Winter had come during the night.
Even yesterday the gossamer had flown across the fields and hung fast
to the bare bushes and tops of the few remaining turnips; to-day the
first snow lay on the ground. There was not much of it, but still it
was wet and cold.
The young men, who were sowing the last seeds, finished their day's
work in silence, a silence that was as heavy as the grey, lowering sky
overhead, and as sad as the damp, sullen-looking fields in November.
They had nothing pleasant to say to each other. Martin's thoughts were
far away, he was longing to leave Starydwór, leave it far behind him;
and Mikolai was also deep in thought.
The happiness that Mikolai had felt during the summer was a thing of
the past. Although a farm of one's own is not to be despised, he would
much rather be servant somewhere else than master at Starydwór. How
awful his father was! Why, he was out of his mind! If only he could
catch that fellow Böhnke by the throat, he thought to himself,
clenching his fists in fury. Why did he come creeping to the farm day
after day, locking himself in with his father? They never let anybody
in, but they would drink and drink, until they had not as much sense
left as the cattle. Mikolai swore to himself as he thought of it. And
then his stepmother even expected [Pg 260] him to put the horses in and
drive that drunken rascal home when he felt too tired to have a chat
with Marianna. Let him sleep himself sober in the first ditch he came
across; it was quite good enough for him. But instead of that he had to
be hoisted up into the cart and driven at a walking pace along the
pitch-dark road, so that he, Mikolai, was frozen and wet to the skin
and felt thoroughly annoyed. What could she see in the schoolmaster to
make her so patient and calm that she put up with his visits, which
were certainly not doing his father any good?
The young fellow felt very surprised, and now and then something like
suspicion awakened within him. How could his stepmother always be
smiling? Was it not rather a thing to cry about? But who could know if
her smiles came from the heart? She was, no doubt, to be pitied too. It
was wrong of Marianna to speak so unkindly of her mistress. She ought
not to shrug her shoulders and make faces, but it was just like a
servant. That was another cause of annoyance to the young man. If there
had been anything between the schoolmaster and his stepmother, he
would, of course, have noticed it of his own accord, he was no longer a
foolish boy. Rosa gave him much more to think of than that. He felt
very uneasy about her, she was so strange. He could not dissuade her
from that confounded wish of hers to go into a convent. She persisted
in it more than ever. He had already tired himself out with talking to
her about it. She would listen quietly, with her eyes fixed on her
hands lying idly in her lap, and then, when he knew of no other
argument to bring forward, she would say softly, but more decidedly
than if she had spoken in a loud voice, "I shall go into a convent, all
the same."
What a pity the girl was so holy. "Holy," that [Pg 261] was what
Marianna called her. If only Becker and she had married, how nice it
would have been. Mikolai still harped on this, and it was this
disappointment that grieved him most of all. Why did Martin not care
for Rosa?
As they were returning home together in the early twilight, Mikolai
once more took courage. He was certainly not going to offer Rosa again
to Becker--he felt too sorry for her to do that--but he wanted to hear
why his beautiful plan could not be realized. So he said, "The snow has
come, now you'll soon be going," and cast a covert glance at his friend
to see what he would say to it.
Martin answered quite simply, "I shall soon be going."
"There's still a fortnight," said Mikolai.
"There's still a fortnight," repeated Martin, and then gave a deep sigh
of relief as one who again breathes light, fresh air after it has been
sultry and oppressive for a long time.
Mikolai sighed too. _Psia krew_, how difficult it was to sound the
fellow. Although he thought he had introduced the subject so cunningly,
he saw he would have to be still more explicit. So he continued, "Only
a fortnight longer, a very short reprieve. We shall all miss you, Rosa
especially. Well, well!" He paused for a moment, and then cast another
covert glance at Martin.
The latter's face, however, was inscrutable; it was as though it were
hewn out of stone, and he could learn nothing from it. But what was
that? It seemed to Mikolai as though his friend's pale face had
suddenly flushed. Then he turned his head from side to side, as if his
collar were too tight, and swallowed a few times as if he were gulping
something down, and then [Pg 262] the corners of his mouth drooped as
though something were grieving him. At last Mikolai could no longer
restrain himself. Why this dissimulation? He put his arm round the
other's shoulders and said in a low, cordial voice, "Marry my sister,
do. She's good and pretty and has also expectations. We three will be
very happy together. Take her, Martin, I beg of you."
