The lights are out, the moon is rising.
The were-wolf in the wood is feeding.
--Shevchenko.
I
Listen to me, man; go out of your khata on a clear night, or better
still walk to the top of some little hill, and look well at the sky and
the earth. Watch the bright moon climbing the heavens, and the stars
winking and twinkling, and the light clouds of mist rising from the
earth and wandering off somewhere one behind the other like belated
travellers on a night journey. The woods will lie as if bewitched,
listening to the spells that rise from them after the midnight hour,
and the sleepy river will flow murmuring by you, whispering to the
sycamores on its banks. Then tell me after that if anything, if any
miracle, is not possible in this khata of God’s which we call the wide
world.
Everything is possible. Take, for instance, an adventure that happened
to a friend of mine, the miller from Novokamensk. If no one has told
you the story already, I will tell it to you now, only please don’t
make me swear that every word is true. I won’t swear to a thing, for
though I got it from the miller himself, I don’t know to this day
whether it really happened to him or not.
But whether it’s true or not, I shall tell it to you as I heard it.
One evening the miller was returning from vespers in Novokamensk, which
was about three versts, not more, from his mill. For some reason the
miller was a little out of temper, though he himself could not have
said why. Everything had gone well in the church, and our miller, who
could shout with the best, had read the prayers so loudly and so fast
that the good people had been astonished.
“How he does bawl, that son of a gun!” they had exclaimed with the
deepest respect. “You can’t understand one word he says. He’s a regular
wheel, he is; he turns and spins and you know he has spokes in him, but
you can’t see a single one, no matter how closely you look. His reading
sounds like an iron wheel rumbling over a stony road; you can’t catch a
word of it to save your life.”
The miller heard what the people were saying among themselves, and it
made him glad. _He_ knew how to work for the glory of God, he did! He
swung his tongue as a lusty lad swings a flail on a threshing floor,
till he was parched to the bottom of his throat and his eyes were
popping out of his head.
The priest took him home with him after church, gave him tea, and
set a full bottle of herb brandy before him, and this was afterwards
taken away empty. The moon was floating high above the fields, and was
staring down into the swift little Stony River when the miller left the
priest’s house and started home to his mill.
Some of the villagers were already asleep; some were sitting in their
khatas eating their suppers by the light of a tallow-dip, and some
had been tempted out into the street by the warm, clear autumn night.
The old people were sitting at the doors of their khatas, but the
lasses and lads had gone out under the hedges where the heavy shade of
the cherry trees hid them from view, and only their low voices could
be heard in various places, with an occasional peal of suppressed
laughter, and now and then the incautious kiss of a young couple. Yes,
many things can happen in the dense shade of a cherry tree on such a
clear, warm night!
But though the miller could not see the villagers, they could see him
very well because he was walking down the middle of the street in the
full light of the moon. And so they occasionally called out to him as
he passed:
“Good evening, Mr. Miller! Aren’t you coming from the priest’s? Is it
at his house you have been such a long time?”
Every one knew that he could not have been anywhere else, but the
miller liked the question, and, slackening his pace, he would answer a
little proudly each time:
“Yes, yes, I’ve made him a little visit!” and then he would walk on
more puffed-up than ever.
On the other hand, some of the people sat as silent as mice under the
eaves of their houses, and only hoped he would go by quickly and not
see where they were hidden. But the miller was not the man to pass or
forget people who owed him for flour or for grinding, or who simply had
borrowed money from him. No use for them to sit out of sight in the
dark, as silent as if they had taken a mouthful of water! The miller
would stop in front of them every time and say:
“Good evening! Are you there? You can hold your tongues or not as you
like, but get ready to pay me your debts, because your time will be up
early to-morrow morning. And I won’t wait for the money, I promise you!”
And then he would walk on down the street with his shadow running
beside him, so black, so very black, that the miller, who was a
bookman and always ready to use his brain if need be, said to himself:
“Goodness, how black my shadow is! It really is strange. When a man’s
overcoat is whiter than flour why should his shadow be blacker than
soot?”
At this point in his reflections he reached the inn kept by Yankel the
Jew, which stood on a little hill not far from the village. The Sabbath
had been over since sunset, but the inn-keeper was not at home; only
Kharko was there, the Jew’s servant, who took his place on Sabbaths
and feast-days. Kharko lit his master’s candles for him and collected
his debts on each Hebrew holiday, for the Jews, as every one knows,
strictly observe the rules of their faith. Do you think a Jew would
light a candle or touch money on a holiday? Not he! It would be a sin.
