The Paninka at Starydwór had visions again. Marianna spoke of it in the
village, and when she met Jendrek, who was at Mr. Jokisch's, she
complained to him of having to sleep in the same room as the girl. It
was very unpleasant, and she would rather sleep on the straw in the
stables, or anywhere, than be with somebody who talked all night long
as if it were daytime, and who carried on a conversation with the Lord
as though He were a bridegroom whom she was wooing. Mr. Tiralla had
better look round for an earthly bridegroom for his daughter, or give
her at once to the heavenly one, so that the dear soul might get peace
and not toss about and frighten others with her strange goings-on.
Marianna had also complained of it to Mrs. Tiralla, but she had
shrugged her shoulders. Everybody knew that the girl was often very
excited. It was on account of her age, and it would be all right in
time.
Mrs. Tiralla had not time to think of her daughter at present, for all
her thoughts were centred in Martin Becker. The summer was far gone and
autumn was approaching, and she sometimes had a feeling as though the
man she loved would depart with the swallows. And if that were his
intention, then, then----An icy dread made her shiver.
Mr. Tiralla did nothing now but vegetate, sleep and drink, drink and
sleep. He grew more and more dull-witted [Pg 240] every day, shunned
everybody, sat brooding for hours together with his glass in front of
him, now and then had fits in which he would suddenly bellow like an ox
that the butcher has just given a blow between the eyes with his axe,
then fall down like the ox, clench his fists in rage or agony, foaming
at the mouth, and with a rattling noise in his throat, roll his eyes,
hit about him like a madman, and at last fall into a deep sleep,
dead-tired. He had more than once lain on the ground so rigid and
icy-cold that Marianna had buried her face in her hands and howled--now
it was all over--and his wife had stood by him with her finger on her
lips, her big eyes bigger than ever, and her neck stretched out,
listening. But he always awoke again. And even if he felt stiff and
weak, and complained of such pains in his limbs that he dragged his
legs along as though paralyzed and could hardly walk, he still went on
living. He, who had formerly been so stout, now shrivelled up and grew
yellow and thin, and was always hoarse, and did not relish his food
any longer. Mikolai noticed it, and made up his mind to send for a
doctor to see his father, but his stepmother said what was the good of
asking his advice? He would not be able to do anything after all. So
the young fellow gave up the idea, and preferred to use the money it
would have cost to have a doctor to buy a new spencer for Marianna, and
a fur cap for himself for the autumn, so that he might find favour in
the eyes of all the girls.
They cured Mr. Tiralla themselves. Strong wine was good in a case of
great debility, and it was a medicine which Mr. Tiralla would not pour
out of the window. And for the weakness in the legs nothing was so
efficacious as a bottle of Pain Expeller when well rubbed in. You could
buy it at the chemist's in Gnesen, and [Pg 241] it would have a good
effect if used morning and evening.
But after Marianna, who took care of Mr. Tiralla, had rubbed him the
first time, she came running to her mistress in great tribulation. She
had hardly uncorked the bottle, she said--true, it had smelt very good,
sharp and pungent like strong gin--when the master tore it out of her
hand, sniffed it, and then took such a quick, deep gulp of it, that she
had been afraid it would harm him.
But the Pain Expeller did not harm Mr. Tiralla, as it could just as
well be used internally as externally. So after that he took a gulp of
it morning and evening, and sometimes during the day as well, when his
legs required an extra rubbing.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The harvest had all been gathered in, and the wind swept across the
stubble, carrying the loosened cobwebs along with it.
Mrs. Tiralla was standing in the gateway looking away over the empty
fields at the signs of departing summer. She shivered and wrapped
herself up in her shawl; she was filled with a strange feeling of
uneasiness. The time had come which she had always feared; the swallows
were sitting huddled together on the telegraph wires, gathering
together for their flight. To-morrow would be St. Mary's Day, and then
they would depart. And he?
The woman pressed her hands together and gazed with terrified eyes at
the image of the Virgin in the niche. Martin had gone to confession,
for there would be plenary indulgence at the great festival to-morrow.
