The strawberries were ripening in the Przykop. The children from
Starawie['s] would go there to look for them, and when they had all
been gathered it would be the time for mushrooms. But the village
children did not like the gloom that reigned in the Przykop, they were
accustomed to let the rays of the burning sun scorch their brown bodies
a still darker brown amid the flat turnip fields and immense plains
covered with corn, where there were no shadows to arrest its full
force.
The big pines commenced just at the back of Starydwór, and beyond those
were the alders and willows, extending as far as the low-lying marshes,
where the frogs croaked at night, the white water-lilies opened their
golden calices at midday, and where towards evening the game from the
royal forest in the blue distance beat a path through the rustling
reeds on their way to quench their thirst at the pools. A long, long
time ago the whole of the Przykop was said to have been an enormous
lake, ten times as big as now. Now nothing remained of it but the basin
in the centre, that deep depression which, so to speak, formed a hollow
amid the yellow and green carpet of this fruitful corn-land. But at
night, when the will-o'-the-wisps wandered about the marshes and danced
on the duckweed, in which a man could be swallowed up if he did not
take care where he put his foot, the pious people [Pg 137] would make
the sign of the cross when they were obliged to pass that way. For the
will-o'-the-wisps were the souls of those who could not find peace in
the grave.
Rosa Tiralla much preferred the Przykop to the bare fields. If she
stood at the farm gate and looked across the fields she could see the
whole way to Starawie['s], the path she took to school every day, the
wooden church tower and the cottage roofs covered with moss, that
almost disappeared from view behind the pale, waving corn when it stood
high. But from her bedroom window at the back of the house, she could
look into the Przykop, where the dark trees rustled so strangely.
The white-faced child felt the mystery of the morass just as much as
the brown-skinned children from Starawie['s]; but while it terrified
them, it attracted her. How beautiful to be in the deep, cool shade
when the sun was scorching outside. There was always a soft twilight
under the trees, and when the light fell through the interlaced
branches on the damp, green moss, it was no longer cruel, it was
transfigured.
Even as a small child Rosa Tiralla had often been in the Przykop. Her
nurse had always taken her there, for the wind, which swept across the
plain endangering the life of the delicate child, was hardly felt
there. The trees in the hollow were so well protected by the rising
ground that only their tops rustled slightly in the wind. Rosa very
often lifted the rusty latch of the gate that separated the morass from
the little garden at the back of Starydwór. "How lovely the mountains
and valleys of the Przykop were," thought the child of the plain. In
her eyes the slight incline down which she used to glide was a deep,
deep valley, and the hill she used to climb so [Pg 138] laboriously,
holding fast to the luxuriant moss, ferns, and projecting tree-roots, a
big, big mountain.
The deer would approach Rosa without fear, and look at her with their
limpid eyes. But she was full of fear; not of the deer, however, but of
the other creatures which surrounded her in the Przykop. The older she
grew, the more fearful she became. Marianna had told her too many tales
about them. The deep, deep silence, in which the woodpecker's hammering
on the bark used to sound like peals of thunder, made her shudder. And
still she would not have liked to give up that sweet emotion, nor give
up lying in the thick moss, gazing up into the tree-tops to find a bit
of sky. She was always within call, and that reassured her. But if a
sound found its way to her--her father's deep, bass voice, or her
mother's treble, or the maid's "_Psia krew_, where have you got
to?"--she would give a start as though she had been roughly handled or
had been caught doing something wrong, and turn scarlet and sigh as she
smoothed her thick, tousled hair.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Rosa Tiralla was very busy looking for mushrooms in the Przykop this
summer. It was the time of the damp, sultry dog-days, in which they
sprang up in a night. But not many were eaten in Starawie['s] or the
neighbourhood, for the public had been warned against them. The
schoolmaster had also warned the children in the school; they were
neither to gather nor eat any they were not quite sure of. People grew
alarmed.
"Many people have made themselves ill with eating mushrooms," said
Marianna to her mistress, when the latter spoke of sending Rosa to
fetch some.
Mrs. Tiralla laughed. "Nonsense, I know mushrooms very well."
[Pg 139]
"That makes no difference," exclaimed the maid, growing warm, "I won't
eat them even if I do know them. Ugh!" she spat on the ground,
"mushrooms are the devil's own vegetables."
"Why?" The woman looked at the maid with dull, wide-open eyes, in which
a dawning light suddenly began to gleam. She turned red and pale by
turns, blinked her eyes a little as though something were dazzling her,
and then smiled. "What do you mean by 'the devil's own vegetables'? I
don't understand you."
