If Mrs. Tiralla believed that she would have reason to fear her husband now, she was mistaken. There was no necessity for her to steal away so that he should not see her, for he kept out of her way as well as everybody else's. They were all so fond of her, they hung on her words; she was a witch, and if he were to tell what he knew about her, who knows, perhaps she might do something worse to him? He was terrified of her in secret. When he heard her steps he would cower involuntarily; he preferred her not to come where he happened to be. He scarcely ate anything at meal time; even if he had been hungry he would not have ventured to partake of anything. The drink he took nourished him; he grew stouter and stouter, and his eyes were embedded in fat. He would only eat what the maid brought him, but he ordered her not to say anything to her mistress about it. "Very good, very good," she would answer, with a nod, but when she spoke to others about her master, she would point to her forehead and say in a sad voice, "Poor master! I think he drinks too much."
Everybody said that Mr. Tiralla had become a drunkard. True, he hardly ever came to the inn now when the gentry were there, but he would drink in secret either at home or at the inn at a different time to the others. He avoided his former companions; they had not seen him for weeks.
Loud were the exclamations, therefore, when they caught him early one afternoon sitting all alone at the inn. They had made up their minds to take him by surprise some time, and now they had found him.
"Psia krew, old fellow," cried Jokisch, "where have you been? You and I are neighbours, and still I never see you."
The forester, who had been obliged to complain of Mr. Tiralla formerly, said to him in a friendly, reproachful voice, "I never meet you in the Przykop now." Schmielke and the gendarme also gave vent to their astonishment--why did Mr. Tiralla no more appear at the usual table? The priest, too, had been very much surprised that he never came to church either. That was not right, he really must go. He ought to pray twice as much as others, he the husband of such a pious and--there was a momentary pause and Mr. Schmielke gave a waggish laugh--beautiful wife.
They poked each other in the ribs and laughed. Had he really not noticed anything?
But he glanced at them all in turn with a stupid, dull look, and then went on drinking as if they were not there. He did not want to have anything to do with them; he wanted to be left in peace. Why should it be such a pleasure to them to gloat over him? He had not grown so stupid but that he could feel they wanted to get some fun out of him. He gazed about him with a restless look; now this place was embittered as well. Where could he drink a glass in peace? At home he feared his wife. She was quite friendly to him now, and would often say to him, "Have something to drink, do." And when he had complained of the blood rising to his head, she had told Marianna to bring him a cooling drink from the cellar. "Why do you want to go into the fields?" she had even said;"let the young folks work there. Stop at home. It's so hot out of doors, you'll get a stroke." She was right, and still he did not believe in her any more. Why did she advise him in such a kind way to remain at home? He would have liked to know--yet he dreaded the knowledge. Is not everybody fond of life? It would be better to pretend that he had not noticed anything.
But inwardly the man was consumed with a terror that burnt him to such a degree that his mouth and throat and chest and lungs were as dry as a parched field that never can get enough moisture. He was obliged to drink to conquer the fear that always gripped him anew, that took possession of him day after day, whether he was in the room or in the passage, in the yard either when the sun shone, or on a moonlit night, in the barn, in the stables, in the house, round about the house, everywhere where his wife happened to be. Hitherto he had only felt safe in the inn, and then only when he was quite alone with his glass and the buzzing bluebottles that flew up and down the dull window-pane.
And now they were spoiling that for him too. He gazed at the laughing men as though they were his enemies. Then, finishing his glass, he turned away without saying good-bye or casting a glance at the numerous strokes which the landlord had chalked on the board, and trotted out of the door with his shoulders drawn up and his big head on one side, as though he were ducking down for some reason or other.
The men felt ready to laugh once more as they followed him with their eyes. "Mad!" exclaimed Schmielke, as he struck his thigh. But they did not laugh after all.
"If he makes himself so drunk every day, he'll notknow soon what his wife is up to," remarked Jokisch, rubbing his nose thoughtfully.
"Who can blame her for it?" said Schmielke, in a tone of excuse. "She must be twenty years younger than he, and Mr. Tiralla has never been an Adonis. Between ourselves I can quite understand that a woman like the fair Sophia favours somebody else. You are still very narrow-minded in this part of the world, gentlemen. I'm only sorry that I'm not the favoured one."
"An idiot, nothing but a stupid boy," cried Jokisch angrily, full of envy.
They were all envious. But Schmielke, the man of the world, consoled himself and the others by saying, "Who knows whose turn it may be next, now that she has begun?"
So they all pinned their faith to that.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Mr. Tiralla tottered slowly down the village street. The sun was glowing so that the dust which flew up in clouds as he shuffled along glistened before his lowered face as though it were mingled with gold. He neither heard nor saw anything, and he was not thinking, either. After passing the last cottage in Starawieś, he mechanically took the parched track across the fields in the direction of home.
The early summer sun was shining down on the immense plains; the fine-looking ears of corn that swayed to and fro were already about as high as a man. The clover lay cut in the meadows, and emitted a powerful smell as it dried quickly in the sun. The air was full of a continuous buzzing of insects that glistened like gold, and of the trills of invisible larks. The blessing of a promising harvest lay spread over the broad fields as far as Starydwór, and everywhereas far as the eye could see. But Mr. Tiralla's heart did not rejoice as a farmer's should have done. He did not look about him, nor care whether the oats and wheat were getting on, and whether the rye was beginning to turn pale. He pressed his hat further down on his forehead and shuffled along a little more rapidly. Marianna should bring him something at once to his room. He would lock himself in; he had not had his daily quantity yet, those confounded fellows had disturbed him. He still felt very out of sorts.
"Mr. Tiralla! Mr. Tiralla!" shouted somebody behind him.
He did not hear. Then somebody seized him by the coat as he reached the Boża męka which stands at the cross-roads.
Mr. Tiralla turned round in terror--was it she? Ah, it was only the schoolmaster. He gave a sigh of relief.
"Why do you hurry so, Mr. Tiralla?" said Böhnke in a breathless voice. "You were almost running. I saw you in the distance when you left the village, and I've been racing behind you the whole way."
"Why did you do that?" asked Mr. Tiralla. "I want to be alone, I must be alone, I'm safest when I'm quite alone." Then he sighed again, and his swollen eyes glimmered as he cast a restless look around.
The schoolmaster sighed too; dear, dear, the man was quite out of his mind. It must be true what they were saying in Starawieś, that Becker had become Mrs. Tiralla's lover. Confound it! "May I offer you my arm, Mr. Tiralla?" he said, going close up to him. "You're walking badly."
"No, no--no, no!" cried the stout man, keeping the schoolmaster off as though he were afraid of him.And then he added in a gruff voice, as he saw that he would not be repulsed, "Psia krew, what do you want? Go to the devil, little Böhnke."