"Let me go!" cried the man, pushing Mikolai away as though he had said
something more than unkind. Then he strode over to the other side of
the road and kept his head obstinately turned towards the field. He did
not look at his friend again, so that Mikolai, who was completely
nonplussed, grew silent too.
So they walked along in silence through the soft mud and deep ruts,
each on his side of the road. Mikolai's eyes suddenly felt wet. The
deuce, what was that? He rubbed them angrily, but they were wet the
next moment again. Here, here they had driven last summer--only a few
months ago--with hay and flowers on the wagon, and had been so gay. And
now? His lips trembled, he felt unstrung. At last he had really seen
that things must take their course.
When they reached the farm the house lay in darkness. There was only a
light in Mr. Tiralla's room to the right of the passage; they could see
it shining through the closed shutters.
What, was that confounded Böhnke there again? If you had a sharp ear
you could hear somebody speaking in a subdued voice, almost a whisper,
and a gurgling sound as though they were drinking quickly and then
putting their glasses down. Mikolai flew into a rage; he felt just in
the humour to pitch the fellow out. It was not exactly the thing he
cared to do, for a guest is sacred; but that cad was no guest, he was
[Pg 263] a monster. He was ruining his father entirely. Mikolai lifted
the latch angrily, but the door did not yield, it was locked. Then he
shook it in his fury, "Hi, open the door!" He banged and scolded. But
everything remained quiet in the room, nobody answered and nobody
opened the door.
Then he rushed out of the house and into the barn in his anger, threw
himself down on the straw, clenched his fists and wept aloud until he
fell asleep.
When the schoolmaster left the farm at a late hour that evening Mr.
Tiralla was quite drunk. He had only enough sense left to whisper in a
tender voice, "Little Böhnke, friend, take care. If Mikolai catches
you, he'll chop you into small pieces, perhaps with the hatchet,
perhaps with the chopper. Ugh! he's a brute--they're all brutes
here--ugh! my friend, you don't know what brutes they all are. My dear,
beloved friend." Mr. Tiralla fell on the other's neck, kissed him and
stammered in a hiccoughing voice, while he stroked his cheek, "If
I--I--ha--hadn't you--God--bless--you--it would--b--be all--up--with
me."
Böhnke left the room filled with a strange emotion. He was not so drunk
as Mr. Tiralla--he could still collect his thoughts, if he took the
trouble to do so--and he was thinking of the man who loved him as a
friend and son. But very soon Mrs. Tiralla took entire possession of
his thoughts. He looked around and listened for her step, and strained
his eyes so in the dark that they watered. Was he to leave the house
without a single kiss? _Psia krew_, he would not do that. He swore in
an undertone, for he had suddenly grown brutal. He would be paid, paid
for every visit. It was no pleasure to him to get drunk with that
fellow. If she did not come now, then----There was still [Pg 264] time
to go away and never come back, to become again as he had been before.
If he were to ask to be removed and left the neighbourhood, and never
more put his foot inside the door at Starydwór? Let Mr. Tiralla drink
himself to death, alone. But if he were never to see this woman again?
The fresh air in the yard cooled his brow as he stepped out of the
house. "Ah!" He drew a deep breath; air, thank God. There was still
time, still time.
At that moment he heard the rustle of a dress in the dark passage, a
furtive whisper of "Pan Böhnke!" and turning round he stretched out his
arms in a transport of delight. "My darling, my sweet one!"
She did not respond to his kisses, but he did not notice it in his joy;
and he did not see either in the dark how she pressed her eyes together
and screwed up her face. All he heard was her whisper in his ear, "How
are you getting on? I hope you've filled his glass frequently? How is
he? Please tell me, will it still last long?"
He did not answer her; he had buried his mouth in her hair, and his
lips were glued to its silky waves like those of a thirsty man. When
she wanted to free herself in her impatience, "Speak, why don't you
tell me, how much longer?" he clasped her still more closely without
replying. There was no escape for her. They were standing like a pair
of lovers, almost melted into one; her head was lying on his breast as
though welded to it by the pressure of his arms. Thus her eyes and ears
were closed, and he--he only felt her.
At that moment the door of Mr. Tiralla's room was gently opened and the
old man stuck his head out timidly. Had his little Böhnke, his friend,
succeeded in escaping?