Kharko the servant did all that for the inn-keeper, and he, his wife,
and his children, only followed him sharply with their eyes to see that
no stray five or ten copeck pieces wandered into his pocket by accident
instead of into the till.
“They’re cunning people!” thought the miller to himself. “Oh, they’re
very cunning! They know how to please their God and catch every penny
at the same time. Yes, they’re clever people, far cleverer than we are,
there’s no use denying it!”
He paused on the little patch of earth at the inn door trampled hard by
the numberless human feet that jostled each other there every week day
and shouted:
“Yankel! Hey, Yankel! Are you at home or not?”
“He isn’t at home, can’t you see that?” answered the servant from
behind the counter.
“Where is he, then?”
“Where should he be? In the city of course,” answered the servant.
“Don’t you know what to-day is?”
“No, what is it?”
“Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement!”
“Ah, so that’s the explanation!” thought the miller.
And I must tell you that even though Kharko was a common servant and
the servant of a Jew at that, he had been a soldier, and could write,
and was a very proud person. He liked to turn up his nose and give
himself airs, especially before the miller. He could read in church
no worse than the miller himself, except that he had a cracked voice
and talked through his nose. In reading the prayers he always managed
to keep up with Philip the miller, but in reading the Acts he was
left far behind. But he never yielded an inch. If the miller said one
thing, he always said another. If the miller said “I don’t know,” the
servant would answer “I do.” A disagreeable fellow he was! So now he
was delighted because he had said something that had made the miller
scratch his head under his hat.
“Perhaps you don’t know even yet what day this is?”
“How can I keep track of every Jewish holiday? Am I a servant of Jews?”
retorted the miller angrily.
“Every holiday, indeed! That’s just it; this isn’t like every holiday.
They only have one like this every year. And let me tell you something:
no other people in the whole world have a holiday like this one.”
“You don’t say so!”
“You’ve heard about Khapun, I suppose?”
“Aha!”
The miller only whistled. Of course, he might have guessed it! And he
peeped in through the window of the Jewish khata. The floor was strewn
with hay and straw; in two and three branched candlesticks slender
tallow candles were burning; he could hear a humming that seemed to
come from several huge, lusty bees. It was Yankel’s young second Wife
and a few Jewish children mumbling and humming their unintelligible
prayers with closed eyes. There was, however, something remarkable
about these prayers; it seemed as if each one of these Jews were
possessed by some alien creature, sitting there in him weeping and
lamenting, remembering something and praying for something. But to whom
were they praying, and for what were they asking? No one could have
said. Only whatever it was, it seemed to have no connection either
with the inn or with money.
The miller was filled with pity and sadness and dread as he listened to
the prayers of the Jews. He glanced at the servant, who could also hear
the humming through the door of the inn, and said:
“They’re praying! And so you say Yankel has gone to the city?”
“Yes.”
“And what did he want to do that for? Supposing Khapun should happen to
get him?”
“I don’t know why he went,” answered the servant. “If it had been me,
though I’ve fought with every heathen tribe under the sun and got a
medal for it, no silver roubles on earth could have tempted me away
from here. I should have stayed in my khata; Khapun would hardly snatch
him out of his hut.”
“And why not? If he wanted to catch a man he’d get him in his khata as
well as anywhere else, I suppose.”
“You think he would, do you? If you wanted to buy a hat or a pair of
gloves, where would you go for them?”
“Where should I go but to a store?”
“And why would you go to a store?”
“What a question! Because there are plenty of hats there.”
“Very well. And if you looked into the synagogue now you would see
Jews a-plenty in there. They are jostling one another, and weeping and
screaming so that the whole city from one end to another can hear their
lamentations. Where the gnats are there the birds go. Khapun would be
a fool if he trotted about hunting and rummaging through all the woods
and villages. He has only one day in the year, and do you think he
would waste it like that? Some villages have Jews in them, and some
haven’t.”
“Well, there aren’t many that haven’t!”
“I know there aren’t many that haven’t, but there are some. And then,
he can pick and choose so much better out of a crowd.”
Both men were silent. The miller was thinking that the servant
had caught him again with his clever tongue, and he was feeling
uncomfortable for the second time. The humming and weeping and
lamenting of the Jews still came to them through the windows of the hut.
