Rosa Tiralla had seen visions; but whether they were good or bad
visions nobody knew. Marianna ['S]roka cried loudly when she brought
the news to the village, and her lover, Jendrek, confirmed it with a
nod. The Paninka had seen something, the Paninka was bewitched.
Mr. Tiralla was deeply grieved about his Röschen, as deeply grieved as
he could possibly be about anything. He had already been looking out
for a husband for his little daughter--she would be fourteen next
autumn, and a wife cannot be too young-and now she seemed only fit for
bed. The strong man had never suffered from nerves--didn't even know
what they were--but all sorts of things happened nowadays to alarm him.
Rosa was so irritable that she cried if anybody spoke crossly to her.
The doctor advised them not to treat her harshly, for she cried so
bitterly that she became quite hysterical. And after the attack was
over she was so feeble that she could not move a limb, and looked
exactly like somebody who was going to die; so that her father in his
terror used to say, "yes," and "my angel," "everything you like, my
angel."--nothing but "my angel."
And Röschen imagined that she was always surrounded by angels. She
thought her father, Marianna, and Jendrek were angels, but especially
she thought her mother one. Pan Böhnke was also an angel. He [Pg 82]
often came to see her, and then he and her dear mother would sit by her
bedside and talk to each other, and their voices would sound so soft
and low that her eyes would close, and she would fall into a sweet
sleep.
Mrs. Tiralla had never imagined that she could feel so much love for
her daughter. She was really fond of her now. Marianna would on no
account sleep any longer in the same room as Rosa; she said that it was
impossible to close an eye the whole night through, and if she worked
so hard during the day she really must rest at night. The truth was
that when Marianna stole out of bed in order to go to her lover, the
child would sit up in bed and call out, "Where are you going,
Marianna?" and there was such a strange note of reproach and admonition
in her voice, that the girl shuddered and did not venture to go to
Jendrek. How had the child found it out?
So Mrs. Tiralla had her bed brought up to her daughter's room. Her
husband cursed and raged, for hitherto he had at least had his wife
next to him on the same floor. But she insisted upon having her own
way. She said that Röschen wanted care, and mustn't sleep alone. And he
saw that she was right.
At night, when the house was so quiet that the ticking of the big clock
sounded like peals of thunder and her husband's snores like a saw-mill
hard at work, Mrs. Tiralla would sit by her child's bed. She would hold
her hand--a small, narrow, delicate-looking hand with blue veins--and
they would whisper together about the joys of Paradise. Whilst all
around was joyless--the dark night, the lonely farm buried in deep
snow, the solitude in which a soul so often gets lost--those two would
whisper together about the joys of Paradise--about nothing else.
The heavenly world in which Mrs. Tiralla had also [Pg 83] lived as a
child had once more drawn near to her by means of Rosa. She could very
well understand what occupied the child's thoughts to the exclusion of
everything else. And that was right, for she was to be a saint. Was she
not almost one now? There was a rapt expression in Rosa's eyes, when
she used to tell her mother about what she had seen, about the Holy
Mother and the Child Jesus, and about her beautiful, beautiful guardian
angel who always sat at her bedside when she was asleep. A short time
before, she had suddenly awaked in the night, but had been too tired
to open her eyes properly, and she had found the angel bending over
her--such a beautiful angel in a long white garment.
Mrs. Tiralla knew all about it. It had been she, and the white garment
was her nightdress, which was long and fine, like those worn by smart
ladies. But she let the child remain in her belief. Why undeceive her?
And after that she used to creep every night to Rosa's bed and disturb
her sleep by laying her hand on her head and bending over her as if she
were her guardian angel, to the child's and her own great delight. She
loved doing it. She even practised her part, so that she grew more and
more proficient in it every night.
In the daytime, Mrs. Tiralla would rummage in her drawers and show Rosa
the things she had possessed as a child, precious relics which she
devoutly kissed. These were consecrated beads, a consecrated palm
branch, a little white china angel, a vessel for holy water and many
gaudy pictures of saints, which her priest had once given her. Then she
would relate something about each of these treasures as they lay on the
child's bed. She would speak in a low, monotonous whisper, as though
praying and with a dreamy smile on her face, and would gradually work
herself [Pg 84] up into such a state of eagerness and excitement that
her radiant eyes would become veiled, and, bursting into tears, she
would sink down on the child's bed. Then mother and daughter would weep
in each other's arms.
Rosa's tears were tears of ecstatic rapture and longing, of a great
longing for something she could not name--the dear Virgin, the dear
little Child Jesus, the dear guardian angel and all the dear saints.
She knew them all; she knew the history of every martyr that now wore a
halo. Her mother had read about them aloud to her again and again from
the book of holy legends that she had brought out of the gaily painted
chest in which she, as a girl, had kept her belongings.
How splendid it must be to live like those holy women. If you were like
St. Julia or St. Helena, or even St. Agnes, you would get leave to
nurse the Child Jesus in Paradise, and rock it and sing it to sleep
with hallelujah.
When Rosa was all alone she would try to sing the heavenly lullaby; she
would try to take the highest notes with her small, weak voice, and
make them sound soft and harmonious instead of shrill and piping.
Then the servants in the yard used to say, "St. Panusia is singing,"
and they would listen devoutly to the long-drawn song, sounding like a
chant, that came from Rosa's bedroom.
But Rosa never felt quite satisfied with her lullaby, and often burst
into tears. It must be because she didn't pray fervently enough,
because she was far from being good and pure enough. So she wrote down
all her sins on a piece of paper in her stiff, uneven handwriting, that
she might not forget any of them--there was a long row of them--and she
made up her mind to [Pg 85] confess them all and get forgiveness for
them as soon as the snow was so far melted that she could go to the
priest.
She did not attend school at present, not being strong enough to walk
all the way from Starydwór to Starawie['s].
