Mrs. Tiralla was kneeling in the confessional.
When the turn came for the sins against the sixth and ninth
commandments, she trembled in all her limbs. How quickly and easily she
had hitherto been able to answer in the negative when the question,
"Have you had any unclean thoughts or desires?" had been put to her.
But what was she to say now? How Father Szypulski, who knew her so well
and whom she would probably meet again to-morrow or the day after,
would stare at her when she confessed to him what had tortured her day
and night for weeks and months, ever since Martin Becker had been at
Starydwór. Especially at night when she tossed about so restlessly. If
she were to whisper in a trembling voice that she longed for this man
as she longed for her eternal salvation? And if the priest then
questioned her further, if he went into particulars? If she had to
describe every thought, every wish that filled her soul and her body,
reveal them in such a way that her penitent confession might be
followed by absolution in the Sacrament of Penance?
She felt overwhelmed with shame; she bent her head so low and whispered
so softly that the confessor was not able to hear anything.
And Father Szypulski did not ask any questions; it was not necessary to
go any further into the matter [Pg 195] with this woman. Every country
girl under sixteen had more to confess than she.
After resigning her seat in the confessional to a young peasant woman
who looked contrite and anxious, Mrs. Tiralla repeated the prescribed
prayers before the high altar, and then hastened home.
She hurried along as much as possible; she had even hurried over her
prayers. What had they been doing at home during her absence? Was he
sitting with Rosa again? It was not at all proper, the child was too
old for that. Yes, the time was approaching when she would have to be
taken to Posen, for it was better for her that she should not become
acquainted with what could never be her lot--must never be her
lot--never, never.
The woman's eyes blazed as she hurried along. She pressed her
Prayer-book to her beating heart, and threw her head back with a proud
movement. She had been to confession, and she, the beautiful Mrs.
Tiralla, was now returning home with her sins forgiven.
As she approached the farm she met the schoolmaster coming away from
it. She gave him a nod and wanted to hurry past him. Her uneasiness
drove her on--what were they doing at home; what were they up to? But
he barred her way, so that she was obliged to stop.
"Ah, Böhnke, I've no time now, I'm in a great hurry. Good-bye, let me
go--let me go, I say." With a stamp of her foot she pulled away the
hand which he had seized.
But she did not get rid of him so easily. "One moment. Surely you've
got a moment to spare for me?"
As she did not listen, but continued to hasten on, he ran beside her.
How troublesome he was, if only [Pg 196] she could get rid of him. What
did he want with her? Why did he force himself upon her in this way?
Heaven forfend that he should return to the farm with her. She was
furious; the spring evening was already drawing to a close, Martin
would have returned from the fields, and now he belonged to her. And
this fellow took upon himself to hinder her.
"I've not seen you for ages," stammered Böhnke. "It's so difficult to
catch a glimpse of you."
"That's your fault, Mr. Böhnke," she answered lightly, and shrugged her
shoulders. "You could have come more frequently, you know."
"You used to invite me formerly."
"Well, I do invite you." She gave a mocking laugh. "Do you, perhaps,
expect me to write you a note every day saying, 'Come'? Come, for
goodness sake. You can come whenever you feel inclined."
"I don't feel inclined," he answered bitterly. "How could I feel any
inclination to come to Starydwór? But something drags me there all the
same. I _must_ come, and that's what is so awful, so awful!"
He shouted the last word in a loud voice, and his eyes, that were
generally so dull, glittered as he looked at her.
Ah, so now he was going to reproach her. She slackened her pace
involuntarily; there was no necessity for anybody else to hear it. But
if he thought that she feared him--pooh! he made a great mistake. What
on earth could frighten her now? Nothing whatever, and nobody, if only
she could see Martin every day.
She boldly returned the man's upbraiding look, and they gazed at each
other, until Böhnke had to cast down his eyes. He knew what kind of
woman she was; oh, she was much more guilty than he, for he was [Pg
197] only the one who had been tempted, but she was the temptress. What
if he were to tell what he knew? She was entirely in his power. And
still he lowered his eyes. He loved her, oh God, how he loved her!
He trembled at the thought that she might belong to somebody else, to
that other one perhaps, who was so young and handsome and strong, and
who had lived under the same roof with her since last autumn, during
the whole winter, the short days, the long nights. What was it Mr.