Marianna made the sign of the cross. "God bless it! But I don't know if
even that always helps. Many a one has got his death from eating a dish
of mushrooms. Who can say which are poisonous and which are not? Good
and bad ones grow side by side; the devil passes his finger over them
during the night, and in the morning they all look alike, you can't see
any difference. You gather, you cook, you eat--oh!" Marianna stretched
out her fingers and rolled her eyes. "Holy Mother. I know how awfully
you suffer. I won't eat mushrooms, I know that." She shuddered.
"Well, you needn't eat any, nobody has asked you to," said the woman,
soothingly, to the girl, who grew more and more vehement. "You hadn't
eaten mushrooms that time you fell ill. Oh, we know all about it," she
said jestingly, shaking her finger at her. But it was no real jest, for
all merriment was wanting, and there was something forced in her laugh
as she added, "Jendrek has let it out; you had drunk too much, and that
was why you were ill."
"Oh, the rogue, the scoundrel," cried Marianna furiously, clenching her
fist. "How can he say so? The liar! I hadn't drunk too much; I had
drunk nothing, I remember it well. It was the day after the [Pg 140]
master had been to Gnesen to fetch the rat poison. I had drunk nothing
that morning but a sip of coffee, a sip of the coffee I was taking to
the master. I can swear to that."
The maid cast an inquisitive, scrutinizing glance at her mistress.
Would she turn red, or pale? Now it was out; what had been the matter
with that coffee? Would she be brazen-faced enough to scold her because
she had drunk some of the master's coffee? Well, then, she would just
give her a piece of her mind, she would let her know that there had
been poison in it.
Mrs. Tiralla, however, took no notice of what had been said.
Marianna kept her eyes fixed on her mistress. Who could say what the
Pani was thinking of now? But no deeper colour came into Mrs. Tiralla's
face. The maid felt quite bewildered. What! the Pani remained so calm,
she neither looked terrified nor changed colour? Why, she was even
smiling like an angel from heaven. She would have to get to the bottom
of this. So she quickly said in a bold, resolute voice:
"I had only drunk some of the coffee which the Pani herself had made; I
can't imagine how that could have made me so ill." She shrugged her
shoulders and put on her most stupid and innocent look, whilst her sly
eyes roved about. "The Pani would surely not cook anything bad for the
master."
"No, certainly not," answered Mrs. Tiralla, quite calmly, although her
heart almost stood still with terror. No fear must be shown now, not an
eyelid must quiver. Ah, she had learnt to dissemble more easily now.
The woman was filled with an almost fierce, triumphant joy, which gave
a natural cheerfulness to her voice as she added, "He's such a judge
[Pg 141] of good living, he'll have nothing but what's good." And then
she said in a friendly tone, as though she had quite forgotten
Marianna's pointed words and the coffee she had taken, "Jendrek must
have told a lie, then. Here." She put her hand into the little bag that
hung on her belt near her keys, and brought out a new shilling. "Here,
Marianna. I'm sorry that I've wronged you so long in my thoughts."
The servant forgot to thank her mistress, but stared at her completely
bewildered as she left the kitchen. Oh, she--she was really--she,
she--had she really put nothing into the coffee? Marianna felt she was
too stupid, her head ached with all the thinking; it would be better to
leave it alone. The Pani had given her a new shilling bit, the Pani was
good. She was happy now.
Mrs. Tiralla stood outside the door and called for her daughter, and
when Rosa obediently came she gave her a basket and put on her
broad-brimmed straw hat with her own hands, "There, my darling," and
told her to go and look for mushrooms for her father's supper.
Many different kinds of mushrooms were to be found in the
Przykop--yellow, red, brown, orange-coloured, and greenish. When Rosa
had gone out the first time to find some she had felt very anxious.
There was a dark brown one growing under a pine tree, big and firm,
with a strong smell and very appetizing in appearance. But she had eyed
it very uncertainly. Was that the devil's toadstool, which the
schoolmaster had marked on the board at school as poisonous, or was it
one of the dainty _boleti edules_, which her father liked so much? Oh,
dear, she had not listened very attentively; Mr. Böhnke had given them
all the characteristics, but she had been dreaming as usual. [Pg 142]
Her thoughts had flown away into infinite space, away over the board
which Mr. Böhnke was holding before them. He used to be very annoyed
with the other children if they were not attending, but he was never
annoyed with her, for she was Rosa Tiralla. Oh, if only he had been.
She did not know what to do. She hesitated doubtfully; should she take
the mushroom or not? There were many of the same kind growing in the
moss; they seemed to smile at her.
A wood-pigeon was cooing over the lonely girl's head. It had fluttered
down from the high pine treetop and was now sitting on one of the thick
bottom branches watching her. It cooed and cooed. Then Rosa at last
felt certain that the bird wanted to warn her. It was a messenger from
the Holy Virgin; these mushrooms were all poisonous. And the girl
lifted up her dress, so that not even the hem of it should touch them,
and stepped over them with anxious haste.