Mr. and Mrs. Tiralla were preparing to go to the Gradewitz ball in
spite of the snow and the bad roads. They hoped they would be able to
get through all right. Mr. Tiralla could never have brought himself to
let an opportunity pass of gloating over the many eager eyes that would
watch his wife in the mazes of the dance, whilst he sat comfortably in
the corner of the ballroom with his glass and his cards.
Mrs. Tiralla was a very good dancer, and her heart beat as she unpacked
the ball-dress her husband had ordered for her from a fashionable
dressmaker in Posen. She could very well have worn her blue silk again
if the rats had not been nibbling it! However, this filmy white gauze,
with its long flowing sash and a small bouquet of artificial roses for
the bodice and another for the hair, was certainly much prettier; there
was an underskirt of silk, too, which rustled and swished every time
she moved.
Mrs. Tiralla was dressing in the large sitting-room on the ground
floor. The bedroom upstairs was too cold, so Marianna had brought the
looking-glass down and had fixed it up on a table by means of some
pieces of wood, and placed two lighted candles in front of it. Mrs.
Tiralla was doing her own hair. The Gradewitz dressmaker would have
been asked to do it, as she was also the hairdresser of the
neighbourhood, but she had taken offence when she heard that Mrs.
Tiralla had got her ball-dress from Posen.
[Pg 86]
Mrs. Tiralla did not crimp her hair as a rule, but to-day she got a
waving-iron, and she and Marianna did it together. The maid was by no
means clumsy, although she had such big hands, and she helped her
mistress to pile up her wavy hair at the top of her head. But when at
last it was ready, Mrs. Tiralla thought it so hideous, that she burst
into tears and tore it down with an angry "_Psia krew!_" which made
Rosa shrink. The child was crouching in a dark corner of the room with
her hands clasped round her knees, gazing with admiration at the
beautiful vision in the white embroidered petticoat.
Ugh! how difficult it was to please the mistress this evening; now she
wanted this, now that. If Marianna had not consoled herself with the
thought that she would soon be mistress of the house for a whole night,
she would have cried instead of laughing pleasantly as she was doing
now. "Pani must do her hair in her usual way," she said. "That suits
Pani best of all."
"She is right," sighed Mrs. Tiralla, as she began once more to comb out
her tangled hair, and she tore at it so savagely that at last her
silky, black tresses clung to her white temples in big, smooth waves.
Then she twisted the plaits in a huge coil at the nape of her neck;
that was the way she had worn her hair in her girlhood, and that suited
her best.
"By Jove, you look like a little girl, my love," smirked her husband
from his seat, on the bench near the stove, where he was lying as usual
in spite of his clean shirt, black coat, and hair covered with pomade.
"Many people will envy me to-night."
She did not answer; she felt annoyed with him. Wasn't it disgraceful of
him to lie there in his new, clean clothes, just as though he had his
greasy, everyday coat on?
[Pg 87]
"How beautiful, oh, how beautiful," whispered Rosa, who had crept out
of her corner and was kneeling before her mother with both hands raised
as though worshipping her. Mrs. Tiralla had now put her ball-dress on,
and the snowy-white gauze fell round her like a fleecy cloud. She
thought herself that she looked beautiful, just like a young girl. Ah!
A slight but burning pain made her tremble. How sad to think that all
this beauty was to wither away at her husband's side--always at her
husband's side. All at once she was seized with a violent fit of fury,
one of those sudden attacks which deprived her for a time of her
senses. "Get up," she said to Rosa coldly, as the child gently stroked
her dress. "Get up. Why do you do that? You're soiling my dress."
Rosa began to cry.
"Why do you frighten her so?" exclaimed Mr. Tiralla reproachfully; he
could not bear to hear his daughter cry. "Come here, my Röschen, my
little lady-bird; leave your mother, she's in a bad humour to-day. Come
to me, Röschen, my sweetheart, come; take hold of my coat, you won't
soil that."
"Yes, go, go!" and the woman dragged her dress so violently away from
the clinging hands that a flounce came undone. Then she grew still more
furious, for now the dress would have to be sewn. She scolded Rosa in a
loud voice, and the child gazed at her with a strange look in her
dilated eyes. Could angels scold as well? Alas, she must have done
something very bad, must have been a very good-for-nothing girl if the
angel scolded her. She crept back into her corner sobbing in a subdued
fashion.
"That's right, be angry, it suits you," said Mr. Tiralla, laughing.
Neither of the parents took any more notice of the [Pg 88] child. The
father rose from the bench when he heard the crack of Jendrek's whip,
as the carriage drove up to the front door. It was late. If they wanted
to be there in time they would have to start at once, as it would take
quite two hours to drive to Gradewitz to-night with the roads in such a
condition.
"_Dalej_, my dear," he said, holding his wife's fur cloak for her, in a
sudden fit of politeness.
Marianna drew her master's thickest woollen socks over her mistress's
dainty shoes. "Oh, what beautiful little shoes," she exclaimed
ingratiatingly. "Pani mustn't walk in the snow with her beautiful
feet."
As the woman bent forward in order to help the maid, her husband threw
a look at her low-necked dress and smirked. Then he pressed a
resounding kiss on her smooth, cool neck.
The maid screamed with laughter, and continued to do so long after the
carriage had jolted out of the gate. She and Jendrek had accompanied
them so far, each carrying a lantern for fear they should fall into any
of the dangerous holes in the unpaved yard made by the pigs and
poultry, and now covered with loose snow.
The child remained alone in the big, stifling room, into the dark
corners of which the light from the two flickering candles on the table
could not penetrate.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Mrs. Tiralla sat with closed eyes behind her husband, whose broad back
kept off the wind. They could not have taken any other carriage, as it
would have been upset on the bad roads. It was difficult enough even
for this open conveyance, with its big, clumsy wheels, to get along,
for sometimes the wheels would be high up, sometimes low down, it all
depended on whether there was more or less ice in the ruts.