But the words "little Böhnke" did not have the usual effect on the schoolmaster, for he felt sorry for the man. Besides, he wanted to know, he must know, how far it had gone with Mrs. Tiralla and Becker. You could not believe all the gossip of the inn, but he would get at the truth from the man himself, the husband who had been insulted and deceived.
So after Mr. Tiralla had stumbled several times, Böhnke took hold of his arm. "Do let me accompany you," he said in an anxious, friendly voice.
"All right then," he growled. The man's solicitude did him good after all. Besides, what had he to fear from little Böhnke? He was pale and humble, pleased when you left him in peace, and did nobody any harm.
So Mr. Tiralla put up with the schoolmaster's company and they walked together like father and son. And when they came to the farm gate he did not even object to his going still further with him. "Come along, little Böhnke," he said, "come into my room. Marianna shall fetch us something out of the cellar; I've got the key. Then we two will have a drink by ourselves."
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was a long sitting. It had been early in the afternoon when they came from Starawieś, now it was almost evening. During all those hours the house had been as quiet as though not a single soul, as though not even a mouse were there. And still every time a glass was put on the table with more noise than usual Mr. Tiralla had hastily put his finger to his lips, "Sh!" He had drawn nearer and nearer to his friend as hewhispered to him. For the schoolmaster was his friend, and it did him good to have such a friend. Did little Böhnke know what a mouse felt like when it was being enticed into a trap with bacon? Oh, his wife was kind to him now, she was so bright, and smiled the whole day long. She would even have brought him something to drink with her own hands if he had asked for it, she who had formerly turned up her nose and said, "Pooh! you stink!" if he had only drunk one small glass. But who could trust her? "For listen, little Böhnke"--Mr. Tiralla put his arm round the other man's neck and breathed into his ear with trembling voice--"listen! she's laying a trap for me. And when I'm dead, my friend--sh!"--he clapped his hand over the other man's mouth as he was about to jump up--"be quiet. You mustn't betray me, hold your tongue. And when I'm dead, then, oh then----"
Mr. Tiralla could not speak any more. He hiccoughed and sobbed, for he had already drunk a great deal, and then, putting his head on the table, he began to weep.
The schoolmaster sat motionless. He scarcely heard what the man had been saying, for he was listening the whole time for a sound in the house. Would he not soon hear her steps, her voice? How he longed for them. But nothing moved. Everybody was in the fields bringing in the clover, Marianna had said when she brought the last bottle in, and then they had watched her through the window, as she, too, went off with her red skirt up to her knees and her rake over her shoulder. Bringing in the clover! Mrs. Tiralla had never helped to do that before. But this year--the man's face was distorted with jealousy--this year there were two young men there, her stepson andBecker. Which of the two was it? Perhaps both. The man gave a dull groan. Two lovers. And still he could not learn anything for certain. This man was so awfully stupid, such an idiot.
The compassion which Böhnke had at first felt for Mr. Tiralla was changed into anger. It was the man's own fault, it served him right; why did he not take better care of her? He gave the weeping man a rough push, "Your wife has got some good friends; I suppose you know it?"
Mr. Tiralla did not fire up, but let his head remain where it was. "Leave her. Oh, little Böhnke, the only friend I possess, if you knew, if you knew."
He gave several heartrending sighs, but when the schoolmaster was imprudent enough to ply him with questions in an eager, inquisitive voice, he suddenly grew silent. The other's eagerness had made him suspicious, and he obstinately closed his mouth; he would not be pumped.
So they sat in silence until it was evening, and still the schoolmaster delayed his departure. He must wait, she must be coming. The table and glasses were already swaying backwards and forwards before his eyes, and still he let Mr. Tiralla refill his glass, whilst he did the same to his. What else could he do, so as to beguile the awful time of waiting?
Böhnke had no idea how much he had drunk; if he had known it, he would have been terrified. He had always despised those who drank more than they could stand, and he had always known that he himself could not stand much, but he knew it no longer. She must come some time.
"Your health, Mr. Tiralla!"
"Much good may it do you, little Böhnke!"
They clinked their glasses once more without anysign of mirth or enjoyment, only for the sake of drinking; the one consumed by the pangs of jealousy, the other pursued by the fear of death.
Then the crack of a whip was heard. At last! There she was--but with the others. The schoolmaster had staggered to the window, and in his haste had upset his chair with such a loud noise that Mr. Tiralla, terrified at what might betray them, screwed up his eyes, put his hands to his ears, and would have liked to creep under the table.
They drove into the yard. The oxen in front of the wagon came slowly along with wreaths of red clover and blue cornflowers round their horns, quite conscious of their finery. On either side a young man was walking with a rake thrown over his shoulder; a dark one on the one side, a fair one on the other; the one slender, the other more thick-set, but both nice-looking and both happy.
Böhnke looked on with envious eyes. And there--he pressed still closer to the window--on the top of the sweet-smelling hay, handsomer and happier-looking than he had ever seen her before, there she sat enthroned. Her light-coloured dress was fresh and clean, her broad-brimmed hat hung down her back, her clear forehead was unprotected; she looked younger and more light-hearted than her daughter, who was crouching behind her. Brown-skinned Marianna was hurrying behind the wagon, laughing. She had fallen off the piled-up clover, and had now to run behind.
It was as though gaiety personified had entered Starydwór. The schoolmaster clenched his fist and shook it at the wagon, and still he would have given his life to have been in the procession and have taken part in Mrs. Tiralla's joy. "How happy she is," he murmured, turning away. He hated her at thatmoment on account of her happiness, but then he felt he could not begrudge her it, after all.
He walked past Mr. Tiralla with a gesture of loathing, and without saying good-bye.
"Come again, my friend, my brother, come soon," he said thickly.
Böhnke did not answer. He must go out, out to that deceitful, despicable woman.
He met her in the passage.
Did she know that the schoolmaster was there? Had Marianna prepared her? Anyhow, she looked neither surprised nor terrified. Her blooming face turned neither redder nor paler, it kept the same rosy tint, and there was a kind expression in her eyes as she looked at him. She held out her hand.
"It was so beautiful," she said, smiling, as she drew a deep breath of pleasure.
"So beautiful," he repeated softly, devouring her with his eyes. He drew her away from the light almost by force. When they had reached the darkest corner, he said to her accusingly, "You're deceiving Mr. Tiralla."
"Whose business is that?"
"Mine, mine, mine!" He shook her at every word, he was beside himself. He felt he was intoxicated, and still he could not control himself. He raised his hand as though to strike her.
She caught hold of his arm, "Oh, don't hit me."