So Rosa came home the first time without any mushrooms. "Mother, I
didn't know which were poisonous and which were not. I was afraid, so I
left them all." Then Mrs. Tiralla had been more angry with her daughter
than she had ever been before, and had pulled her plaits and called her
a stupid goose. All the mushrooms growing in the Przykop were fit to
eat; there was not a single poisonous one among them.
"But Mr. Böhnke says, and Marianna says--oh, mammie, I'm so afraid of
poisonous mushrooms. How awful it would be if anybody ate one."
"You're very stupid," said her mother, but in a gentler tone. "Next
time I'll go with you and show you those you are to gather. Don't cry."
And she stroked the hair which she had pulled a short time before.
[Pg 143]
Then Rosa felt pleased that her mother was no longer angry with her,
and would teach her to find the right mushrooms.
The golden sun was smiling down on the moss, and everything was bright
and cheerful even in the Przykop when Mrs. Tiralla went with Rosa to
gather mushrooms.
"Look here, Röschen, this one. And here, this one." She pointed to
different places in the moss with her foot and told the child to
gather.
"But aren't those poisonous, mammie? Marianna says----"
"Fiddle-de-dee. What does Marianna know about it? She's more stupid
than I took her to be; she a country girl and doesn't even know
mushrooms? Pick them, pick them. They're good. They're your father's
favourite dish when they're fried in butter and then stewed in cream."
So Rosa knelt down quickly and was soon busy gathering the red
mushrooms that had an orange tinge and little white knobs on their caps
as though they had been embroidered; such bright looking mushrooms they
were, the prettiest of them all. And then she gathered some of the
brown ones as well, which she had avoided so carefully the first time,
and her basket was soon full.
"Now we've got enough," said Mrs. Tiralla. "Now you can't make a
mistake, and you'll know where to find them. Next time you can go
alone."
"Oh, yes, of course I know now. But it's nice to go to the wood with
you," said the child ingratiatingly, hanging on her mother's arm.
She was almost as tall as her mother now, their shoulders were on the
same level; they could have been taken for sisters. The black-haired
woman with [Pg 144] her velvety, sparkling eyes was certainly more
beautiful, but there was such a gentle, happy expression on the girl's
face that made one forgetful of her freckles and her pale blue eyes.
"How father will feast," said Rosa, and pressed her mother's arm.
"Shall you prepare them for him this evening?"
"I shall prepare them for him this evening," repeated the woman
absent-mindedly. Her thoughts were already far ahead. Would he suffer
when he had eaten them, as Marianna had said? She trembled. But there
must be no compassion. Had she not suffered, suffered agonies from the
very first hour he had come to her mother's sewing-room and had
stretched out his coarse fingers to take her? She did not like him, no,
she had never liked him. And she disliked him more than ever since he
had begun to drink, since he had returned one evening from the inn dead
drunk; and now he often came home so intoxicated that Marianna and
Jendrek had to take him under the arms and drag him into the house. If
he ate some of the mushrooms, and the Holy Virgin would stand by him,
he would close his eyes immediately afterwards. That would be the best
thing for him. Had he not said the last time he was drunk and was
crying so bitterly, "I don't suit this place. When my Sophia is a
widow, will she love me more than she does now?" Yes, she would. He was
quite right, and he had felt it dully in his intoxication. A monument
should be erected to his memory, as beautiful a cross as could be
ordered in Gradewitz, or even in Gnesen. If only he would depart, it
only he would depart and leave her in peace.
The woman's feelings towards her husband became almost tender. She
would make the mushrooms very [Pg 145] nice, and neither spare the
butter nor the cream.
They should taste very, very good.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
As mother and daughter left the Przykop they saw Mr. Tiralla standing
at the garden gate looking out for them. He was longing for his supper,
for which he felt an aching void. But there was another kind of void
which tortured him still more. Now Sophia had even taken the child away
with her. It was fortunate that Mikolai was coming home in the autumn,
then he would have more company. Mr. Tiralla had never liked being
alone, and now he liked it less than ever. There was an indefinite
something that frightened him; he could not have said what it was, but
it seemed to be lying in wait for him at every corner.
He called out to the two in a joyful voice. He was holding up his hand
to his eyes in order to protect them from the sun that was setting
blood-red behind the pines, and the two figures in their light-coloured
dresses looked like angels of light. "_Psia krew_, why so late? Come,
my dears, come along."
Rosa let her mother's arm go. Swinging her basket in the air she ran up
to her father, "Mushrooms, mushrooms." She was glowing with happiness.
He stroked her flying hair away from her face and patted her cheeks.
"My darling, my consolation."
