feels like our ancestors just decided that adding some more religion to the mix wouldn’t hurt. If the procession of howling, praying, excited women saw a cat, a dog, or, God forbid, a male, it all ended in bloodshed.
Another cat-centric kind of witchcraft was practised by millers. Any mill powered by water flow should have had at least one black cat (or a black rooster) inhabiting it. The animal was considered to be a kind of a panic switch in case a vodyanoi got angry and messed with the waters, breaking the mill or flooding the area.
It was believed that vodyanoi like black cats. It wasn’t… usually a good thing for the cat.
To conclude the parade of black cat violence, I need to mention a magic ritual for acquiring a so-called invisibility bone that was recorded back in the 1700s. It is quite an unappetizing one, so — content warning for extra animal cruelty for the next thirty seconds. One should seek out a black cat that has no hair of any other colour, boil it until there’s no meat left on its bones, gather those bones, and sit down in front of a mirror. The idea is to put every bone in one’s mouth one by one while maintaining eye contact with the mirror. One of these bones should be able to grant its bearer invisibility.
What seems particularly odd about all the aforementioned rituals is the requirement of ending a cat’s life. Besides the universal idea of a cat having nine lives, it is believed that if one killed a cat, they would face seven years of bad luck. Besides that one, the list of superstitions goes on and transforms over time. One such superstition says that one shouldn’t fear a house fire if there is a tricolor cat in the household.
In 1853, Vladimir Dahl, whose fame comes mostly from creating a dictionary of Russian language that is still in use, published a collection of Russian proverbs. At least 75 of these include cats, such as:
- Feline eyes fear no smoke.
- When the cat’s outside the house, the mice start dancing.
- There is no friendship between two cats in one bag.
- The cat would weep with the mouse’s tears.
- One who doesn’t give birth should feed a grey kitten.
That last one is an understandable assignment.
Linguistically speaking, the Russian word for cat has no gender-neutral form(s). The plural form is more commonly female (кошки) than male (коты), so addressing cats in general almost always means addressing female cats. Which brings us to the story of a specifically male man-eating monstrosity that inhabits Russian tales.
Bayun the Cat (кот Баюн) is easily one of the most famous felines in Russian folklore. In one of the versions of the folk tale «Knee-deep in gold, elbow-deep in silver«, one of the potential brides of Ivan Tsarevich (Иван Царевич, sometimes translated as «Prince Ivan») offers him Bayun the Cat as a wedding gift: «If Ivan Tsarevich marries me, I shall give him Bayun the Cat; when that cat is telling stories, he can be heard from three miles away.» (Three versts, to be precise, but from now on for the sake of keeping things simple let’s imagine fairytale Russians using the imperial system.) Personally, we don’t know what could possibly be a better gift, but, in case you are interested, for the tsarevich it wasn’t sufficient.
In the fairy tale called «Go there — don’t know where, bring something — don’t know what» (yes, that is the title, although it would make sense to translate it just as, «Improvise») the tsar tasks the protagonist with «going beyond the thrice-ninth lands, to the thirtieth kingdom» to obtain Bayun who «sits on a high pillar of twelve sazhens (84 feet) and kills a huge lot of people to death» (yes, that’s the exact quote, and no, we aren’t messing with English vocabulary).
Bayun in this case is a giant man-eating cat with a charming voice and nearly endless supply of songs and fairy tales. The name «Bayun» itself originates from the verb «баять», which means not only «to speak, to tell», but also «to bewitch». It’s not easy to even approach Bayun, for he casts irresistible drowsiness on those who try to get closer, and eats them up after chopping them to pieces with his iron claws. Mind that the tale itself is notably cruel to everyone involved, which is unsurprising for most stories old enough to be dated back to the times when one of the few available kinds of fun was witnessing a public execution.
…Andrew the Unfortunate entered the thirtieth kingdom. Three miles from the spot, sleep started to overcome him, so he put on his three iron caps and kept going, flapping his arms, dragging his feet, even trying to roll forward when his legs failed him. Eventually he found himself in front of a pillar. Bayun the Cat jumped right on his head, smashed one iron cap, smashed another, tried to smash the third one — but at this moment Andrew grabbed him with iron tongs, dragged him down and started to whip him.