[Pg 89]
How awful it was to live in such a flat country. Mrs. Tiralla sighed,
as she sat wrapped up in her fur cloak and many shawls. The
schoolmaster was right, this was no place for her. Life in these
surroundings made one feel quite strange. She had, indeed, been born
for something else. Had not her priest said to her even in the old
days when she was still so young, "Thou art chosen amongst many"?
And what had been her lot? The woman flashed a furious look through
her half-closed lids at the man sitting in front. Now he was taking her
once more to be exhibited, just like a breeder who wishes to win a
prize for the animal he has kept in such good condition.
Mrs. Tiralla was filled with a wild fury; she would have liked to hurl
her husband out of the carriage. If only he were lying in the snow; if
only the wheels would go over him; if only she could seize the reins
and whip up the horses, "_Huj_, _het!_" Free, free! But--then her head
drooped and a sudden sadness came over her--she had not the courage to
do it. She had put the rat poison in the lumber-room in the old gaily
painted chest from her girlhood, where nobody would look for it. She
had told her husband that the rats had eaten it all, and he had
believed her. He had not been surprised that they had not found any
dead rats, for it is a well-known fact that animals hide in any hole
they can find when they have been poisoned. There they die. If only she
had not been so terrified when Marianna shrieked "Poison, poison!" How
awful it would be if that big man were to roll his eyes and foam at the
mouth and shriek, "Poison, poison!"
"Holy Mother!" she said to herself as she folded her hands under her
fur cloak, "look down on me. Thou gracious one, lend me thy assistance
in what [Pg 90] I'm about to do." To do it alone was too great an
undertaking; would she ever, ever find courage to do it again? It had
not seemed so difficult the first time. But the saints had not willed
it; the maid, that idiot! had upset the coffee, and her husband had not
got a single drop of it. What a pity, thought Mrs. Tiralla regretfully.
How could she have felt so happy that morning when she saw her husband
sitting at the breakfast-table safe and sound? He grew more and more
repugnant to her every day. How long--how long would she have to bear
it? Had Heaven no understanding? So many husbands died and left wives
to weep and mourn for them, and he--he--she wouldn't shed a single tear
for him, she was sure of that. She would laugh, laugh! Ha, and to-night
she would dance, dance! She felt as though she must deaden all feeling.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The Tirallas were anxiously awaited. The ball had no attraction as long
as Mrs. Tiralla was not there.
As their carriage rumbled up to the market-place little Ziëntek, in
evening dress and a tall hat on his fair hair, rushed to the hotel door
to receive them. Thank goodness, there they were! He, as master of the
ceremonies, had suffered agonies at their nonarrival. What should they
have done with all those bouquets for the cotillon? Half of them would
have been enough.
A good many of the guests had congregated on the dirty, straw-covered
pavement, in order to watch, by the feeble light from the lantern that
swung backwards and forwards in the wind, the fair Sophia get down.
Many eager hands were stretched out to [Pg 91] assist her, but she did
not seem to notice them. She gave a neat jump, and next moment stood on
the stone steps, over which a piece of old carpet had been laid,
shaking out her skirts. She did not wait until her husband had got
down, but, walking straight into the cloak-room, took off her things,
gave a peep into the dingy glass, and was dancing the mazurka with Mr.
Schmielke when Mr. Tiralla entered the ballroom.
He at once looked out for a seat for himself. Let her dance, he liked
her to do so. He was not afraid of her virtue, for she was as cold as
ice; you had to be thankful when she did not scratch your eyes out. She
had been trying him very sorely lately. Since Röschen's illness she
would have nothing to do with him.
Then he played a game with Count Jagodziúski, the cards for which (a
pack soiled by much usage and many dirty fingers) the Count at once
produced from the back-pocket of his coat. What did it matter to Mr.
Tiralla if he lost three or four pounds? It amused him when the Count
won them, for that was the only harvest the poor devil had nowadays.
The Count was not accustomed to have such an indulgent opponent;
everybody else used to keep a strict eye on him except Mr. Tiralla. In
his heart the gallant old Count pitied the latter's beautiful wife.
Poor thing, to have such a fool of a husband.
Mrs. Tiralla was like a flame, in spite of her white dress and her
cheeks that never got red--hot, but never red--for she set fire to the
whole ballroom.
Crimson and white flags, that swayed incessantly backwards and forwards
in the draught created by the dancers as they whirled past, had been
fixed to the bare wooden partitions, through which the wind whistled
straight from the plain. The withered garlands, [Pg 92] that had been
there since the Sokol's[A] last entertainment, rustled softly as they
hung from one flagstaff to the other. The boards on the floor were only
loosely laid down, and moved up and down under the hopping and gliding
of many feet. If a foot happened to stamp a little more than usual, or
a couple to fall down with a crash, then clouds of dust would whirl up
and obscure the light from the swinging paraffin lamp, round which
twelve candles, fixed in a metal disc, were flickering. A stove roared
in the corner. The wall behind it had been scorched by the heat, and in
front a large iron-plated screen had been placed, in order to protect
the women's dresses from the sparks that flew out of the open door.
[Footnote A: A Polish gymnastic society.]
The piano stood on a platform, which was now and then used as a stage;
and there was a pianist from Gnesen, not at all a bad player, who was
supported by a violin and a double-bass. The musicians played with a
good deal of rhythm, a fiery rhythm that carried the dancers away.
People danced well in Gradewitz. Schmielke's dancing was nothing
special here, although it had been considered exceedingly good at home.
The girls were as light as soap-bubbles; even stout Miss Trampel, the
baker's daughter, and the stupid, snub-nosed Miss Musiëlak, the
stationmaster's daughter, danced like feathers; still, they were not in
very much request.
Little Jadwiga, the rich mill-owner's daughter, who was wearing a
brand-new pale blue cashmere frock, cut square in front, which left her
neck bare as far as the freckles went, did not meet with as much
success as could be expected from her dress, which the Gradewitz
dressmaker had declared to be her masterpiece. And even Mariechen
Rózycki, whose very red arms [Pg 93] and hands stuck out of a pink silk
blouse, had to look on, while one man after another marched over to
Mrs. Tiralla. It was a bitter blow.
