Short Fiction, Vladimir Korolenko [finding audrey TXT] 📗

“Tell me: what has happened to him, and since when has he changed?”

“Since he grew rich.”

“And began to lend money.”

“And opened a tavern.”

“He and his horrid Kharko have fuddled my husband Opanas so that the poor man never goes anywhere now except to the tavern.”

“He has ruined our husbands and fathers with his drink.”

“Oi, oi, he’s a misery to us all, the horrid miller!” screamed one of the band, and in place of their songs, a chorus of wails and women’s lamentations rang out across the river.

Philip rather scratched his head to hear the way the young women were interceding for him. But the devil’s mind now seemed to be quite made up. He glanced at the girls out of one corner of his eye and rubbed his hands together.

“And that isn’t all!” shouted the widow Buchilikha louder than the loudest. “Have you heard what he wanted to do to the widow’s Galya?”

“Faugh!” spat the miller. “What a damned lot of magpies they are! What need to tell what they’re not asked about? And how in the world did they find it out? Though it only happened in the village tonight, they have heard the whole story in the hayfields! Why on earth does God allow women to live in this world?”

“And what did my friend try to do to the widow’s daughter?” asked the devil, looking about him as if he weren’t particularly interested in the story.

So the magpies went on to tell him everything, talking all at once, and laid the whole affair before him from beginning to end.

The devil shook his head.

“Oi, oi, oi! That’s bad, very bad. I don’t suppose anyone ever heard of your former innkeeper Yankel doing anything like that?”

“Oh, what Jew ever thought of doing such a thing?”

“Oh, no, never!”

“I see, my daisies, my little peaches, that you don’t love my friend very much.”

“Let him get the love of all the devils; he needn’t expect any from us!”

“Oi, oi, oi, you don’t wish him much good, I see!”

“May the fever take him and shake him to pieces!”

“May he follow his uncle into the pond!”

“May the devil carry him off as he carried off Yankel!”

They all burst out laughing.

“You are right, Olena; he is worse than a Jew.”

“At least the Jew was a decent fellow; he let the girls alone and lived with his Sarah.”

The devil actually jumped in his tracks.

“Thank you, thank you, my birdies, for your friendly words. Isn’t it time for you to be going on?”

With that he threw back his head like a cock that intends to give an extra loud crow, and burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. He laughed so loud that all the evil spirits on the bed of the river woke up, and circles began spreading across the surface of the pond. But the girls shied away from him like a flock of sparrows into which someone has thrown a stone, and vanished as if the wind had suddenly blown them off the dam.

The gooseflesh ran up and down the miller’s back, and he stared down the road that led to the village.

“The best thing for me to do,” he thought, “is to make off after those girls as fast as my legs will carry me. I used to be able to run with the best.”

But at that moment he suddenly felt relieved, for he saw someone coming toward the milldam. And it wasn’t just anyone, either, but his own servant Kharko.

“A miss is as good as a mile!” he thought. “There is my man!”

X

The servant was barefooted; he was wearing a red shirt; a cap without a brim was stuck on the back of his head, and on a stick he was carrying Opanas’ new boots, which were dripping tar all over the dam.

“What a hurry he’s in!” thought the miller. “He’s got hold of the boots already. But never mind, all my hopes are centred on him now.”

As soon as the servant caught sight of a stranger on the dam he instantly thought that here was some thieving tramp waiting to steal his boots. So he stopped a few steps from Khapun and said:

“You’d better not come any nearer, I warn you! I won’t give them up!”

“What’s the matter with you? Come to your senses, good man! Haven’t I boots of my own? Look, they are better than yours!”

“Then why have you planted yourself there by night, like a crooked willow tree by a pond?”

“Well, you see, I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Splendid! A riddle is it, eh? Who told you I could answer riddles better than anyone else?”

“Ha, ha, I’ve heard people say so!”

The soldier set down his boots, took out his tobacco-pouch, and began filling his pipe. Then he struck a light with a flint, and, blowing out a thick cloud of smoke from under his nose, said:

“Now, then, spout it out. What’s your riddle?”

“It isn’t exactly a riddle. I wanted to ask you who you think is the best man in this neighbourhood?”

“I am!”

“And why do you think that? Isn’t there anyone here better than you are?”

“You ask me what I think. Very well, I answer that I won’t give the first place to anyone.”

“You’re right. And the miller, what sort of a man is he?”

“The miller?”

The soldier blew out of his mouth a cloud of smoke that looked as large in the moonlight as the tail of a white horse. Then he eyed the devil askance and asked:

“You’re not a Customs officer, are you?”

“No!”

“And you’re not in the police⁠—a detective, by any chance?”

“No, no, I tell you! What, a clever chap like you, and you can’t even see when a man’s just an ordinary fellow and when he isn’t?”

“Who said I couldn’t? I can see through and through you. I only asked that on the chance. And now, let me see; you asked me what sort of man the miller was?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he’s just about medium height, neither very large nor very small; a good