The gentleness with which she said it disarmed him. How dared he strike her? How dared he, who was intoxicated, strike this woman? All at once he lost his courage and his anger disappeared.
"Oh, why do you disturb me?" she wailed, in a low voice, and closed her eyes. "Please leave me, oh, do leave me. I was so happy."
Her voice touched him. Yes, he could well believe it, it does one good to be happy.
She had slowly retreated; now she was again standing in the light. He saw that she was escaping from him, and still he could not hold her.
At that moment Mikolai approached. "Where are you, mother?" The others now also appeared; the schoolmaster saw her surrounded by figures in light garments as through a mist. Rosa had taken the garlands off the oxen and now asked, "What are we to do with them?"
"Come, let's adorn the saints with them," answered the woman. "It's the first harvest of summer; may they be gracious to us." Then turning to the schoolmaster she said, "Come more frequently, Mr. Böhnke. I should be pleased if you would often come to see Mr. Tiralla."
All the man could do was to bend over her hand and whisper in a hoarse voice:
"Certainly, if you wish it, Mrs. Tiralla."
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
They had adorned all the saints in the house, as well as the image of the Holy Virgin in the niche over the gateway, with the clover and cornflowers. The wagon with its huge load of clover was standing in the shed; to-morrow early it was to be put into sacks, this evening they were to have a rest. It was quite like Sunday at Starydwór; even the Sundays were not so beautiful formerly as the workdays were now. Marianna was singing in the kitchen whilst making pancakes, and Mikolai was strolling about the yard smoking, with his arm round Rosa's shoulder. She was blushing and smiling at something he was saying to her.
"I tell you, you'll be sorry for it when you're once in the convent," he was saying in a persuasive voice. "It's a dreadful thing to have to nurse the sick, or pray the whole day. The Ladies of the Sacred Heart are all elderly, I've seen them once. And the Grey Sisters--oh, don't tell me anything," he said, putting her off as she was about to interrupt him, "I know what I'm saying. They're all old and ugly. What do you want to do there? Stop at home; we two get on so well together." He drew her more closely to him, and then said very seriously, although two dimples began to show themselves in his round cheeks, "As I'm your brother, I'm going to give you some good advice. See that you marry Martin. I like him just as much as a brother already, so what will it be then? Let him stop here and put his money into the farm, so that we can buy some more land, or perhaps build a distillery, or a brick-kiln. Or let him buy a mill here in the neighbourhood with the money that you'll bring him. It's all the same to me. All I want is that you don't go into a convent." He gave her a friendly push, so that she reeled a few steps away from him, and then catching her again he drew her to his side, laughing. "Won't that be nice, sister mine, eh? What do you say to it?"
"But does he like me?" she inquired, in a soft, timid voice. Her heart throbbed--husband and wife, and always united during many years, and many children. Her face flamed. If only he liked me, she thought, and it was as though she were praying.
"Why shouldn't he?" asked her brother, looking at her tenderly. He was really fond of his good, gentle little Rosa. But then his glance grew criticizing and appraising as he added, "You're certainly not half so pretty as your mother.Psia krew!"--he smackedhis lips and his eyes grew ardent--"what a fine woman she is! What a pity--and the old man drinks. But people must not compare you two, that's all. Martin will understand that; besides, he isn't one of those who look at beauty alone."
Suddenly a violent pain pierced Rosa's heart, and she involuntarily pressed her hand to her side; it was as though her heart were broken and she must hold it together. Oh, yes, her mother was beautiful, and how she had laughed when they were turning the clover; just like the wood-pigeons in the Przykop. She could not be compared with her mother, she knew that. Her head drooped in painful humility.
"But you've got something too," said Mikolai consolingly. "Becker has to look out for a wife with money. Although he has some himself, he hasn't enough. Besides, I think he's very fond of you. Tell me"--he put his hand under the girl's chin and looked into her face--"do you like him too? Shall I tell him so?"
The tears welled into Rosa's eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She shook her head without saying a word, and as he urged her, "But why not? Don't be so stupid!" she said quite softly, "I don't want to; no, I would rather not," and then tore herself away from him and ran into the house, and up to the room she shared with Marianna. There she threw herself on her knees beside her narrow bed and began to cry and pray. She had to cry; she would have liked to check the tears that flowed, she did not know why, but she could not. Was that jealousy that was stabbing her heart like a knife? Oh, no, nobody in the world could admire her mother as she did. She would gladly have given her everything--only not Becker. How those two had gazed at each other. They hadkept together the whole time in a remote part of the field, always side by side as though they belonged to each other. And her mother had laughed as though she were a young, happy girl, much younger and much happier than she, Rosa, had ever been. Was it not disgraceful to laugh like that when one is so old?
Rosa's lip curled, but then she felt very much ashamed of herself. How horrid it was of her to envy her mother because she had laughed. If only she might always laugh and be happy! Her lot would be to pray, pray always. She would go to the Grey Sisters and nurse the sick, or to the Ladies of the Sacred Heart. That was the only thing she wanted to do, nothing else was worth longing for.
Husband and wife, and always united during many years, and many children--it sounded like distant music. Rosa moved her lips more rapidly; she would have liked to stop her ears, she fought with all her strength against the distant music. "Jesus, my only Friend, I love Thee above everything. Sweetest Jesus, Saviour!" she whispered fervently; her eager eyes were full of longing as she raised them.
Rosa had never had a picture of the Saviour over her bed, nothing but a vessel containing holy water and some consecrated palm branches, but at that moment a picture shone on the bare wall which had never been there before. She stared at it in a transport of joy, and her eyes grew bigger and bigger; her lips faltered as she prayed, and she heaved a deep sigh--there--there--Jesus Christ! How Martin Becker resembled Him in every feature, and how He smiled at her.
The expression in the girl's face grew more and more ecstatic; it was as though all the blood in her body had suddenly become active, as it coursed down intothe tips of her toes and then up into her hot cheeks. Rosa glowed with delight--there He was, there He was. It was no longer the Christ Child, whom she had got leave to nurse, it was He, He, so big and so beautiful.
"Jesus, O my Saviour!" She uttered a cry of joy and stretched out her arms.
It had grown dusk outside and the low room was already in darkness, but the picture shone with a wondrous splendour before Rosa's eyes. She writhed on the floor, her delicate body trembled with pain and ecstatic happiness.
When Marianna came upstairs to dress--for Mr. Mikolai had promised faithfully to take a short walk in the fields with her after supper--she found the Paninka lying on the floor, pale and almost fainting, as though all the blood had left her body. Poor little thing! The maid lifted the light body on to the bed and began to undress her.
But Rosa resisted with a wail and kept firm hold of her clothes. She would not come down to supper either, she wanted to be alone, quite alone with Him.