Oh, if only she, too, had gone! She felt sorry now that she had put it
off. Then they could have walked [Pg 242] to Starawie['s] and back
again together. What a long time it was since they had walked together.
He had not had time lately, they had been obliged to get on with the
harvest, and he had worked so hard that he was too tired in the evening
to do anything but sleep. How often she had fretted to think that she
was not strong enough to work in the fields like Marianna and other
girls, then she would have walked close behind him, would have stooped
continually to pick up the corn he had mown, and would never have felt
tired being so near him.
Now the harvest was over and the winter was drawing near, with its days
when there is hardly anything to do, days in which you can loiter about
and be so happy, _tête-à-tête_ with the one you love, but which are
awful, awful when you are alone. The woman shuddered.
Why should she always imagine that he intended to leave Starydwór? He
had never said a word about it. Nobody had ever said a word about it to
her, and still she felt sure of it. She had looked into his heart, and
it had lost some of its joyousness. But was there any place in
Starydwór where you could feel happy? No, no, no! Her very heart
quivered. She often felt as if the old walls were going to fall down on
her. And the old pines on the outskirts of the Przykop used to bend
their tops at night in the direction of the farm, and groan as though
the souls of those who could find no rest were moaning in their
branches.
And the rats, too, that had remained quiet for so long in the cellar,
had begun again to glide from corner to corner, and through Mrs.
Tiralla's dreams like ghosts that were pursuing her. Mr. Tiralla had
lived too long. If he were not there she would be happy, for then she
could leave the place with Martin [Pg 243] Becker, if he would not
remain at Starydwór; even though she would have to go on her bare feet,
how gladly she would do so!
Mrs. Tiralla looked with longing eyes towards Starawie['s], whose
church steeple was pointing to heaven like a finger. She would feel
easier as soon as she saw Martin again. "For God's sake don't leave me,
darling," she would beseech him. It was not his face that she loved so
much that she could not live without it even for a few hours, it was
not his laugh that had bewitched her, neither was it his light
footstep, nor his slender, erect body, but it was his youth she wanted,
his heart that was so young, so fresh, so pure, that it carried hers
away too to where everything was bright and happy.
"Martin, Martin!" She stretched out her arms as she gave the beloved
name into the care of the winds. Then she saw him coming. He was alone,
for Mikolai, who had gone to confession with him, had stopped at the
booths behind the church. He came quickly along the edge of the field,
as though he were in a hurry. The woman smiled--ah, he was longing to
see her, as she him. "Martin!" she called once more; a sweet welcome
lay in her voice.
But he gave a start. About what was he thinking so gloomily? It was not
his wont to frown like that and keep his eyes lowered. And he did not
jump over the ditch that separated the field from the road, as he
generally did in order to reach the farm gate more quickly; it looked
almost as though his footsteps lagged, as he deliberately walked along
to the crossing that led into the road further down.
She went to meet him. What did she care if the people from the
settlement were standing at the crossroads near the Bo[^z]a m[,e]ka on
their way back from [Pg 244] church, staring at them open-mouthed? She
seized hold of his hands and smiled at him. "What are you thinking of,
dear?"
"I've been to confession," he said in a low voice, as he drew his hands
away from her and put them behind his back, so that she could not get
hold of them. He walked beside her, his head bent and without touching
her.
How his face used to beam when he saw her again after an hour's
separation! How he had wanted to touch her even though it were only her
dress! What was it, what could it be? A sudden sense of hopelessness
took possession of the woman. Yes, he was going away from her, he was
trying to leave her. As she gazed into his face she could discover no
sign of joy at seeing her again, but a struggle was depicted on his
open features, which had never been able to hide anything. "I've been
to confession," he had said, nothing more. Alas, alas, _what_ had he
confessed? What penance had been laid upon him?
She trembled as she pressed closer to him. "What are you going to do?"
she panted.
"I'm going now," he whispered, shaken. "I'm going. Oh, if only I
could!" He uttered a deep sigh.