Tiralla had told him? Even he was full of Martin Becker's praises when
they sat together in the evening at the inn. Mr. Tiralla had lately
come more frequently to Starawie['s]; he said he felt ashamed of
getting drunk in his own house. The truth was, however--the
schoolmaster felt sure he was right--that he also was jealous of the
young fellow, and that he did not like to see his wife smile at Becker
any more than he, Böhnke, did. But she should not smile at him, no, she
must not do so. And if Mr. Tiralla did not forbid it, then he--yes, he
would do so.
"You're good friends with Becker," he hissed, and he seized the woman's
wrists so firmly, in spite of his trembling hands, that she could not
get loose.
She struggled, she would have liked to run away; no, she would hear
nothing, nothing at all.
But he whispered in her ear in a hoarse voice that was half choked with
grief and fury, "You're deceiving Mr. Tiralla and me. But if that fool
stands it, I won't. Take care. I know everything--I know you well--I
will speak--yes, yes, by God I will if you don't----"
"You're threatening me?" she cried, interrupting him with a shrill
laugh. She jerked her hand free and flung his away. "You don't
intimidate me. Go, inform against me, I'm not afraid. I"--she spread
out her arms and an enthusiastic expression transfigured [Pg 198] her
face--"I should love to suffer. Jesus Christ also suffered on the
cross. It would be no suffering for me, it would be a joy." Humbly
bending her head she made the sign of the cross.
What did she mean? Why did she say that with such fervour? Böhnke did
not understand her to-day, although he had hitherto understood her so
well. He did not guess that she was seized with an ardent desire to
suffer for her love, if necessary.
What could affect her if she only had Martin, only him? And he would
soon be hers, she felt it. The woman looked down on the man from a
triumphant height.
Böhnke eyed her in perplexity. He tried to endure her gaze, but he felt
so confused that he once more had to lower his eyes.
What a poor wretch he was, a real coward. Her voice was full of deep
contempt as she said icily, "Let me go on now, Mr. Böhnke."
"No, no," he cried, seizing hold of her dress. No, she must not leave
him in anger. He would--he did--recall everything; he had said nothing,
he knew nothing, guessed nothing. Only she must not look at him like
that, he could not bear it, it broke his heart. He almost whined as he
implored her pardon; surely she must know that he was mad,
irresponsible, that it made him furious to know that she was always
with the other man, whilst he, alas, had to remain so far away from
her.
"You needn't stay away, Mr. Böhnke."
"But I can't bear to see you with the other man," he cried. "Can't you
understand?"
Yes, she understood very well. She almost felt sorry for him now.
Jealousy is a terrible torment. Would Martin have returned from the
fields by now? [Pg 199] Would he be sitting with Rosa, or perhaps
standing about with Marianna? She grew hot and cold by turns. Both
things were dreadful, she could not permit either of them. She, who a
moment ago had been so triumphant, felt disheartened and cast down with
fear and torment and uncertainty. Oh, this uncertainty was something
dreadful; did he not care for her a thousand times more than for that
little girl? Yes, it must be true, Böhnke must be suffering too.
Her glance was full of compassion as she looked at him. How he shuffled
along; he looked like an old man, and he was so pale and emaciated,
there seemed to be no youth left in him. She laid her hand on his
sleeve. "Surely we are not going to be enemies, Böhnke?" she said
gently.
"No, certainly not," he jerked out. He bent his head, and, hastily
pressing his dry lips to the beautiful, white hand which formed such a
contrast to the dark sleeve on which it was resting, said:
"Forgive me, for God's sake, forgive me."
"I forgive you," she answered. She stooped and picked up his hat which
had fallen off his head without his noticing it. "Here, put it on."
And then she held out her hand, and allowed him to grasp both her
wrists and stand thus for a few moments taking leave of her.
He felt a little calmer now; she was not angry with him, thank God, not
angry. He stood a long time after she had left him, following her with
his eyes. How daintily she tripped along in spite of her haste. Her
dress did not knock against her like a heavy sail against a clumsy
mast, but the wind played with it wantonly, so that you could see her
ankles, her striped stockings, and smart white petticoat even at a
distance. Böhnke felt his heart stand still with delight. There [Pg
200] she went to meet somebody else, leaving him behind; but his
thoughts hurried after her all the same and clung to her like a chain.
