The miller scratched his head in perplexity, and things went on like
that, you must know, not only for a day but for almost a year. The
miller had hardly had time to look about him before St. Philip’s day
had come and gone, and Easter, and Spring, and Summer. Then once again
he found himself standing at the door of the tavern, with Kharko
leaning against the door post beside him. The moon was shining exactly
as it had shone one year before, the river was sparkling as it had
sparkled then, the street was just as white, and the same black shadow
was lying on the silver ground beside the miller. And something flashed
across his memory.
“Listen to me, Kharko!”
“What do you want?”
“What day of the week is it?”
“Monday.”
“It was Saturday last year, do you remember?”
“Saturdays are as thick as flies.”
“I mean the Day of Atonement one year ago.”
“Oh, that’s what you’re thinking of! Yes, it was Saturday last year.”
“When will the Day of Atonement be this year?”
“I can’t say when it will be. There’s no Jew near here now, so I don’t
know.”
“Look at the sky. It’s clear and bright, just as it was that night.”
And the miller glanced in terror at the window of the Jewish hut,
afraid of seeing again those Hebrew children nodding their heads and
humming their prayers for their daddy whom Khapun was carrying away
over the hills and dales.
But no! All that was over. Probably not a bone was left of Yankel by
now; his orphans had wandered away into the wide world, and their hut
was as dark as a tomb. The miller’s heart was as full of darkness as
the deserted Jewish khata.
“I didn’t save the Jew,” he thought. “It was I who made his children
orphans, and now what dreadful things am I plotting against the widow’s
daughter?”
“Would it be right for us to do it?” he asked of Kharko.
“Why not? Of course there are some people who won’t eat honey. Perhaps
you are one of them.”
“No, I’m not one of them, but still--well, good-bye!”
“Good-bye!”
The miller started down the hill, and once more Kharko whistled after
him. Although he did not whistle as insultingly as he had the year
before, it flicked the miller on the raw.
“What do you mean by whistling, you rascal?” he asked, turning round.
“What, mayn’t a man even whistle?” Kharko retorted crossly. “I used to
whistle when I was orderly to the Captain, and yet I mayn’t do it here!”
“After all, why shouldn’t he whistle?” the miller thought. “Only why
does everything happen just as it did that evening?”
So he walked away down the hill and Kharko went on whistling, only more
softly. The miller passed the garden where the cherry trees grew, and
once more what seemed to be two great birds rose out of the grass.
Once more a tall hat and a girl’s white blouse gleamed in the darkness
and some one gave a smack that resounded through the bushes. Ugh, out
upon you! But this time the miller did not stop to scold the shameless
youngster; he was afraid he might get the very same answer he had had
the year before. So our Philip went his way quietly toward the widow’s
cottage.
There stood the little khata shimmering under the moon; the tiny window
was winking, and the tall poplar seemed to be bathing in the moonlight.
The miller stopped at the stile, scratched his head under his hat, and
again threw his leg across the hedge.
“Knock--knock!”
“Okh, there is sure to be a fuss as there was last time, only worse,”
thought the miller. “That infernal Kharko with his infernal talk told
me just what to say, but now, when I remember what he told me, it
doesn’t somehow seem right. It doesn’t sound common sense. But what
will be, will be!” and he knocked again.
A pale face and a pair of black eyes gleamed for an instant at the
window.
“Mother, mother mine!” whispered Galya. “Here’s that wicked miller
again standing at the window and tapping on the pane.”
“Ah, she doesn’t lean out to put her arms around me and kiss me this
time, even by mistake,” thought the miller sadly.
The girl came out softly and stood a long way off with her arms folded
on her white breast.
“What do you mean by knocking again?”
Alas, it is bitter for a man to hear such cold words from the girl who
has been his darling love! The miller longed to embrace her girlish
form and show her why he had knocked. To tell you the truth, he was
already beginning to sidle toward her when he remembered what Kharko
had told him, and answered instead:
“Why should I not knock when you owe me so much that you will never be
able to pay me? Your hut isn’t worth the debt.”
“If you know we shall never pay you, don’t come knocking at the window
by night, you godless man! You will drive my old mother into her grave.”
“Who the devil is driving her into her grave, Galya? If you only would
let me, I would give your mother a peaceful old age.”
“You’re lying!”
“No, I’m not lying! Oi, Galya, Galya! I can’t live without loving you!”
“You lie like a dog! Who was it sent the match-makers to Makogon?”
“Whether I sent them or not, I’ll tell you the whole truth and swear to
it if you like. I’m pining and fading away without you. And I’m going
to tell you just what we’ll do, and if you’re a sensible girl you’ll
listen to me. But I make one condition: listen with your ears and
answer with your tongue. No hand play this time! If there is, I’ll be
angry.”
“You’ve a funny way of doing things,” said Galya, folding her arms.
“However, I’ll listen to you; but I warn you, if you begin to talk
nonsense don’t call on your God to help you!”
“It won’t be nonsense. You see--oh, how did Kharko begin?”
“Kharko? What has Kharko to do with you and me?”
“Oh, do be quiet or I won’t be able to get anything straight. Listen to
me: used you to love me?”
“Would I have kissed an ugly face like yours if I hadn’t?”
“And what was I then, a workman in the mill or not?”
“A workman, of course. I wish to goodness you had never become a
miller!”
“Tut, tut, don’t talk so much or I’ll get mixed up! So you see it is
clear that you loved a workman once and that therefore you ought to
marry a workman now and live at the mill. And I shall go on loving you
as I always have, even if I marry ten Motrias.”
Galya actually rubbed her eyes; she thought she was dreaming.
“What nonsense are you talking, man? Either I’m absolutely crazy or
else there’s a screw loose in your head. How can I marry a workman now
that you are a miller? And how can you marry me when you’re sending
the match-makers to Motria? What nonsense you’re talking, man! Cross
yourself with your left hand!”
“What do you mean?” answered the miller. “Do you think I haven’t a
workman at the mill? What about Gavrilo? Isn’t he one? He’s a little
stupid, I know, but that will be all the better for us, Galya, my
darling.”
Only then did the girl at last understand what the miller was driving
at with his cunning talk. You should have seen her throw up her arms
and heard her scream!
“Oi, mother, dear mother, listen to what he is saying! He wants to turn
Turk and to keep two wives! Fetch the pitchfork out of the cottage
quick, while I settle him with my hands!”
So she fell upon the miller, and the miller fell back. He escaped to
the stile, put one foot upon it, and said:
“Oho! So that’s your game, little viper! Very well then, quit this hut
with your mother! To-morrow I’ll take it for your debts. Away with you!”
But she shouted back:
“Get out of my garden, you Turk, as long as it’s mine! If you don’t
I’ll scratch you with my nails so that even your Motria won’t know
where your eyes and nose and mouth have been. Not only will you not
have two sweethearts, not one will look at an eyeless creature like
you.”
What use to talk to her? The miller spat, jumped quickly over the
hedge, and left the village in a rage. When he reached the crest of the
hill from where there came to him the murmuring of the stream in the
mill-race, he looked back and shook his fist.
And at that moment he heard the sound of a bell: ding, dong; ding,
dong! Again Kadilo was ringing the hour of midnight from the village
belfry.