"With whom?" asked Marianna inquisitively. But she received no answer.
The young girl lay on her bed, pale and with a faraway look in her eyes. Marianna cast a glance at her in which there lay both fear and reverence--dear, dear, was that to begin again? She made the sign of the cross and then, as no sound came from Rosa and she seemed to be sleeping, hastily made herself smart, put on a dean cap and her beads with all the long, gay-coloured ribbons round her neck--Mr. Mikolai would approve of her now--and hurried downstairs, humming a song.
Nobody missed Rosa at supper. The evening was so warm, so mild and alluring that it had turned all their heads.
Even Mr. Tiralla, who otherwise would have asked for his little daughter, did not give her a thought. True, he was sitting at the table, but his eyes were fixed on vacancy, and he neither saw nor heard anybody. It appeared as if he might fall off his chair at any moment.
Martin Becker was filled with aversion as he looked at him; it was a shame, a disgrace to drink like that. He turned his eyes away. Then he flashed a tender glance at Mrs. Tiralla; poor, dear woman, if only he could carry her away in his arms, away from him, away from all this foulness! Would to God he could get away from it all! But they could not run away together, and so he, too, must stay to please her. It was not easy; it was no honour to serve such a fellow, as he had done now for well-nigh three-quarters of a year. But he was doing it to please Mikolai and her--yes, her. He had to stop.
The woman now cast a look at him as though she had guessed his thoughts. She did not thank him in words, but the thanks lay in her eyes. Mrs. Tiralla's eyes had always been beautiful, velvety, deep, speaking eyes, but now there was a soft gleam in them, instead of the restless flickering that had so often been there--the gleam of love.
She gazed at Martin Becker with a deep, warm look. When they went to the Przykop together, as they had arranged to do as soon as Mr. Tiralla was asleep, she would say to him, "I thank you." How she longed to say to him, "I thank you for coming to Starydwór, I thank you for coming as a deliverer. Look, I've become cleansed through you. Oh, how I love you,how I thank you!" But would he understand her? No, how could he, for what did he know? If she were to say to him, "I've become cleansed through you," he would look at her with big, astonished eyes, for he did not know of any guilt. But was she really guilty? No, she was not--the woman raised her head with a confident air--no, she knew of no guilt either. The memory of all those years with all those bad days and bad thoughts had disappeared as though they had never existed. She was once more as young and as innocent as she had been when she sat in her priest's study. It had been quite a different woman who had sighed at Starydwór for so many years, who had wept and had again and again endeavoured to free herself from this hateful husband. Poison? She had to smile; how kind the saints had been to her; they had preserved her from the poison. Now Mr. Tiralla drank. And if he continued to drink as he was doing, so much Tokay and beer and gin, then he would soon drink himself into the grave. God be gracious to his poor soul!
The look that the woman cast at her husband was almost compassionate; he never disturbed her now. She nodded with a smile to her lover and then pushed the bottle, which was not yet empty, nearer to her husband. "Won't you finish it?"
He mumbled something unintelligible as he gazed into his glass, but did not look at her. Then she filled his glass to the brim, and as he still did not drink and did not even stretch his hand out to take it, she took hold of it, sipped a little, and then almost pushed it into his hand. "Your health! Much good may it do you!"
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Mr. Tiralla was asleep. They had not even waited until he fell from his chair, for he was still sitting in his place, although his head had fallen on the table. They need not have left the room, however, for they were as good as alone.
Mikolai had gone out somewhat earlier. He had stood a short time at the front door whistling softly, but when the whistling had ceased and Marianna's clatter was no longer heard in the kitchen, the two had nodded to each other with a smile, as much as to say, "We understand," and had also got up from their seats and gone out as the others had done.
They wandered slowly along hand-in-hand. Mrs. Tiralla never dreamt of fearing that anybody should see them; she walked calmly along in her light-coloured dress that could be seen afar off in the flat fields in spite of the twilight.
Martin did not feel so calm. "If anybody were to see us!" he said, as figures, more suspected than actually seen, appeared and disappeared among the corn. "There are still people about."
"Leave them," she said, with a smile. "Come, put your arm round me. Lead me, I should love to be led wherever you want to go. I'll close my eyes, and then I shall neither see the sky nor the fields nor anything more; I shall only feel you." She clung to his arm that was round her. Oh, to wander like this through eternity. Her heart was filled with ineffable rapture; this was better than heavenly bliss. She had now no longer the glowing wish to kiss him as she had done formerly, to press her mouth to his fresh lips, so that neither of them had any breath left; oh, no, she would blush if she were to do that now. The passionate longing which had tormented her until she possessed him no longer tortured her. Now she washis and he hers, now they were like the angels in Paradise, who live in bliss.
He led her into the Przykop. But when he caught her to his heart in a wild embrace behind the first bushes, she repulsed him. "No, not like that." She was no love whom he had picked up in the street, she was his bride, his wife, and when they later on went to heaven, she wanted to stand pure before the throne of God.
Martin Becker was speechless; he did not know what to answer to this. He understood how to kiss, but he did not understand this. It all seemed very strange. Why had she sought him then, hung on his looks? Why had she immediately fallen into his arms like a ripe apple, which only requires a slight touch, if she had become so prudish all at once, as chaste as one whom you have to teach what love is? Why, even little Rosa could not have been more chaste.
He had to sit down on the moss by her side and only touch her hand. The woman looked about her with dreamy eyes; she could see the fields from the edge of the Przykop. It was pitch-dark in the hollow; he would have liked to go down there with her, but she refused; she wanted to look at the stars above the fields, whose twinkling brilliance was reflected in thousands of dewdrops.
"The splendour of heaven has fallen on the earth," she said softly. "You've come to me, and I thank you." And then she told him all she wanted to say about her gratitude.
He felt quite ashamed. How beautifully she could express herself. She was a clever woman and a good one too. What a shame it would be if he were to interrupt her now with amorous speeches and strain her to his heart in a violent fit of passion as he haddone on the first evening, when he had been groping in the passage in the dark and had run against somebody soft, who had pressed herself against the wall, and who, when he whispered in an eager voice, "Is that you, Mrs. Tiralla?" had flung her arms round his neck and had let herself be led wherever he wanted. That evening she had been like a heifer that has thirsted for a long time, and has been driven through dusty fields, and that on seeing water rushes at it, so that the restraining rope breaks and it drinks and drinks and cannot get enough. Now she was like a saint.
The young fellow would not have ventured to embrace her, although his arms and all his fingers were tingling, and although the nearness of this beautiful woman and the warmth of the summer evening made his blood surge through his veins. They were quite alone, quite hidden. A deep silence reigned, save for a land-rail piping in the corn, and a deer calling deep down in the Przykop--and still he controlled himself. Everything was so different at Starydwór to what it was elsewhere.