She would never be able to get rid of him entirely. And even though she
might curse the chain, it would always clatter behind her and warn her
that he and she--yes, that they were forged together for time and
eternity. That consoled him. And a hope arose within him that the chain
might become still stronger and tighter. Then might the angels hide
their faces and weep when God cursed them--if only he and she might go
to hell together.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Mrs. Tiralla rejoiced to think that she had so easily got rid of the
schoolmaster. It would have been so tiresome if he had returned with
her. She ran through the gate with a light heart.
The stillness of evening lay over the farm. The pigeons that had their
cot on the high pole near the pond were already sitting huddled
together on the perch in front of their door, cooing softly. How tender
it sounded; it seemed to Mrs. Tiralla as though it had never sounded so
tender before. And the cock was strutting about among his hens; the
woman thought she could see that he particularly wished to please the
white hen. A couple of early white butterflies, the first heralds of
approaching spring, were fluttering about, exhausted by their amorous
dalliance. Mother stork was standing on her nest on the old barn; the
couple had returned the day before in renewed love to the home they had
left last autumn. Marianna was crouching on the doorstep peeling
potatoes for supper, and quite close to her stood Mikolai with his back
against the wall and his hands in his trouser pockets, looking down
with a smile at the girl's firm brown neck that showed above her white
frill.
[Pg 201]
How beautiful everything was! Mrs. Tiralla closed her eyes as though
dazzled, then opened them wide with a dreamy expression and gave a deep
sigh full of longing. Everything spoke of love. What did it matter if
the butterflies were dead by to-morrow morning, if they were found
lying on the ground like small, withered leaves, killed by the night
that was still so raw? Had they not spent a merry hour, disporting
themselves at love's fair game? She looked round; where was Martin
Becker? Had he not returned from the fields with Mikolai?
"Heigh!" Her voice sounded shrill as she called to her stepson. "Where
are the others? Your friend and Rosa?"
"I don't know," answered the young man in a calm voice, and went on
philandering with the maid, in spite of his stepmother's arrival. He
had got hold of a long straw, with which he was tickling her neck, and
which he quickly hid behind his back whenever she let the potato-knife
fall and laughingly tried to seize it.
Where could Martin and Rosa be? They were not in the room downstairs,
for she had looked in at the low window. She gazed around with burning,
impatient eyes; where had they hidden themselves? All at once she felt
disgusted with the two flirting on the doorstep. Were they not ashamed
of themselves? She tore the straw angrily out of her stepson's hand and
pulled it to pieces. "Stop that nonsense," she said sharply, frowning.
"Go in, Marianna, _dalej_, don't lounge there any longer. When Mr.
Tiralla comes home we are to have supper, _dalej_."
Disturbed in her amusement, the maid, who was still quite hot from
laughing, murmured sullenly, "The master hasn't been out at all; he's
in the house. That [Pg 202] man was here"--she turned up her nose--"the
schoolmaster from Starawie['s]. I had to bring some bottles up from the
cellar, and they've been drinking beer and gin. Now the master has gone
to bed and is asleep." She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head as
she tripped away.
"Father drinks," said Mikolai, his laughing face all at once overcast.
"He never drank before, why does he do so now?"
He looked at his stepmother inquiringly; he felt as though he must
demand an explanation of her. How could she allow him to drink so much?
And it was not only beer and wine, for a short time before, when he had
gone to the pig-market in Gnesen, he had brought gin back with him, a
whole keg of clear gin, some bad stuff made of potatoes, like that
given to reapers at harvest-time. And he drank it off as if it were
small beer. "Tell me how it is that father has so changed," he
continued, in a voice that sounded quite rough. "He used to be so
lively formerly. He has always been fond of a drink--who wouldn't
be?--but still he never took more than he could stand. But now!" He
shook his head, and his glance seemed to Mrs. Tiralla to have suddenly
grown suspicious. "I don't know how it's happened."
