Röschen--she had been christened Rosa, but he always called her Röschen--was her father's favourite child, and his exact image, as Mrs. Tiralla used to say in a peculiar tone of voice. Yes, the girl had the same blue eyes as her father, although they were not so pale and watery as his, and the same coloured hair, for his must also have had a reddish tinge before it became grey. And that was why Mrs. Tiralla so often turned away when the child had wanted to get on her lap and, with clumsy little fingers, stroke her cheek.
However, Mrs. Tiralla was in a more affectionate mood to-night. The little girl looked up in astonishment when she felt a soft hand on her head; but then she clung to her mother, and her dull eyes gleamed with joy and gratitude.
Mr. Tiralla had come back from Gnesen, and it seemed to the woman as if a star were now standing over the house, showing her distinctly the way she was to go. She felt happier than she had been for a long time.
Her husband had handed her the packet from the chemist's as if it had been a box of sweets he sometimes brought her from town. It was nicely done up in striped tissue paper with a piece of red string round it. But, on taking off the string, she had caught sight of a grinning death's head and cross-bones on the lid,and had read the word "Poison." She had screamed and let the box fall on the table.
"There, you see, now you're afraid of it as well," said Mr. Tiralla.
How little he knew her. She and fear?
"How am I to prepare it? How am I to prepare it?" she cried in an eager voice.
He showed her how. He felt very important, for the chemist had warned him to be exceedingly careful. He would not have given such a thing to anybody else but the well-known Mr. Tiralla, the man had said, not even if they had brought a paper from the doctor. She was to strew some of the white powder, which looked as harmless as sifted sugar, on a small piece of raw meat; and put it in the corners. There would be no rats left in the cellar then. Or she could strew some of the wheat which was in the paper bag, and which you could hardly distinguish from ordinary wheat, as it only looked a little redder.
"But I implore you to be careful, my dove. Swear that you'll be very careful, Sophia." Mr. Tiralla was seized with a sudden fear, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He felt burning, although the cold snow still clung to his fur collar and cap. He took oft his top-coat and stretched his limbs as though he felt oppressed, whilst she stood motionless at the table and stared at the packet with gleaming eyes.
"Which is the most efficacious?" she asked in a dreamy voice, "the powder or the wheat?"
"They're both equally efficacious," he assured her uneasily. "The wheat is bad enough, but you've only to swallow a little of that white stuff--oh, you needn't even swallow it, hardly touch it with the tip of your tongue, and you're done for. It's a deadly poison--strychnine." He shuddered. "Oh, how couldI bring such a thing home with me? I am possessed by the devil. Give me it!" He snatched the packet out of her hands and ran to the stove, in which big logs of wood were crackling and spluttering.
"Are you mad?" She saw what he was going to do--he intended burning it. She was at his side in one bound, and, tearing the packet out of his hand, she hid it in her pocket.
"Give me it, give me it!" he cried.
She laughed at him and pressed her hand tightly against her pocket.
Then he began to wail and lament. Alas, alas, what had he done? How could he ever have been so foolish as to bring such a thing into the house? He would never have another peaceful hour, he would always be thinking that an accident might happen.
"But why," she asked in a calm voice, looking at him fixedly with her black eyes, "should an accident happen?"
"Alas, alas!" he moaned, and buried his head in his hands.
She had to comfort him. Her words calmed him; he was like a child. Then he asked her to stroke him; she did that also. At last he wanted to be helped to bed; he must have been drinking, although he denied it. The maid had to come as well; and whilst she took off his riding-boots he put his heavy head on his wife's shoulder, and she had to hold him in her arms.
When they had got him to bed they both looked very hot and flushed, for he had been pinching them in fun and had pretended to be quite helpless.
Then he sent for Röschen, whom he had not seen the whole day, for she was already on her way to school when he was still snoring in bed, and when he drove to Gnesen she had not yet returned. And nowhe longed for some one to fondle him. And the little girl knew very well what her father wanted; so she climbed up on his bed and laid her thin little arms round his neck and pressed her cool cheek to his. Then he talked to her in whispers and called her by an the pet names he could think of. She was his little red-haired girlie, his star, his song-bird, the apple of his eye, his sun, his balm of Gilead, his guardian angel, the key which was to open the door of heaven for him. And the child smiled and stroked him with her soft hands. She loved him so. He gave her everything her mother would not give her.
Still, she loved her mother in secret. Didn't everybody call her "the beautiful Mrs. Tiralla"? Didn't the schoolmaster, who was always so harsh, often send a message to her mother, and even pardon her faults and favour her just because she was the daughter of the beautiful Mrs. Tiralla? Rosa knew that she was not pretty; at least, she did not consider herself so when she plaited her curly, reddish hair before the looking-glass. Her mother's hair was as black as ebony and as smooth as silk, and her yellowish complexion and the tinge of red in her cheeks seemed twice as beautiful as her own freckles.
The growing child longed to be beautiful, although she did not exactly know why; and it disheartened and depressed her that she did not grow better-looking, in spite of all her fervent prayers. She used to kneel down at her bedside every evening in the little room she shared with Marianna and raise her hands in earnest supplication. She did not even know herself what all the things were which she prayed for.
Marianna was also a devout Christian, and, when they both lay in their beds, she would tell the listening child all about signs and wonders, about spells andmiraculous cures, and about the strange things that happened in the neighbourhood.
Hadn't farmer Kiebel heard the sound of a horn behind him in the wood not far from the new Jewish cemetery when he was driving back from Wronke to Obersitzko after the last fair! "Toot, toot, toot!" He had got down and had drawn lots of crosses in the snow with his whip in front of the trembling horses and all around the cart; and then the black huntsman had rushed past him with horns blowing, dogs barking, and making a fearful noise. His cloak had flapped so much that it had almost blown Pan Kiebel down from his cart; but the crosses in the snow had protected the pious man, and the black huntsman had had to ride on.
And there was a mountain at Ossówiec, where the witches had met last June, and where they would soon meet again in December, in order to deliberate where they should go in the shape of dust and wind. But if you painted "C.M.B.," the initials of the three Kings of the East, on all the doors and walls, no witch would be able to get in and throw something into your plate. Or you need only say to yourself, "God bless it," before you began to eat or drink, and then no witchcraft could harm your food, for the saints would hold their hands stretched out over the plate.
Those who regularly prayed to the Holy Mother or to the saints had no need to fear the devil, who, four weeks ago, had come to miller Kierski at midnight--the man who lived at Latalice, north of Gradewitz, and was always swearing and drinking--and had almost wrung his neck off. He had been left on the dunghill behind his barn, where he lay quite stiff and blue in the face; and if St. Peter's cock had not flown on to the roof of the mill and crowed three times,so that the devil thought it was the miller's cock crowing in the early morning, the miller would have been found as dead as a door-nail, with his face turned round to his back; and his soul would already have been in hell.
Marianna firmly believed that ghosts were screaming in the pines outside, and that witches were dancing in the wind that howled round the farm; but above all she believed that the devil was running about on the Przykop like a will-o'-the-wisp, and was longing to get into the house, in order to fetch a soul to hell.