Why did her father look so serious? He was low-spirited. Rosa gazed at
him with womanly, anxious eyes that love had sharpened. Her daddy was
growing old. What a lot of lines he had in his face, lots of crooked
lines like those the crows made in the snow with their feet. And still
he was so stout, and had such a good appetite. "Do you love me?" she
asked affectionately, raising her face for him to kiss. "I love you."
[Pg 146]
He did not kiss her; he was looking at his wife, who was coming on more
slowly.
It seemed to Mrs. Tiralla as though her foot faltered, as though a
leaden weight were almost paralyzing her. There he stood waiting
impatiently. Well, he should have them. She ran past him with a
muttered "God be with me!"
Nobody was in the kitchen. What had become of that slow hussy Marianna?
But never mind, she could not have done with her to-day. She put wood
and peat on the fire with her own hands, so that the embers were soon
ablaze, placed a pan on the fire, and fetched butter and cream from the
larder. She was very busy.
At that moment Rosa came running in. "Mother, daddy asks if the
mushrooms are really good?"
"Why, of course," said Mrs. Tiralla, and pushed her daughter
impatiently out of the kitchen. She could not have her looking on. Then
she cut the mushrooms to pieces and threw them into the pan and poured
boiling water on them; they were to boil for some time, bad and good
all together, so that they might lose their shape and colour and all
resemble each other so much that they could not be distinguished.
Nobody should say of her that she had set poisonous mushrooms before
her husband; besides, he would not have eaten them.
The water bubbled and hissed on the stove; it was boiling fiercely, as
she had made a huge fire. The food must be cooked quickly, Mr. Tiralla
was longing for his supper.
Just then he stuck his head into the kitchen. "Will there soon be
something to eat, Sophia?"
"There'll soon be something to eat." She put some more wood on the
fire; the mushrooms were already [Pg 147] getting tender. The pan was
filled with a slimy sauce that had a very powerful smell. She bent over
it and sniffed. Good gracious, the smell was so pungent that it would
betray her! Away with it! She quickly poured the sauce and scum off to
the very last drop, took another pan, melted some more butter in it,
and then put the mushrooms into it. The horrid odour had disappeared,
now they smelt delicious.
While the mushrooms were frying in the butter, Mrs. Tiralla stood by
with folded hands. "Holy Mother, I call on thee, do not forsake me,
pray for me." (Oh, if--it only these mushrooms were cooked, he would
eat them, and then?) "Jesus Christ, hear us, now and in the hour of our
death." (If--if he ate some, then--then?) "Son of God, we commend this
soul to thee, have mercy on it." (Oh, when he had eaten?) No, she could
not pray any longer, all she could do was to whisper just above her
breath, "Jesus, Mary, Joseph, assist this soul in its death-agony."
Marianna came into the kitchen. Dear, dear, was the mistress already
cooking? Bustling about in her haste to get on, the girl knocked the
plates together. Oh, how the Pani would scold. She ducked her head
involuntarily.
But the Pani was looking straight into the glowing fire. Then suddenly
awaking as from a dream she seized the pan containing the cream, poured
its contents over the dish of mushrooms, shook it, and told the maid to
carry it into the room.
As Marianna placed the dish on the table at which the man, woman, and
child were already seated, Mrs. Tiralla turned deadly pale. She gave a
start as her husband began at once to help himself; it seemed as though
she were about to grip his arm.
"God bless it!" said the maid, in a loud voice, and [Pg 148] then,
turning round, she furtively made the sign of the cross and spat three
times. Ugh, mushrooms! She shuddered. And how strange the mistress was;
she must also be afraid, her face was so pale. Marianna ran out of the
room, she felt all at once so frightened. How could anybody eat
mushrooms? Ugh! She again felt the horrible, choking sensation which
had oppressed her heart and numbed her limbs the time she was so ill.
She could not fight against it. She crouched near the fire and folded
her hands, she was so terribly frightened. But one thing she did know,
and that was as soon as she could she would go to the priest--no,
rather to the gendarme. But then she rejected the idea of the gendarme,
for would he believe her? But if she could swear to it by all the
saints? But she could not swear to it, not exactly swear to it.
However, she would tell the priest about it. What a house this was! How
dreadful it was for a poor servant girl like her to have to serve in
such a place. She wept bitterly.
However, when Jendrek knocked at the kitchen door a moment later for
her to come out, she ran behind the stable to him and forgot her master
and the mushrooms.
Mrs. Tiralla noted with horror with what relish her husband was eating
the mushrooms. She felt quite numbed, she could not move. But when Rosa
asked for some, too--they smelt so good, she had taken a fancy to
them--she screamed, "They're too indigestible for you. I shall not eat
any either. We can't touch them."
