Marianna was humming a song, although she had been up all night and the
words almost froze on her lips in the calm, cold, wintry air.
"Black eyes in her head,
Just like me, just like me.
Golden hackles on her shoes,
Just like me, just like me.
In her pocket not a coin,
Just like----"
"Ah!"
She yawned and then tried to dance a few steps. How tired she was. But
it had been very nice with Jendrek, he was the best of them all in
spite of everything.
She rattled her milk pails merrily as she glided nimbly across the
slippery yard to the stables in her low, creaking shoes.
The light was still faint and the air was cold, bitterly cold. A hard
frost had come at daybreak, the first that year, and had touched
everything with its blighting finger. The pools in the unpaved yard,
from which as a rule the rain, dirty water, and melted snow flowed in
rivulets to the big pond in the centre, were now united and formed a
single white mirror.
The house was still dark and quiet. Marianna's eyes twinkled; aha, they
were all still asleep. Good! [Pg 308] then none of them had heard that
she had only come home at six that morning. She had not been up to her
room yet to take her best dress off, but it would not harm it, even if
she were to wear it whilst milking for once. Hark! how the cows were
lowing. They were waiting impatiently. But how they would stare when
they saw her in her beautiful, new, red dress, with its many pleats,
which she had got on purpose to do the thing in grand style with
Jendrek, and her spick-and-span new shoes, in which she had danced last
night for the first time.
The vain girl tittered as she skipped into the stables where the cattle
were lowing dully. "Quiet, quiet there," she said, groping about for
the lantern in order to light it, as it was still rather dark. "Yes,
yes, here she is, here's Marianna. _Psia krew_, hold your tongues." At
that moment the lantern cast a light around. "Good God!" Breaking off
in the midst of her chatter, the servant let the milk pails fall to the
ground with a shrill scream. Why, the master was lying there!
She stood as though rooted to the spot. Oh dear, how frightened she had
been. What was he doing there? What did he mean by going to sleep
there, and frightening people who came unsuspectingly into the stables
out of their wits?
"Panje, Panje Tiralla," she called. "Do get up, _gospodarz!_"
She had come up to him now; he did not move. She gave him a slight push
with the point of her new shoe; how tipsy he was. "Wake up, master,"
she said. "Finish your sleep in bed, I'll help you into it." What
pleasant dreams he was having. It seemed to her that there was a smile
on his face.
She bent over him. "Panje, Paniczek!" She [Pg 309] looked at him a
little more closely, she felt him--then she began to scream so that the
walls resounded with it; she mingled her screams with the lowing of the
cattle that had started afresh; she screamed still louder, so that she
dominated the lowing, screamed so that it sounded across the yard to
the sleeping house like a trumpet. Mr. Tiralla was icy-cold; he was
dead.
She tore her hair and behaved as though she were mad--her master, her
good master! Then rushing out of the stables and across the yard she
shouted and shrieked, "Pani, Pani, help! Help, Mr. Mikolai!"
Mrs. Tiralla came immediately. She had lain awake the whole night. How
could she have slept when her heart trembled between fear and hope,
when at one moment it had seemed to her as though the events of the
afternoon had only been a prelude, as though Martin were going away at
once and for ever, and the next as though he had been given back to
her, and Mr. Tiralla were going away for ever? She had wept and called
on the saints. But when the maid's cry for help brought her downstairs,
there was no more fear in her heart. She surmised that the decisive
hour had come, but all she felt was eager curiosity.
"What--what? Where--where?" she cried, seizing Marianna by the arm with
a convulsive grip, as the latter came rushing up to her.
"Dead, dead!" stammered the girl trembling.
"Dead?" Was Mr. Tiralla dead? But tell me then. The woman shook the
screaming servant with wild impatience.
"Oh dear, oh dear, my good master is dead," howled the maid. "He's
lying in the stables without saying a word."
"Show me."
[Pg 310]
They rushed over to the stables. There lay Mr. Tiralla as the maid
had left him; he had not moved. Marianna made the sign of the cross
over him and wanted to fold his hands, but Mrs. Tiralla pushed her
aside--"Leave him!" What had he got there? The woman's eyes dilated; he
was clenching a small box in one hand, a box she knew very well. The
lid had fallen on the ground, and the powders wrapped in paper had been
torn out and were lying beside him near a brick on which there was a
cobweb. She stared open-mouthed--rat poison! Look, there was the
grinning death's head above the cross-bones!
In the other hand the dead man was still holding an empty paper, and
some grains of sugar still clung to the wild-looking stubble on his
sunken chin.
"Jesus! Mary! Joseph!" The widow threw herself on her knees, made the
sign of the cross, and bent her forehead to the ground. "I give
his soul to you." Her lips continued to move in prayer, whilst her
thoughts flew on. So he had got some of the poison after all? He had
kept it hidden--_she_ had not known where--he had taken some of it
himself--pilfered some of it like a boy pilfers sugar--he had died of
it.
She made the sign of the cross again and again. "Holy Mary, reconcile
him to Thy Son, commend him to Thy Son, bring him to Thy Son." The
saints had willed it, the saints had been gracious to him--and to her
too.
Mrs. Tiralla could not help it, but she no longer felt the slightest
animosity towards the man lying there. She touched his forehead with
her lips, then folded his hands and tried to close his eyes, "May he
rest in peace."
Then she sent the weeping servant to fetch his [Pg 311] children whilst
she remained on her knees alone with the dead. She felt no fear. It was
as though a light had risen for her in the dark stables, and as though
she must thank the dead man for it as well as the saints.