"I don't know either," said she, as she cast her eyes around. Where had
those two crept to? They had both gone, and probably together. Nothing
else was of any consequence to her at the present moment. Let Mikolai
think what he liked, it was perfectly immaterial to her. "Where can
Becker be?" she asked impatiently.
Mikolai's thoughts were still with his father, and he kept staring at
the pavement with a heavy frown, which was not at all in keeping with
his round, innocent [Pg 203] face. It grieved him very much to think
that his old father, of whom he was so fond, should drink like that. It
was fortunate that his mother had not lived to see it. It seemed to be
quite immaterial to his stepmother. Or was he wrong? She was looking
quite pale all at once, positively distraught. He must be wrong, she
took it, no doubt, just as much to heart as he did. He felt sorry that
he had wronged her if only in thought, and held out his hand to her
with a good-natured laugh. "Well, what do you say to breaking the old
man of this bad habit in good time? Anyhow, it won't kill him yet."
"Anyhow, it won't kill him yet," she repeated absent-mindedly. But she
could not stand it any longer, she must know where the two were. "Where
can Rosa be? _Psia krew!_" she cried in a furious voice.
Her stepson stared at her in amazement. How mad she was; it amused him
to see her. She had always been so very refined, but now she could
never make a wry face again when his father rapped out an oath or
two. Besides, he never meant any harm by it, but she was furious
to-day--ugh! He put his arm round her waist and said jokingly, "H'm,
the Pani is in a bad temper to-day."
She could not control her feelings any longer, and burst into tears in
her despair at not being able to find out where the two had gone. She
laid her head on her stepson's arm and sobbed.
Mikolai felt dismayed and then overcome; he resembled his father in
that particular, and could not bear to see a woman cry. And especially
this woman, who really was good. He had never known that his stepmother
was so tender-hearted. How she fretted about his father.
[Pg 204]
Mrs. Tiralla wept a long time on his shoulder.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Martin Becker remained longer in the fields than Mikolai. He had still
to sow some clover seed in a piece of fallow-land, when the latter led
the horse home with which he had been harrowing.
The young sower whistled as he walked up and down the furrows. A mild
breeze was blowing across the fields which had nothing in common with
the raw March winds they had been having lately. Was spring really
coming? Why, there was Rosa!
He put his hand up to his eyes that the last rays of the setting sun
should not hinder him from watching her. The farm was not far from the
field they were tilling, and the young girl had just come out of the
gate and was walking towards him without hat or shawl, her hands
hanging idly by her sides.
As Rosa saw that he was smiling at her, she smiled too; her radiant
happiness made her look prettier than usual. "You must leave off
working now, Mr. Becker," she cried gaily. "I've come to fetch you.
You've been so busy. Aren't you tired?"
"No." As he smiled at her he showed his strong teeth, which looked
whiter and more shining than ever under his black moustache.
"Jendrek has never done so much," she remarked knowingly, "and the
other labourers haven't either."
"But I'm not a labourer."
"Oh, I didn't mean that"--she turned crimson--"oh, no." She held out
her hand artlessly. "Please don't be angry with me. Mother has told me
that you've some money and that you really need not work here. I know
it very well."
"I like working here," he said quickly. "I like it very much"--he
hesitated for a moment and cast a [Pg 205] quick glance at the delicate
face that was half averted--"very much indeed."
"That's very nice of you," she said innocently, looking at him with a
friendly smile.
He cast a complacent glance at her; how blooming she looked now, much
more so than when he came. She would soon be old enough to get married.
Many a wooer would come forward; her curly hair that shone like gold
was very conspicuous among all the smooth, dark-haired women of the
country. She would also have a good dowry; Mr. Tiralla had hinted at
that pretty broadly. And Mikolai was a good fellow and an affectionate
brother; he would be pleased to let his sister have her portion. And
she would be a patient, good wife. Martin felt as though he ought to
make hay while the sun was shining.
"I'll stop now," he said, suddenly making up his mind, and throwing the
last seeds he had in his bag at random; he put on his coat, which he
had hung over the plough. "Shall we go for a little walk, Miss
Tiralla?"
Yes, Rosa would like that very much. Had he ever been in the Przykop?
Perhaps there would be some violets there now. But he must not say
"Miss," she was not grown up, her mother had said that repeatedly, she
was only a child.