[Pg 265]
The sick man was tortured by the idea that they wanted to kill the
schoolmaster just because he was his, Pan Tiralla's, brother and
friend, his only friend. If they were to do something to him? If they
were to attack him in the dark yard? His terror on his friend's account
had given strength to his shaking limbs, and he had been able to stand
upright and walk.
He peered around like an owl that is dazzled by the glare; the light
from the open door fell on the passage. Ha! who was standing there?
The murderers! the murderers! Save yourself, little Böhnke. He was
on the point of crying out aloud for help when his voice suddenly
snapped--why! it was only Marianna. A grin full of pleasant memories
appeared on his wrinkled face--ha, ha! it was Marianna standing there
with a lover. But all at once the pleasant grin turned into a terrified
grimace; it was not Marianna after all, it must be Sophia, and with
her?
The idiot's eyes had suddenly become clear, and he had recognized his
friend, his brother. Böhnke was holding his wife in a close embrace,
and they were standing like a pair of lovers, breast to breast. Alas,
alas! Mr. Tiralla fell back as though a gleaming knife were pointed at
his face. The two were talking away so busily, so softly, that they had
not noticed him. What were they whispering about? His teeth chattered.
Murderers, murderers! Ugh! they were taking counsel together how they
were to kill him--little Böhnke and Sophia--Sophia and little Böhnke.
Little Böhnke! His friend, his only friend!
The man's wrinkled face shrivelled up more than ever, and his figure
became quite small. Closing the door carefully and bolting it in
trembling terror, he shuffled back to the table, groaning.
His little Böhnke, his friend, his only friend!
[Pg 266]
The man looked round the empty room with a wild glance, as though his
terror were pursuing him. There, there, there! He stared at the chair
near him; his friend, his only friend had just been sitting there,
close to him.
Then he began to cry bitterly, that is to say, his red eyes could no
longer weep tears, but he puckered up his face like a whimpering child,
and a hiccoughing sob raised his chest in jerks. And then he drank what
remained in all the bottles.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Mikolai started up out of the straw in bewilderment--what was he doing
in the barn, why was he lying there? He had had such awful dreams. Was
it evening, night, or already morning? It was no good looking at his
watch in the dark. He got up, and rubbing his swollen eyes staggered
out of the barn. The moon was already high above the farm; it must be
near midnight. Who was that creeping off to the gate?
"Stop. Who goes there?"
Could that be Böhnke? "_Psia krew!_" All at once the young fellow
recollected how miserable he had been.
"Heigh, stop!" He set out in pursuit of the man who had just gone out
of the gate.
Böhnke heard neither the calls nor the panting man who rushed after
him. He was staggering across the fields as though intoxicated with
joy, repeating the words, "My darling, my sweet one!"
At that moment somebody caught hold of him by the nape of his neck, and
as he was walking very shakily, he fell down without any show of
resistance and without a cry, so that Mikolai, who had whirled him
round and was now kneeling on his chest, had an [Pg 267] easy time of
it. "It's I, Mikolai," he panted. "I'll teach you!"
Mikolai had hardly ever given anybody such a thrashing before; it was
such a relief to him to get rid of his misery in this way. He flogged
the man until his arm was stiff, and then threw him into the ditch at
the side of the field and went home satisfied. He whistled as he walked
back to the farm. There, now he had given that fellow a good reminder;
he would have a few bruises to show. And if he felt inclined to bring
an action against him, then let him; he would never repent of what he
had done. He felt much brighter now. He looked about for Marianna; how
tiresome, she was no doubt sleeping upstairs by now. He went round to
the gable and began to whistle, but nobody opened the window, and no
eager "Yes, yes!" reached his ear. How tiresome! The woman was sleeping
like a badger in his hole. He would have to enjoy the thought of his
successful stroke by himself, then, and he pressed his fists against
his mouth and hopped about on one leg with joy.
When he came round to the front door again he noticed a light gleaming
through the shutters in the big room. What, was somebody still awake?
Was his father not asleep yet? Perhaps in his drunken condition he had
forgotten to put out the lamp. Then it would be smoking the whole night
through, as it had done a short time before, when the smelling thing
had only gone out for want of paraffin. Did the old fool really want to
set fire to the whole concern? How dreadful it would be to have a fire
with all that straw in the barn. The man cast an anxious look at the
streak of light which found its way through the shutters; it seemed
twice as broad as usual. What was the old man up to? He would be doing
some mischief [Pg 268] some day, that was certain. Seized with an
unaccountable uneasiness, Mikolai groped in the dark passage for the
door-handle. "_Psia krew!_" Of course, it was locked on the inside. He
knocked; then he called, "Father!" He rattled the handle. "The deuce,
why can't you open?"
