Grief

In a small village, there lived two men, two brothers: one was poor, the other rich.

The rich man moved to the city, built himself a big house, and became a merchant; while the poor man sometimes didn’t even have a piece of bread, and his children—small, smaller, smallest—cried and begged for food. From morning till night, the poor man worked like a fish on ice, but still, he had nothing.

One day, he said to his wife:

"Let me go to the city and ask my brother for help. Maybe he’ll help us somehow."

He went to the rich man and said:

"Oh, dear brother! Please help me in my hardship; my wife and children are sitting without bread, starving all day long."

"Work for me this week, and then I’ll help you!"

What could he do? The poor man got to work: he cleaned the yard, tended the horses, carried water, and chopped firewood. After a week, the rich man gave him a loaf of bread:

"Here’s your payment for your work!"

"Thank you for that!" said the poor man, bowed, and was about to go home.

"Wait! Come visit me tomorrow and bring your wife: tomorrow is my name day."

"Ah, brother, how can I? You know yourself: merchants will come to you in boots and fur coats, while I walk in bast shoes and a shabby gray coat."

"Never mind, come! There will be a place for you too."

"Alright, brother, I’ll come."

The poor man returned home, gave the loaf to his wife, and said:

"Listen, wife! Tomorrow we’ve been invited to visit."

"Invited? By whom?"

"My brother: tomorrow is his name day."

"Well, let’s go then."

In the morning, they got up and went to the city. They arrived at the rich man’s house, congratulated him, and sat down on a bench. At the table, many distinguished guests were already seated; the host treated them all splendidly, but he completely forgot about his poor brother and his wife—he gave them nothing. They sat there, just watching as others drank and ate.

The feast ended; the guests began to rise from the table, thanking the host and hostess, and the poor man did the same—he stood up from the bench and bowed deeply to his brother. The guests rode home drunk, merry, making noise, and singing songs.

But the poor man walked back with an empty stomach.

"Let’s sing a song too!" he said to his wife.

"Ah, you fool! People sing because they’ve eaten well and drunk a lot; but why would you want to sing?"

"Well, I was still at my brother’s name day; it’s embarrassing to walk back without singing. If I sing, everyone will think I was treated well too..."

"Fine, sing if you want, but I won’t!" The man began to sing, and it seemed to him that there were two voices. He stopped and asked his wife:

"Were you helping me sing in a high voice?"

"What’s wrong with you? I wasn’t even thinking of it."

"Then who was?"

"I don’t know!" said the wife. "Sing again, and I’ll listen."

He sang again: he was singing alone, but two voices could be heard. He stopped and asked:

"Is it you, Misfortune, helping me sing?" Misfortune replied:

"Yes, master! It’s me helping."

"Well, Misfortune, come with us then."

"Let’s go, master! I won’t leave you now." The man returned home, and Misfortune called him to the tavern. He said:

"I have no money!"

"Oh, you peasant! What do you need money for? Look, you’re wearing a sheepskin coat—what’s it for? Summer is coming, you won’t wear it anyway! Let’s go to the tavern and leave the coat behind..."

The man and Misfortune went to the tavern and drank away the sheepskin coat. The next day, Misfortune groaned—his head hurt from the hangover—and again called the master to have a drink.

"I have no money," said the man.

"What do we need money for? Take the sled and the cart—that’ll be enough!"

There was nothing to do; the man couldn’t shake off Misfortune. He took the sled and the cart, dragged them to the tavern, and drank them away with Misfortune.

The next morning, Misfortune groaned even more and called the master to drink again; the man drank away the harrow and the plow.

Not even a month had passed before he lost everything; he even mortgaged his house to a neighbor and took the money to the tavern.

Misfortune pestered him again:

"Let’s go to the tavern!"

"No, Misfortune! As much as I’d like to, there’s nothing left to take."

"What do you mean, nothing? Your wife has two sarafans: leave one, but the other needs to be drunk away."

The man took the sarafan, drank it away, and thought:

"Now I’m clean! No stake, no yard, nothing on me, nothing on my wife!"

In the morning, Misfortune woke up, saw that the man had nothing left to take, and said:

"Master!"

"What, Misfortune?"

"Here’s what: go to your neighbor and ask him for a pair of oxen and a cart."

