Chapter 17 17.lovely miller

In the immediate vicinity, two miles from the Anthonys' house, there was a famous villa, about which there was a story.The story goes like this: Once upon a time there lived a beautiful lady in the cottage, she was so lovely that all the poets in Bath wrote poems for her every week.When they had finished their poems, they went into the garden of the villa, and followed a path covered with braided branches above and on both sides, where there was a little chapel with a dome, supported by pillars.Under the dome, on a pedestal, there is a very large and ancient flower pot, into which the poets of Bath throw their poems every week without signing their names.At some point, the beautiful lady would come and fetch the poems, read them in front of everyone, and say which one she liked best.Then she will ask:

"Who wrote this poem?" stepped forward the lucky poet who wrote the best poem that week, and the lady placed a wreath of laurel leaves on his head. "Did she marry him then?" Anthony asked.His mother told him the story for the first time that Sunday when they were driving past the villa when she stopped the two-wheeler and pointed out a large old house in a raised garden off the road with a striking The old trees and lawns, and some brightly colored flower beds, once belonged to a beautiful lady named Miller. "She's not going to marry him," his mother said, "and she'll be marrying someone new every week."

"No, he'll cut off the old man's head," said Anthony. "Then she's not well," said his mother. "The princess in the story cut their heads off, and they couldn't figure out her riddle," Anshoney retorted, "and then one of them figured it out and married her, and they lived happily ever after. Together. How can they be happy if she is not well?" "She got better, but at first it wasn't great," his mother explained. "Did that lovely Miller get married then?" Anthony asked. "Yes, she is married." "Marry who?"

"Marry Mr. Miller." "Did he put the poems in the pots?" "Well, honestly, I don't know, Anthony." "I hope he lets it go," Anthony said. "I hope he wrote the best poems for three weeks straight, so she married him afterward." "I dare say that's how it turned out," his mother said. "Where's that pot?" Anthony asked.He stood up in the hansom and looked around. "You can't see it from here. I'm not even sure if it's still there now. But going up the second platform, up the line of thick, dark trees, is the path with the braided branches on either side. At the far end of that grove, do you see? That little sanctuary must be down there somewhere."

"I'd love to see it," Anthony urged his mother as he looked around. "Maybe one day I will come to see someone I know in that villa, and then I can bring you here," his mother said. maybe one day…… Anthony knew it might one day, and that might not mean that in itself, and that one day meant that it might never come.But even so, they have some faint glimmers of hope apart.When they are added together, maybe one day there will be no light at all. The story was on his mind as he continued on the road.He was going to explore the villa, he was going to run into the garden on the terrace, sneak down the path with braided branches on both sides, and discover for himself the little sanctuary.He was going to touch the inside of the flowerpot to see if there was a poem left in it.He also wanted to write a poem by himself and throw it in the flower pot.He wanted that lovely Mrs. Miller to read his poems aloud before all the poets in Bath, and say, "This is the best poem, who wrote it?" He wanted her to crown him with laurels. superior.He would write his best poems for three weeks, marry that lovely Miller, and live happily ever after.These desires kept him silent until he was almost home, when the moss-covered grinding wheel of their house caught his eye, and he suddenly asked:

