“Well, be of good cheer,” said the old man; “go to the rich peasant and ask whatever you require of him as a debt.”
“No, I cannot go, for he will not give it.”
“Go,” the old man insisted. “Fear nothing. Ask him for three pecks of malt, and we will brew the beer together.”
“But it is so late. How shall we brew beer?—the feast is to be tomorrow.”
“Do what I say. Go to the rich peasant and ask for the three pecks of malt. He will give it you at once. No, he cannot refuse it. And tomorrow you shall have beer so good at the feast—better than any you shall find throughout the village.”
What could the poor man say? He got up, took his sack under his arm, and went up to the rich peasant.
He went into the rich man’s izbá,53 bowed down, besought him by his name and his father’s name, and asked him for the loan of three pecks of malt, as he wanted to brew beer for the festival.
“Why did you not think of it sooner?” the rich man replied. “How can you do it now, for this is the eve of the festival?”
“Never mind, Gossip,” the poor man replied; “if you will be so good, I and my wife will still brew something together, and can drink together and celebrate the festival.”
The rich man gave him three pecks of malt and poured them into his sack. The poor man lifted the sack on to his shoulders and went home and recounted how things had gone.
“Now, master,” his old guest said, “you shall have a feast. Is there a well at your door?”
“There is,” said the peasant.
“Well, we will go to your well and brew the beer. Bring your sack and follow me.”
So they went out to the courtyard up to the well.
“Pour it all in there,” the old man said.
“Why should we hurl all this good stuff into the well?” the master replied, “for there are only three pecks, and it will all be thrown away for nothing.”
“It is the best thing you can do.”
“We shall not do any good—we shall only sully the water.”
“Listen to me, and do what I say: there is nothing to fear.”
So what could he do? He simply had to pour all his malt into the well.
“Now,” the old man said, “formerly there was water in the well, and tomorrow it will be beer. Now, master, we will go into the izbá54 and lie down to sleep, for the morning is wiser than the evening, and tomorrow you will have such good beer for dinner that one glass will make you drunk.”
So they waited until the morning, and then when dinnertime came round the old man said: “Well, master, get as many tubs as you can, and stand them round the well and fill them all full of beer, and then call everyone in to drink, and you shall have a really riotous feast.”
And the peasant went and called all his neighbours and asked for tubs.
“What do you want all these tubs and pails for?” they asked him.
“Oh, I really want them at once, as I have not vessels enough to hold my beer.”
And the neighbours whispered: “What on earth does he mean? Is the good fellow gone mad? There is not a crust of bread in his house, and he is still chattering about beer.”
Well, somehow or other, he got twenty pails and tubs together, put them all round the well, and began to haul them up. And the beer turned out so fine, finer than ever anybody could think or guess, or any tale could tell. And he filled all the tubs to the very brim, and the well was as full as ever. And he began to cry out aloud and to call guests to his door.
“Come to me, good Christians, and drink strong beer here, such beer as you never saw in your life!”
And the people looked round. “What on earth was he up to? Surely you take water out of a well, and he calls it beer? Anyhow, let’s go and see, whatever knavery it may be.” So they all rushed up to the tubs, and they began to ladle it out and to look at it. Evidently, after all, it must be beer. And they said: “Such beer we have never drunk before!” His courtyard was full of the village folk. And the master was not at a loss to ladle beer out of the well for himself, and treated all of his guests right royally.
When the rich peasant heard of this, he came to the poor man’s courtyard, tasted the beer, and began to ask the poor man: “Please to tell me how ever you managed to make such magnificent beer?”
“Oh, there was not any cleverness about it,” the poor man answered. “It is the simplest thing in the world. When I took your three pecks from you I simply went and threw them into the well. Formerly it was water, and in a single night it all became beer.”
“Well,” the rich man thought, “I will go home and I will do the same.”
So he went home, and he ordered all of his servants to take all of the best malt out of his granaries, and throw it into the well. And his husbandmen threw ten sacks of malt into the well.
“Now,” the rich man said, and rubbed his hands, “I shall have finer beer than the poor man.”
So the next time he went out to his courtyard and up to the well, sampled it, and looked. It was water before, and it was still water; only it was rather dirtier. “I don’t quite understand this: I put too little malt into it, so I will add some more,” the rich man thought, and he ordered his