His sigh gave her back her courage. She felt that it was difficult for
him to leave, and that made her feel stronger. "You'll not go," she
said, smiling amidst her tears, "you'll not leave me. I love you so
dearly. And--aren't we husband and wife in the sight of God?" The words
came to her like an inspiration. They would calm him--husband and wife
in the sight of God. "And those whom God hath joined together let no
man put asunder."
"Be silent!" he cried vehemently, raising his hand [Pg 245] as though
terrified. "You must not interpret it in that way. I've sinned against
the sixth and ninth commandments; I know it now." He bent his head very
low.
"Have you betrayed me?" she stammered, turning pale and then flushing.
"I've not betrayed you," he said sadly. "But I've betrayed myself, if
you call that 'betraying.' How could I do otherwise? I had to confess
that I had unclean desires, that I"--he stopped and pressed his hands
to his head--"oh, if I had never come here! _Psia krew_, if only I had
never seen you." He gave a dry sob as though he were a boy, and ran
away from her through the gate and over the yard into the house,
banging the door after him.
She followed him with her eyes. What she had had a presentiment of had
now happened, what she had never dreamt of at first had come after all.
She stood as though crushed. She felt a pain as though there were
something in her throat. It was her terror that was choking her, but
she forced it down. Clenching her fists so tightly together that her
nails dug into the flesh, she threw her head back. She would not give
him up--and she need not do so either.
But how, how was she to set about it, how was she to bring about that
he remained with her for ever? She stared at the empty fields with
lifeless eyes. Then she threw herself on her knees in her terror and
distress and deep despair. Here under the sky, that looked like a dome
over the flat land, she would pray, she would cry at the door of
heaven, so that the saints who were inside might hear her and give her
advice and be merciful to her.
She knelt a long time in front of the niche in which the image of the
Virgin stood. Ah, the Holy Mother [Pg 246] up there knew her feelings,
for had she not felt seven swords piercing her heart? She would help
her, she must help her. She prayed fervently. And whilst praying, all
kinds of plans flashed through her mind. Should she, too, go to
Starawie['s] to confession? But how was she to begin? How should she
express herself, so that she betrayed nothing to Father Szypulski, and
still was delivered from her agony of mind? She did not know what to
do. Her agony was so great, it seemed to grow and grow in spite of
her prayers, until it was unendurable. If only she could find peace,
peace--but she could only find that when Mr. Tiralla was in his grave.
All at once the woman's lifeless eyes grew animated, and a wave of
colour mounted to her pale cheeks. The thought had come to her that if
Mr. Tiralla were to die Martin Becker would not hurry away from
Starydwór. There would be no need for him to hurry away, for she would
be free and could love whom she wished. And nobody would object then,
not even Father Szypulski.
She buried her face in her hands and shivered with delight. What a life
of bliss displayed itself before her eyes! But--all her misery came
back to her once more--but who would help her to this? She had no more
poison, and her hands--taking them away from her face she stared at
them--these feeble hands could not give him such a push that he,
staggering at the graveside, as he did already, could tumble in
altogether and stretch his aching limbs in welcome peace. Mr. Tiralla
wanted to die, she saw it in his face, she knew it. Had he not groaned,
"If only I were dead!" when they had helped him a short time ago out of
the ditch into which he had fallen in a fit of weakness, when he had
gone out to meet the last wagonful of corn?
It would certainly be best for him if he were dead. [Pg 247] Rosa
shuddered when she saw her father's yellow face and blood-shot eyes,
and smelt his foul breath, and Mikolai felt very annoyed with him,
although he now and then laughed at what he babbled in his
weakmindedness.
If Mr. Tiralla were not there! Oh, would the children not draw a deep
breath of relief when their father was out of the house? It was really
true his presence weighed on everybody. He was so repulsive to look at,
and his continual coughing and groaning were horrible to listen to. If
only she could deliver them all from him, and at the same time give the
man his freedom! It would, indeed, be a good deed. But how was she to
set about it? Mr. Tiralla had an excellent constitution in spite of
everything; he would not drink himself to death quickly enough. Now and
then he did not even care to drink, and he would sometimes push his
glass away as though he disliked it. But he must drink, must drink
more, even if she had to fill his glass herself! Martin must not leave
Starydwór, he must remain!