But even if she had not so firmly believed it, it would have amused her to whisper all kinds of strange stories to the trembling child, who had long ago crept into her bed and was clinging to her. Her stories became more and more marvellous, more and more weird. The night time, the moaning of the wind, the plaintive cry of the screech-owls perched in the old pines in the morass; above all, the darkness of the room, the deep silence, the loneliness, gave wings to the maid's fancy. Everything became instinct with life: a creature sighed in every tree, a voice spoke from every stone, something gasped for air under every clod of earth, something lurked in every pool. The branches that tapped against the window-panes were the fingers of the dead, the stars that shot across the heavens were wandering souls, and the clouds and winds were full of prophecies.
Once when she was a child, Marianna told Rosa, she had run in amongst some corn in order to pluck some ears and make herself a wreath of the red poppies. And there she had been seized by the "Zagak," a big man with a cudgel in his hand and a hat full of holes on his head, and with shoes through which all his toes were peeping. If a cart with creaking wheels had nothappened to drive past at that moment, in which a farmer was sitting, singing a hymn, the "Zagak" would not have let her go. But she got off that time with a fright and a torn skirt. She still shook when she thought of the "Zagak"--ugh! How fortunate it was that he could not get at her here in her warm bed. The woman shuddered voluptuously, and she and the child clung still more closely to each other.
Then Röschen's little fingers clutched hold of Marianna's coarse ones, and both began to pray with all their might. What else could they do in the solitude and darkness of the night, surrounded by evil spirits that crept out of every corner, even out of the human breast? Prayer alone saved. And they prayed and prayed.
Big drops of perspiration and tears rolled down Röschen's delicate little face and her limbs trembled.
Oh, if only the Holy Virgin would come and take her under her blue mantle. She was so terrified and in such pain. Her head ached; her back and her chest as well; her throat was so swollen that she could hardly swallow; her eyes burned as if with fever.
"Holy Mother!" The child could hardly look over the feather-bed, as she tried to pierce the darkness with her terrified eyes, so high had it been drawn up. "All good spirits praise God! Dear Holy Mother, hail, Mary!" Oh, there she was, there she stood in the darkness and nodded to her.
The darkness was no longer dark, the tapping of the fingers against the window-panes and the soughing of the wind round the house had all at once lost their terror. Oh, how sweet the Holy Mother looked, how mild, and so beautiful. She took the terrified child under her protection and smiled at her, until her burningeyes dosed, until a glorious dream came to her in her slumbers and filled her soul with a sweet terror.
Was it any wonder, then, that Rosa Tiralla should cease petting her father when he suddenly began to moan and cry out, "Oh, what have I done? Oh, how terrified I am! I shall never have a quiet hour again. The devil has a hand in such a game!" and should say to him in a very earnest voice, "Why are you so terrified? Call on the Holy Mother; she wears a blue mantle, and she will wrap you in it. I'm often terrified, but then my fear disappears. Shall I call on her?"
"Yes, oh, yes." At any other time Mr. Tiralla would have burst out laughing, but to-day he nodded eagerly. And then he whispered in the child's ear, but so softly that his Sophia, who stood listening near the table as if ready to pounce on them, could not hear a single word. "I'm so terrified, I don't know why. Pray, pray."
Rosa slid down from the bed, and, kneeling on the skin rug, pressed her folded hands against her pale lips. She prayed fervently. They were the same old prayers which had been repeated mechanically so many times before; but they gained solemnity in the child's mouth. Her thin voice sounded deeper and more sonorous; the lamp-light shone on her reddish hair, that curled around her temples until it looked like a halo.
Mrs. Tiralla raised her head and glanced at her daughter; glanced at her and started, forgetting for a time the thoughts which had raged within her with such force that she had grown weak and incapable of making any resistance. Ah, yes, there was Rosa and there was Rosa's father. But Rosa was not the exact image of her father, all the same; she had also inheritedsomething from her. Mrs. Tiralla suddenly felt twenty years younger as if by magic. She pictured herself in the priest's quiet study and heard once more the wonderful stories with which he had captivated her so irresistibly. She had always listened to him in silence, but she had grown hot and red. She still felt how the blood used to rush to her head as though she had been drinking wine.
Oh, yes, the girl must go to a convent, there was no doubt about that. They would cut off her curly hair, that gleamed in the lamplight, when she took the veil; the linen band would cover her brow and her cheek. Only her small nose and her blue eyes would be seen. Oh, how sweet Rosa would look in a nun's dress. She would blossom like a rose in the Saviour's garden. Mrs. Tiralla was seized with a sudden love for her daughter, and she went up to her and laid her hand on her head.
Rosa was very happy. Her mother had even kissed her when she had said good night, and she felt as if a flame of light had flashed through her. She did not care to hear any of Marianna's stories to-night, although she generally begged for some. "I only want to pray," she said. And she prayed that her mother might always smile at her. She admired her so, her slender figure, her beautiful hair, and her velvety eyes. Nobody was as beautiful as her mother, only the Holy Virgin.
Rosa's eyes closed whilst she was still praying, and in her slumber she suddenly saw the Holy Mother standing by her bedside. She had exactly the same face as her own mother and wore the same dress, a dark blue skirt and a bright red, striped blouse. And the Holy Mother bent over her, so that she felt her warm breath on her cheek; she was probably listeningif she were asleep. Then the Holy Mother left her and listened at the bed where Marianna had been snoring for a long time; and then she went softly out of the room. Oh, how beautiful she was. The little girl fell soundly asleep with a prayer on her lips.
But Marianna was not asleep, even though she had pretended to be. What was her mistress doing, wandering about the house like that during the hours of the night? The country girl's hearing was as sharp as that of any denizen of the woods, and she could hear her going softly up and down the stairs and wandering restlessly through the rooms. Why wasn't the Pani asleep? And why had she come to their room? She must be up to something.
As soon as the child was fast asleep Marianna sat up in bed and placed her hand behind her ear. Now her mistress was in the kitchen.Psia krew!what was she rattling the coffee-mill for? Or was it the tin in which the sugar was kept?
"All good spirits!" The girl made the sign of the cross. Was the woman in league with the devil? The master had brought poison from Gnesen, poison for the rats. The servant's observant eyes had noticed the box on the table, the white box from the chemist's, with the black death's head on it. If now that woman downstairs were to put some of it in master's coffee or among the sifted sugar, of which he loved to pour half a basinful into his cup? Holy Mother!
The maid crouched down in her bed and drew the feather bed over her ears. She would neither see nor hear anything. What business was it of hers? The master was a kind man, but the mistress was really very kind too, and it was a difficult matter for such a poor servant-girl, who had already got two childrenon her hands, to side with either party. It would be much better to have nothing to do with the whole affair.
But in spite of putting both fingers in her ears, for the thick feather bed was not enough, she still heard her mistress wandering restlessly backwards and forwards. And that went on till dawn, and prevented her falling asleep. She generally snored the whole night through, but to-day she heard the cock crowing on the dunghill and the dull lowing of the cows before she closed her eyes.