Still no answer, and no bolt was withdrawn.
He shook the door with all his strength. "I shall break the door open
if you don't unlock it at once."
The door creaked and groaned, and Mikolai's loud voice echoed through
the house, so that one would have thought it would have awakened the
dead--bat there was no sound in the room.
Then a fear gripped him; what should he do now? He was still pondering
when he heard his stepmother's voice.
Mrs. Tiralla had gone to bed, but she had not slept. Her face had burnt
like fire, for she had been rubbing and washing it, so as to wash the
kisses off which she had been obliged to put up with in the dark
passage. Her forehead pained her as though there were a fresh scar on
it, for the man had strained her so forcibly to his breast that his
watch-chain had left a mark there. Oh, that stigma! She passed her hand
over it again and again, but however much she rubbed it did not
disappear. She wrung her hands in impotent fury. But then she clenched
her teeth; no, no complaint, for she had done it for Martin's sake. Was
it not a joy in spite of all this agony to think that she was suffering
for his sake? Who could sympathize with her feelings? No one except the
Lord. He had wrestled in the Garden of Gethsemane; He had endured
Judas's kiss.
"O Lord," she raised her hands in the dark to the picture on the wall
of the Saviour holding His flaming [Pg 269] heart in His hand, "Thou
art acquainted with every suffering, Thou seest my sufferings, have
mercy!"
It was probably the first time in her life that Mrs. Tiralla had not
used the prescribed form of prayer, that her heart had cried out in its
own words. Then she whispered, "Martin, Martin," as if the beloved name
were a form of conjuration, and stretched out her arms longingly in her
cold, dark room. Oh, how warm and bright it had been at Starydwór!
Suddenly a smile spread itself over her troubled face; it was as though
a feeling of sweet peace had come to her from afar, and had told her
that it would be warm and bright again. The certainty of this in the
near future consoled her and made her patient. She pressed her hand to
her heart--hope, hope!
Then she grew calmer, the burning sensation in her face had become less
acute, she had said her prayers for the night, and prepared herself for
sleep with her hands folded across her breast like a child. Soon, soon!
The smile was still on her face.
At that moment the loud noise in the passage had startled her.
What could it be so late at night? She ran out of the room in her
petticoat with no shoes on her feet; she was seized with a sudden
fear--Martin, if it were Martin who wanted to run away. She must go to
him, take hold of him, cling to him, he must not go! But then the
thought struck her that there was no need to fear, he would not be
leaving with so much noise. But still, if Mikolai were holding him, if
they were quarrelling, struggling with each other, the one wanting to
go, the other endeavouring to hold him back? Hark, what a noise! How
Mikolai was shouting!
"What is it, what is it?" cried Mrs. Tiralla, as she stood in front of
her stepson, panting. Mikolai [Pg 270] had lighted a kitchen lamp, and
they gazed at each other in the dim light with haggard faces.
"Where, where is he?" She caught hold of her stepson's arm. But then
she bethought herself. Martin was nowhere to be seen, and this was not
his bedroom door; this was Mr. Tiralla's, on which Mikolai was
thumping, and before which he now stooped down and tried to look
through the chinks.
"I don't know, I don't know," cried Mikolai, shaking the handle once
more. "There's a light burning in the room; but everything is so quiet,
and father isn't snoring."
"Oh, leave him!" It was no longer a matter of any importance to her,
and she was going upstairs again. "He's fast asleep, that's all."
But Mikolai held her back in his fear. "Do stop," he begged, and there
was a strange note of anxiety in his voice as he added, "Father always
snores so at other times. I wonder if he could have had a stroke?"
Could it be possible! The woman's cold face grew hot.
"Father!" cried Mikolai once more, rattling the latch with all his
might, but the bolt did not move. "I'll fetch a hatchet," he whispered;
"we shall have to break open the door. You wait here and look out." He
ran to the shed, where the axe lay by the block.
She remained standing in front of the door, whilst an eager desire to
learn her fate almost tore her asunder. Her eyes nearly started out of
her head. Everything was as quiet as death in there--at other times he
always snored so--what would she see in there? God be praised! She
could hardly await the spectacle.