"Where's that mill, Mom?" It turned out that Miller meant miller, so Anthony thought Miller must have a mill. "What mill, dear?" "Hasn't that sweet Miller a mill? I don't see any mill in that garden." "Oh, she never had a mill," said his mother. "She's always lived in that cottage." This time Anthony was even more troubled.So he didn't marry the grinder?He seemed to be unable to find an appropriate answer in his mind. That night he sat on the bed and scribbled a poem, which was the first time he wrote a poem. The next morning, Anthony went to a place where he turned left instead of right.By then he should have been seated in his class, but instead he climbed up a small path behind the hillside, where he huddled behind a group of houses owned by the lovely Miller.From that road the only access to her garden was through a small door which opened in a high wall at the foot of the garden slope.He tried the door, but it was locked.So he walked along the high wall of the garden, and mounted a path that went round and up the hill.He soon saw a large gate leading to the back of the villa, but there were a few people about, so he wandered a little up the path and back again after a while.I saw those people going down the path, walking towards the road and disappearing.So he pushed the bar very carefully, and it went away, to his great delight.He pushed the door open just a little, just enough for him to slip in.Then he passed noiselessly at the back of the house, where there was a very large door with brass ball studs.As soon as he passed the door, he found himself standing high in the garden, looking down on the road and the canal, and on a lower terrace below.There are decorative railings around the first terrace, and there are not all kinds of flowers in the other terraces, but flat lawns and very beautiful tent-like trees.To his right, so as not to surprise him, was the entrance to the path where the braided branches were made.The terraces lay in the sun, but the path was full of green shade, and there was a strong scent of the tide filling his nostrils.He stepped into the passage covered by greenery.He held his breath as he walked.He would run into that lovely Miller any day.She might come out of any bush, or from behind any tree.But Anthony would have preferred her to show up before he found the pot.He clutched tightly in his hands the poem he had written the night before.

The vegetation on that path was getting denser.In the end he had to use his hands to open the way, pushing away a clump of huge hemlocks, and then he saw that it was the little church!Its pillars were green with age, and so was the plinth, to which two or three low steps led.What's the next problem?Because the flower pot on the pedestal was still there, Anthony's heart was pounding with excitement. He climbed up the steps and tiptoed to touch the inside of the flower pot.He couldn't see into the pot, so he had to raise his arm high over the side of the pot and feel with his fingers.He touched something! —Is that a mass, a dead leaf, or a page?The mass was a little damp.Before he could peel a piece out of the mass, he heard a rustling in the bushes behind the church.He had only time to throw his crumpled poem into the flowerpot before hopping down the steps of the church, where he was at last meeting the lovely Miller.

Out of the hemlock bushes came a little girl with wide-open gray eyes and shaggy hair that was braided in a so-so braid underneath.Her apron was covered in mud and grass and had a hole in it. "Who are you?" she asked aggressively.Anthony knew right away that they were enemies, so he replied, "I won't tell you." "I never saw you," said the little girl, "why did you come here?" "I'm not here for you," Anthony snapped back. "Aha," said the little girl, "then you go away." She stared at him.Anthony felt that it would be embarrassing to turn around and leave at this time, so he kept his eyes on her and retreated step by step.The little girl stood under the dome of the church, and said, "Boys are very annoying, and I don't like them at all."

Anthony was annoyed that she said "they," which seemed to take him out of the picture entirely.He'd rather say to the angry girl, "I don't like you." Silence would mean failure, so he fires back: "It's the same with you girls, and I don't like it either!" "Why did you come here?" the girl asked again. "I won't tell you." Anthony repeated. "I'll find out," she said, "you put your hand in the pot," and she put her hand in as well. This time I will show her!This is really too much.As much as she hated him, he couldn't bear to see her hating his poems; he couldn't even bear anyone reading his poems—anyone, that is, except that lovely Miller, who was no longer there. Walking on the path made of twigs.

He turned and fled into the hemlock bushes, and the angry little girl took his heart out of the pot, opened it with a snap, and read aloud like a song: lovely miller, live in a villa, If what I say counts, She should live in a mill. "Did you write this?" the little girl asked loudly, a little surprised. Do you have to tell her this and let her laugh at him?He would rather die than tell her!He hurried, stumbling, panting, to the nearest bush to save himself, and put his feet on the braided path, when the little girl cried after him: "This is a very stupid poem .” At last he passed through the gate, could no longer hear the little girl's voice, and could hide his embarrassment in the mountains with a face that was purple.

But when he sat down and loosened his hot clenched fists, he found that in his flight he had clutched a handful of bushes, and that in one of his hands was a laurel leaf.