“Perhaps they are praying for the old man?”
“Perhaps they are. Anything is possible.”
“Does it really ever happen?” asked the miller, wishing to tease the
servant, and at the same time feeling a twinge of human pity for the
Jew. “Perhaps it’s only gossip. You know how people will gabble silly
nonsense, and how every one believes them.”
These words displeased Kharko.
“Yes, people do gabble nonsense; like you, for instance!” he answered.
“Do you think I invented the story myself, or my father or my
father-in-law, when every Christian knows it is true?”
“Well, but have you seen it happen yourself?” asked the miller
irritably, stung by the servant’s scornful words.
Now you must know that when the miller was in a passion he sometimes
said that he didn’t believe in the Devil himself, and wouldn’t, until
he saw him sitting in the palm of his hand. And he was flying into a
passion now.
“Have you seen it happen yourself?” he repeated. “If you haven’t, don’t
say it’s true, do you hear?”
Then the servant hung his head, and even went so far as to cough.
Though he had been a soldier and was a lively fellow, he could sing
very small at times.
“No, I haven’t seen it myself, I won’t tell you a lie. And you, Mr.
Miller, have you ever seen the city of Kiev?”
“No, I haven’t: I won’t tell you a lie, either.”
“But Kiev is there just the same!”
When he heard it put as clearly as that, the miller’s eyes nearly
popped out of his head.
“Whatever is true, is true,” he assented. “Yes, Kiev is there, though I
haven’t seen it. One certainly ought to believe what honest folks say.
You see, I should like to--I want to ask you who told you the story?”
“Who told it to me? Bah! Who told you about Kiev?”
“Tut, tut, what a tongue you have! It’s sharper than a razor; may it
shrivel in your head!”
“There’s no reason why my tongue should shrivel in my head. You’d
better believe what people say when every one says it. If every one
says it, it must be true. If it weren’t true, every one wouldn’t say
it; only magpies like you would say it, so there!”
“Tut, tut, tut! For Heaven’s sake stop a minute! You rattle out your
words like a pestle in a mortar. I see I was on the wrong track, but I
only wanted to know how the story began.”
“It began because it happens every year. Whatever happens people will
talk about; what doesn’t happen isn’t worth talking about.”
“What a fellow you are! Wait a minute, let me catch your prattle by
the tail; you whirl like a wild mare in a bog. Only just tell me what
really takes place, that’s all!”
“Eh hey, so you don’t know, I see, what takes place on the Day of
Atonement?”
“I used to know, and that’s why I didn’t ask. I used to hear people
chattering like you about Khapun, Khapun, but what the sense of it was
I never could make out.”
“Then you ought to have said so at once, and I should have told you
long ago. I don’t like proud people who, when they want a drink of
gorelka, say they’d drink water if it didn’t taste so bad. If you want
to know what happens I’ll tell you, because I’ve been about the world
and am not a stay-at-home like you. I have lived in the city for more
than a year, and this is the first time I have ever worked for a Jew.”
“And isn’t it a sin to work for a Jew?” asked the miller.
“It would be for any one else; a soldier can do anything. We get a
paper given to us that says so.”
“Can a piece of paper really----”
Then the soldier began telling the miller very affably all about Khapun
and how he carries off one Jew a year on this day.
And if you don’t know it, I might as well tell you that Khapun is
a regular Hebrew devil. He is just like ours in every way, black,
with horns just like him, and he has wings like a huge bat; the only
difference is that he wears ringlets and a skull cap, and only has
power over Jews. If a Christian meets him at midnight in the desert,
or even on the shore of a pond, he runs away like a scared dog. But he
can do what he likes with the Jews, so he catches one every year and
carries him away.
And Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, is the day fixed for him to make
his choice. Long before that day comes the Jews weep and tear their
clothes, and even put ashes out of their stoves on their heads for some
reason or other. On the evening of the day they bathe in the rivers
and ponds, and as soon as the sun goes down the poor wretches all go
to their churches, and you never heard in your life such screams as
come from there then! They all bawl at the top of their lungs, keeping
their eyes shut tight with terror all the time. Then, as soon as the
sky grows dark and the evening star comes out, Khapun comes flying from
where he lives, and hovers over the church. He beats on the windows
with his wings, and looks in to choose his prey. But when midnight
comes, that’s when the Jews begin to get really frightened. They light
all the candles to give themselves courage, fall down on the floor, and
begin to scream as if some one were cutting their throats. And while
they are lying there squirming Khapun flies into the room in the shape
of a great crow, and they all feel the cold wind of his wings blowing
across their hearts. The Jew whom Khapun has already spotted through
the window feels the devil’s claws sinking into his back. Ugh! It makes
one’s flesh creep even to tell of it, so just think what the poor Jew
must feel! Of course he yells as loud as ever he can. But who can hear
him when all the rest of them are yelling like lunatics, too? And maybe
one of his neighbours does hear him, and is only glad it isn’t himself
who is in such a sorry plight.