She overslept herself. When she at last awoke from her uneasy slumbers she found Rosa standing before the little bit of looking-glass plaiting her hair, and from the yard came the clatter of wooden shoes and the rattle of the chain in the well as Jendrek drew up the bucket.
"Holy Mary!" cried Marianna, as she jumped out of bed. "Why didn't you wake me, you wretch?" she said to the child furiously.
"I was just--just going to do it," answered Rosa in a tone of excuse. As she stood there in her short petticoats and bare shoulders she looked very small and thin. "I was just going to shake you."
But you could see that Rosa had never thought of waking the servant, her thoughts were otherwise occupied. She was still dreaming with her eyes open. Oh, if only she could have told some one what she had dreamt--it had been so beautiful. The Holy Mother had let her hold the Child Jesus in her arms, and she had felt the soft, warm little body on her breast. How it had clung to her. Rosa smiled blissfully to herself as she looked in the tarnished bit of looking-glass, all stained with soap-suds.
Marianna ran down into the kitchen without washingherself or doing her hair. Oh, dear, there stood her mistress at the fireplace, her hair beautifully done and as neat as ever. Had she even made the coffee?
"The coffee is ready; you're so late," said Mrs. Tiralla. But she did not scold the servant for sleeping too long, she merely handed her the tray with the enormous coffee-cup on. "There, carry it in to him. I've already put sugar in it."
Marianna stared at her mistress in amazement. Her drowsiness suddenly disappeared; what she had thought of during the night suddenly occurred to her again. She stammered something and remained as if rooted to the spot, until her mistress said to her, laughing, "Take it to him. Why do you stand there like an idiot?"
No, it would be quite impossible for anybody to laugh like that who had put poison in the coffee. Marianna drew a breath of relief. But as she carried the tray across the stone passage she made the sign of the cross over it--"God bless it!"--as a kind of security. Now nothing could harm it. And as she smelt the warm, strong coffee, she could not help drinking some of it. She had had nothing to eat as yet, something warm would do her good. How strong the coffee was. It tasted quite bitter in spite of the sugar--pooh! But it was very good, all the same. She took another big gulp.
"Psia krew, you rascally woman! I suppose you're drinking some of my coffee, as I'm not getting it," shouted Mr. Tiralla from his bedroom. A boot, thrown by an expert hand, flew through the half-open door right against Marianna's apron. She gave a loud scream and let the tray fall; the sweetened coffee ran over her feet and along the stone passage.
"Psia krew!" A second boot came flying. Thedoor was thrown wide open, and there was Mr. Tiralla sitting on the edge of his bed angling with his bare feet for his slippers, which had disappeared under the bed.
The maid stood on the threshold, soaked.
Mr. Tiralla burst into a loud laugh. "What a blockhead you are, to be sure!" he shouted, slapping his thighs. "Good heavens, was there ever such an idiotic person! Don't stare at me so stupidly. Come, come, you needn't begin to cry directly. Go and fetch some more coffee."
"The Pani will hit me," the girl sobbed. "I'm so frightened, so terribly frightened."
"Sophia," shouted Mr. Tiralla, who had had a very good night, "Sophia, this stupid girl has spilt the coffee; now don't hit her."
Mrs. Tiralla was already on the spot. She grew deadly pale and then burning red as she saw the sweetened coffee running along the ground like a brown stream.
The servant ducked down; now the mistress would be sure to hit her. But she did nothing of the sort. She did not even raise her hand in menace, she simply said, "It wasn't to be. Make him some more coffee." Then she fetched a cloth and wiped it up with her own hands, collected the broken bits of china, and said nothing more.
Marianna felt quite confused. She had never broken anything without being punished for it by her different mistresses. And to-day she hadn't even got a box on the ears nor been threatened with one. She went about like a dog on the scent; there was something wrong here. The place was haunted. She kept her eye on the mistress, but she was sitting in the room near the window reading. The master had gone intothe fields to try to shoot a hare; and Rosa was at school. Oh, if only she had had a soul to speak to.
The maid felt oppressed, as though a very important secret were weighing her down. Besides, she really did feel as if she had a heavy weight on her chest. What could it be? She had to draw her breath the whole time, and she could not swallow; she felt as if she were choking. Oh, how terrified she was! And then she had such an awful thirst, her mouth was quite parched. She staggered to the bucket; she wanted to drink, but she could not. Holy Mother, why could she not swallow? All of a sudden she was seized with a fit of trembling, which grew so severe that she had to sit down on the floor just where she stood. Oh, how ill she felt. Her eyes grew dim, and she was bathed in perspiration. Now she could not breathe at all. She tried to scream, to cry for help; she could not do that either. She endeavoured to get up, but she was perfectly stiff; her head felt as if it were in splints. Her hands were clenched as though she were in a fit. Oh, God, have mercy! Was she going to die? How her limbs ached.
The maid lay there in a state of collapse, until she gradually recovered so far as to be able to rise, moaning and groaning, and stagger out of the kitchen into the yard. There she was very sick.
Jendrek came up to her and laughed as he saw her standing there. Ha-ha, had she been to a dance, unknown to everybody? But the harvest-homes were over, and Twelfth Day had not yet come round. "What had she been eating or drinking to make herself so ill?" he inquired in a scoffing tone.
She did not answer. All she could do was to raise her head a very little and give him a strange look.
He grew terrified when he saw how enormous thepupils of her eyes had become. Ugh! she did look awful. Instead of telling her how pleased he was to think that she for once in a way could sympathize with his feelings on a Monday morning, he grasped her by the arm and asked, "Is anything the matter? Tell me."
She groaned and gave a feeble nod. When he had asked her what she had been eating, the thought had pierced her stupefied brain that she must have been bewitched, that she must have eaten or dr----
"Poison, poison!" she suddenly shrieked, and throwing herself on the ground she rolled about and screamed, so that the man shrunk back in fright.
Mrs. Tiralla must also have heard the girl's shrieks, for she came out of the house at once. She ran up to the maid, but as the latter continued to scream "Poison, poison!" in a loud voice, and roll about as if she were mad, with her hands pressed against her body, the woman grew so deadly pale that Jendrek thought she would also fall down.
"Silence, silence!" she cried hastily, holding her hand before Marianna's mouth. But as the latter pushed her hand away and went on screaming, she looked round like a terrified animal at bay.
Jendrek felt quite anxious when he saw his mistress's eyes. "Shall I go to Gradewitz and fetch the doctor?" he asked timidly.
"No," cried the woman angrily. And then, rousing herself, she seized hold of his smock and cried, "Are you mad? She's only drunk, only drunk, nothing else."
"I'm not drunk!" screamed Marianna. Then she added in a furious voice, "That fool, that Jendrek, says I'm drunk; but let him sweep before his own door first. I've not drunk anything, not a drop, andthat I'll swear." All at once Marianna recovered her voice. "That fool! It's poison that I've got in my body. I've been poisoned; I'm going to die--oh, oh!"