The girls put their heads together in the intervals between the dances.
All of them, whether fair or dark, brown or red, had had their hair
done exactly in the same way. The Gradewitz hairdresser had waved their
front hair and made it into an enormous roll over the forehead, with
the help of some padding. And then she had made three puffs of the back
hair, which she had placed at the top of the head. The only difference
between them all was the greater or lesser quantity of hair they had,
and the colour of the little bow placed coquettishly on the left side.
How awful these young girls looked. The one in bright pink, the other
in bright blue, the third in almost orange, the fourth in the colour of
arsenic. And then the women! Mrs. Rózycki, the butcher's wife, shone in
a stiff silk--dark reddish brown, trimmed with yellow lace--not at all
bad in itself, but how common her fat face looked over her tight silk
bodice that seemed ready to burst. And then the others! Mrs. Jokisch,
in black, trimmed with mauve and a white lace collar, looked exactly
like her own grandmother. How a man's soul seems to show itself in his
garments. Mr. Böhnke, the schoolmaster, stood in a corner of the
ballroom criticizing the company. He had never laid so much weight on
appearances before--his mother was a very unassuming woman, and his
sisters, oh, dear!--but he had been spoiled since he had made Mrs.
Tiralla's acquaintance. She was always beautiful, and especially so
this evening. He almost devoured her with his eyes. How splendid she
looked in that dainty white dress. She was harmony personified in this
confused mass of gaudy [Pg 94] colours. The only coloured thing about
her was her smooth, silky dark hair, with the rosebuds in it, and the
little bouquet at her bosom.
She was the only one who was wearing a low-necked dress. Such a thing
had never been the fashion in Gradewitz, where it was only customary to
expose the throat and shoulder-blades. It was really extremely indecent
to be so uncovered; but none of the women would have dared say that
aloud, and the young girls even less. Next time, however, that there
was a ball in Gradewitz, all the dresses should be made like Mrs.
Tiralla's. The men seemed to approve of it. Even the most innocent
children noticed how their fathers' eyes glittered as they looked down
at Mrs. Tiralla's shoulders.
Sophia Tiralla did not seem to notice all these looks. She gave herself
up to the pleasures of the dance like a child--like a little innocent
child. All her misery had been wiped away for this short hour. What did
it matter to her that all these men stared at her in the same way as
her husband always did? Her blood did not course more quickly on that
account. Let them! She laughed at them, laughed! If they had known that
she had almost killed a human being! Almost poisoned her! She was
seized with a nervous inclination to laugh.
When Mr. Schmielke whispered to her, as he pressed her to his heart in
the gliding waltz, "My beautiful one, the sweetest rose in Poland"--he
thought that very fine, really poetical--"I'm dying of love for you,"
she laughed in his face.
"You're dancing very badly, Mr. Schmielke," she said, and next moment
flew past him in little Ziëntek's arms.
"_Psia krew!_" Mr. Schmielke had already accustomed [Pg 95] himself to
the Polish way of swearing. That hop o' my thumb, that little milksop
of a post office clerk, had better try to come near him, he would soon
take him in hand. He called himself master of the ceremonies, and his
duty was obviously to provide for the entertainment of the guests. Why,
he was thinking of nobody but himself--the perjurer, the liar! the vain
little Pole!
Mr. Ziëntek danced much better than the Prussian tax-collector, but
even he found no favour in Mrs. Tiralla's eyes. She finished the dance
with him; but just as he, with laboured breath and beating pulse, was
about to commence an intimate, low-toned conversation with her, she
nodded an absent-minded "Thanks," without listening to what he was
saying, and was immediately carried off by Mr. Rózycki, the butcher.
Rózycki was a capital dancer, in spite of his stoutness. He had dragged
on a pair of white kid gloves, and was enjoying himself so much that
the perspiration was streaming down his face and falling in big drops
on to his partner's shoulder. But that was quite immaterial to Mrs.
Tiralla at the present moment, and she did not mind either if it were
butcher or baker or post office clerk with whom she was dancing, as
long as she could dance. But not with Mr. Tiralla, she would not have
liked to dance with him. As their eyes met, and he raised his glass and
gave her a pleasant nod, she frowned gloomily and took no notice of
him. She looked very worn at that moment; all her youthfulness seemed
to have disappeared.
But that was only for a moment, and her face became quite smooth again
as she whirled round the room with her skilful partner, against whose
body she was constantly knocking. He remained in the middle [Pg 96] of
the room with her, just under the chandelier, so that everybody could
see him and her. He felt as though he were the king of the ball. He
would soon stop his wife's tongue if she should venture later on to
reproach him for having danced so long with Sophia Tiralla. He had now
danced three times round the room with her without stopping, he didn't
seem to be able to tire her out. However, when he felt that he could
not dance any longer, he drew a deep breath, gave an exultant cheer,
and lifted his charming partner right up into the air.
Deafening cheers resounded through the ballroom. The men were like mad.
They pushed and buffeted and pressed round the snow-white little lamb
under the chandelier like rams that had been let loose.
Mrs. Tiralla did not utter a sound as her strong partner raised her
from the ground. Her lips were scarlet, her little nostrils trembled,
her eyes laughed.
A feeling of deep dejection came over her later on when she was sitting
at the table with Mr. Schmielke, with Ziëntek on the other side, and
her husband opposite to her. She did not want to eat anything; when she
saw how Mr. Tiralla was devouring his food she lost her appetite. All
at once she felt she had had enough of it all; the dance nauseated her
as well as the food. For to-morrow she would again be alone with her
husband at Starydwór. The more court the men paid her that evening the
more she abhorred him. There was nobody here who could have charmed
her. This Mr. Schmielke at her side, bah! True, all the girls ran after
him, and he was constantly whispering some amorous nonsense in her ear
and secretly pressing his knee against her dress, and seeking her foot.