So Mr. Tiralla finished them all. "I've not tasted anything I liked do
well for a long time," he said with a fat smile as he stroked his
paunch. "That's because my little daughter has gathered them for me and
my [Pg 149] dear wife has cooked them. Thanks, both of you." He nodded
to his daughter and took hold of his wife's hand and kissed it.
He was remarkably gentle, so strangely tender. His wife felt startled,
his voice already sounded quite different. She watched him with anxious
eyes--he had asked for a glass of gin after the rich food--did he feel
ill already? She could scarcely keep her feet quiet under the table.
Away, away, oh, how she would have liked to run away; she did not want
to look on any longer.
"Give me a kiss, Sophia darling," begged her husband.
She humoured him. It would be the last, why should she refuse him the
last kiss?
He drew her on his knee. Then he sent Rosa out of the room; she was to
go to bed so that she could get up next morning and fetch lots of
mushrooms. "Go, go, I say," he urged, as she clung to him tenderly.
However much he loved her, he had only thoughts for his Sophia at
present. She was so good, so affectionate to-day; oh, God, were the
good times returning?
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Marianna was in her first deep sleep that night when she heard her
master's door creak. Suddenly everything came back to her. Holy Mother,
the mushrooms. Did he feel very bad? The poor master! She jumped out of
bed as quick as lightning and rushed to the door. But when she tore it
open, she saw that it was only her mistress who had just carefully
closed the master's door opposite and was standing outside. What had
she been up to in that room? The maid almost screamed, she was so
surprised.
Mrs. Tiralla looked frightened when she caught [Pg 150] sight of the
maid, and they stared at each other for some moments. Then the woman
put her finger to her lips, "Sh! I--I--couldn't sleep upstairs--I heard
something--and I thought of thieves--yes, thieves--and then I ran
down."
"Oh, there are no thieves here." The maid gave a loud laugh, it sounded
too ridiculous that the Pani, who had never been afraid of thieves,
should suddenly speak of them. Surely she had not come down on account
of them? But why? It had never occurred to her to creep down to Mr.
Tiralla before? Marianna's eyes grew very big. But then she suddenly
thought, she has wanted to see how he feels after the food, for he ate
every bit of it, the poor man. Marianna sighed. Then she cast an
insolent glance at her mistress and said:
"Well, and how's the master? I suppose he's not very well, eh?"
"Why, why?" asked the woman, trembling. But then she grew calm, the
girl's impertinent glances helped her to regain her composure. "I don't
know what you mean," she said in a lofty tone. "Mr. Tiralla is sleeping
quietly." With a slight nod she turned away and crept so softly up to
her room that not a stair creaked.
Driven by curiosity Marianna put her head into her master's room. All
was dark; she could see nothing, but she heard him breathing regularly
and deeply. He did not even groan, he was sleeping so quietly. Was he
still alive? She groped her way to the bed. Thank God, there he lay
warm and comfortable.
As she bent over him he stretched out his arms and stammered, half
asleep, "Heigh, darling!"
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
[Pg 151]
Mrs. Tiralla was standing before her glass upstairs looking at her
pale, disfigured face. She felt overcome with shame, a shame that was
even greater than her terror. What must the maid have thought of her?
Dark lines under her eyes, her hair dishevelled, her face all mottled.
Oh, God! She had submitted to it all--and he was still alive. She was
seized with a violent fit of fury, she would have liked to destroy
everything, smash everything to pieces. Pressing her clenched fists
against her forehead she uttered a deep groan. She was the one who had
been deceived, she always was. Böhnke, too, had deceived her. Had he
not told her that fly agarics--the orange-red mushrooms with white
warts--were very poisonous, and that the devil's toadstool--the brown,
squat one which so strongly resembled the _boletus edulis_--was even
more so? He had brought a book with him, and had read it to her
secretly in the little garden with the palings all round, where they
had stolen like a pair of lovers who want to be as far away from
everybody as possible. He had also shown her the illustrations, and she
had watched most carefully as he pointed out what the poisonous
mushrooms looked like. She had impressed it firmly on her memory. Four
fly agarics were enough to bring death, people said, but he--he lived.
But had she not also read in the schoolmaster's book that "death can
either occur in the course of an hour or two, or after two or three
days"? H'm, Mr. Tiralla was very strong, what would kill any other man
scarcely affected him. She would have to wait then, wait.
She threw herself on her knees. If only he had died at once, this
waiting was so awful. She dreaded the thought of what the morrow might
bring forth. She had been calm enough while cooking the mushrooms, [Pg
152] but now she was the reverse. She could hardly bear to wait any
longer. But now it was no longer a great longing for his death, which
was to bring her release, it was only a fervent desire to be free from
this great fear which oppressed her heart and confused her senses. She
sprang up from her knees as though she were out of her mind, then threw
herself down again, the next moment to jump up once more and raise her
clasped hands to heaven. "Mary, Holy Virgin, pray for me!" What was the
Holy Virgin to pray for? Oh, she knew what for; knew better than she
did herself, for _she_ did not know any longer. Life? Death? Alas,
alas, now she would have preferred him to live; only not to see him
lying there distorted with convulsions, and with the hue of death
already on his face.
