Short Fiction Vladimir Korolenko (best motivational novels .TXT) 📖

he passed the sycamore tree the miller heard him muttering to himself:

“So that’s the game, is it? He’s carried off one and now he’s come back for the other. Well, it’s none of my business. When the devil got the Jew the miller got the goods. Now he’s come for the miller and the goods will be mine. A soldier is his own master. Now that I’ve the business in my own hands, let’s see if I can’t keep it. I’ll not be poor Kharko any longer, but Mr. Khariton Tregubov. Only I’m not a fool. No temptation on earth will ever take me on to this dam at night.”

And with that he began climbing the hill.

The miller stared from side to side. Who would help him now? Not a soul was in sight. Darkness was falling; a frog was croaking sleepily in the mud; a bittern was booming angrily in the reeds. The edge of the moon was peeping over the woods as if asking: “What will become of Philip the miller now?”

It looked at him, winked, and set behind the trees.

The devil stood on the dam holding his sides with laughter. His shouts of merriment shook the floury dust out of every cranny in the old mill; all the spirits of the forest and pond awoke and came flitting toward him, some floating like shadows out of the wood, some hanging like filmy clouds over the water. The pond stirred, streaks of swirling white vapour rose from it, and ripples ran in circles across its surface. The miller gave it one look, and his blood ran cold: a blue face with dull, staring eyes was glaring up at him out of the water, its long whiskers waving like the antennas of a water-beetle. Who could it be but his uncle, rising from the pond and coming straight toward the sycamore tree?

Yankel the Jew had long since crept silently out on to the dam, picked up the clothes which the devil had discarded, slipped across to the sycamore tree, and hastily tied up his bundle. There was no more mention of losses now; any man would have been afraid to mention them, I can tell you! Losses be hanged! Yankel hoisted his bundle on to his back and shuffled quietly away, following the others along the path that led from the mill to the village.

The miller made a rush for his mill; once there, at least he would be able to lock himself in or else wake his workman! But he had hardly quitted his tree before the devil jumped after him. Philip dashed into the mill, slammed the door, rushed into his room, hurriedly lit a light, and fell down on the floor screaming with might and main, just like⁠—what do you think?⁠—the Jews in their synagogue!

And the devil circled over the mill, stuck his inquisitive nose in at the window, and couldn’t make out how to get at the tempting morsel before him.

Suddenly, bang! Something dropped to the floor with a thump as if a huge cat had jumped into the room. That confounded devil had come down the chimney! The fiend sprang to his feet, and next instant the miller felt him sitting on his back, digging his claws into his flesh.

What could he do?

Suddenly, another bang! Darkness fell, and the devil was dragging the miller through a black, narrow hole. The miller smelt clay, clouds of soot rose about him, and all at once he saw lying below him the chimney and the roof of the mill, growing smaller and smaller every second, as if they and the dam and the sycamore trees and the pond were falling into a bottomless pit. And there lay the sky, reflected upside-down in the calm millpond spread out below them as smooth as a platter, and in it the peaceful stars were twinkling as they had always twinkled before. And the miller saw flying across those dark blue depths a form that looked first like a hawk, and then like a crow, and then like a sparrow, and then like a large fly.

“He is taking me ever so high!” thought the miller. “There go your profits for you, Philipko, and your inns, and all your fine show! Is there no Christian soul who will call to him: Drop it, it is mine?”

But Christian soul there was none! Below him slept the mill, and out of the pond the monstrous face of his uncle alone was glaring at him with glassy eyes, laughing to itself and waving its whiskers.

Farther on the Jew was still crawling up the hill, stooping under his heavy white bundle. Half way up the ascent stood Kharko, shading his eyes with his hand and gazing up at the sky.

The scattered band of girls had overtaken Opanas and his oxen. They were flying along like lunatics and Opanas was staring straight up at the sky as he lay in his cart. Though his heart was kind, his eyes were blind with vodka, and his tongue was as heavy as lead. There was no one, no one, who would cry: Drop it, it is mine!

And there lay the village. There was the tavern, closed for the night; there stood the sleeping cottages, and there lay the gardens. There, too, stood the tall poplar tree and the widow’s little khata. Old Prisia and her daughter were sitting on a bench at the door, weeping and embracing one another. And why were they weeping? Was it because next day the miller was going to drive them out of their native hut?

The miller’s heart leaped. At least these two might give him a kind thought! He plucked up courage and shouted:

“Don’t cry, Galya; don’t cry, little sweetheart! I’ll forgive you all your debts and the interest, too! Oh, I’m in trouble, in worse trouble than you are. The Evil One is carrying me away as a spider carries a little fly.”

Tender and sensitive is the heart of a girl!