But she could have lived a hundred years on a desert island with him,
and he would never have been dangerous to [Pg 97] her. And Ziëntek,
that little fair-haired fellow, what did she care for such a stupid
boy? Her lip curled with a disdainful smile. What did she care for all
the others, those husbands who cooed round her like pigeons? On the
whole, what did she care for all the men in the world? She felt herself
infinitely superior to them all; her hand remained cool in spite of the
most ardent pressure; no hot blood ever flew to her head. And still she
would rather have given herself to any one of them than to her husband.
It angered her that he should show so little jealousy. Was he so sure
of her? What would he say if she chose somebody else?
Her eyes began to rove about--big, restless eyes, that wandered all
over the table.
Mr. Schmielke intercepted such a glance, and took it as an
encouragement. What, was he to conquer this little woman after all? He
boldly pushed his chair still nearer to hers, for he knew that audacity
had more effect upon women than anything else. He had drunk a
considerable amount during the course of the evening, and he went on
drinking during supper: a glass of Tokay with the salad, beer with the
roast pork and duck, and now he ordered a bottle of Moselle with the
vanilla ice.
Others followed his example. Count Jagodziúski would not be satisfied
with anything less than champagne, for Mr. Tiralla's silver was burning
a hole in his pocket.
They all grew very animated. The gentlemen in their black clothes
showed they had fists, and now and then one of them banged on the
table.
The tightly-laced Mrs. Rózycki gave a loud shriek--the man next to her
had tickled her. Her daughter Mariechen dung languishingly to her
neighbour, the [Pg 98] forester's young pupil, with whom she was
already very much in love. They had all been rather stiff and shy when
they entered the ballroom a few hours before, but now they showed that
they could eat, drink, and be merry. Enormous quantities of food
disappeared; Mr. Tiralla alone had eaten a whole duck. The women
especially liked the ice, for they were so very, very hot, and all that
beer and sweet wine had made them still hotter. The men cast ardent
glances at their neighbours; it was immaterial to them now if it
happened to be Sophia Tiralla or anybody else, for they were all nice.
And the glances were returned. The young girls were no longer so shy.
They threw themselves back in their chairs and laughed as they listened
with glistening eyes and red ears to the young men's compliments. The
married people told each other tales; Mr. Tiralla especially excelled
in that. Mrs. Jokisch, the inspector's wife, who sat next to him, gave
him a tap on his mouth; but you couldn't be angry with him, all the
same, she said, however horrid he was. Thereupon he pressed a
resounding kiss on her cheek. And then he kissed the baker's wife, who
was sitting next to him on the other side--otherwise she would have
been offended--and neither of them made any resistance. They evidently
didn't find him so repugnant, thought Mrs. Tiralla, much surprised.
The schoolmaster sat stiff and silent amongst them all. Their mirth
disgusted him. What a party! And he had thought he should meet people
like himself there. Raising a pair of reproachful eyes, he caught a
glance from Mrs. Tiralla. She looked at him for a second, and her face,
that a moment before had been so bright, became more and more serious.
[Pg 99] Then she raised her glass a little, gave him a slight nod, and
emptied it in one draught.
He felt so happy whilst she looked at him, so elated; but only for a
few moments. For Mr. Tiralla, who had noticed his Sophia's nod, now
also wanted to show some politeness to little Böhnke, who walked out so
regularly to see them all, and brought his Sophia books and the latest
news, and sat for hours with the child. It was really very kind of him.
So Mr. Tiralla also raised his glass and bawled at the top of his
voice, so that everybody could hear it, "Your health, little Böhnke.
Have you nothing to drink? Come here, sonny, you can get something from
me. _Dalej_, _dalej_, why aren't you coming?"
All eyes were fixed on the schoolmaster, who said "Thanks" in a curt
voice and without looking at the farmer, but did not move.
Then all the others raised their glasses as well. "Your good health,
Mr. Böhnke."
Had none of them noticed how rude that was of Mr. Tiralla? Böhnke's
blood boiled. He, the schoolmaster, whose mission it was to train the
young--he, the only one there who could lay claim to any education,
he was to stand that? "_Dalej_, _dalej!_" the peasant had shouted at
him, as if he were his stableboy or his farm horse. Was he to put up
with that? Was he really obliged to put up with it? No, no, no! The
slim-looking schoolmaster was on the point of jumping up from his seat,
but he got no further. He had again caught a glance from Mrs. Tiralla,
and he had understood what those black eyes were saying to him. His
fury subsided as he remained quietly in his place, but deep down in his
heart there was born a hatred for Mr. Tiralla.
The dancing recommenced after supper, but the [Pg 100] feet did not
trip as lightly as before, and they did not always agree; for when the
man's foot went to the left, his partner's wanted to go to the right.
The dancers also fell down more frequently. The boards shook, and the
clouds of dust became thicker and thicker. The ballroom was gloomy and
oppressive.
Mrs. Tiralla's dress no longer flew about as it had done during the
first part of the evening. She was standing in the cloak-room with
Mariechen Rózycki, who was sobbing bitterly, whilst old Piasecka, the
attendant, whose business it was also to carry "In Memoriam" cards
round, was busily rubbing her. "Oh, my pink blouse!" wailed the girl,
"my beautiful blouse!"
The forester's pupil, the idiot, had poured a whole glass of beer down
the front of it, when she was tenderly leaning against him just before
they left the table. She was beside herself with grief.
"You can send it to Spindler in Berlin," said Mrs. Tiralla consolingly.
"There is also a very good dry cleaner in Posen. Why, child!" she
exclaimed, putting her finger under the girl's chin and raising her
face, that was quite swollen with crying, "surely you aren't crying for
the sake of a blouse?"