The woman raised her hands to the image, "Help, help!"
All at once she bethought herself of the schoolmaster. What if he were
to come more frequently and drink with her husband? He must have
somebody to drink with him, so that he got to like it better, so that
he felt an eager desire for beer, wine, and gin. Mr. Böhnke had come
once a week during the summer, and then Mr. Tiralla had always drunk an
enormous quantity, but the man had lately stopped away. He must come
again. Not once a week--no, often, often, every day if possible,
for--the woman started convulsively--for there were not many more weeks
before Martin Becker would be leaving.
[Pg 248]
If she could delay his departure, only for a little while, for one more
month, two months, for then, then--the woman rose from her knees and
drew a deep breath--then the difficult task would, nay, must, have been
accomplished.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
As they sat at supper that evening, Martin Becker began to speak of
going away. You could see that it was very difficult for him to give
notice, he could hardly get it out; his face was burning and he kept
his eyes fixed on the ground.
Mikolai had just returned from the fair in high spirits, but his good
humour now quickly disappeared. What, Martin wanted to leave--what was
the meaning of it? That was a nice piece of news! He had never
mentioned anything to him about it before. "What's the reason of this
all of a sudden, eh?"
He did not care to continue as a farmer, said Martin hesitatingly. He
wanted to look about him a little, perhaps look out for a mill.
But that could not be arranged so quickly, said Mikolai, who began to
stand up for his rights as master, after he had caught an imploring
look from his stepmother. He could not get away from his engagement in
that cool way, although they were friends and had always agreed. Was he
going to leave him in the lurch just when he had the autumn sowing to
do? Mikolai grew furious when he saw all his beautiful plans disappear
like bubbles. "It's a confounded nuisance!" he cried, banging the table
as he shot a look of fierce accusation at his old father. He, he alone,
was to blame for everything going wrong. What other reason could there
be for Martin no longer feeling happy at Starydwór? There was no doubt
[Pg 249] about it; the old man, who was always drunk now, had grown
very objectionable. "Stop with us, do stop," he said, returning to the
charge, and cordially stretching his hand out to his friend. "I promise
we'll alter what you don't like."
Mrs. Tiralla gave a start; now his own son had even said it. "We'll
alter what you don't like." She gave Mikolai a significant look and
tried to catch his foot under the table; let him urge Martin as much as
possible.
So Mikolai, who suddenly thought with dread of having to work all alone
at Starydwór, had recourse to begging. Had they not sworn to be like
brothers, and not to leave each other if they could be of any use?
Could Martin not see that it would be hard work, much too hard work for
him quite alone here? "Father's health is failing," he said; "how long
will he last?" He cast a half contemptuous, half sad look at the man
sitting there so dead to everything; it was hard to see his father like
that. "Martin, brother! And I had hoped that we two should always
remain together, and that you would marry my Rosa!" he exclaimed in
quite a mournful voice.
At that moment Martin, who had listened to it all in silence with his
eyes persistently lowered, jumped up so vehemently that he upset his
chair. "No, no!" he cried, turning quite white.
Mrs. Tiralla, too, grew as pale as death. They glanced at each other
for a moment, almost timidly.
"Let me go," begged the young man. Then his voice grew more energetic.
"I must go. I----"
He stopped; Rosa, who had been sitting quietly at the table, so quietly
that they had scarcely noticed her, suddenly got up and fled out of the
room. Martin thought he could see that her face was suffused with a [Pg
250] deep blush and that she was fighting with her tears. He felt so
sorry for her, she was a good girl! But it was better she should think
he did not care for her. It would not do--no, it would never do.
He gathered himself together once more, and said in a firm voice, "I'm
going. When the first snow falls, we shall have finished the autumn
sowing, and until then I'll work like two for you. You shall have
nothing to complain of, Mikolai. But I must go. The first of January is
the time in this part of the country when everybody changes servants,
but I"--his voice was embarrassed, faltering, but he spoke rapidly--"I
shall not be able to stand it so long. Let me go, Mikolai, let me go on
the first of December. For the sake of our friendship I beg it of you!"