Martin had not come to his age without having held a girl in his arms--as an apprentice at the mill at home and more especially as a soldier--but a woman like this one had never been his. For one short moment a feeling of regret filled his heart at the thought that it might perhaps have been still nicer with Rosa. Besides, he never felt quite happy about this affair. What would his mother have said to it? For this was a woman, a married woman! The blood mounted to his head--his good old mother, who had been so honest all her life. Or was it desire that drove the blood in this way to his cheeks? Oh, how beautiful this woman was, more beautiful than any of the girlshe had ever seen in his life. How white her neck looked just where her dress was cut out a little. He could not control himself any longer, he had to kiss it. But she crossed her hands over her white throat and blushed as she whispered, "Not like that, not like that." But when she again and again felt the pressure of his hot lips she could not restrain herself any longer, and clasping him to her bosom with both arms, she cried in a loud, jubilant voice, that echoed through the dark fields, "All the saints be praised. I love you, I love you!"
The Paninka at Starydwór had visions again. Marianna spoke of it in the village, and when she met Jendrek, who was at Mr. Jokisch's, she complained to him of having to sleep in the same room as the girl. It was very unpleasant, and she would rather sleep on the straw in the stables, or anywhere, than be with somebody who talked all night long as if it were daytime, and who carried on a conversation with the Lord as though He were a bridegroom whom she was wooing. Mr. Tiralla had better look round for an earthly bridegroom for his daughter, or give her at once to the heavenly one, so that the dear soul might get peace and not toss about and frighten others with her strange goings-on.
Marianna had also complained of it to Mrs. Tiralla, but she had shrugged her shoulders. Everybody knew that the girl was often very excited. It was on account of her age, and it would be all right in time.
Mrs. Tiralla had not time to think of her daughter at present, for all her thoughts were centred in Martin Becker. The summer was far gone and autumn was approaching, and she sometimes had a feeling as though the man she loved would depart with the swallows. And if that were his intention, then, then---- An icy dread made her shiver.
Mr. Tiralla did nothing now but vegetate, sleep and drink, drink and sleep. He grew more and more dull-wittedevery day, shunned everybody, sat brooding for hours together with his glass in front of him, now and then had fits in which he would suddenly bellow like an ox that the butcher has just given a blow between the eyes with his axe, then fall down like the ox, clench his fists in rage or agony, foaming at the mouth, and with a rattling noise in his throat, roll his eyes, hit about him like a madman, and at last fall into a deep sleep, dead-tired. He had more than once lain on the ground so rigid and icy-cold that Marianna had buried her face in her hands and howled--now it was all over--and his wife had stood by him with her finger on her lips, her big eyes bigger than ever, and her neck stretched out, listening. But he always awoke again. And even if he felt stiff and weak, and complained of such pains in his limbs that he dragged his legs along as though paralyzed and could hardly walk, he still went on living. He, who had formerly been so stout, now shrivelled up and grew yellow and thin, and was always hoarse, and did not relish his food any longer. Mikolai noticed it, and made up his mind to send for a doctor to see his father, but his stepmother said what was the good of asking his advice? He would not be able to do anything after all. So the young fellow gave up the idea, and preferred to use the money it would have cost to have a doctor to buy a new spencer for Marianna, and a fur cap for himself for the autumn, so that he might find favour in the eyes of all the girls.
They cured Mr. Tiralla themselves. Strong wine was good in a case of great debility, and it was a medicine which Mr. Tiralla would not pour out of the window. And for the weakness in the legs nothing was so efficacious as a bottle of Pain Expeller when well rubbed in. You could buy it at the chemist's in Gnesen, andit would have a good effect if used morning and evening.
But after Marianna, who took care of Mr. Tiralla, had rubbed him the first time, she came running to her mistress in great tribulation. She had hardly uncorked the bottle, she said--true, it had smelt very good, sharp and pungent like strong gin--when the master tore it out of her hand, sniffed it, and then took such a quick, deep gulp of it, that she had been afraid it would harm him.
But the Pain Expeller did not harm Mr. Tiralla, as it could just as well be used internally as externally. So after that he took a gulp of it morning and evening, and sometimes during the day as well, when his legs required an extra rubbing.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The harvest had all been gathered in, and the wind swept across the stubble, carrying the loosened cobwebs along with it.
Mrs. Tiralla was standing in the gateway looking away over the empty fields at the signs of departing summer. She shivered and wrapped herself up in her shawl; she was filled with a strange feeling of uneasiness. The time had come which she had always feared; the swallows were sitting huddled together on the telegraph wires, gathering together for their flight. To-morrow would be St. Mary's Day, and then they would depart. And he?
The woman pressed her hands together and gazed with terrified eyes at the image of the Virgin in the niche. Martin had gone to confession, for there would be plenary indulgence at the great festival to-morrow. Oh, if only she, too, had gone! She felt sorry now that she had put it off. Then they could have walkedto Starawieś and back again together. What a long time it was since they had walked together. He had not had time lately, they had been obliged to get on with the harvest, and he had worked so hard that he was too tired in the evening to do anything but sleep. How often she had fretted to think that she was not strong enough to work in the fields like Marianna and other girls, then she would have walked close behind him, would have stooped continually to pick up the corn he had mown, and would never have felt tired being so near him.
Now the harvest was over and the winter was drawing near, with its days when there is hardly anything to do, days in which you can loiter about and be so happy,tête-à-têtewith the one you love, but which are awful, awful when you are alone. The woman shuddered.
Why should she always imagine that he intended to leave Starydwór? He had never said a word about it. Nobody had ever said a word about it to her, and still she felt sure of it. She had looked into his heart, and it had lost some of its joyousness. But was there any place in Starydwór where you could feel happy? No, no, no! Her very heart quivered. She often felt as if the old walls were going to fall down on her. And the old pines on the outskirts of the Przykop used to bend their tops at night in the direction of the farm, and groan as though the souls of those who could find no rest were moaning in their branches.
And the rats, too, that had remained quiet for so long in the cellar, had begun again to glide from corner to corner, and through Mrs. Tiralla's dreams like ghosts that were pursuing her. Mr. Tiralla had lived too long. If he were not there she would be happy, for then she could leave the place with MartinBecker, if he would not remain at Starydwór; even though she would have to go on her bare feet, how gladly she would do so!
Mrs. Tiralla looked with longing eyes towards Starawieś, whose church steeple was pointing to heaven like a finger. She would feel easier as soon as she saw Martin again. "For God's sake don't leave me, darling," she would beseech him. It was not his face that she loved so much that she could not live without it even for a few hours, it was not his laugh that had bewitched her, neither was it his light footstep, nor his slender, erect body, but it was his youth she wanted, his heart that was so young, so fresh, so pure, that it carried hers away too to where everything was bright and happy.