All at once it seemed so infinitely futile to cry on account of a
spoilt blouse. Mrs. Tiralla had quite forgotten that she also had shed
tears on account of her hair just before she had left home. She felt so
much more unhappy now, really so miserable. She would have liked to
stop up her ears so as not to hear that twanging music. The dancing
disgusted her. She had never gone to a dance as a child. What would her
priest have said if he had seen her that evening? Father Szypulski was
not so strict; but she would be strict with herself. She wouldn't go
into the ballroom [Pg 101] again, she would drive home and sit by
Rosa's bed and be her guardian angel. Perhaps she would then see some
of those wonderful things that had been revealed to the child. She
would pray for it, pray for happy dreams. She longed so ardently, so
impatiently for happiness.
She called to a waiter who was running past in a short black jacket and
a white apron spotted with gravy, and sent him back to her husband.
Would Mr. Tiralla kindly tell them to bring the carriage round, it was
time to be going? The cocks were already crowing in the little yards
behind the labourers' cottages.
She remained standing in the cloak-room, gloomily gnawing her Up, with
Mariechen, who was still sobbing on account of her blouse, as her
companion. She had hidden herself behind the clothes-rack, nobody would
discover her there. Vain hope! Scarcely had the waiter given the
message than the whole flock of her partners came rushing in. Sophia
Tiralla wanted to go--go away now? But they wouldn't let her go, even
if they had to make a wall of their bodies before the door. Ziëntek
wrung his hands in despair; if she went away the whole cotillon would
be spoilt, that up-to-date cotillon with all those bouquets.
They discovered her and brought her out from behind the rack. They
begged, flattered, teased, threatened, and swore loudly that they
wouldn't let her go, she would have to remain and dance.
"Of course she'll stop and dance!" bawled Mr. Tiralla from the doorway
leading into the ballroom.
What, he as well? No, she wouldn't stop, not even a quarter of an hour
longer, hissed the woman like a serpent that has been trodden on. "Tell
the carriage to come round," she said to the waiter in a curt, shrill
voice. Then, without looking at her husband, she [Pg 102] added, "I'm
going. If you don't want to go, you can stop. I'm going."
Mr. Tiralla looked very discomfited; but then he grew angry. What, to
be so horrid to him before all those people? A wife had to obey. He was
the one who had to decide. He was very drunk, or it would never have
occurred to him to oppose his wife's wishes in this way. And that was
what made him now shout, "Confound you, woman! You shall not drive; for
I intend stopping here as long as I choose--until six, seven, or eight
o'clock, if I choose."
"Stop," she said icily, but her eyes glowed. "Then I'll walk."
No, she couldn't do that, surely she wouldn't do that. That would be
quite impossible through _that_ snow.
But she did not listen to her admirers' persuasions; she tore her fur
cloak down from the peg and threw her shawl over her head. She felt
that if they did not let her go she would burst into tears--into loud,
hopeless tears. She stamped her foot defiantly; why did they all stare
at her with such stupid, glassy eyes? And Mr. Tiralla, was he already
asleep? "_Dalej!_" she said curtly, and her voice sounded like the cut
of a whip, "_dalej!_"
He obeyed her. What else was there for him to do if his dear little
wife was so anxious to get home? "Women are amorous little doves," he
lisped, "they always want to be going home to their nests." Laying his
arm heavily round her neck he stammered caressingly, "Yes, yes, I'm
coming, my dove, only have patience." And then he gave such a sly wink
with his glassy eyes that the men broke into a laugh, which resembled
nothing so much as a horse whinnying.
Mrs. Tiralla had shrunk back. A wave of burning [Pg 103] colour mounted
to her pale face. Oh, if he treated her in that way, was it surprising
that they all ran after her like that? But they should not imagine that
she was ready to cast herself into the arms of the first man who came
along--far from it.
Throwing her head back with a curt, scornful movement, and restraining
her tears with the utmost strength of will, she said, forcibly jerking
out every word, for she could hardly speak, her lips trembled so, "You
can lie on the threshold, as you've done before, you braggart!"
Now the laugh was on her side. They were all delighted to think that
Mr. Tiralla had been reprimanded in that way. Why did he brag like
that? They also found favour with the ladies, but they didn't boast of
it in that way. What did this vulgar peasant want with such a dainty
little wife? A milkmaid would have been good enough for him. They all
applauded the little woman, who seemed to have grown a head taller, she
held herself so erect. But when Mr. Schmielke, who now hoped to win the
prize, bent his knee and said jokingly, "_Padam da nog!_" and then,
stroking his moustache in his usual challenging way, added, "Allow me
to see you home," she stared at him for a moment. And when he smiled at
her with all the impertinence which the wine and the advanced hour, the
spectators' goading looks, and the conviction of his own
irresistibility had given him, she administered such a violent,
resounding box on his ears that he and all the others started back.
She rushed out of the cloak-room and across the passage to the front
door, and, standing on the pavement which the downtrodden straw had
made still dirtier, she shouted for her carriage. She was weeping.
The wind had veered round in the early morning, [Pg 104] and was
blowing from the west, as she stood in the deserted market-place. Large
flakes of watery snow were being driven along before the wind, and
clung to her cheeks and mingled with the hot drops from her eyes. Oh,
how she would have liked to lie down there in the dirt and die! That
beautiful ball! Alas, there would never be any more pleasure for her
where her husband was. How he had made a laughing-stock of her before
them all. And he had lied into the bargain.
The carriage had not come yet; she stood trembling with cold and grief.
She clenched her hands; she would do it quite, quite alone now, if she
couldn't find anybody to help her.
All at once she had a feeling that somebody was standing behind her;
that somebody was breathing on her cheek. It was the schoolmaster.
He had quietly followed her. He was no less excited than she. She had
been insulted by Mr. Tiralla, but Mr. Tiralla had also insulted him; he
had insulted them both.
The schoolmaster looked upon the harmless man as a criminal. "He
doesn't deserve the sun to shine on him," he whispered, in a voice that
was hoarse with excitement. Then he snatched hold of the hand which she
held out to him, and pressed it to his lips, to his eyes, and stammered
wildly, "Pani, let me die on the spot--God punish me if ever I forget
Mr. Tiralla's behaviour. I--I----" he suppressed something he was going
to say. Then he once more pressed her willing hand to his burning lips
and stood near her in silence, until they heard Mr. Tiralla's voice at
the hotel door at the same moment as the carriage rattled out of the
yard and round the corner.