He held out his hand. "Don't refuse. Give me your hand."
Mikolai still hesitated--what was he to do to keep Martin? When he
begged like that, what was he to do--say yes, or no? But a glance from
his stepmother told him to clasp his hand.
December, the first of December! The woman gave a covert sigh of
relief; she almost succeeded in smiling in a friendly way. The look of
anguish disappeared from her face--bah! it was a long time to December,
weeks and weeks, more than two months! All at once she could have
shouted with joy; Mr. Tiralla would not be living then.
"Won't you drink something?" she said to her husband, bending over him
so as to fill his glass.
But Mr. Tiralla shrank back as though she were poisonous, and when she
continued to urge him in a friendly voice he growled, got up from his
chair, and stole out of the room.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
[Pg 251]
Mr. Tiralla stood outside in the yard blinking in the pale moonlight.
It was autumn and the night was cold; he felt so chilly that he
shivered and coughed more than ever; he fumbled about with restless
fingers. Were the powders still in the little box that he had carried
about with him for so long? Were they really there, quite safe? Ugh!
Sophia was trying to kill him again!
His teeth, which had grown quite loose, chattered in his terror. If he
were asleep and felt nothing? Had she not already once put her hand
into his pocket? If she found them this time, he would be done for. But
she should not have the chance. A cunning grin distorted his face,
which had grown as yellow as it before was red, and the expression of
which was now just as weak and malevolent as it before had been
good-natured. He would hide the powders in quite a different place, and
she should never, never get to know where they had been put. No, never!
Casting a timid glance around to see if anybody were watching him, he
tottered across the yard. Nobody was there, nothing but the moon, that
looked out from between the clouds above the barn and gave light.
There was not a sound to be heard, neither snorting nor lowing; the
horses were standing in front of the rack, sleeping, and the cows were
lying in the straw.
There was a hiding-place in the darkest corner of the stables, which he
remembered from his boyhood, and where he had hidden many a pilfered
apple and pear, and his first cigar, from his father's keen eyes.
Look, the loose brick was still in the corner. If you took it out, you
would find a hole three times as big as was necessary for hiding the
little box containing the powders.
[Pg 252]
There, now put the stone into its place again. Nobody would guess what
was lying behind it. Now the spiders could again weave a close web in
front of it like a veil, and nobody would spoil it for them. H'm, that
was very well done, said Mr. Tiralla to himself, with a satisfied
growl. Let Sophia look and look until she was blind, she would never
find them--ha, ha!
He laughed hoarsely to himself. Then he looked around in the dim
stables, in which the lantern only cast a feeble light, and shuddered.
If she were to find them after all? He uttered a deep groan and pressed
his hands to his head. Oh, how awful it was that this terror never left
him in peace. "Ha!" He gave a hoarse cry and shrank back. Was not
something rustling? He trembled, he would have sunk on the ground with
fright if a strong hand had not seized him by the arm and held him on
his feet.
It was Marianna, who had come with her milk pails. She was very
frightened herself--what did Pan Tiralla want there, what was he
looking for? He was not like the young master, who often used to waylay
her at milking time. Poor master! and how ill he looked, it was enough
to make your hair stand on end. She felt very sorry for the old
gentleman. Were they not all making fun of him? And he had always been
so good to her.
So she gave him a cheery smile and clapped him on the back. "You must
not fret, Panje. Don't fret because your wife is good friends with
Becker." She cast a covert glance at him as she said it, for she was
curious to know what kind of a face he would make.
But he did not make a face at all; he only growled, "What's that to
me?" Then he pressed his hands to his head again, and rocked to and fro
like a bear, and uttered deep sighs.
[Pg 253]
The maid felt really terrified. Why did the master give such awful,
heartbroken sighs?
But Mr. Tiralla would not answer her; no, he would not tell. Who knows
what more his wife might do to him if she heard it? He put his finger
to his lips, while his eyes roved about in all directions, and said,
"Sh!"