"Martin, Martin!" She stretched out her arms as she gave the beloved name into the care of the winds. Then she saw him coming. He was alone, for Mikolai, who had gone to confession with him, had stopped at the booths behind the church. He came quickly along the edge of the field, as though he were in a hurry. The woman smiled--ah, he was longing to see her, as she him. "Martin!" she called once more; a sweet welcome lay in her voice.
But he gave a start. About what was he thinking so gloomily? It was not his wont to frown like that and keep his eyes lowered. And he did not jump over the ditch that separated the field from the road, as he generally did in order to reach the farm gate more quickly; it looked almost as though his footsteps lagged, as he deliberately walked along to the crossing that led into the road further down.
She went to meet him. What did she care if the people from the settlement were standing at the crossroads near the Boża męka on their way back fromchurch, staring at them open-mouthed? She seized hold of his hands and smiled at him. "What are you thinking of, dear?"
"I've been to confession," he said in a low voice, as he drew his hands away from her and put them behind his back, so that she could not get hold of them. He walked beside her, his head bent and without touching her.
How his face used to beam when he saw her again after an hour's separation! How he had wanted to touch her even though it were only her dress! What was it, what could it be? A sudden sense of hopelessness took possession of the woman. Yes, he was going away from her, he was trying to leave her. As she gazed into his face she could discover no sign of joy at seeing her again, but a struggle was depicted on his open features, which had never been able to hide anything. "I've been to confession," he had said, nothing more. Alas, alas,whathad he confessed? What penance had been laid upon him?
She trembled as she pressed closer to him. "What are you going to do?" she panted.
"I'm going now," he whispered, shaken. "I'm going. Oh, if only I could!" He uttered a deep sigh.
His sigh gave her back her courage. She felt that it was difficult for him to leave, and that made her feel stronger. "You'll not go," she said, smiling amidst her tears, "you'll not leave me. I love you so dearly. And--aren't we husband and wife in the sight of God?" The words came to her like an inspiration. They would calm him--husband and wife in the sight of God. "And those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder."
"Be silent!" he cried vehemently, raising his handas though terrified. "You must not interpret it in that way. I've sinned against the sixth and ninth commandments; I know it now." He bent his head very low.
"Have you betrayed me?" she stammered, turning pale and then flushing.
"I've not betrayed you," he said sadly. "But I've betrayed myself, if you call that 'betraying.' How could I do otherwise? I had to confess that I had unclean desires, that I"--he stopped and pressed his hands to his head--"oh, if I had never come here!Psia krew, if only I had never seen you." He gave a dry sob as though he were a boy, and ran away from her through the gate and over the yard into the house, banging the door after him.
She followed him with her eyes. What she had had a presentiment of had now happened, what she had never dreamt of at first had come after all. She stood as though crushed. She felt a pain as though there were something in her throat. It was her terror that was choking her, but she forced it down. Clenching her fists so tightly together that her nails dug into the flesh, she threw her head back. She would not give him up--and she need not do so either.
But how, how was she to set about it, how was she to bring about that he remained with her for ever? She stared at the empty fields with lifeless eyes. Then she threw herself on her knees in her terror and distress and deep despair. Here under the sky, that looked like a dome over the flat land, she would pray, she would cry at the door of heaven, so that the saints who were inside might hear her and give her advice and be merciful to her.
She knelt a long time in front of the niche in which the image of the Virgin stood. Ah, the Holy Motherup there knew her feelings, for had she not felt seven swords piercing her heart? She would help her, she must help her. She prayed fervently. And whilst praying, all kinds of plans flashed through her mind. Should she, too, go to Starawieś to confession? But how was she to begin? How should she express herself, so that she betrayed nothing to Father Szypulski, and still was delivered from her agony of mind? She did not know what to do. Her agony was so great, it seemed to grow and grow in spite of her prayers, until it was unendurable. If only she could find peace, peace--but she could only find that when Mr. Tiralla was in his grave.
All at once the woman's lifeless eyes grew animated, and a wave of colour mounted to her pale cheeks. The thought had come to her that if Mr. Tiralla were to die Martin Becker would not hurry away from Starydwór. There would be no need for him to hurry away, for she would be free and could love whom she wished. And nobody would object then, not even Father Szypulski.
She buried her face in her hands and shivered with delight. What a life of bliss displayed itself before her eyes! But--all her misery came back to her once more--but who would help her to this? She had no more poison, and her hands--taking them away from her face she stared at them--these feeble hands could not give him such a push that he, staggering at the graveside, as he did already, could tumble in altogether and stretch his aching limbs in welcome peace. Mr. Tiralla wanted to die, she saw it in his face, she knew it. Had he not groaned, "If only I were dead!" when they had helped him a short time ago out of the ditch into which he had fallen in a fit of weakness, when he had gone out to meet the last wagonful of corn?
It would certainly be best for him if he were dead.Rosa shuddered when she saw her father's yellow face and blood-shot eyes, and smelt his foul breath, and Mikolai felt very annoyed with him, although he now and then laughed at what he babbled in his weakmindedness.
If Mr. Tiralla were not there! Oh, would the children not draw a deep breath of relief when their father was out of the house? It was really true his presence weighed on everybody. He was so repulsive to look at, and his continual coughing and groaning were horrible to listen to. If only she could deliver them all from him, and at the same time give the man his freedom! It would, indeed, be a good deed. But how was she to set about it? Mr. Tiralla had an excellent constitution in spite of everything; he would not drink himself to death quickly enough. Now and then he did not even care to drink, and he would sometimes push his glass away as though he disliked it. But he must drink, must drink more, even if she had to fill his glass herself! Martin must not leave Starydwór, he must remain!
The woman raised her hands to the image, "Help, help!"
All at once she bethought herself of the schoolmaster. What if he were to come more frequently and drink with her husband? He must have somebody to drink with him, so that he got to like it better, so that he felt an eager desire for beer, wine, and gin. Mr. Böhnke had come once a week during the summer, and then Mr. Tiralla had always drunk an enormous quantity, but the man had lately stopped away. He must come again. Not once a week--no, often, often, every day if possible, for--the woman started convulsively--for there were not many more weeks before Martin Becker would be leaving.
If she could delay his departure, only for a little while, for one more month, two months, for then, then--the woman rose from her knees and drew a deep breath--then the difficult task would, nay, must, have been accomplished.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
As they sat at supper that evening, Martin Becker began to speak of going away. You could see that it was very difficult for him to give notice, he could hardly get it out; his face was burning and he kept his eyes fixed on the ground.