She got in without help; the schoolmaster had disappeared, swallowed up
by the darkness. Mr. [Pg 105] Tiralla was hoisted up on the front
seat with great difficulty by the boots. He was a heavy weight and
the man's shoulders and arms ached, but he was pleased to help the
gentleman. That good Mr. Tiralla--Heaven bless him--had given him a new
two-shilling bit as a tip.
Not a word was spoken by the couple. Mrs. Tiralla sat motionless at the
back with her cloak wrapped tightly round her, for she was icy cold.
She had drawn her shawl far down over her forehead, but her burning
eyes wandered in mute despair over the desolate, slushy fields in the
early morning twilight. Oh, how uncomfortable she felt, how tired out.
She couldn't understand now why she had wanted to go to the ball
instead of lying in her warm bed and being lulled to sleep by Rosa's
soft-toned prayers, and thus forgetting her miserable existence in the
arms of the saints.
She was seized with an unutterable aversion for her present life.
There, alas!--and her big eyes grew bigger and bigger and more
desperate-looking--there was the first of the big pines on the Przykop,
looking just like a flagstaff with a waving pennon on it, and near it,
although not yet visible, lay Starydwór, the old, lonely farm where she
had to go on living year after year with Mr. Tiralla. How much longer?
A ditch ran along the side of the road, a broad, deep ditch. The
carriage jolted as they rumbled along. How would it be if they were to
fall into the ditch with carriage and horses, and break their necks?
Ha, wouldn't that be a good thing? She stood up in the carriage--how
stiff she was after sitting so long--and, resting her left hand on the
side-rail, carefully bent over her husband.
He was asleep. His head had fallen on his breast, [Pg 106] his snores
mingled with the rattle of the wheels. He was sleeping as deeply and
soundly in the wet and cold and discomfort as though he were at home in
his bed. The reins hung loosely between the enormous fingers of his fur
gloves. All she had to do was to take them away from him, he wouldn't
notice it. She did so. He was sleeping so soundly that he had no idea
of what was going on behind him.
She was standing on the seat now, erect and with flashing eyes, holding
the reins with both hands. Now a tug, a turn to the left--she could not
reach the whip, but a "_Huj_, _het!_" was enough--then a sudden jerk
with all her strength, and the terrified horses jumped to the left. One
wheel was already hanging over the side of the ditch--farewell, Mr.
Tiralla!--a grimace partly of horror at what she had done, partly of
triumphant delight, distorted the woman's face--crash--they lay at the
bottom.
But not the horses and not the carriage, only Mr. Tiralla and his wife.
The clever animals had stopped short as though they recognized the
danger, and were now standing quite close to the edge, their bits
covered with foam.
"_Psia krew!_" Mr. Tiralla scrambled out of the ditch, all of a sudden
quite sober. The soft snow had felt like a downy feather bed, and he
hadn't hurt himself in the slightest. What a joke! How often he had
been upset in that ditch. H'm, if the horses hadn't been so sensible.
He patted their necks and praised them. And then he called to his wife,
"Heigh, Sophia, where have you got to?"
She did not answer. She had not hurt herself either; she lay on her
back in the ditch, snow under her, snow on both sides of her, and above
her the early morning sky, clear and rosy. She closed her eyes [Pg 107]
again; let him call her, she would remain where she was for ever.
Then she suddenly remembered that her beautiful ball-dress from that
good dressmaker in Posen might be spoiled. Her fur cloak could not keep
the snow-water out very long; she already felt it penetrating into her
shoes. Ugh, how wet and horrid it was! She would never be able to put
the dress on again. She jumped up hastily, and called to her husband to
help her. And when she had safely got out of the ditch, she shook her
skirts and examined her dress, and was delighted to find that nothing
had been spoiled.
They got into the carriage again. But now Mr. Tiralla kept his eyes
open, although he felt fit to drop with fatigue. What would Sophia say
if he were to upset her once more? "I'm sorry, my dear," he murmured,
in a crestfallen voice. She said nothing.
As they reached the gate, they found it wide open just as they had left
it. The front door was not locked either, the latch was, of course,
down, but the door had not been bolted.
"Jendrek, Marianna," shouted Mr. Tiralla, at the top of his voice. Was
nobody coming to take the horses? Where were those rascals sleeping?
And the other men, the day labourers, hadn't come yet. The farmer
scolded and groaned when he found that he would have to unharness the
horses himself and take them to the stable.
Mrs. Tiralla went into the room and called the maid. But Marianna, who
always came running so submissively when her mistress called her, did
not appear either. The woman grew so angry, that she almost tore the
ball-dress off her back, and then let it lie on the floor. Disgraceful,
disloyal, shameless [Pg 108] hussy! Where could she be sleeping so
sweetly that she neither heard nor saw anything?
When Mr. Tiralla came into the room his wife snubbed him as angrily as
if he had been Marianna.
He tried to appease her. "That'll do, that'll do, my love. We know all
about it." He laughed good-naturedly. "They're young, we must excuse
them."
Oh, so he condoned such things? Perhaps even considered them right?
Well, then! There was a strange expression in Mrs. Tiralla's eyes as
she stared straight in front of her. She let her husband press a kiss
on her neck without feeling it, and then she ran in her petticoat and
without anything over her shoulders through the cold house up to her
bedroom.
There lay Rosa with the feather bed drawn up to her eyes. The woman
fell on her knees beside the child's bed, and, burying her head in the
bedclothes, she sobbed aloud.
Rosa awoke. "Mother, sweet mother?" There was a note of anxious inquiry
in her exclamation; was her mother in a good humour again, was she no
longer cross as the evening before?
"Do you love me?" stammered the sobbing woman. "Tell me that you love
me."
"Oh, I do love you, I love you so dearly."
"Tell me that you'll pray for me. Swear that you'll pray for
me--always."