The woman crept into the darkest corner of the room like a frightened
animal, and bit her hands, which she had pressed against her mouth, and
wept and trembled. How slowly the night crept on, would it never, never
be day? How quietly Rosa was breathing. She was sleeping so well. Oh,
to be a child once more, an innocent child who knows nothing of Life's
wickedness.
Mrs. Tiralla was filled with an intense longing for innocence and
purity, for a blameless, peaceful life. She would go to confession as
soon as possible next morning. She would confess everything, so that
she could breathe once more as quietly as her child. Even at the last
examination of conscience she had not been able to find the right
expression for what was stirring in her heart. But now, when the sins
against the fifth commandment were being enumerated: "Have you by means
of blows, curses, and such-like injured yourself or others, are you
angry, envious, revengeful, have you lived in hatred and enmity with
others, have [Pg 153] you grieved others by bitter words, have you hurt
them intentionally?" now she would strike her breast and cry, "Yes,
yes," so that she might say later on, "I thank Thee, Divine Redeemer,
that Thou hast given me absolution and forgiveness for my sins in the
Sacrament of Penance."
Then she grew more composed; the mere thought of confession calmed and
relieved her immeasurably. She recovered so far as to creep out of her
corner and go to Rosa's bed, although she was still trembling, and wake
her. "Let us pray, dear," she said, clasping her hands round those of
the child.
"What shall we pray?" inquired Rosa, who was always ready to pray and
was instantly wide awake.
"Repeat the Act of Desire used at the preparation for Holy Communion."
"Oh, mother, I don't know it." Rosa bent her head in deep shame.
"But I do," said Mrs. Tiralla. "Lord, my soul is longing for Thee. Let
me again to-day partake of Thy saving grace. Thou knowest my misery,
come. Thou who hast redeemed me by Thy blood, O Son of God. When Thy
holy body, O most sweet Jesus, unites itself with my body, and Thy holy
soul has poured itself into my soul, oh, what a new, happy life I shall
lead. Be gracious to us. Hear us."
She repeated it in a loud voice, and the child raised her hands
devoutly and with a pious shudder murmured it after her mother.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
When Mrs. Tiralla came down next morning it was late. She had at last
fallen asleep whilst kneeling by Rosa's bedside, so that she did not
see the sunbeam dancing on the wall, nor hear the cock crowing, the
clatter of the milk pails, the squeaking of the chain in [Pg 154] the
old well, nor the lowing of the cattle. She had fallen into a dead
sleep. And when she at last started up in confusion, awakened by Rosa's
caressing touch, she did not venture to go downstairs. She sent the
child. "Look if he's up."
But Rosa did not return. Why did she not come? Mrs. Tiralla waited and
waited; the minutes seemed to lengthen themselves into hours. Holy
Mother, what had happened downstairs, as the child did not return?
Courage, courage, courage! She pressed both hands to her heart that was
throbbing furiously. If only she had never come to Starydwór, if only
she had remained the poorest among the poor, the most wretched among
the wretched.
She listened involuntarily. Hark, was that not his voice? No, neither
scream nor groan reached her ear. There was no help for it, she would
have to go downstairs. It would seem so strange if she were to remain
in her room any longer; she would have to go down at once.
She drew a deep breath, tore the door open, took a run and rushed
downstairs. Where was he lying? Where should she find him?
"Good morning," said Mr. Tiralla. He was in a good humour and was just
coming out of his room. His eyes were still full of sleep and he was
rubbing them.
But his eyes were quite clear, they still saw the light of day. The
woman started back as though she had seen a ghost.
"Why are you so frightened, eh?" he cried, laughing. "You've slept too
long, I suppose? Ha, ha."
She did not answer. Even if her life had depended upon it, she could
not have uttered a single word. It was too terrible, too terrible!
He did not pay any attention to her silence nor to [Pg 155] her
disturbed looks. He was in a very happy frame of mind and was waving a
letter in his hand, a letter from his soldier son.
Mikolai had not written for a long time, he did not care for writing.
But now he wrote:
"Dear Parents,--Your son, Mikolai, sends you his love, and he is very
well. I can tell you I am pleased to get away from the army. It is not
the work for me, I prefer to till the ground. And my friend, Martin
Becker, who is a miller by profession, but has not got a mill at
present, because, although he has some money, it is not enough to buy a
big mill, and he won't have a small one, will come home with me. He
will help to manage the farm. Dear father, you will not want so many
hands then; we will do everything, and you will like Martin. He has no
parents, and hails from Klein-Hauland, near Opalenitza. I will let you
know the day we are coming. Dear mother, if you will be kind to Becker
I shall be grateful to you, for he is a good fellow. Dear sister, I
kiss you in my thoughts; our Rosa has, no doubt, grown into a pretty
girl. We shall come, all being well, in seven weeks' time. With a kiss
to you all,
"Your affectionate Son."