Acting according to his wife’s rather harsh instructions, Andrew the Unfortunate deals with the cat and then tricks him into breaking his teeth on the iron communion bread. There’s plenty of iron items in the recorded Russian tales, which could be linked to the European idea of fair folk fearing ‘cold iron’.
The main motif explored here is that a warrior’s power was believed to be measured by their ability to consume food. The cat dares Andrew to eat more than him; Andrew is way less powerful than Bayun, so he turns to deception instead of relying on physical strength. He explains that he has no interest in the cat’s bread, offering the feline Andrew’s bread to try. Bayun the Cat falls for the trick, since Andrew pretends the iron communion bread is edible.
After the taming of the cat, both he and Andrew proceed to deal with the tsar:
Upon seeing the cat, the tsar ordered: «Come now, Bayun the Cat! Show me great passion!».
(The exact words I’m saying to my cat after coming home from work, tbh).
The cat began to sharpen his claws and try them on the tsar, for he wanted to tear apart the tsar’s white chest and take out his living heart. The frightened tsar begged, «Calm your Bayun cat down, I shall do anything you want!»
The gigantic nature of Bayun is very likely referenced in Mikhail Bulgakov’s most famous novel, «Master and Margarita» (first draft: 1928, first publication: 1967), which includes a demon cat, Behemoth..
Fun fact: the name of the novel is often misinterpreted, since the word ‘master’ does not have a possessive connotation in the Russian language. The only thing a person can master is their art or craft. ‘A master’ doesn’t equal ‘an owner’.
Some of the prototypes for Behemoth the cat were Bayun, a terrifying desert monster, a demon of gluttony, Hoffmann’s cat Murr, and Bulgakov’s own cat Flyushka. Behemoth is «huge as a boar, black as soot or a rook, with a daredevil cavalry mustache», and he is able to walk on his hind paws. While being a trickster, a demon and a tomfool of Satan himself, Behemoth appears to be the member of the inner circle of the devils’ retinue. Throughout the book, he is shown as an instigator and direct participant of the most dashing and amusing of the diabolic occurrences. He tries to pay for the tram ride (while being a literal cat), he greets one of the characters «with a shot glass of vodka in one paw and a fork, with which he managed to impale a pickled mushroom, in the other», he even deals cordially with the officers who eventually come to arrest the devil’s servants.
Immediately, people scattered throughout all the rooms and found no-one. In the dining room, however, there were the remains of a breakfast, apparently only just abandoned, and in the living room on the mantelpiece, a giant black cat sat next to a crystal jug, holding an oil cookstove in his massive paws.
For a long time, the newcomers stared up at the cat in total silence.
Eventually, one of the visitors whispered, «Well… this is clever indeed.»
The cat, frowning inhospitably, answered, «Not fooling around, not bothering anyone- just fixing the cookstove. Also, it is my duty to warn you that a cat is an ancient, sacred animal.»
«It’s exceptionally well done,» whispered another one of the gathered men. His companion nodded and addressed the cat directly. «Well, sacred ventriloquist-puppet cat, come this way if you please.»
As he spoke, one of the visitors unfurled and threw the silk net he had brought, but to their surprise, it missed its target entirely, managing to catch only the crystal jug, which toppled from the mantelpiece and shattered on the floor.
«Rémise!» cried the cat, «Hurrah!» And saying this, he set aside the cookstove and pulled a Browning pistol from behind his back. The cat took aim at the nearest intruder, but before he had a chance to shoot, his target’s hand blazed with fire; the cat, shot by the intruder’s Mauser, toppled headfirst from the mantlepiece to the floor, dropping the Browning and knocking the cookstove down.
«It’s all over,» the cat said in a weak voice, sprawled out in a puddle of blood. «Get back, let me say my final goodbyes to the earth. Oh, my friend Azazéllo!» moaned the cat, bleeding profusely, «Where are you?» He turned his fading eyes towards the dining room door. «You left me to an uneven fight. You abandoned poor Behemoth, traded me for a glass of (rather good, I must admit) cognac! Ah, well… let my death weigh on your conscience, and I bequeath to you my Browning…»
Around the cat, a whisper of «The net, the net, the net,» anxiously rose, but the net — devil knows why — had stuck in someone’s pocket and never found its way out.