The man went to his neighbor.

"Please," he asked, "lend me a pair of oxen and a cart for a little while; I’ll work for you for a week in return."

"What do you need them for?"

"To go to the forest for firewood."

"Alright, take them; but don’t load too much."

"Of course not, my dear!"

He brought the pair of oxen, sat down with Misfortune on the cart, and rode out into the open field.

"Master," asked Misfortune, "do you know the big stone in this field?"

"Of course I do!"

"If you know it, ride straight to it." They arrived at the spot, stopped, and climbed out of the cart.

Misfortune told the man to lift the stone. The man lifted it, and Misfortune helped; they lifted it, and under the stone was a pit—filled to the brim with gold.

"Well, what are you staring at?" Misfortune said to the man. "Start loading it into the cart quickly."

The man got to work and filled the cart with gold; he took everything from the pit, down to the last coin, and when he saw that nothing was left, he said:

"Look, Misfortune, are there any coins left over there?"

Misfortune bent down:

"Where? I don’t see anything!"

"Over there, in the corner, they’re shining!"

"No, I don’t see them."

"Climb into the pit, and you’ll see." Misfortune climbed into the pit; as soon as it went down, the man covered it with the stone.

"That’s better!" said the man. "If I took you with me, you, miserable Misfortune, would drink away this money too, sooner or later!"

The man returned home, dumped the money in the cellar, returned the oxen to the neighbor, and began to think about how to set himself up. He bought timber, built a big house, and began to live twice as richly as his brother.

After some time, he went to the city to invite his brother and his wife to his name day.

"What are you thinking!" said the rich brother. "You have nothing to eat yourself, and yet you’re throwing a name day celebration!"

"Well, there was a time when I had nothing to eat, but now, thank God, I have no less than you; come and see for yourself."

"Alright, I’ll come!"

The next day, the rich brother gathered his wife, and they went to the name day celebration. They looked, and the poor man’s new house was tall and grand—not every merchant had such a house! The man treated them, fed them all kinds of delicacies, and gave them all kinds of mead and wine. The rich brother asked:

"Tell me, please, how did you get so rich?"

The man told him honestly how Misfortune had attached itself to him, how he had drunk away all his belongings with Misfortune in the tavern, until nothing was left but the soul in his body; how Misfortune had shown him the treasure in the open field, how he had taken the treasure and gotten rid of Misfortune.

The rich man became envious.

"Let me go to the open field, lift the stone, and release Misfortune—let it ruin my brother completely, so he won’t dare flaunt his wealth in front of me."

He sent his wife home and rode out to the field. He approached the big stone, pushed it aside, and bent down to see what was underneath. Before he could properly lower his head—Misfortune jumped out and sat on his neck.

"Ah," it cried, "you wanted to kill me here! No, now I won’t leave you for anything."

"Listen, Misfortune," said the merchant, "it wasn’t me who put you under the stone..."

"Then who was it, if not you?"

"It was my brother who put you there, and I came specially to release you."

"No, you’re lying! You fooled me once, but you won’t fool me again!"

Misfortune clung tightly to the rich merchant’s neck; he brought it home, and everything in his household went awry. Misfortune started its work early in the morning: every day it called the merchant to drink; a lot of his wealth went to the tavern.

"This is no way to live!" thought the merchant to himself. "It seems I’ve entertained Misfortune enough; it’s time to part with it, but how?"

He thought and thought and came up with an idea: he went to the wide yard, carved two oak wedges, took a new wheel, and firmly drove one wedge into the hub. He went to Misfortune:

"Why are you lying on your side all the time, Misfortune?"

"What else should I do?"

"What else? Let’s go to the yard and play hide-and-seek." Misfortune was delighted. They went out to the yard. First, the merchant hid—Misfortune found him right away; then it was Misfortune’s turn to hide.

"Well," it said, "you won’t find me so quickly! I’ll hide in any crack!"

"Where would you hide?" replied the merchant. "You won’t fit in this wheel, let alone a crack!"

"I won’t fit in the wheel? Just watch how I hide!"

Misfortune climbed into the wheel; the merchant took another oak wedge and drove it into the hub from the other end, lifted the wheel, and threw it into the river along with Misfortune.

Misfortune drowned, and the merchant began to live as before, as he always had.

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Grief

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