“Well, there was a time when I had nothing to eat, but now, thank God! I’ve as much as you. If you come, you’ll see for yourself.”
“So be it! I’ll come,” said his brother.
Next day the rich brother and his wife got ready, and went to the name-day party. They could see that the former beggar had got a new house, a lofty one, such as few merchants had! And the moujik treated them hospitably, regaled them with all sorts of dishes, gave them all sorts of meads and spirits to drink. At length the rich man asked his brother:
“Do tell me by what good luck have you grown rich?”
The peasant made a clean breast of everything—how Woe the Woeful had attached itself to him, how he and Woe had drunk away all that he had, to the very last thread, so that the only thing that was left him was the soul in his body. How Woe showed him a treasure in the open field, how he took that treasure, and freed himself from Woe into the bargain. The rich man became envious.
“Suppose I go to the open field,” thinks he, “and lift up the stone and let Woe out. Of a surety it will utterly destroy my brother, and then he will no longer brag of his riches before me!”
So he sent his wife home, but he himself hastened into the plain. When he came to the big stone, he pushed it aside, and knelt down to see what was under it. Before he had managed to get his head down low enough, Woe had already leapt out and seated itself on his shoulders.
“Ha!” it cried, “you wanted to starve me to death in here! No, no! Now will I never on any account depart from you.”
“Only hear me, Woe!” said the merchant: “it wasn’t I at all who put you under the stone.”
“Who was it then, if it wasn’t you?”