Short Fiction, Vladimir Korolenko [finding audrey TXT] 📗

hadn’t begun shouting at me there wouldn’t have been anything to cry for.”

“Hold your tongue! Hold your tongue, you foul creature!”

“Hold your own tongue, if that’s what you think!”

“Be quiet, be quiet, my honey!” the mother joined in, heaving a deep sigh. The old woman was evidently afraid of irritating the miller; it was clear she could not pay him now that her time was up.

“I won’t be quiet, mother, I won’t, I won’t!” answered the girl, as if all the wheels in her mill had begun turning again. “I won’t be quiet; and if you want to know, I’m going to scratch out his eyes so that he won’t dare to get me gossiped about for nothing, and come knocking at my window and kissing me! Tell me what you meant by knocking, or I’ll catch you by the topknot without stopping to ask if you are a miller and a rich man or not. You never used to be proud like that; you came courting me yourself and pouring out tender words. But now you hold your nose so high that your hat won’t stay on your head!”

“Oi, honey, honey, do be quiet, my poor dear little orphan!” begged the old woman with another grievous sigh. “And you, Mr. Miller, don’t think ill of the poor silly girl. Young hearts and young wisdom are mates; they are like new beer in a ferment. They boil and foam, but if you will let them stand awhile they will grow sweet to a man’s taste.”

“What do I care?” answered the miller. “I don’t ask for either bitter or sweet from her, because you are not my equals, either of you. Give me the money, old woman, and I’ll never come near your khata again.”

“Okh, but we have no money! Wait a little; we will work for some, my daughter and I, and then we will pay you. Oh, misery me, Philipko, dearie, what a time I do have with you and with her! You know yourself I have loved you like a son; I never thought, I never guessed, you would cast my debts in my teeth and with the interest, too! Oh, if I could only get my daughter married! A good husband would be easy to find, but she won’t have anyone. Ever since you have come courting the girl you seem to have cast a spell over her. ‘I’d rather be buried in the cold ground than marry anyone else,’ she says. I was foolish ever to let you stay here until dawn. Oi, misery me!”

“But what can I do?” asked the miller. “You don’t understand these things, old woman. A rich man has many calls on his money. I pay the Jew what I owe him; now you must pay me.”

“Wait just one month!”

The miller rubbed his head and reflected. He felt a little sorry for the old woman, and Galya’s embroidered blouse was gleaming in the distance.

“Very well, then, only I’ll have to add thirty copecks to the debt for interest. You’d better pay at once.”

“What can I do? It’s my fate not to pay, I can see that.”

“All right, I’ll leave it at that. I’m not a Jew. I’m a decent sort of a fellow. Anyone else would have charged you forty copecks at least, I know that for certain, and I’m only asking you twenty, and shall wait till St. Philip’s day for the money. But then you will have to look out. If you don’t pay, I’ll complain about you to the police.”

With these words he turned, bowed, and walked away across the pasture, without so much as a glance at the hut at whose door there shone for a long time a white embroidered blouse. It shone against the dark shade of the cherry trees like a little white star, and the miller could not see the black eyes weeping, the white arms stretched out toward him, the young breast sighing for his sake.

“Don’t cry, my honey; don’t cry, my sugarplum!” the old woman soothed her child. “Don’t cry, it’s God’s will, my darling.”

“Okh, mother, mother, if only you had let me scratch out his eyes, perhaps I should feel better!”

III

After that adventure the miller’s thoughts became gloomier than ever.

“Somehow nothing ever goes right in this world,” he said to himself. “Unpleasant things are always happening, a man never knows why. For instance, that girl there drove me away. She called me a Jew. If I were a Jew and had as much money as I have and a business like mine, would I live as I do? Of course not! Look what my life is! I work in the mill myself; I don’t half sleep by night; I don’t half eat by day; I keep my eye on the water to see it doesn’t run out; I keep my eye on the stones to see they don’t come loose; I keep my eye on the shafts and the pinions and the cogs to see they run smoothly and don’t miss a stroke. Yes, and I keep my eye on that infernal workman of mine. How can one depend on a servant? If I turn my back for an instant the scoundrel runs off after the girls. Yes, a miller’s life is a dog’s life, it is! Of course, though, ever since my uncle⁠—God rest his soul⁠—fell into the millpond drunk, and the mill came to me, the money has been collecting in my pockets. But what’s the result? Don’t I have to tramp for hours after every single rouble I make, and get abused for it to my face, yes, to my very face? And how much do I get in the end? A trifle! A Christian never does get as much as a Jew. Now if only the devil would carry away that Jew Yankel I might be able to manage. The people wouldn’t go to anyone but me then, whether they wanted flour or