"Well, then, Rosa--Röschen, let's go." He held out his hand and she put
hers into it, and thus they strolled into the Przykop. There was not a
shoot to be seen yet on the alders or willows, or on the few oaks that
were scattered about, but the old pines were as green as ever and smelt
fresh and alive. The woodpecker was hammering at their bark, and the
wood-pigeons were cooing up in their big branches that shone so red.
[Pg 206]
Everything was very quiet in the hollow, and the air was so mild that
you could have sat down. Martin felt a wish to do so, but the girl
began to look about busily for the bushes in whose red sprigs the sap
was already coursing, and to turn the big heaps of brown leaves over
with her hands and feet. Would she not be able to find the first violet
under one of them? Oh, now she had found one! She shouted with joy.
Who would have thought that this gentle girl could be so jubilant? The
young fellow was delighted to hear her, and stood quite still and
smiled down on her as she with nimble fingers stuck a violet and a leaf
into the top button-hole of his coat. He very nearly gave her a
kiss--nobody was looking on, and her shining parting was so near his
mouth.
"The stars are twinkling, the night is cold,
Open the window for thy lover bold."
he began to sing.
"I don't know that song," she said innocently.
He felt ashamed of continuing it. It was a song that the soldiers used
to sing, and also the couples as they walked through the corn in the
evenings, but it was not suitable for her ear.
Then they strolled about hand-in-hand. How beautiful everything was.
The man had never been accustomed to forest and shade, and the big
trees in the Przykop inspired him with awe and reverence. He would
never venture to take any liberties here; besides, it would be very
wrong of him if he were to disturb this child's innocent mind.
He walked beside the girl as though he had been her brother. "Why are
you so silent?" she asked. "Tell me something, but please no stories
like those Marianna tells me, something nice. Do you always [Pg 207] go
to Mass as frequently as you do here? Shall you go to confession when I
go? Is there a nice church at Opalenitza? Have you also a Holy Virgin
on the altar who performs as many miracles as ours does?"
Then he spoke to her of his mother. She had been a happy woman, for she
had had a good husband. And she had had many children, and they were
good and honest, and happy too. Two daughters were married, the eldest
son had the farm at Opalenitza, the second was an engineer in the Rhine
province, the third had re-enlisted with the chasseurs in Liegnitz, and
he, the miller, was the fourth and youngest. If everything went well,
and he got a wife who had enough money, with the sum he had, to buy a
good mill, then he, the youngest, would be the happiest of them all.
"If only my mother had lived to see it," he said softly, looking at the
girl. And then he went on to speak of his parents, who had always been
so united, who had almost died together--his father six years ago and
his mother only a few months later--and there was so much love in his
voice that Rosa began to cry. He did not understand her tears. Why was
she crying? He put his arm tenderly round her shoulders and drew her
towards him in the quiet Przykop. "Why are you crying, Röschen, my
little girl?"
She said nothing, but continued to cry bitterly. Oh, how happy they had
been. Husband and wife always united; many children; and almost dying
together. She shivered; that must be even more glorious than in
Paradise. She clung to him more closely in her longing and sadness.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was late when they came out of the hollow. A grey, rising mist
covered the ploughed field as they [Pg 208] crossed it hand-in-hand.
They did not let go of each other until they passed through the gateway
leading into Starydwór.
Now they were back at the farm again. Marianna was singing as she
rattled the pots and pans, Mikolai stood laughing by the kitchen fire,
but Rosa's face continued to wear a dreamy, radiant expression.
Although she was always such an obedient, conscientious child, it did
not affect her in the slightest when her brother shouted to her from
the kitchen, "Your mother has been looking for you for such a long
time; she's very cross. Where have you been?" She did not notice her
mother's eyes resting on her with a piercing expression; she did not
feel the oppressive silence that reigned at supper that evening.
Mrs. Tiralla kept an obstinate silence; she seemed so low-spirited that
the men involuntarily became low-spirited, too--that is, Mr. Tiralla
and Mikolai. Becker's eyes were fixed on his plate; he was quiet and
happy, and ate with a good appetite. What did he care if the woman was
in a bad humour? Let the old man and Mikolai dance to her piping, he
would not. And then the thought came to him that a girl like Rosa would
never want to order about, and that a man would fare well with a wife
like her: always united, and many children, and, and--he did not get
any further. He felt a glance resting on him that weighed him down, so
that he could no longer think of all those pleasant things.