«The only thing that can save a fatally wounded cat,» continued the cat, «is a swig of petrol…»
Taking advantage of the ongoing confusion, the cat put his lips to the round hole of the cookstove and had a good drink. The blood immediately stopped flowing from under his upper-left leg; the cat jumped up, alive and cheerful, climbed the wall and in two seconds was high above the people, perched on a metal cornice.
What a champ.
Besides the giants with iron claws, and literal devils, in Russian tales there is a peculiar motif of scholar cats. Several tales include them as a fleeting presence of something odd, usually coming from the sea and inhabiting apple orchards. Perhaps the most famous interpretation of the idea is the cat from the poem «Ruslan and Lyudmila» by Alexander Pushkin. Here is his description, as translated by Irina Zheleznova:
On seashore far a green oak towers,
And to it with a gold chain bound,
A learned cat whiles away the hours
By walking slowly round and round.
To right he walks, and sings a ditty;
To left he walks, and tells a tale…
This is the image that most Russian-speaking people are introduced to at school. A more modern interpretation of a cat narrating tales can be found in the novel «Monday begins on Saturday» by the Strugatsky brothers. Vasily the Cat is a classic scholar with an encyclopaedic knowledge of folklore, who meanwhile isn’t able to finish any of his stories or songs, and suffers from that immensely.
In «Old Peter’s Russian Tales» by Arthur Ransome (published in 1916) there is a retelling of one of the tales about Baba Yaga, in which a scholar cat capable of performing complex tasks and simple magicks lives in Baba Yaga’s hut as a familiar. He is simultaneously an ally, a servant, and a foe of Baba Yaga, since she pays hardly any attention to him. When a little girl who is being held captive by Baba Yaga shares food with him, he decides to help her escape.
Says the thin black cat to the little girl: «You have a comb in your hair, and you have a towel. Take them and run for it while Baba Yaga is in the bath-house. When Baba Yaga chases after you, you must listen; and when she is close to you, throw away the towel, and it will turn into a big, wide river. It will take her a little time to get over that. But when she does, you must listen; and as soon as she is close to you throw away the comb, and it will sprout up into such a forest that she will never get through it at all.»
«But she’ll hear the loom stop,» says the little girl.
«I’ll see to that,» says the thin black cat.
The cat does this while being ready to face the wrath of Baba Yaga, for gratitude is sacred (and networking is key).
The best part of the cat presence in fairy tales, superstitions, and nursery rhymes is that a cat doesn’t need to be monstrous or magical to be spoken about. It just has to be a cat.
Russian folklorist and historian Alexander Afanasyev collected and recorded over 600 tales. The collection was first published in 1855. The analysis of his works shows that there is a tale with the same plot about a cat, a rooster, and a fox. There are 8 Belarusian variants of it, 11 Ukrainian, and 49 Russian. The plot is repetitive and typical for a cautionary tale: a rooster and a cat live under the same roof, but the cat has to be away from home for various cat reasons. He leaves the house, asking the rooster to keep the doors shut. The rooster disobeys and opens the doors for the fox, who steals him and carries him away. The situation repeats several times, and, depending on the variation of the tale, the rooster is either finally eaten, or rescued in the most peculiar manner. One of the versions of this text suggests that the cat disguises himself as a minstrel in order to lure the fox out of her lair.
Curiously enough, in other tales a cat and a fox are a team of tricksters. The fox uses the fact that the woodland creatures know nothing about a domestic cat, and makes everyone in the forest think that he is a mighty beast whom they should fear.
The opening theme for this podcast is, in fact, a variation of a folk tune for a lullaby about a cat exploring the woods to find a ribbon for a cradle. It might sound a little bit on the creepy side; but there’s a cat in there. One should never forget about the menacing similarity of a house cat to an ancient all-knowing silver-tongued man-eater.
Heavens know, they haven’t forgotten.
Stacy would like to dedicate this episode to her late cat Milko, who is currently listening to this from the indescribable void full of treats and catnip ♥
CREDITS
This episode was researched, written, and translated by doc & Stacy, with proofreading and advice kindly provided by Craux and Saika.
Our guest star for this story is David Ault himself, do please check his website and other works (which you probably know already, but still).
Musical score for the podcast was composed and performed by Andrei Popov, with recording, mixing, and additional sound design by doc. The double bass tune for the Behemoth scene was written, performed, and recorded by Ksenia Savchenko.