Short Fiction, Vladimir Korolenko [finding audrey TXT] 📗

to see all dressed up like that? Is it Old Prisia, or young Galya?”

You will agree, I am sure, that no one can allow a poor girl to be gossiped about like that. The miller was simply obliged to marry her. But Philip has confessed to me many a time himself that he had always loved the widow’s Galya, and that after the night when she rescued him from the foul fiend’s clutches, she grew so dear to him that he wouldn’t have let himself be driven away from her with a stick.

They are living at the mill now, and already have several children. The miller has forgotten his inn and no longer lends money at interest. And whenever a voice in his heart whispers to him to wish Yankel the Jew out of the village to the devil, he only makes a contemptuous gesture.

“And the inn?” He used sometimes to ask people after his adventure. “Will it still remain?”

“Of course the inn will remain. What should become of it?”

“But who will keep it? Perhaps you are thinking of doing it yourself?”

“Yes, perhaps I am.”

And at that the miller would only whistle.

XI

Yes, that is the adventure that befell the miller. Such a strange adventure it was that to this day no one has decided whether it really happened or not. If you say it was all a falsehood, I can answer that the miller was not a man to tell lies. Then, Gavrilo the workman is still living at the mill, and though he confesses himself that he was thoroughly drunk that night, he remembers clearly that the miller opened the door for him, and that his master’s face was whiter than flour. And Yankel came back at dawn, and Opanas reached home drunk and without his boots, so it seems as if the miller could not really have dreamt it after all.

But then, again, take this: how could it be true, when the whole affair would have taken a year to happen and yet the miller ran barefoot into Galya’s cottage the very next morning? A great many people actually saw him, and wondered why the miller was tearing barefoot across the fields to visit the girl.

The best plan, I think, is not to look too closely into the story. Whether it happened or whether it didn’t, I’ll give you a piece of advice. If you know a miller, or any man who keeps two taverns and who abuses the Jews and yet fleeces the people like sheep, tell your friend this story. I recommend it to you; the plan has been tried. Whether he gives up his business or not, he will at least bring you a mugful of vodka that, for once, won’t be diluted with water.

There are people, of course, and this too has been found to be true, who will growl at you like dogs as soon as you tell them the story. People like them I answer with these words: Grumble and growl as much as you like, but I give you fair warning: take care the same thing doesn’t happen to you!

And I say this because, you see, the people of Novokamensk have more than once seen that very same devil again. Ever since he has had a taste of the miller, he doesn’t want to go home without some dainty morsel. So he flies about, peering in every direction like a lost bird.

Therefore, take care, good people, that something evil doesn’t befall you.

And now, goodbye! If I haven’t told the story to suit your taste, don’t think ill of me, I’m only a plain man.

Birds of Heaven I

That day the monastery was joyously greeting the icon. For two months the “Lady” had been traveling from place to place and now she was returning home.

First in their three-horse coaches came the priests who had accompanied her and who were now bringing back to the monastery the treasure which they had collected on their travels. They looked healthy, well-fed, and satisfied. They were followed by the motley bands of pilgrims. These came in greater and greater numbers out of the forest, until at last the climax was reached with the gilded covering of the icon flashing in the sunlight above the heads of the marchers.

Bells pealed forth; banners gleamed and waved; the singing of the choir and the tramping of thousands of men, like an onrushing river, filled the quiet neighborhood of the monastery with uproar and confusion.

The place awoke. In the church hymns of thanksgiving were sung. On the square merchants and market women called out their wares from under their linen curtains; from the “institution” came the sounds of harmonicas and cymbals; in the huts of the village one set of pilgrims kept replacing another at the tables on which steamed enormous samovars.

Towards evening a hard rain suddenly came up and drove the crowds and the merchants from the bazaar. The square and the streets became quiet and no sound was to be heard save the splashing of the huge drops in the puddles and the flapping and blowing of the wet curtains, as they were tossed by the storm wind. Yes, and in the church the harmonious singing still continued and the yellow lights of the candles still flickered on.

When the clouds suddenly lifted and streamed off to the east, carrying with them the veil of mist which had hung over the fields and woods, the sun reappeared in the west and with its parting rays it tenderly caressed the windows of the village and the crosses of the monastery. But the earlier bustle did not return to the square of the bazaar. The pilgrims all had a quiet thirst for rest after their hard journey and the day ended with the last notes of the concluding service in the church. Even the cymbals behind the wall of the “institution” clashed weakly and dully.

The service was ended. Within the