It was not any good. The peasant could not escape Sorrow. So he took his sleigh and his carriage, drove them to the inn, and drank them with Sorrow. And in the morning Sorrow groaned yet further, and reduced the master to further drinking; and the peasant drank away his ploughshare and his plough.

One month had gone by, and he had drunk all his property away, pledged his izbá 55 to a neighbour, and spent all the money in the inn. Then Sorrow came to him once more. “Let us go to the inn!”

“No, Sorrow, I have no more.”

“Why, your wife has two sarafáns, one will be sufficient for her.”

So the peasant took the sarafán, drank it up; and he thought: “Now I have not anything left, neither house, nor clothes, nor anything else for myself or my wife!”