The man opened his eyes in amazement.
When Mrs. Tiralla noticed that he was listening intently to what Marianna was saying she grew as red as she before had been pale. Then, with a short, forced laugh, she said, "Nonsense. Poison? Where should you have got it from? You're raving, my girl. Come," she added, helping the girl to rise, "lean on my arm. You're already better, aren't you? I'll put you to bed. I'll make you a strong cup of tea. I'll give you a hot-water bottle. And then, when you're better, we'll see if one of my petticoats will fit you; you must be dressed more warmly." She felt the girl's thin skirt. "Why, she has nothing on. She must have caught cold. I'll take care of her. You are better now, aren't you? Holy Mother! Marianna, speak! You're better, aren't you?"
Marianna shook her head. She pretended to feel very wretched once more, and, rolling her eyes, she began to groan and lean so heavily against her mistress that they both stumbled.
Jendrek had to come to the rescue. They took the girl between them and dragged her into the house and up the stairs to bed.
When the man saw how kind his mistress was to Marianna, he stared at her in surprise. "What a good woman she must be," he thought to himself.
Whilst Mrs. Tiralla was rubbing the servant's icy-cold feet and hands she continued to repeat the same question, "You're better, aren't you?"
It touched Jendrek to see how anxious the good woman was. He thought that he would like to be ill as well; and he made up his mind that he wouldgroan like that next Monday and scream, "Poison, poison!" and lie on the ground and roll about. It must be very nice to have your cheek and forehead stroked by the mistress's soft hands, as she was stroking Marianna's, and to see how she worried about you. And then she had run into the kitchen and brought her a cup full of good, warm tea, and had held it to her lips and said, "Drink, dear, drink."
But Marianna did not want to drink. She almost knocked the cup out of her mistress's hand. And when the latter tried to persuade her in her soft voice, "Do drink, it'll do you good," she answered pertly, "I'll take precious good care I don't. I shall not drink it," and turned her face to the wall.
Why on earth wouldn't she drink that good cup of tea? The man would very much have liked to know that.
But Mrs. Tiralla did not ask why. The cup rattled in her hand, and as she stepped back from the bed she trembled so that she had to sit down on the nearest chair. She closed her eyes for a moment. But when she opened them again and saw the man's questioning looks, she gave him a sweet, almost timid smile, and said, "I'm not very strong. Such things affect me so. Oh, what a fright it gave me."
As they were going down the steep, dark stairs, she felt for his arm. "Lead me, Jendrek, I can't walk alone. Oh, poor Marianna!"
The winter was long in Starydwór, and the winter was the season of the year which Mrs. Tiralla liked least, for her husband would spend almost the whole day at home. He grew more and more lazy; he would not even go out shooting. "Why should I shoot hares?" he would say. "I can buy them very cheaply; any 'komornik' will kill one for me. I would much rather stop at home with Sophia."
Beautiful Mrs. Tiralla had grown thin during the course of the winter, "as slender as a fairy," said Mr. Schmielke, the tax-collector. The gentry used to meet at the inn every evening and discuss the most important events of the day; and as nothing much happened in Starawieś, Gradewitz, and neighbourhood, they would speak of Mrs. Tiralla. This they did rather often, for the men considered her the most interesting topic of conversation in Starawieś, Gradewitz, and the neighbourhood.
"By Jove, how beautiful that woman is!" some one would exclaim; and then another would add, "What a pity that that old fool has got her."
"There's nothing to be done," sighed the tax-collector, who had served in the guards at Potsdam, and had always been accustomed to carry everything before him on account of his smartness. "Absolutely nothing to be done, gentlemen. I've already had a try; but, to tell you the truth, she has sent me tothe right about. Ah, the fair Sophia!" He stroked his moustache and tilted his chair as far back as he could, in order to look into the tap-room and wink at the clumsy little country-girl who was helping the landlord behind the bar.
Mr. Böhnke, the schoolmaster, was very much put out. There was this Prussian, who had fallen from the clouds into their loyal Polish district, and at once imagined that he could win the most beautiful woman for himself. But such a rose was not meant for a fellow like him--a fellow with no education worth speaking of, for he had been nothing but a noncommissioned officer. "Pray don't speak so loudly. Don't shout out the names like that!" he exclaimed, jumping up from his seat and closing the door into the tap-room.
It vexed him to think that his pale face had grown scarlet. This Schmielke was certainly held in high esteem by everybody, and of course it would not be wise to quarrel with a representative of the Prussian Government. Still, it was very impertinent of him even to think of Mrs. Tiralla, of that educated woman, the daughter of a schoolmaster, extremely impertinent. Really, you couldn't help laughing at it. And he gave an angry laugh.
"You seem to be enjoying yourselves here," said a voice at that moment; and, looking round in surprise, the men caught sight of a head covered with a mass of white hair, that stood up like bristles round an angular forehead, and a pair of lovely brown eyes. It was the priest who had opened the door softly and had stuck his head in. "Let me see, who are you all? Mr. Böhnke,dobri wieczor." He nodded somewhat condescendingly to the schoolmaster who had jumped up from his chair, and then gave a very friendly nodto Mr. Schmielke, the tax-collector, who was leaning back in his tilted chair with two fingers thrust into the front of his uniform.
"How do?" said the tax-collector.
Ziëntek, who was a good Catholic, felt very much annoyed at his heretical friend Schmielke's off-hand behaviour. Ziëntek was a clerk at the post office in Gradewitz; but he enjoyed himself better in Starawieś, where he was not so well known, and often cycled over late in the evening. He had jumped up from his chair like the schoolmaster, although perhaps not quite so quickly, and had shaken hands with Father Szypulski, the priest.
Father Szypulski now stepped up to the table, for he saw that they were all good acquaintances, with whom he felt quite at home. He had been so lonely in his small study, where there was hardly room for so big and broad a man as he. He couldn't always be reading, and it was impossible to go to the neighbouring farmers for a game of cards, as the roads were at present in a frightful condition. He couldn't even get to his colleague in Gradewitz, which was only a few miles distant by the highroad. Besides, what would have been the good of it? They couldn't have gone to the hotel in the market-place, as there were always too many people about. Oh, there really were too many Germans amongst the settlers. And who would notice him going to the inn on such a snowy night if he took up his cassock? A few stupid peasants at the most, who would bend their heads so low when they greeted him as though their priest were a saint at least. And in the inn he would find human beings.
The priest no doubt felt that it was not quite the thing for him to sit in the inn, and that his superiors would have taken umbrage at it. But had he evertaken more than he could stand? So far nobody had ever seen him the worse for drink. He reviewed one colleague after another in his mind; where was there one who had not behaved like other men? And why had they sent him to such a remote post? so rural, so primitive. His scruples were gradually being lulled to sleep in the snowy winter days, that were not even brightened by a faint gleam of light--he hardly ever caught a glimpse of a paper, besides papers were pernicious reading--in that monotonous silence, that was not even enlivened by the whistle of an engine, for the railway was on the other side of Gradewitz.