Mikolai had just returned from the fair in high spirits, but his good humour now quickly disappeared. What, Martin wanted to leave--what was the meaning of it? That was a nice piece of news! He had never mentioned anything to him about it before. "What's the reason of this all of a sudden, eh?"
He did not care to continue as a farmer, said Martin hesitatingly. He wanted to look about him a little, perhaps look out for a mill.
But that could not be arranged so quickly, said Mikolai, who began to stand up for his rights as master, after he had caught an imploring look from his stepmother. He could not get away from his engagement in that cool way, although they were friends and had always agreed. Was he going to leave him in the lurch just when he had the autumn sowing to do? Mikolai grew furious when he saw all his beautiful plans disappear like bubbles. "It's a confounded nuisance!" he cried, banging the table as he shot a look of fierce accusation at his old father. He, he alone, was to blame for everything going wrong. What other reason could there be for Martin no longer feeling happy at Starydwór? There was no doubtabout it; the old man, who was always drunk now, had grown very objectionable. "Stop with us, do stop," he said, returning to the charge, and cordially stretching his hand out to his friend. "I promise we'll alter what you don't like."
Mrs. Tiralla gave a start; now his own son had even said it. "We'll alter what you don't like." She gave Mikolai a significant look and tried to catch his foot under the table; let him urge Martin as much as possible.
So Mikolai, who suddenly thought with dread of having to work all alone at Starydwór, had recourse to begging. Had they not sworn to be like brothers, and not to leave each other if they could be of any use? Could Martin not see that it would be hard work, much too hard work for him quite alone here? "Father's health is failing," he said; "how long will he last?" He cast a half contemptuous, half sad look at the man sitting there so dead to everything; it was hard to see his father like that. "Martin, brother! And I had hoped that we two should always remain together, and that you would marry my Rosa!" he exclaimed in quite a mournful voice.
At that moment Martin, who had listened to it all in silence with his eyes persistently lowered, jumped up so vehemently that he upset his chair. "No, no!" he cried, turning quite white.
Mrs. Tiralla, too, grew as pale as death. They glanced at each other for a moment, almost timidly.
"Let me go," begged the young man. Then his voice grew more energetic. "I must go. I----"
He stopped; Rosa, who had been sitting quietly at the table, so quietly that they had scarcely noticed her, suddenly got up and fled out of the room. Martin thought he could see that her face was suffused with adeep blush and that she was fighting with her tears. He felt so sorry for her, she was a good girl! But it was better she should think he did not care for her. It would not do--no, it would never do.
He gathered himself together once more, and said in a firm voice, "I'm going. When the first snow falls, we shall have finished the autumn sowing, and until then I'll work like two for you. You shall have nothing to complain of, Mikolai. But I must go. The first of January is the time in this part of the country when everybody changes servants, but I"--his voice was embarrassed, faltering, but he spoke rapidly--"I shall not be able to stand it so long. Let me go, Mikolai, let me go on the first of December. For the sake of our friendship I beg it of you!" He held out his hand. "Don't refuse. Give me your hand."
Mikolai still hesitated--what was he to do to keep Martin? When he begged like that, what was he to do--say yes, or no? But a glance from his stepmother told him to clasp his hand.
December, the first of December! The woman gave a covert sigh of relief; she almost succeeded in smiling in a friendly way. The look of anguish disappeared from her face--bah! it was a long time to December, weeks and weeks, more than two months! All at once she could have shouted with joy; Mr. Tiralla would not be living then.
"Won't you drink something?" she said to her husband, bending over him so as to fill his glass.
But Mr. Tiralla shrank back as though she were poisonous, and when she continued to urge him in a friendly voice he growled, got up from his chair, and stole out of the room.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Mr. Tiralla stood outside in the yard blinking in the pale moonlight. It was autumn and the night was cold; he felt so chilly that he shivered and coughed more than ever; he fumbled about with restless fingers. Were the powders still in the little box that he had carried about with him for so long? Were they really there, quite safe? Ugh! Sophia was trying to kill him again!
His teeth, which had grown quite loose, chattered in his terror. If he were asleep and felt nothing? Had she not already once put her hand into his pocket? If she found them this time, he would be done for. But she should not have the chance. A cunning grin distorted his face, which had grown as yellow as it before was red, and the expression of which was now just as weak and malevolent as it before had been good-natured. He would hide the powders in quite a different place, and she should never, never get to know where they had been put. No, never!
Casting a timid glance around to see if anybody were watching him, he tottered across the yard. Nobody was there, nothing but the moon, that looked out from between the clouds above the barn and gave light.
There was not a sound to be heard, neither snorting nor lowing; the horses were standing in front of the rack, sleeping, and the cows were lying in the straw.
There was a hiding-place in the darkest corner of the stables, which he remembered from his boyhood, and where he had hidden many a pilfered apple and pear, and his first cigar, from his father's keen eyes.
Look, the loose brick was still in the corner. If you took it out, you would find a hole three times as big as was necessary for hiding the little box containing the powders.
There, now put the stone into its place again. Nobody would guess what was lying behind it. Now the spiders could again weave a close web in front of it like a veil, and nobody would spoil it for them. H'm, that was very well done, said Mr. Tiralla to himself, with a satisfied growl. Let Sophia look and look until she was blind, she would never find them--ha, ha!
He laughed hoarsely to himself. Then he looked around in the dim stables, in which the lantern only cast a feeble light, and shuddered. If she were to find them after all? He uttered a deep groan and pressed his hands to his head. Oh, how awful it was that this terror never left him in peace. "Ha!" He gave a hoarse cry and shrank back. Was not something rustling? He trembled, he would have sunk on the ground with fright if a strong hand had not seized him by the arm and held him on his feet.
It was Marianna, who had come with her milk pails. She was very frightened herself--what did Pan Tiralla want there, what was he looking for? He was not like the young master, who often used to waylay her at milking time. Poor master! and how ill he looked, it was enough to make your hair stand on end. She felt very sorry for the old gentleman. Were they not all making fun of him? And he had always been so good to her.
So she gave him a cheery smile and clapped him on the back. "You must not fret, Panje. Don't fret because your wife is good friends with Becker." She cast a covert glance at him as she said it, for she was curious to know what kind of a face he would make.
But he did not make a face at all; he only growled, "What's that to me?" Then he pressed his hands to his head again, and rocked to and fro like a bear, and uttered deep sighs.
The maid felt really terrified. Why did the master give such awful, heartbroken sighs?
But Mr. Tiralla would not answer her; no, he would not tell. Who knows what more his wife might do to him if she heard it? He put his finger to his lips, while his eyes roved about in all directions, and said, "Sh!"