But inquisitive Marianna would not let him go. Of whom was he so
frightened? Of his wife? It seemed so. Oh, yes--she drew nearer to her
master as she whispered mysteriously--but she was certainly a very
strange cook. Had not she, Marianna, almost died from drinking some
coffee which her mistress had once made for the master?
Mr. Tiralla listened, trembling with horror. Yes, yes, she had wanted
to poison him, he had guessed it long ago. And she still wanted to
poison him. He hid himself behind the girl like a child. "Protect me,
protect me, oh, she's coming!"
Clinging to the girl's skirts, he dragged her into a corner, and,
pressing himself in behind her, held her like a shield in front of him.
Oh, Sophia was coming, where should he fly from her? He wailed like a
boy afraid of the cane.
Marianna had great difficulty in calming him. "Be quiet, Panje, be
quiet," she said; "she mustn't, she won't do anything to you. I,
Marianna, am here, you know. And if she dares after all----"
"Yes, oh, yes," he broke in hastily, "then you'll go to the police
station and say, 'It was she, she, who brought the master to his
grave.'"
Yes, by God she would, the master could rely upon her. Marianna gave
him many a fair promise and swore solemnly she would do it. That calmed
Mr. Tiralla more than anything else.
[Pg 254]
"Oh, thank you, thank you!" Then he gave her all the money he had in
his pocket, and promised to give her much more for herself and children
if she would give information as soon as he lay in his grave.
The two wept together in the dim stables, the man with fear, the girl
in her good-nature. They sobbed in such a heartbroken way and struck
their breasts so loudly that the animals, startled out of their sleep,
turned their heads and looked in astonishment at the strange couple.
The lantern went out, and no ray of light penetrated the darkness.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Meanwhile Mrs. Tiralla was hurrying across the fields. She was quite
alone. Martin had said good night to her as though it had been for
ever. Farewell for ever! If it had been otherwise, he could not have
kept his eyes lowered, and his icy-cold hand had remained only for a
few moments in hers. She had pressed his, but he had not returned the
pressure, rather he had hastily withdrawn his fingers as though hers
were burning him, and had not turned round once more at the door in
order to return her glance with one equally expressive, as he had
always done before. Then an icy-cold fear had taken possession of her,
and all the confidence she had just acquired disappeared again. The
first of December! There was certainly time enough before the first of
December, but who could say that he would really stay until then? Could
he not go off secretly in the night, disappear out of her life as
suddenly and unexpectedly as he had entered it?
As she dashed across the fields it was as though all the stars were
falling from the sky. She was quite breathless, she was running so.
[Pg 255]
Where did she want to go? To Böhnke, the schoolmaster. He must come, he
must help her. Had he not sworn to do so? Had he not sworn without her
asking it that he was hers for ever and ever, through all eternity? In
her mind's eye she saw his pale face, thin and hollow-cheeked, consumed
with passion, and his feverish eyes, feverish with his longing for her.
If she implored him to help her, he would not, could not, refuse. So
she was hastening to him.
She had run out of the house without being noticed. Alas, how quickly
Martin had at other times followed her steps! He had always heard her
softest footfall, her very breath in the dark passage, every movement
of her hand as it glided over his door. To-day nobody had followed her.
A feeling of bitterness overpowered the lonely woman; without knowing
it hot tears ran down her cold face, that was already wet with dew. Was
there nobody who really loved her? She, the pious woman, could no
longer understand how the Sacrament of Penance could strike terror into
any one. And even if she were never to obtain forgiveness, and were to
be lost for ever, she would never give up her love nor her lover. Away
to Böhnke; he would, he must help her.
The dogs barked in the village as the woman tore past. She rushed along
past the sleeping cottages like the wind's bride, her skirts fluttered,
her hair had come undone owing to her hasty flight, and the cold breath
of autumn beat against her face. Nobody met her; it was already late
for the people in the village, and there was hardly a light to be seen
anywhere. If only he were awake! And if he were not awake? Then she
would thump on his door, or knock at his window so loudly with her fist
that he must awake.