Mrs. Tiralla kept her eyes fixed on the young man; her brows were
contracted, her lips pouting. She felt so scornful, so angry. So he
preferred that chit to her! But then her scorn melted and a world of
love, grief, longing, and even humility lay in her glance. If only he
would look at her, only for one [Pg 209] short moment. Ah, now he was
looking up--her glance had drawn him--he had to look at her, was
obliged to.
At that moment, when she was glowing with happiness, she became a most
dangerous temptress. A seductive smile parted her lips, her eyes shone
in radiant splendour. She had never been so beautiful, never so
amiable.
Even Mr. Tiralla profited by her radiant smiles; he simply basked in
them. She was looking at him so kindly; ah, there was not another woman
who could be compared with his Sophia. Her smile intoxicated him. What
did it matter that she had often been very horrid to him? Pooh! that
was all forgotten now, it was some nonsense that he must have dreamt.
She had certainly been very strange at times--h'm, very strange, but
to-day she was an angel. He even forgot to drink when he looked at her.
He kissed the tips of his fingers, threw her the kiss, and stared at
her with watery eyes.
Martin Becker gazed at her too, as though there were something quite
new about her. He had never known that she was so beautiful; by Jove,
there was nobody like her. The girl certainly resembled her very
little. No wonder that everybody ran after her, as Mr. Tiralla had told
him the first day they met; he could easily believe it. He stroked his
dark moustache and looked her full in the face with his fine eyes. Then
she smiled still more seductively, and he smiled at her again. He liked
her very much.
As they said good night to each other her hand nestled in his; he felt
its warm softness, and pressed it more firmly than he had ever done
before. How thin Rosa's little hands were compared with hers.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
[Pg 210]
Mrs. Tiralla was standing in her room upstairs in front of the
looking-glass, undressing. She was doing it very slowly; she felt the
whole time as though she must go downstairs once more and walk down the
long passage past the young men's door. Was he already asleep?
Mikolai and Becker had gone early to bed, as they had to rise with the
lark next morning and go to their work. Rosa had likewise gone to her
room after supper. But Mrs. Tiralla had talked some time to Marianna in
the kitchen, whilst her husband remained sitting at the table with his
head resting in his hands, dozing. He had made no attempt to keep his
wife when she left the room.
Did he know by now that he was repugnant to her? Mrs. Tiralla almost
thought he did; he often looked askance at her now, whilst his purple
lip would droop sullenly. She was glad to think it; good, let him know
it; it had taken her long enough to make him understand that she hated
and despised him too. Thanks be to God and all His saints, praise be to
them a thousand times, Mr. Tiralla had left her in peace for months,
from the day his son had returned home, the day she had failed in her
attempt with the poisonous corn. The saints had not permitted it at the
time, and it was a good thing, for since he had taken such a liking to
the bottle, she had got rid of him in that way. She had had nothing to
confess to Father Szypulski.
"Thanks be to the holy saints." The woman devoutly made the sign of the
cross as she stood before the glass. Then she thrust her hands through
her hair and pulled her long, thick tresses down, so that they hung
around her like a smooth, silky mantle. She shook them and drew a deep
breath. How heavy, oppressive, and disquieting the room felt.
[Pg 211]
She went to the window, opened it with an impatient movement, and leant
out as far as she could. It was like spring outside. The night was dark
and mild, there was a smell of the earth in the air and the stars were
twinkling. Just over the farm there was such a golden light, that she
could see a couple walking up and down near the pond with their arms
thrown round each other.
It was Marianna. But with whom? The man was tall, taller than Mikolai.
A deadly fear overpowered her; she would not stand that, she had better
run downstairs. But it was not Becker, he had not that clumsy, rolling
gait, he was much more erect. But even if it were not he, how she
envied the girl down there.