But inquisitive Marianna would not let him go. Of whom was he so frightened? Of his wife? It seemed so. Oh, yes--she drew nearer to her master as she whispered mysteriously--but she was certainly a very strange cook. Had not she, Marianna, almost died from drinking some coffee which her mistress had once made for the master?
Mr. Tiralla listened, trembling with horror. Yes, yes, she had wanted to poison him, he had guessed it long ago. And she still wanted to poison him. He hid himself behind the girl like a child. "Protect me, protect me, oh, she's coming!"
Clinging to the girl's skirts, he dragged her into a corner, and, pressing himself in behind her, held her like a shield in front of him. Oh, Sophia was coming, where should he fly from her? He wailed like a boy afraid of the cane.
Marianna had great difficulty in calming him. "Be quiet, Panje, be quiet," she said; "she mustn't, she won't do anything to you. I, Marianna, am here, you know. And if she dares after all----"
"Yes, oh, yes," he broke in hastily, "then you'll go to the police station and say, 'It was she, she, who brought the master to his grave.'"
Yes, by God she would, the master could rely upon her. Marianna gave him many a fair promise and swore solemnly she would do it. That calmed Mr. Tiralla more than anything else.
"Oh, thank you, thank you!" Then he gave her all the money he had in his pocket, and promised to give her much more for herself and children if she would give information as soon as he lay in his grave.
The two wept together in the dim stables, the man with fear, the girl in her good-nature. They sobbed in such a heartbroken way and struck their breasts so loudly that the animals, startled out of their sleep, turned their heads and looked in astonishment at the strange couple. The lantern went out, and no ray of light penetrated the darkness.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Meanwhile Mrs. Tiralla was hurrying across the fields. She was quite alone. Martin had said good night to her as though it had been for ever. Farewell for ever! If it had been otherwise, he could not have kept his eyes lowered, and his icy-cold hand had remained only for a few moments in hers. She had pressed his, but he had not returned the pressure, rather he had hastily withdrawn his fingers as though hers were burning him, and had not turned round once more at the door in order to return her glance with one equally expressive, as he had always done before. Then an icy-cold fear had taken possession of her, and all the confidence she had just acquired disappeared again. The first of December! There was certainly time enough before the first of December, but who could say that he would really stay until then? Could he not go off secretly in the night, disappear out of her life as suddenly and unexpectedly as he had entered it?
As she dashed across the fields it was as though all the stars were falling from the sky. She was quite breathless, she was running so.
Where did she want to go? To Böhnke, the schoolmaster. He must come, he must help her. Had he not sworn to do so? Had he not sworn without her asking it that he was hers for ever and ever, through all eternity? In her mind's eye she saw his pale face, thin and hollow-cheeked, consumed with passion, and his feverish eyes, feverish with his longing for her. If she implored him to help her, he would not, could not, refuse. So she was hastening to him.
She had run out of the house without being noticed. Alas, how quickly Martin had at other times followed her steps! He had always heard her softest footfall, her very breath in the dark passage, every movement of her hand as it glided over his door. To-day nobody had followed her. A feeling of bitterness overpowered the lonely woman; without knowing it hot tears ran down her cold face, that was already wet with dew. Was there nobody who really loved her? She, the pious woman, could no longer understand how the Sacrament of Penance could strike terror into any one. And even if she were never to obtain forgiveness, and were to be lost for ever, she would never give up her love nor her lover. Away to Böhnke; he would, he must help her.
The dogs barked in the village as the woman tore past. She rushed along past the sleeping cottages like the wind's bride, her skirts fluttered, her hair had come undone owing to her hasty flight, and the cold breath of autumn beat against her face. Nobody met her; it was already late for the people in the village, and there was hardly a light to be seen anywhere. If only he were awake! And if he were not awake? Then she would thump on his door, or knock at his window so loudly with her fist that he must awake.
There was the house in which he lived. She hadnever been there, but he had told her that his room was on the left side of the front door. She found his window easily, it was still lighted up, and the shutters were not closed. God be praised, the saints were with her! There he was!
She stood on tip-toe and looked in at the low window. He was sitting at the table, just as she had pictured him to herself, pale and hollow-cheeked, his face ravaged with passion. The lonely man had a bottle and glass in front of him, and he filled his glass and drank it off in one gulp, and filled it again, and then buried his face in his hands and brooded like Mr. Tiralla used to do.
She knocked, but he did not hear her. Then she thumped with her fist so that the window panes rattled.
He started up and came to the window. He uttered a suppressed cry in his fear and joy at seeing her standing there. He tore the window open, and his hands trembled as he stretched them out. She had come, come to him? He stared at her with glassy eyes, his breath smelt of drink like Mr. Tiralla's.
She was afraid of him, and still her distress drew her nearer and nearer to him. "I've come to you--you," she said in a swift whisper. She seized his hands imploringly. With a little help from him she swung herself up, and stood beside him in the room.
There was his bed, there his sofa, there his desk and all his books. She stared around with eyes in which, however, there was no interest. She only wanted help, help, and she thought of nothing else.
He had closed the window and he now closed the shutters too. A gleam of prudence had returned; what would people think if they saw her in his room at that hour? He drew her to the old sofa, and shelet him do so; he ventured to kiss her and she allowed him to do that too.
Something rose within her; in her shame and anguish she longed to thrust him back, but--she had need of him, she had need of him. She held her breath so as not to smell his. She suffered him to kiss her, her lips tightly compressed, but when he drew nearer and nearer to her in his intoxication she repulsed him. Then she recollected that she would have to put up with it, for she dared not offend him, she must bind him to her. She tried to find an excuse for her repulse; had he not deceived her once before with the dish of mushrooms? Could she really trust him again?
He swore solemnly that she could, glowing with desire.
Then she said, "Pan Tiralla must die, and you, you must help me."
"I--I?" he stammered, all at once sober. He was sorry for the man, he had been punished enough. Why should he die?
She did not notice his hesitation. "You must drink with him," she whispered hastily; "drink every day with him at our house, so that he drinks more, much more than he does now. He doesn't drink enough at present. You must be with him, you must fill his glass without his noticing it, you must entertain him the whole time, tell him what he likes to hear, put him in a good humour by saying, 'Your health!' and 'Much good may it do you!' so that he goes on drinking and drinking. You must help me in this way." She looked at him imploringly.
He avoided her eyes; no, he could not do that, he did not like to. Mr. Tiralla was rather fond of him, but how much did she care for him, eh? Notsomuch. He snapped his fingers in her face. She preferredanother man, Becker; oh, he knew it very well, and that was the reason things were not going quickly enough for her. No, he would not give her a helping hand to that, never, never, he panted, excited to fury by his passionate jealousy, and let his hand fall with a bang on the table, "Never!"