"Oh, I'll pray for you. I always pray for you."
"Pray for me, pray for me," sobbed the excited woman. "I'll pray with
you, perhaps that'll help me. Rosa, my angel"--she covered the child's
face with kisses--"we'll pray."
"What shall we pray?" asked the child. "What do you want to pray now,
mother dear? Shall I pray [Pg 109] to the beautiful guardian angel,
'Holy angel, thou who standest before the throne of God,' or shall I
repeat the litany to the sweet name of Jesus? Or shall I pray as I did
at my confirmation, 'Come, thou Heavenly Physician, I need Thee. Heal
my soul, oh Saviour. Come, save me'? Oh, you left me alone," cried the
child, in a plaintive voice, as she broke off in the midst of her
prayer. "You were at the ball, you were so beautiful, mother. Daddy was
with you. Marianna went away as well. She said it would only be for
half an hour; she wanted to see her little ones, who are living with an
old woman in the village; but she stopped away. I was all by myself in
the house. And something creaked in the big cupboard, and in the stove,
and in all the furniture. And something moved in all the corners. Ugh,
the room was so lonely, I ran out of it. And the candles--those two
before the looking-glass--flickered so. Marianna says that if you look
into a glass before which two candles are burning, as the clock strikes
twelve, either Death or your future husband will be standing behind
you. Oh, and I daren't cross the passage, it was so dark. Just think
if anybody had been lurking there? I screamed aloud, but nobody
answered--ugh, the passage was so icy cold--so I rushed into the
kitchen; there was still a little fire there, and I crept behind the
stove. Oh, mother, I was so frightened, I couldn't stop there either. I
trembled so, my heart went like that the whole time"--she took hold of
her mother's hand and moved it quickly up and down--"the whole time
like that. Just think if that fiery man, that Marianna is always
telling me about, had got out of the stove? I believe that fiery man is
the devil; I've asked Marianna, but she didn't know. Do you think,
mammie, that it's the devil?"
[Pg 110]
She sat up in bed. She was still completely dressed. "Is it the devil?"
Mrs. Tiralla nodded.
"So you also believe that it's the devil?" Rosa's voice expressed a
certain satisfaction, a kind of childish pride; oh, yes, she knew all
about such things. "I know him." she said triumphantly.
"What does he look like?" whispered her mother, with a shudder, as she
hid her face in her hands. Oh, if that should have been he, that
handsome young man who had suddenly appeared before her a short time
before, as she stood half-dressed in the room downstairs and Mr.
Tiralla was making excuses for the amorous maid?
"I saw him on the altar in the chapel," whispered Rosa. "Holy Michael
was treading him underfoot. He's like a worm, but he has a face and
horns on his head. Father Szypulski says he comes to tempt us. Pray,
pray! He pokes the fire in Purgatory, in which the souls are burning.
'Pray for the peace of the poor souls in Purgatory,' says the priest,
'and for your own as well.' I commend all the souls in Purgatory to
thee, oh, most holy Mother Mary." Rosa's whispers became more and more
agitated and her wild, restless eyes began to wander about the room.
"He's red, mother, red with black horns. He dances in the flames
wherever there's a fire; he sends out sparks, mother--he's fetching us
all! Mother! Oh, he's burning us all!"
The child uttered a heartrending sigh, and pressing both hands to her
breast reared herself up in bed. Throwing back her disordered hair, she
shrieked in a loud voice, "Oh, it hurts me, it hurts me so here--it
hurts, hurts, hurts!"
"It hurts, hurts, hurts!" shrieked her mother. [Pg 111] She did not
know that she was repeating the same words.
Rosa tore her dress open, her breast heaved and sank as she gasped for
breath in her terror. Then she clung to her mother, and hiding her face
in her neck she whimpered, "Carry me out of the kitchen again, carry me
up the dark stairs, oh, Holy Mother, that I needn't fear. Put me down,
keep me warm--hail, Mary, thou that art highly favoured"--(the child's
voice had grown soft and low)--"how beautiful thou art--I love
thee--hail, Mary, blessed art thou among women--blessed--the fruit--of
thy womb----"
Her words grew more and more indistinct, until they at last became
nothing but an incoherent murmur.
Ah, now Rosa saw the Holy Virgin. Seized with a superstitious terror,
Mrs. Tiralla loosened the child's arms from about her neck. What did
Rosa see? What did she hear? Did she really see something? If only Rosa
could find out something which could be of use to her--her!
The child had fallen back on her bed heavy and stiff. Spurred on by an
intense eagerness her mother leant over her and whispered:
"Ask the Holy Virgin--tell the Holy Virgin that I'll let ten candles
burn before her on the altar--ten wax candles--she's to release
me--Glisten, all she's to do is to release me."
Rosa was silent. She did not hear. Although her eyes were wide open,
she did not seem to see her mother's terrified, excited mien, nor her
burning, piercing looks, so full of entreaty.
"Listen!" Mrs. Tiralla's voice sounded almost fierce as she shouted to
the child. "Listen, listen!" she repeated several times, in an
impressive voice. [Pg 112] "Tell the Holy Virgin she's to release me--I
want to be released--I must be released--listen, listen!"
All at once a convulsive movement passed over Rosa's face. Her mother
bent over her, lower and lower, full of trembling eagerness. The
child's staring eyes began to move, and her mouth as well.
"You'll be released," she stammered, as though in her sleep. "The dear
Virgin hears all prayers--she is smiling--ah, how she's smiling."
Bearing herself up once more, and stretching out her arms, the
over-excited child burst into tears.
Her mother wiped the tears and beads of perspiration away from her face
with her trembling hands. Oh, her little dress was quite wet through,
and her bodice and chemise as well. She undressed the child and made
her bed more comfortable. Poor little thing! Her mother felt very sorry
for her, although she was full of joy and of an insuppressible
exultation. She was to be released! The Holy Virgin had spoken. She was
to be released from him, from Mr. Tiralla!
[Pg 113]