She pressed both hands to her face; she would not look at them, she
would not listen to their whispers. But a shiver ran through her
similar to what she had only felt once before in her life, and of which
she now no longer knew if it had been sweet or terrible. She felt as
she had done that time in the quiet room in early, long-gone-by days,
when she had lain on her knees before her best friend and had implored,
demanded his help. In those days that shiver full of presage and bliss
had almost bereft her of her senses; she could have shouted with joy
and still have died of weeping. Now, so long afterwards, she once more
felt the same kind of shiver.
She turned away. She staggered from the window to the glass as though
she were about to faint, and stared into it with half-closed, swimming
eyes. The balmy air blew in through the open window and fanned her bare
shoulders, neck, and arms. It felt like a soft hand, and she held her
breath as it caressed her. She kept her eyes fixed on the glass; was
she [Pg 212] not too old, was she really young enough? Oh, yes. She had
to laugh. A voice within her seemed to say, "You still look like a girl
and you are still like a girl." And when she came to think of it, was
she Mr. Tiralla's wife in the eyes of God? No. He had forced her, but
she was not his wife in spite of that. God alone makes husband and
wife.
If only he would come now, if only he were here. "Holy Mary, all ye
angels and archangels, ye fourteen helpers in need, lend me your aid."
The woman stretched out her arms as though she were intoxicated.
Suddenly she thought she heard somebody coming cautiously upstairs. The
floor outside her room creaked.
She rushed to the door and unbolted it with a jubilant cry like one who
has been saved. There stood Mr. Tiralla.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The night grew dark, the stars hid themselves behind clouds, as though
they were afraid of looking down on Starydwór. The balmy wind, which
seemed to carry spring on its wings, had brought rain. All at once
there came a heavy shower, which turned into a slow drizzle as soon as
the warm air had grown cool, and which continued until the misty, grey
dawn broke.
The young men buttoned up their coats before starting for the fields.
What a change in the weather! They felt chilled to the bone. Somebody
might at least have made them a cup of hot coffee. But nobody appeared,
and there came no answer to their soft call of "Heigh, Marianna,
heigh!" The whole house was as silent as death; it was as though all
life were extinct. There was nothing for it; Mikolai had to make the
fire and boil the coffee himself, or they would [Pg 213] have to leave
the house on that wet, sullen-looking morning without something warm to
drink.
Mrs. Tiralla had heard their call. She was lying on her bed with open
eyes, but was unable to rise. She felt worn-out, bruised in body and
mind; she had only sufficient strength left to bite her pillow, so as
to suppress her sobs. "Holy Mary, wert thou asleep?" Had the angels and
archangels not heard her when she called to them? He, he had come--but
not the one she had prayed for.
The woman clenched her fists in impotent fury, whilst her glowing
cheeks burned with shame. All the aversion, all the hatred she had ever
felt for her husband was nothing compared with this intense, blazing
passion that raged within her. How was she to avenge herself? If only
she had the poison which she, like a fool, had given back to him. Then
she would have rushed downstairs and calmly, quite calmly, poured some
of the white powder into his half-open mouth whilst he was lying in his
bed snoring. It would have acted, she felt sure of that. The saints
would not let innocent animals die, but they would look on with a smile
when the devils carried Mi. Tiralla's soul off to hell.
The woman uttered wild curses as she reproached herself for her
stupidity. How foolish, how unutterably foolish she had been to give up
those powders that could have released her. If she had had them now,
she would have given ten years of her life, nay more, her hope of
everlasting bliss. "Yes, take it," she groaned, starting up in bed and
stretching her clenched fists towards heaven, "take it in exchange for
them."
Then she prayed. It was a meaningless jumble of words, for she was
beside herself, but still she felt [Pg 214] somewhat calmed as she
moved her lips and made the sign of the cross and hit her breast. Her
thoughts dwelt on the powders as she mechanically repeated the usual
prayers. Perhaps she could get them again, after all? He had put them
into his writing-desk that day, she had seen him do it. True, it was
always locked, but--"Blessed be the Holy Virgin and all the saints,"
she cried, drawing a breath of relief--but the key was on the ring in
his trouser pocket.
She sat down on the side of the bed, and pushing her dishevelled hair
away from her distraught-looking face she groped for her slippers. It
was still early; he would still be fast asleep and Rosa and Marianna,
too, and Martin and Mikolai had already gone to the fields. There would
be nobody to frustrate her plans this time.