That was his son, just as he was in reality, his dear, good son. A
sudden affection for the boy who had been away from home so long awoke
in Mr. Tiralla's heart. It was such a long time since he had seen
anything of him. He had been away almost three years, and although he
had twice driven to Breslau during that time and had looked him up at
the barracks, still it was very different from having him at home. It
was a good thing that the boy was coming.
It seemed to Mr. Tiralla as though he had been thinking of his Mikolai
the whole time he had been [Pg 156] away; but that had not been the
case. How could he have had leisure to think of him? All, all his
thoughts had been taken up with his Sophia. But now he was filled with
an impatient longing for his son; he could hardly await the time when
the reserves would be dismissed. If only he were at home. The evenings
were already growing long; there were no more beautiful summer
evenings, for the weather had turned cool and dreary unusually early.
Such evenings were very dismal in Starydwór if you had nobody to sit
and talk to.
Mrs. Tiralla was ill, and her strange behaviour had made her husband
quite ill, too. His Sophia! What was the matter with her? Was she angry
with him? He ransacked his brain to find out what he had done to her,
but he found nothing. He had done his utmost to put her into a good
humour. He had driven to Rosenthal's in Gnesen and bought her a smart
black-and-white check coat and skirt. It suited her admirably, and when
she had it on she looked like a fine lady going on her travels. But all
he could get from her was a feeble, "I should have preferred a black
costume." Then he had driven to Gnesen and ordered her a black costume,
and as that had not turned out satisfactory, he had even gone to Posen
about it. But when he had brought it home--it had been nice and
dear--she had only said, "But I can't wear it after all." The deuce,
why not? The truth was, he never could do anything to please her. That
made him very low-spirited. Why was she so perverse? Why did she look
at him so strangely?
He had caught one of those rare glances she vouchsafed him, and it had
bewildered him. He had asked Marianna if she knew why her mistress was
in such a bad humour, and why she frowned so.
[Pg 157]
"Let the wicked look fall on the dog," whispered Marianna, and spat on
the ground whilst she made the sign of the cross. She would take good
care not to mention her suspicions to her master. If she said to him,
"That woman is up to something," he would turn her out of the house as
a reward. He was still so wrapped up in the woman. And she really did
not know herself what the Pani was up to. The mushrooms had agreed with
the master all right; he had not been ill after them. She had had
nothing to confide to the priest. And even if she had had something to
tell him about the Pani, he would never have believed a particle of it,
he was so attached to her. She, Marianna, had even had to acknowledge
her own sinful thoughts when she had gone to confession. When the
priest had asked her, "Do you nourish wicked or suspicious thoughts
against anybody in your heart?" she had had to confess that she did,
and he had seriously exhorted her not to transgress against the eighth
commandment.
So Marianna shrugged her shoulders when Mr. Tiralla stood before her
with a perplexed look on his face, and gave him an evasive answer. How
horrid his Sophia had been to him again, he complained. He had hardly
been into her room--she had established herself in the little room
upstairs now and rarely came down--and then merely to ask how she was.
He had only ventured to take hold of her hand and ask her if she were
feverish, as her eyes burned so, and she had flung his hand away as if
he were some unclean animal, and had wept, and wept, until he had grown
quite uneasy.
"I don't know," said Marianna. "Pani must be ill, I suppose; you had
better ask the doctor." She really felt very grieved about the poor
master. And [Pg 158] who knows, if he were to die now, perhaps he would
bequeath her something, so that she and her little children could have
enough to live on, or at least give her such a good dowry that Jendrek
or another would make her his kobieta[A]? So she was very obliging, and
was always finding something to do for her master. She would come at
least ten times into the room, when he sat alone with his bottle--poor
master to have to sit quite alone and drink like that!
[Footnote A: Wife.]
Mr. Tiralla did not go to the inn any more, he shunned all those
inquisitive eyes. Everybody used to ask him about his wife when he went
there, and he confessed to the maid with a sigh that he could no longer
boast about her, for when he did he felt as if he were going to choke,
and he could not utter a single word.
Mrs. Tiralla often heard her husband and the maid laughing together as
she sat in her room upstairs; and drinking as well, for she could hear
them draw four or five corks every evening. Ugh! how he could drink!