"What are you talking about, gentlemen?" inquired the priest in an interested voice; and he was soon in the midst of the conversation about Mrs. Tiralla. He was her father confessor. "A good little woman, an exceedingly nice little woman," he said in a laudatory tone.
"I had a fearful to-do with Tiralla the other day, your reverence," said Kranz of thegendarmerie, who was sitting at the end of the table stroking his fierce-looking, greyish moustache. "I felt quite sorry for the woman. I had to speak. I didn't think it could be possible, but I was told of it, and I found out for myself that it was true--Tiralla lets the day-labourers kill hares for him. It makes no difference to him whether they're on other people's property or not. I taxed him with it, and he didn't even deny it, he simply laughed. But his wife turned as red as fire, she felt so ashamed of him. 'It's a disgrace!' she cried, and looked at me with eyes full of tears. And then she gave him a real, good scolding. 'Haven't I told you again and again that if you want to eat hares, you're to shoot them yourself? If you don'tdo so I'll throw them out of the kitchen next time you bring them, I swear I will.'"
"Bravo!" they all shouted. "Splendid!" There was only one more thing she ought to have done and that was soundly to box his ears, the scoundrel. They were so furious with him that they seemed entirely to forget that they lived in a country where hares are no man's property, so to speak, and are often killed by passers-by as they gambol about fearlessly in the immense, lonely fields that extend for miles.
The younger men's eyes sparkled as they listened. The tax-collector, the clerk from the post office, and the schoolmaster were none of them thirty. The forester, who was sitting next to the clerk from the post office, and Jokisch, the inspector of the settlement near the lake, could also be reckoned amongst her admirers, although they were married men; and the gendarme was still a good-looking fellow, in spite of his greyish moustache and an almost grown-up daughter.
"I knew all about those hares," said Bilkowski, the forester, laughing.
"You knew it?" The gendarme opened his eyes wide.
"Oh, I say, don't look like that. If I were to publish everything that happens here," and the forester shrugged his shoulders, "I should never get any further."
"But a man ought to--it's his duty--I'm obliged," and the gendarme, who had only been transferred to this post the spring before, pulled out an enormous note-book from his pocket with a determined look, and took out the pencil. "I always write everything down. Things were bad enough in Upper Silesia, but they seem to be worse here."
"Oh, you'll get used to them," said the forester reassuringly. "It's really very nice here. I shouldn't like to live anywhere else now. It was also rather difficult for me at first, and especially for my wife. She made enough fuss about it. But now I never hear anything more, and"--he paused for a moment, then added with a smile that was half embarrassed, half sly--"I only see what I want to see. What else is there for me to do? Am I to act in opposition to the nobility, who would continue to do exactly what they liked all the same, or am I to let the peasants kill me when they commit outrages in the royal woods? Of course I always go to the Przykop when I hear a shot; but if they don't shoot, if they only make use of their cudgels, what then?"
He was right. They all agreed that it was no easy matter to be a forester. Still the gendarme did not exactly approve of Mr. Bilkowski speaking so frankly. "But, my dear fellow," and Bilkowski patted him on the shoulder, "we're all in the same boat. Why shouldn't I speak frankly amongst friends?"
The priest cast a glance at the open door leading into the tap-room. Then he whispered to the schoolmaster, "Close it."
Böhnke hastened to comply with the hint.
"Do you think that the Tirallas would come to our Gardewitz ball?" asked the clerk from the post office, blushing like a young girl. "I'm getting it up, and if the Tirallas were coming I would arrange a cotillon with flowers. If we were to order them at a big shop in Posen we could get real ferns and wired flowers at sixpence a bouquet. Why, it would even be worth while writing to Berlin for them. If you want to give such a ball you must be prepared to spend something on it."
"When do you intend having it?" This was amatter that interested everybody, and the little man felt very important.
"On Shrove Tuesday, as usual. After that there's always such a long spell where there's nothing whatever to do. It'll be splendid, I can tell you, splendid! I hope Sophia Tiralla will come."
"Why shouldn't she, I should like to know?" Schmielke resolved at all events to secure her for the cotillon in good time, as that meant he would take her into supper as well.
They all had the same intention, and all had made up their minds to call on the Tirallas at the earliest opportunity. It was quite a different kind of thing to clasp a woman like that in your arms instead of Miss Stumpf, the baker's daughter, who was both clumsy and stout; or the stupid, snub-nosed Miss Musiëlak, the stationmaster's daughter; or even Miss Stanislawa, who was rather pretty, but whose father, Count Jagodziúski, was the town clerk, and was always borrowing money from them all. Could even little Jadwiga Hähnel, with the freckles, the rich mill-owner's only unmarried daughter, or the fair Marianna Rózycki, the butcher's daughter, who, after the first glass of beer, always fell violently in love with her partner, could they be compared with Sophia Tiralla? All the young ladies of Gradewitz, Starawieś, and neighbourhood were in turn reviewed, but the prize was unanimously bestowed on the fair Sophia.
"A pretty little woman, to be sure," said the priest.
"Have you noticed that as well, sir?" asked Schmielke pertly, with a sly wink.
The schoolmaster started angrily, another impertinence from that man. Even Ziëntek gave an embarrassed little cough; really, how could Fritz say such a thing?
But the priest did not appear to have taken it amiss, and laughed when he saw Schmielke wink. Why shouldn't he see it as well as the others? Did he think he was blind? He was fortunately still in possession of his eyesight, and there could surely be nothing wrong in his admiring a pretty creature.
The schoolmaster listened in amazement to this free and easy confession. How could his reverence say such things aloud? And in Schmielke's presence too, that heretic. It would of course be at once repeated and turned to account.
The others, however, were very much amused by the confession, and shouted and laughed loudly. Jokisch, the inspector, who had hitherto hardly opened his mouth--he had been too busy drinking--now raised his glass. "Long live our priest. We've the best in the whole kingdom. Let him live and let live."
They all clinked with the priest, and Jokisch was even so impertinent as to slap him on the shoulder as he said, "What a pity, sir, that you can't go to the ball."
"Do you think I couldn't dance, eh?" said the priest, eyeing his long boots, which resembled those of an officer in a cavalry regiment. "You needn't fear that I should be out of place there. What a pity"--he gave a little sigh--"but it would never do."
"Why not, I should like to know?" asked Schmielke, and laughed. "The youth does not know the reason why."
"Those are some fine ideas you've got," the schoolmaster blurted out. He had worked himself into such a passion that he could not restrain himself any longer. "You Germans seem to have some nice ideas of us. But, of course, you're a heretic." It sounded veryvenomous. "It's quite possible that your clergy do such things." "Now, now," said the priest, giving the schoolmaster a sign to be quiet. He felt annoyed that the differences of religion and nationality should have been brought up. How stupid of this Böhnke to make such a to-do. They had to live together and get on with each other. The first in the land were striving to do the same. Hiding his momentary embarrassment under a jovial laugh, the priest broke the silence that now reigned in the room by saying in a loud voice:
"I would advise you to take a glass of bitters, Böhnke, or some Glauber-salt. That would do you good."