She could not wait to dress herself properly, but throwing a petticoat
on, she thrust her bare feet into her slippers and glided downstairs.
She opened the door into Mr. Tiralla's room almost noisily; she was
right, there he lay snoring, his eyes closed, his mouth wide open.
Quick, quick!
She looked round the room; there stood the old bureau. But, alas, he
had got the trousers on in which he always kept the bunch of keys. He
had thrown himself on his bed half-dressed; a sock and a trouser-leg
were sticking out from under the feather bed which he had drawn around
him.
A feeling of intense disappointment took possession of her for a
moment. But then a look of contempt crossed her face; he was snoring,
he would not notice anything. She conquered the feeling of disgust at
having to touch him, drew the feather bed away from his massive body
that lay there like a felled log, and put her nimble fingers into his
pocket. He was as [Pg 215] lifeless as a stone; she hardly considered
it necessary to suppress a cry of joy when she held the coveted key in
her hand.
She ran to the bureau and stuck it into the lock; the desk creaked
loudly as she opened it. There were the drawers. Heedless of danger she
turned her back on the bed and began to search for the powders. She
opened and closed one drawer after the other with an angry bang at not
finding what she sought. Where were they, where could they be? Stop! In
this drawer, quick, what was that that gleamed so white and new under
all those papers yellow with age? It was the box, the box! She
stretched out her hand to seize it--but the hand remained poised in
mid-air.
"_Psia krew_, what are you doing there?" cried Mr. Tiralla. He had
awaked.
She wheeled round and they gazed at each other with pale faces. She
stood there like a delicate, feathery leaf that a breath of wind has
caused to tremble; but he was trembling too. Neither of them was
capable of saying a word. Mr. Tiralla had not uttered a sound since his
first cry; he was like a man who is being choked, and his face grew
purple as he struggled for air. What was she doing there, what did she
want, what was she looking for? Why did she come so furtively when he
was asleep? Did she want to rob him? He had never refused her any
money, it could not be that she was looking for. Perhaps it was for
the----? He grew rigid with horror, his tongue hung out of his mouth
and he gasped and gasped. "Let, let----" He could not say anything
more, but fury, fear, and the horror of it all, extorted from him an
inarticulate cry like that of an animal.
Then she, too, gave a shrill cry and ran out of the [Pg 216] room with
hair flying, leaving the drawers and the desk open.
He remained lying on his bed as though paralyzed; only his eyes
wandered timidly from corner to corner. He was so terrified; the
strong, stout man felt all at once quite helpless. Had she gone--had
she really gone? He listened to every sound. But there was nobody
creeping outside in the passage, and everything remained perfectly
quiet until Marianna's noisy tread was heard. Then her loud singing in
the kitchen and her rattling with the rings on the stove gave him
courage, and he stood up and tottered to the bureau with shaking knees,
took the box with the powders out of the drawer which she had left
open, and hid it inside his shirt. If only she did not find it--if only
she did not find it!
Then he staggered to the washstand and stuck his head, which felt
dizzy, deep down into the basin. How his face smarted. He was cooling
it as the maid came in.
Marianna clasped her hands in dismay. "What is it, Panje?" Oh, dear,
what a sight Pan Tiralla was. It was awful, his face was scratched all
over. Where had he got it? Had he fallen amongst thorns? She ran into
the kitchen lamenting and fetched a little lard to put on it.
Mr. Tiralla sat as quiet as a lamb and let the servant smear his
scratches with it, but he never said a word, in spite of Marianna's
inquiries. Fallen amongst thorns, fallen amongst thorns, yes, that he
had! He continued to nod in a stupid kind of way. Then he groaned and
moaned like a man who has been heavily wounded, and laid his head on
the table. It was all up, all up. And he had believed, when she was so
kind to him the night before, kinder than she had been [Pg 217] for a
long time--oh, what a fool he had been, what an idiot! He began to cry
in a resigned kind of way. He could not think any more; besides, he did
not want to think about it any more--what was the good? He could not
alter what was coming.
He sent for gin. Ah, that made him feel easier, that did him good. He
sat banging the table with his fist, and now and then he would give a
hiccoughing sob, "So-phia--So-phia!" He had always loved her so.
[Pg 218]