Kharko himself had heard more than once the pitiful, clear, long-drawn
notes of a trumpet floating out over the city. It was a novice in
the synagogue trumpeting out a farewell call to his unfortunate
brother, while the rest of the Jews were putting on their shoes in the
entry--Jews always go into church in their stocking feet--or standing
in little groups in the moonlight, whispering together on tip-toe,
staring up at the sky. And when the last man has gone, one lonely pair
of shoes is left lying in the entry, waiting for its owner. Ah, those
shoes will have to wait a long time, for at that very moment Khapun is
flying with their owner high over woods and fields, over valleys and
hills and plains, flapping his wings, and keeping well out of sight
of Christian eyes. The accursed one is glad when the night is cloudy
and dark. But when it is clear and still like to-night, with the moon
shining as bright as day, the devil’s work may very well come to naught.
“And why?” asked the miller, trembling lest the talkative Kharko should
begin poking insults at him again. But this time the servant answered
quietly enough:
“Well, you see, any Christian, no matter if he’s stupid, like you, can
call to the devil: ‘Drop it! It is mine!’ and Khapun will drop the Jew
at once. The devil will flutter his wings, and fly away with a shrill
cry like a wounded hawk, to be left without prey for a year. The Jew
will fall to the ground. It will be lucky for him if he wasn’t too high
up and if he falls into a bog or some other soft spot. If he doesn’t,
no one will profit by his fall, neither he nor the devil.”
“So that’s how it is!” said the miller, staring nervously at the sky,
in which the moon was shining with all its might. The heavens were
clear; only one little cloudlet like a bit of black down was flying
swiftly along between the moon and the wood that shrouded the river
bank. It was a cloud, of course, but one thing about it seemed strange
to the miller. Not a breath of wind was stirring, the leaves on the
bushes were motionless as if in a trance, and yet the cloud was flying
like a bird straight toward the city.
“Come here; let me show you something!” the miller called to the
servant.
Kharko came out of the inn, and leaning against the door post, said
calmly:
“Well, what is it? A fine thing you have found to show me! That’s a
cloud, that is; let it alone!”
“Take another look at it! Is there any wind blowing?”
“Well, well, well! That _is_ funny!” said the servant, perplexed. “It’s
making straight for the city, too.”
And both men scratched their heads and craned their necks.
The same humming sounds came to their ears through the window as
before; the miller caught a glimpse of lugubrious yellow faces, closed
eyes, and motionless lips. The little Jews were crying and wriggling,
and once more the miller seemed to see an alien presence in them
weeping and praying for something unknown, long lost, and already half
forgotten.
“Well, I must be going home,” said the miller, collecting his wits.
“And yet I wanted to pay Yankel a few copecks.”
“That’s all right. I can take them for him,” said the servant, without
looking at the miller.
But the miller pretended not to have heard this last remark. The sum
was not so small that he cared to intrust it to a servant, much less
to a vagabond soldier. With a sum like that the fellow might easily
kick up his heels, as the saying is, and run away, not only out of the
village, but even out of the District. If he did that, look for the
wind in the fields, you would find it sooner than Kharko!
“Good night!” said the miller at last.
“Good night! And I’ll take the money if you’ll give it to me!”
“Don’t bother; I can give it to him myself.”
“Do as you like. But if I took it you wouldn’t be bothered about it
any more. Well, well, it’s time to close the inn. You’re the last dog
that’ll be round to-night, I’ll be bound.”
The servant scratched his back on the door post, whistled not very
agreeably after the miller, and bolted the door on which were depicted
in white paint a quart measure, a wine-glass, and a tin mug. Meanwhile
the miller descended the hill, and walked down the road in his long
white overcoat, with his coal-black shadow running beside him as before.
But the miller was not thinking of his shadow now. His thoughts were of
something far different.