She threw herself against the door with all her weight; she pressed her
hands and knees so firmly against it that she, the weak woman,
succeeded in doing what the strong man had not been able to do. [Pg
271] The rotten framework gave way, and the door, lifted off its
hinges, fell with a dull crash into the room. The woman fell with it.
At first she saw nothing, stunned as she was by the fall and blinded by
the dust from the rotten wood. But how soon she saw it all!
There was Mr. Tiralla hanging from the hook in the centre beam, which
had once been destined to carry a chandelier, close to the table with
bottles and glasses. The man had made a noose of his handkerchief; the
ceiling was low and his toes almost touched the chair, but still he was
dangling.
"O God!" She uttered a heartrending scream and sprang forward. There he
was, dangling, quite blue in the face and with his tongue hanging out
of his mouth. How awful, how terrible! She did not give herself time to
consider whether he was alive or not, or whether he would recover; all
she did was to look round for help.
At that moment Mikolai returned. He stood motionless, staring with open
mouth, the hatchet in his hand. The woman tore it out of his hand,
swung it like lightning, the sharp edge cut the noose--and Mr. Tiralla
fell on the floor with a dull thud.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was a terrible night at Starydwór. Everybody had come running,
awakened by the noise of the falling door and Mikolai's cries.
Marianna howled as though she were out of her mind; both she and
Mikolai had lost their self-command. Rosa had only given one short
scream, and then, with upraised hands, had fallen down in a deep faint.
Mrs. Tiralla was the only one who remained calm. She had helped the two
men to put the body on the [Pg 272] bed, and now she stood looking on,
mute and motionless, whilst Martin rubbed the stiffened limbs and moved
the man's arms up and down, as he had been taught to do when he was a
soldier. Was Mr. Tiralla dead?
"He's not dead yet." It was Martin who spoke, and she heard what he
said without answering a word. She closed her eyes; how compassionate
his voice--the beloved's voice--sounded. Did he feel sorry for her--or
himself? No, he only felt sorry for Mr. Tiralla.
She opened her eyes wide. "Fool, idiot!" she could have shouted to him
in her fury. But then she hid her face in her hands and staggered to a
corner, where she broke down and groaned. She was the fool, the idiot,
for she had cut him down herself. Why? She did not know.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Martin carried Rosa upstairs. Mr. Tiralla was breathing again, and now
the young man had a feeling as though he would have to fight once more
for a life--but a young and innocent life this time.
He carried the unconscious girl tenderly in his arms. She had only very
little clothing on, and he felt how thin and slender her limbs were.
Her bushy mane--not smooth and silky like his love's beautiful
hair--tickled his cheek, but there was a perfume about her dry locks
and about her whole person that reminded him of the perfume of the
fields in spring-time, which he was so fond of ploughing. He carried
her as carefully as though every movement could harm her, as though she
were a soap-bubble which disappears if over-curious fingers touch it.
And still he clasped her tightly. Once he thought he could feel her
nestling [Pg 273] against him; but it must have been imagination, for
she had swooned and she hardly breathed.
On reaching the door of her room he entered almost timidly. A light was
flickering there. There was no help for it, he had to lay her down on
her bed, for the people downstairs had lost their heads, but he did it
shyly. There she lay, and as he bent over her--was he dreaming?--she
flung her arms round his neck.
She dragged his head down to her lips and he felt her hot breath as she
whispered, "Always united--many years--and many children--my Saviour,
my Redeemer--oh, my beloved one, come, kiss me."
Her whispering made him shudder. Why did she mix so strangely what was
in the Prayer-book with what lovers whisper in the dark? Would she be
saying any more? He could not help it, he had freed himself, but he
remained standing at her bedside, listening.
"Oh, I know, I know it very well," she wailed. Then she gave a
deep sigh, "Alas, alas, how beautiful you are, mother--Mary, Holy
Virgin--alas, so lovely, a thousand times more beautiful than I. If
only I were dead--dead like daddy." She was crying softly, and her
hands were locked as though in pain or prayer. "I shall go into a
convent." Then she wrung her hands and cried in a loud voice, "Have
mercy on me, have mercy on me! Mary, Holy Virgin, help me, let me hold
the Christ Child on my lap! Oh, don't turn away--help, have mercy on
me!"
She stretched out her hands--oh, dear, was she going to catch hold of
him? How her hands trembled, how red her pale face had become.
Martin heard no more, he fled in horror. Oh, this Starydwór, this
Starydwór, if only he were hundreds of miles away from it!
[Pg 274]