The woman shuddered with disgust. There was that monster sitting with
the vulgar hussy, cracking jokes that were anything but refined, and
drinking hard. How could he forget himself like that! How could he
intoxicate himself to that degree! Beer alone could not do it, it must
be Tokay as well. But wait, was it not a good thing that he drank so
much? What would otherwise have happened to her? He would have worried
her continually. If she could not be released from him altogether, in
this way she could at least reckon on some hours' freedom. And after
such nights he used to sleep until morning without waking. Oh, if only
he were always, always drunk!
Mrs. Tiralla lay in bed listening to the sounds downstairs, with her
nerves on edge. Now the jokes must [Pg 159] have become very practical,
for the girl was screaming with laughter, and it sounded as if he were
choking. And now--she heard it quite plainly, although not a single
word reached her ears--now he was babbling some absurd nonsense, at
which the girl was almost suffocated with laughter, until he at last
grew silent, and letting his head sink on the table fell asleep.
Now he was happy; he was dreaming blissfully. Oh, it could not be so
bad when you got to the stage of neither knowing nor feeling anything
of it all. She really did not wish him ill--Mrs. Tiralla was almost
praising herself--when she wished for his sake that he were always so
drunk. What good did he get out of life? He had no sense for higher
things, and he did not derive any pleasure from her. He really did not,
she must be just. But how could she give others any pleasure if she
were not happy herself?--for he was there, still there.
She clenched her fists and bit her lips so as not to lament aloud.
Nothing, nothing had helped her, neither the mushrooms, nor throwing
him into the ditch, nor the rat poison. She had not cooked any more
mushrooms for him, although he had often asked for some. "Gather them
yourself," she had answered curtly, and had not allowed Rosa to fetch
any more. There was no object in doing so. And throwing him into the
ditch? Bah! Her upper lip curled contemptuously at the thought of her
own childish stupidity. A ditch was nothing to Mr. Tiralla; he was able
to get out of a much deeper pit. But rat poison! What about that poison
still lying in her chest in the lumber-room? A great longing for it
took possession of her. There was release, it lay in her hands, and
still she did not venture to make use of it. Would he also be guarded
against that poison, which [Pg 160] was said to be strong? Or was it
after all not strong enough to kill people? If only she could find out
exactly. Who could give her the most reliable information? Böhnke? Oh,
that liar! Her whole body shook, she sobbed so tempestuously. He had
deceived her. He had pretended to teach her which were poisonous
mushrooms, and he had not done so. The wretch! Let him never appear
before her eyes again.
Mrs. Tiralla felt furious when she thought of her slave. Had he not
sworn that he was devoted to her, first mutely and then in words? On
Easter Sunday after their festive meal, when Mr. Tiralla had fallen
asleep, surfeited with all the usual rich dishes, and Rosa had gone to
the village church with Marianna, he had besought her on his knees, and
she, with a look at the sleeper, had hastily whispered to him, "If I
were free." Then he had sworn to her with the most solemn oaths that
she should be free, that she must be free. And now? Oh, the coward! The
whole summer had passed by; the swallows had departed long ago, but the
son was flying back to the paternal nest and was bringing somebody else
with him; four more eyes to pry on her.
She was tormented with a great fear when she thought of Mikolai's
return. He had keen eyes, he was not stupid. He was certainly not like
Rosa, who had only one foot on earth, and who used to dream with open
eyes, and believed implicitly what was told her. If anything were to
happen, it must happen before Mikolai returned to his father.
Mrs. Tiralla made up her mind to get out of bed; nobody would see or
hear her now. She had sent Rosa to another room, she could not bear to
have anybody with her. Now the child slept in a room [Pg 161] on the
other side of the passage that had stood empty; and Marianna would
sleep with her when the room downstairs was to be used for the two men;
that is, if Mr. Tiralla's were not at liberty by that time.
She hastily stuck her feet out of bed. She would slip over to the
lumber-room now and fetch it out of the chest. She would not let
Marianna take it to him any more, she would give it to him herself
tomorrow, either in his coffee or wine.
She put her feet on the floor with a jerk. But all at once she felt she
could not walk; her limbs refused to move. She felt as weak as the
first time she got up after Rosa's birth. She began to tremble and
perspire, to sigh and pray, but no angel restored her strength.
Then at last she perceived that the saints did not will it at present,
that the right hour had not yet come. So she crept back into bed and
drew the feather bed over her head. She lay under all the feathers, and
still she felt icy cold, and unutterably miserable and wretched.
Downstairs her husband was carousing with the woman, but she was as
though tied hand and foot. She thought she was dying. She gnashed her
teeth and clenched her hands; she could not move a limb, but her
thoughts flew with lightning rapidity. It was fury, pain, and
disappointed hopes that made her feel so ill, that were consuming her
life. She was going to die; alas, die, before she had lived, before she
had even lived one year in the way she wanted to live.
[Pg 162]