A roar of laughter greeted this witticism.
The schoolmaster turned pale and bit his lips, for he dared not say anything; but he looked down on them all with supreme contempt. How far superior he was to them in education--even superior to the priest, who was only a peasant's son, whilst his father had been a schoolmaster. He was to have studied philology and have been master of a higher-grade school. But even with the less advanced education he had received at the seminary, he still felt himself far superior to all of them. And this he thought he could say without putting too high a value on his own capabilities.
Böhnke always kept aloof from everybody; he had no friends, he was harsh to the children, and was often bad-tempered. Rosa Tiralla was the only child to whom he spoke kindly; but she was quite different to the other children, much better bred. You could see that she had a nice mother, who was of good family. The schoolmaster took an interest in this woman. But it was not only her beauty that attracted him, healso felt that they were kindred spirits on account of her parentage. He was filled with jealousy and anger when he heard those ill-bred fellows calling her "Sophia Tiralla," plain and simple Why couldn't they say "Mrs. Tiralla"? That would have been the proper thing for them to do. The schoolmaster continued to bite his lips and stare in front of him, pale and morose.
But a spark had fallen into the straw, and the former peaceful conversation was at an end. Jokisch and Schmielke suddenly commenced quarrelling. Jokisch, who had already drunk too much, began to speak disparagingly about Mrs. Tiralla. She was one of those whom you couldn't trust out of your sight. He felt quite sorry for Tiralla, who wasn't a bad fellow, but imposed upon, imposed upon. "My wife says----"
"Tut, tut, your wife's jealous," said Schmielke teasingly, and laughed. "Naturally it can't be agreeable for her to have the fair Sophia as her nearest neighbour."
"What do you mean?" roared the man. "I suppose you mean to infer that I've been carrying on with her. I've not had anything to do with her; I wouldn't touch her with a pair of tongs." He grew more and more furious.
"H'm, your wife has taught you well, I see," remarked the tax-collector superciliously.
"Taught me--taught me? I've finished my training long ago," roared the inspector. "I needn't learn any more. I was inspector for five years at Count Bninski's, in Opalenitza; I needn't learn any more for your rotten Prussian crown land, especially inthatneighbourhood"--he spat on the floor--"inthat----"
A blow closed his mouth. The schoolmaster hadjumped up from his seat; all his vaunted culture had disappeared. "Hold your tongue!" he shouted, facing the tipsy inspector like a turkey-cock that has been infuriated by a piece of red cloth. He was a delicate-looking fellow, a mere stripling compared with the broad-shouldered inspector, but there was a dangerous gleam in his eyes.
Jokisch had, indeed, gone too far. "Psia krew!" cried the priest, without knowing what he said, whilst the others shouted in the wildest confusion, "Prove it, prove it!" He was to prove that he had the right to say such things about Sophia Tiralla. They were all simply burning with curiosity. What did he know of her, what, what? That anybody knew such things about her only added to her charm and piquancy in their eyes.
"Well, fire away," said Schmielke in a jovial voice.
The priest also smiled. He had often before listened to two men quarrelling, for he knew very well that they would in the end always bow to his judgment, although the matter was no concern of his.
"I don't know anything," said Jokisch, all at once quite sober. Oh, what a fool he had been, suddenly flashed through his mind. If he now said something about her, wouldn't they all believe that he had burnt his fingers? So far nobody knew that he had tried to kiss her in the dark stone passage at Starydwór a short time ago, and that she had given him a sound box on the ears for it. He therefore entrenched himself behind his wife. "My wife says she's a very bad housekeeper. My wife says she's very unkind to her husband. She sleeps alone in her own room."
"Alone? I say, really?" They were all delighted to hear it, and their eyes again began to sparkle. And no wonder, he was such a horrid old fellow.
"My wife says she would like to poison him, judging from the way she looks at him." That was his highest trump card, but even that did not seem to excite any indignation, for every one present was busily occupied in devising a plan by which he could curry favour with the fair Sophia.
But the priest smiled. "You're biassed, Mr. Jokisch, biassed. There's nothing wrong with Mrs. Tiralla."
"She's a good woman, a really good woman," agreed the gendarme. "I came past the farm the other day on my way from the Przykop, and found the servant lounging at the gate--Marianna Śroka, from Althof, you know, a buxom lass, but awfully cheeky. 'Panje,' said she in a low voice, and crept close up to me, 'Panje, there's murder in that house.' She pointed to the Tirallas' house and made such eyes, she looked quite mad. She wouldn't let me go. Then I got curious, and felt I must go into the house. The woman came out of the room at once. 'Where's Mr. Tiralla?' I asked, and at the same moment I heard a voice saying, 'Who is it, Sophia darling? Come in, come in, it's very comfortable here.' He was in high spirits, and we were all very happy together, although Marianna kept rolling her eyes about and winking at me quite openly as if to say, 'Take care!' What a horrid person she is, a real serpent. And Mrs. Tiralla is just like her husband, and continues to warm such a creature at her bosom. She's a good mistress, you can take my word for that. 'Please,' she said, and 'Thank you,' when Marianna brought something up from the cellar. But that's just like that kind of person. She's as comfortable with them as she can possibly be anywhere, and still she abuses them. I said to Mrs. Tiralla, 'How do you like yourservant?'--I wanted to introduce the subject, but she answered, 'Oh, she's very good, very good,' and praised her highly."
"A very nice feature," remarked the priest.
Everybody was filled with indignation against Jokisch. How dared he say a single word against Mrs. Tiralla, even when he was drunk? The schoolmaster had been quite right this time. Jokisch was to keep a civil tongue in his head. He was a henpecked husband, a tattler. All the bachelors jeered at the inspector. Little Ziëntek poured the dregs from his tumbler over his head, and when he resisted, and snorted and swore loudly as he hit about him, they drew the chair from under him, so that he sat down on the floor on which everybody had been spitting. On any other occasion the gendarme would have separated the men, but now he looked on with the utmost calm. It served the man quite right. The priest had at first watched the proceedings very doubtfully, and had kept an eye on the door to see if anybody were spying upon them. But when the others took their tumblers, and, following Ziëntek's example, poured the dregs over the man's head, he almost split his sides with laughing.
He saw, however, that it was about time for him to be going, so he got up from his seat and disappeared as quietly as he had come; and the men were laughing, quarrelling, and shouting so loudly that they hardly noticed his departure.
The schoolmaster felt like a hero, as he tramped home through the snow. He was her knight; he had just paid that vulgar, disgusting fellow out. Jokisch had received the first and last kick from him as they all together had conveyed the heavy man to the door. "Throw him out, that slanderer!" Thistime they had all made common cause, all except the gendarme, who had retired at the very last moment. He always did so when there was any quarrelling going on in the private room at the inn, otherwise he would have been obliged to write down the names of these disturbers of the peace.