There was the house in which he lived. She had [Pg 256] never been
there, but he had told her that his room was on the left side of the
front door. She found his window easily, it was still lighted up, and
the shutters were not closed. God be praised, the saints were with her!
There he was!
She stood on tip-toe and looked in at the low window. He was sitting
at the table, just as she had pictured him to herself, pale and
hollow-cheeked, his face ravaged with passion. The lonely man had a
bottle and glass in front of him, and he filled his glass and drank it
off in one gulp, and filled it again, and then buried his face in his
hands and brooded like Mr. Tiralla used to do.
She knocked, but he did not hear her. Then she thumped with her fist so
that the window panes rattled.
He started up and came to the window. He uttered a suppressed cry in
his fear and joy at seeing her standing there. He tore the window open,
and his hands trembled as he stretched them out. She had come, come to
him? He stared at her with glassy eyes, his breath smelt of drink like
Mr. Tiralla's.
She was afraid of him, and still her distress drew her nearer and
nearer to him. "I've come to you--you," she said in a swift whisper.
She seized his hands imploringly. With a little help from him she swung
herself up, and stood beside him in the room.
There was his bed, there his sofa, there his desk and all his books.
She stared around with eyes in which, however, there was no interest.
She only wanted help, help, and she thought of nothing else.
He had closed the window and he now closed the shutters too. A gleam of
prudence had returned; what would people think if they saw her in his
room at that hour? He drew her to the old sofa, and she [Pg 257] let
him do so; he ventured to kiss her and she allowed him to do that too.
Something rose within her; in her shame and anguish she longed to
thrust him back, but--she had need of him, she had need of him. She
held her breath so as not to smell his. She suffered him to kiss her,
her lips tightly compressed, but when he drew nearer and nearer to her
in his intoxication she repulsed him. Then she recollected that she
would have to put up with it, for she dared not offend him, she must
bind him to her. She tried to find an excuse for her repulse; had he
not deceived her once before with the dish of mushrooms? Could she
really trust him again?
He swore solemnly that she could, glowing with desire.
Then she said, "Pan Tiralla must die, and you, you must help me."
"I--I?" he stammered, all at once sober. He was sorry for the man, he
had been punished enough. Why should he die?
She did not notice his hesitation. "You must drink with him," she
whispered hastily; "drink every day with him at our house, so that he
drinks more, much more than he does now. He doesn't drink enough at
present. You must be with him, you must fill his glass without his
noticing it, you must entertain him the whole time, tell him what he
likes to hear, put him in a good humour by saying, 'Your health!' and
'Much good may it do you!' so that he goes on drinking and drinking.
You must help me in this way." She looked at him imploringly.
He avoided her eyes; no, he could not do that, he did not like to. Mr.
Tiralla was rather fond of him, but how much did she care for him, eh?
Not _so_ much. He snapped his fingers in her face. She preferred [Pg
258] another man, Becker; oh, he knew it very well, and that was the
reason things were not going quickly enough for her. No, he would not
give her a helping hand to that, never, never, he panted, excited to
fury by his passionate jealousy, and let his hand fall with a bang on
the table, "Never!"
She trembled and seized hold of his clenched hand; she must win him, he
must help her, he had no right to refuse her his help, what should she
do then? Thoughts flew like lightning through her brain; the first of
December, the first of December, oh, Martin would run away from her
much earlier than that, he was even now like a young bird trying its
wings, and she would soon not be able to hold him any longer. Martin,
Böhnke--Böhnke, Martin, all ran together. She could not think clearly,
she was beside herself with terror. She threw her arms round the
schoolmaster's neck and, putting her lips close to his ear, sobbed,
"You must, you must, I implore you!"
Her face, which in spite of hot tears and cold dew was still so
alluring, so dazzling, was quite close to his. Then he caught hold of
her with all his strength. "You've made me a drunkard," he jerked out,
from between his clenched teeth, and strained her to his heart, so that
she lost her breath, "and you're making me a murderer--but by God, I
love you, I love you!"
[Pg 259]