The stars shone down on the schoolmaster as he walked home all alone; the cold wintry sky looked like a huge glass bell that had been put over the flat country. The stars gave light; he could easily discern the empty village street, which was as wide as the widest street in a big town--so wide that it made the low cottages on either side look twice as low as they really were. Böhnke stumbled along as though he were intoxicated. But that was not the case, for he never drank too much, whatever the others might do. He was tormented with an ambitious longing to win this woman. Mrs. Tiralla was always very kind to him; he thought he had noticed that she also looked upon him as a kindred spirit. To-morrow he would see little Rosa--that dreamy child who would sit with a vacant stare on her face and not know what the others had been talking about--and he would tell her to remember him very kindly to her mother, and to ask her if she wanted anything to read during these long winter days. She could take her choice among his books. He would gladly lend her them all, in spite of the many hardships he had had to undergo in order to procure them. She had certainly borrowed a volume from him almost three years ago; she had had it almost the whole time he had been in the neighbourhood, and he would probably never see it again. But he did not mind that. To-morrow he would again place his library at her disposal. The best thing would be to write her a note and give it tothe child. He wrote a most beautiful hand, it looked like print. How the other people in this neighbourhood did scrawl!
The Gradewitz ball would cost him a lot of money, and he had hardly any. But what did that matter? He would go there, even if he had to borrow from the Jew. Happily there was always one thing he could do; if Isidor Prochownik dunned him, his daughter Rebecca should lose her place in the class--she should go down to the very bottom; but if the old man left him in peace Rebecca should have a very high place. He laughed to himself at the splendid idea. But then he turned scarlet, although there was nobody watching him, only the starry heavens above him, and around him the deserted, sleeping village. He was overcome with shame, for he felt that it was not right of him to move Rebecca up and down just to please himself. But then he stifled all qualms. What did it matter to that girl, who was so dirty, so stupid, so utterly neglected, even if she did go down to the bottom? It was of no importance to her. And he--he must go to the ball.
Böhnke dreamt that night of the beautiful Mrs. Tiralla. She wore a silk dress, and had given him a decoration in the cotillon. He stretched out an eager hand, and she pinned the gold paper-star on his breast. And then she clung to him, the silk dress gave way, and her white bosom opened like a book. "Read it," she said, smiling, "we two understand each other."
It was a confused dream, for then followed all kinds of nonsense which the young man could no longer remember when he awoke.
He went to school next morning feeling like a schoolboy who carries his first poem to his beloved one in hispocket, and is longing impatiently to give it to her. Although he had gone to bed very late the evening before, he had got up early and had twice written a note to Mrs. Tiralla. He had not been satisfied with it the first time, and had therefore written it again. Rosa was now to take it to her. But when he went into the schoolroom his eyes sought in vain for the pale, absent-looking face under the mass of curly hair. All the brown, snub-nosed, sly-looking faces were there, but Rosa Tiralla was wanting. This was a great disappointment. He was more harsh and impatient than ever that day; he required his questions to be answered at once, without any hesitation, otherwise he took the first book he could lay hands on and hurled it over the forms. He could scarcely contain himself, he felt so irritable. Why the deuce had that red-haired girl just stopped away that day?
As Rosa was again absent the next day and the day after that, and as none of the children could tell him the reason why, he came to a decision--he would go to Starydwór. She must be ill. Would it not be the proper thing for him to make personal inquiries about his pupil?
The crows were cawing over his head as he endeavoured to find the path over the snow-clad fields. He could hardly see it, for there was only a very faint trace left of the cart that had taken the milk from Starydwór to Gradewitz early that morning. He shuddered as he wandered through the enormous white fields. It was true they were no more melancholy-looking at this time of the year than when full of turnips and ripe corn; but their uniform whiteness seemed to give them a larger and more desolate appearance. Even the hares, as they nibbled away at the few stalks that were left, and the birds of prey,as they lazily flapped their wings in the direction of the Przykop, did not enliven their desolation; for the sluggish inertness of their movements, which enabled passers-by to approach them quite closely, proved only too clearly how very rarely they were disturbed.
Was it because he was not warmly enough dressed that he trembled so? Böhnke put his hands to his face--ugh! how cold it was. His top-coat was certainly very thin, it was only meant for summer wear; but he really couldn't have put on that thick, rough coat he wore every day for school. He was wearing his best black coat and kid gloves; his fingers were quite numb. He would have liked to run, in order to get warm, but big lumps of snow clung to his boots like lumps of lead. When he came in sight of the trees in the low-lying Przykop, it was as though something were holding him back, and as though the wind were pushing him back so as to prevent him from going any further. And he was longing with all his heart to get to Starydwór as soon as possible.
To the left lay the settlement--the distillery chimney reared its head in the air like a big white asparagus--and there Jokisch lived. But he would not live there much longer. When the land had been parcelled out and the settlers had come, he would go. Thank God! Böhnke was filled with a vague jealousy; they were neighbours, he and she, and he considered every neighbour dangerous. Jokisch was certainly a fine-looking man, and Böhnke felt firmly convinced that he also found Mrs. Tiralla very fascinating, in spite of all he had said to the contrary, for who would not? Perhaps that was the very reason why he had been so angry with her.
Then the schoolmaster began to run. Who wouldhinder him in getting to Starydwór as quickly as possible? There it lay.
The old farm, which had been in the hands of the Tirallas for over a hundred years, had rather an imposing look in the distance. Not much was to be seen of the farmhouse itself--it was very low, as though sunk in the ground--but the barns and stables, all roofed with new, red tiles, formed a wall round the square courtyard in front of it, and the whole together constituted a very fine property. But what good was it to her if she didn't love her husband?
The young man cast one more look at his clothes, and then, after flipping the snow off his trousers, walked through the open gateway, over which was a figure of the Holy Virgin sitting on a throne, which was protected by a grating. A couple of dogs rushed at his legs and barked; but he was not a coward, although he was no giant, and a kick soon frightened the curs away. A man stood in the stable door watching the schoolmaster as he walked up to the farmhouse.
What did the Starawieś schoolmaster want? Ha, ha, was he also coming to kiss the mistress's hand? Somebody had already been there yesterday, and the day before yesterday as well. How they all ran after her. But they had no luck, thought Jendrek with a broad grin on his face. The Pani bestowed the kindest look on him, and she gave him bacon every day in the kitchen, and an extra glass of gin as well. God bless the good woman!
Böhnke stepped into the stone passage, but nobody came. He gave a loud cough; he had never been there before, and did not know where to knock. He scraped his feet, and as there was still no sign of anybody he called out in a polite voice, "May I come in? Hallo! is nobody at home?"
Then he heard Mr. Tiralla's voice coming from the room on the right, "Come in, come in, it's very comfortable here."
The schoolmaster knocked at the door.
"Confound you! Come in, I say."
Böhnke went in, but he at once drew back. Oh, he didn't wish to disturb. But still he stood as though rooted to the spot, and stared and stared. There was Mr. Tiralla lying all his length on the bench by the stove with his head resting on his wife's lap.
Mrs. Tiralla blushed crimson as their eyes met. Then she lowered hers, and jumped up so hastily that the heavy man on her lap was in danger of falling on the floor.
"Psia krew!" cried the man, and then he laughed. Surely she didn't feel shy, weren't they husband and wife?
She answered nothing, but she glanced at her husband with such an expression of disdain, and then looked so hopelessly out of the window, that Böhnke at once knew that she was unhappy, and that her husband did not understand her. And he felt his heart beat.
"Oh, it's you, Mr. Böhnke," she said in a friendly voice, and held out her hand. It felt like velvet as it lay in his, but it was as cold as ice. He ventured to press it slightly; but she did not return the pressure, she only gave him a sad look out of her splendid eyes and smiled a little. Oh, that poor woman! How he would have liked to give that abominable fellow a blow as he lay on the bench.
Mr. Tiralla was in a very good humour. He shouted to Marianna to fetch beer and gin, and then told his wife to bring out some food. Böhnke will be hungry--such a schoolmaster is always hungry--bring whatyou can find: ham, eggs, cake, sausages, cheese, and what else you've got in the larder. "We've got plenty." Then, without rising from the bench, he seized hold of the schoolmaster with the words, "Take a seat, pray," and forced him down on the nearest chair in spite of his resistance. "We're pleased to give you it.Psia krew, only no excuses."
Böhnke had stammered something about not wishing to give trouble, about not being hungry, about going away immediately. But the farmer had given a boisterous laugh as usual, and had said that the schoolmaster had better tell that to the marines, for he didn't believe it. He had probably been brought up in the same way as his wife, eh? She had always worn shoes and stockings as a child, and had been as dainty-looking as a doll; but her little bread-basket had been as empty as a barn before harvest. She had been as thin as a church mouse in those days.
The schoolmaster saw Mrs. Tiralla give her husband a second look, but there was more than disdain in her look this time--something else gleamed in the depths of those dark eyes. Then she turned away and went out of the room without saying a word.
"Heigh, Sophia, be quick!" shouted the man after her.
And then he began singing her praises to the schoolmaster. Mr. Tiralla loved to have visitors; he was so delighted to have an opportunity of talking about his wife and his happiness to somebody. He bragged about everything, and dilated loquaciously upon matters that a husband does not generally mention to other men. His Sophia had a wonderful figure, a wonderful figure! As slender as a birch! And she was so dainty, slim in the waist and still rounded, broad across the hips, soft and warm like a partridgeor like one of those little pigs made of marzipan, which Wolkowitz, in Posen, used to put in his window at Christmas time. And her bosom! Would you believe that---- Lowering his voice but very little he was about to confide some more intimate particulars to the young man. But the latter tore himself away from the hand that was pressing him down on the chair. He had been fidgeting about on his seat for some time, but now he felt he could stand it no longer. A burning blush suffused his face--was it from shame or desire? Oh, that woman, that poor woman, at the mercy of such a man! He was filled with an inexpressible repugnance for this stout, coarse old man, who literally undressed his wife in the presence of others. Could anybody blame her if she disliked him as much as Mrs. Jokisch had said?
The farmer had not noticed that the schoolmaster was struggling with his feelings. It had not even struck him that he was silent. He had found him a modest young man who did not talk much, and that was a good thing, because then he was listening. Mr. Tiralla was very pleased with his visitor.
Marianna appeared with three bottles of beer under each arm and a small tray with glasses in her hand. She looked hale and hearty, and there was no trace left of that fearful indisposition which had attacked her at the commencement of the winter. She scanned the visitor with sparkling, roguish eyes. Would he in time become the Pani's lover? It wouldn't surprise her if she got hold of one now. But this man--she made a grimace of disapproval--this man wasn't half good-looking enough. And he didn't seem very enterprising either, for he had never even glanced at her, although she had more than once touched him with her sleeve and had reached right over him inorder to place the glasses and the six bottles on the table.
"That's enough for the present," said Mr. Tiralla. "But listen, girl," he added, pinching her in the thigh so that she screamed aloud, "go down to the cellar and fetch us another bottle of Tokay. And where's the gin? You must have a glass to begin with, little Böhnke, or you'll catch cold. Hallo, you little devil, why are you still there?" he roared at the maid, who stood smiling and showing all her teeth. "Can't you understand me? Do you think I'm speaking German? Isn't it Polish I'm speaking? She's very stupid," he said apologetically, as the girl left the room with a bold laugh, "but she's faithful--and she's pretty."
He said this with a smile which horrified the schoolmaster anew. Had it come to that? The man was not even faithful to her? Poor, poor thing! He had never felt so sorry for anybody in his life, and he was not soft-hearted as a rule. He longed for her return. She probably felt ashamed of what had happened, otherwise she would have returned long ago.
Mr. Tiralla was also growing impatient. The gin didn't taste half so good if his Sophia hadn't taken the first sip of it, and he didn't care for the beer at all. He shouted again for the maid, and when she came with the bottle of Tokay and a large tray of eatables he said to her angrily, "Put it down. Where's your mistress?Psia krew, what's become of her?"
Marianna shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know why the Pani doesn't come.Gospodarzmust know best himself."
"Confound you! Call her. She is to come."
The maid disappeared. A few minutes later she stuck her head in at the door and said with a sad look, "Pani can't come, the Paninka is worse again; oh,she's very ill." Then she withdrew as quickly as possible.
The glass which Mr. Tiralla hurled after her only hit the door, and then broke into a thousand pieces.
The schoolmaster could not stand it any longer. What was the good of staying there? Of course, she wouldn't show herself any more. Such bad luck! Why on earth should that stupid, red-haired child just get worse now? Or was it only an excuse? Oh, of course, it was an excuse. She would be sitting upstairs in a corner, bowed down with shame and weeping, weeping so much that her beautiful figure--broad across the hips, a waist as slender as a birch, slim and still rounded--shook with it. Although the young fellow tried his utmost not to think of it, he could not help it; he saw her the whole time just as the old man had described her to him. He changed colour; one moment he felt hot, the next cold. Mr. Tiralla went on filling his glass with beer, gin, and Tokay, the one after the other, and he drank more than he was accustomed to in his absent-mindedness. He was thinking of nothing but her. He could not believe that he was to leave the house without seeing her once more. So he sat and sat, until the sky grew darker and darker and the early afternoon turned into pitch-dark night. At last he rose from his chair with despair in his heart. He had attained nothing of all he had meant to attain; he hadn't offered her any books, he hadn't secured her for a dance at the Gradewitz ball, he hadn't even inquired about the child, which had been his nominal reason for coming to Starydwór. He felt furious with Mr. Tiralla; he was to blame for everything. Then he bade him good night.
Mr. Tiralla did not accompany him to the door--little Böhnke would be able to find it alone--so hegroped his way through the dark passage to the front door, reeling a little as he walked. Suddenly a warm hand grasped his, some one chuckled near him in the dark, and the servant's deep voice said half compassionately, half mockingly, "Did you find it slow with Pan Tiralla? I'm sorry. Pani is upstairs with little Rosa. If Pan Böhnke wants to say good night to her----" she pushed him in the direction of the stairs and disappeared in the dark, chuckling.