Mikolai was not so calm, the calamity had affected him deeply. His
father, his old father. And he had died in all his sins without the
consecrated candle, without a priest, and without absolution. He could
not compose himself, he sobbed so.
He and Marianna vied with each other in weeping. He and she had carried
Mr. Tiralla into the house, and their tears had fallen on him like warm
rain, drop by drop, a constant flow.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The sun had risen over Starydwór when Martin Becker awoke, disturbed by
sobbing and wailing. He had slept very heavily. He had been so
exhausted by emotion and the decision that he had arrived at after a
long struggle that he had not heard Mikolai run out of the room when
the maid's loud screams had awakened him, but had slept on like a
peaceful child. He finished dressing. He was still so sleepy that he
could not understand why he had gone to bed in trousers and socks. But
then his eye fell on his box that stood packed and corded. Then he
remembered everything. He braced himself up and left the room to
announce his intention to Mikolai. Why were they weeping and wailing
so?
Marianna ran past him in the passage. She pointed to the door leading
into the big room with a convulsive sob, "Holy Mother, holy Mother!"
What was the matter with her? What had happened? An accident? The blood
suddenly rushed to his head; had [Pg 312] anything happened to Mrs.
Tiralla? Of course not--he shook off the sense of oppression which was
overpowering him--she did not know yet that he intended leaving that
day.
He went into the room from whence the weeping came. It was half-dark,
the shutters were closed, and the only light in the room came from the
candles burning on the table. He distinguished some dark figures
kneeling by a bed, and on the bed an outstretched figure under a white
sheet. He started and pressed his hand to his brow; he felt terrified.
Who was dead?
At that moment Mrs. Tiralla came towards him with outstretched hand.
"Mr. Tiralla is dead," she said.
"Dead--dead?" he stammered. Her voice had sounded almost triumphant. He
did not grasp it all at once, it was not a thing that could be turned
over in the mind so quickly. He shuddered, and swiftly made the sign of
the cross. A dead person in the house! And the woman could say it so
calmly, and gaze at him with such a radiant look that the black in her
eyes illuminated the darkness like a sunbeam.
The young fellow had a feeling as though he must turn round and run
away. He was still hesitating when the woman drew him forcibly towards
her, and he felt her icy-cold fingers gripping his wrist.
"Martin, Martin," she whispered softly in his ear, "he's dead, now you
needn't go." Her voice was only just audible, for Mikolai and Rosa were
kneeling at the bedside.
But Martin had not noticed them. "I shall have to go all the same," he
said aloud, without looking at her. "When Mr. Tiralla is buried, I
shall go. Holy [Pg 313] Mother, pray for us, now and in the hour of
death!" Making the sign of the cross he stepped up to the bed, knelt
down beside Rosa without noticing her in his consternation, and quickly
repeated a silent prayer.
Whilst kneeling there he heard an angel praying softly. That must be
Rosa. Now he saw her. And when he had finished his prayer and made the
sign of the cross, he pressed her hand and then Mikolai's.
The three put their heads together like the terrified lambs of a flock
over which a storm is raging. "Eternal rest give to him, Lord,"
whispered Rosa, and the two men murmured in response, "and let
perpetual light shine upon him."
Then Martin got up from his knees and went to the door. He longed to be
doing something, for there is always much to see to in a house where
death has entered, and he had once more a warm, living feeling of how
good Mikolai had always been to him, and how much he liked both the
sister and the brother. Somebody would have to run to the village to
tell Father Szypulski first of all, and if possible bring him quickly
to the farm, and then--but the woman barred the way.
"Where are you going?" Her voice no longer sounded firm, it was
trembling.
He tried to pass her without answering--no, she should not hold him
again.
But she followed him into the passage, where she again seized hold of
him. "I shall not let you go, tell me first where you're going."
"Into the village. Let me go, I tell you," He turned his head aside
defiantly, so as to avoid her eyes.
"Swear that you'll come back," she whispered hoarsely, "swear by God
Almighty, by Mr. Tiralla lying dead in there."
[Pg 314]
"I will not swear." He pushed her away.
Then she threw herself on his breast, and her arms held him like
chains. '"Look at me, why do you turn your dear face away? Look at me,
it's I, darling, I, whom you love so. Mr. Tiralla is dead."
She no longer spoke in a whisper, she no longer took care that her
words should remain inaudible to others, and her voice sounded loud in
the echoing passage. "I'm a widow now. I'm free now. Don't go! All I
possess shall be yours. And it's no sin if we love each other. I beg of
you, I implore you, don't go! Stop, my darling, my Martin, stop!"
She slid down and embraced his knees, sobbing; she pressed her face
that was wet with tears against his clothes. "Why are you so cold; why
don't you speak to me? What have I done to you?"
He stood like a tree without bending. "You've not done anything to me,"
he murmured at last, gloomily. "Not to me, but----"
"I've not done anything to him either," she cried, jumping up eagerly
and pointing to the door. Then she raised her fingers as though taking
an oath. "I swear that I'm innocent, quite innocent; he, he took it
himself. I swear by God I've not----"
"Don't swear." He caught hold of her raised hand and pulled it down.
"You must not swear."
"Why not?" She stood erect before him with sparkling eyes and head
thrown back. "Ask Marianna, ask Mikolai; he, Mr. Tiralla, took
the poison himself in the stables; we found it still in his hand.
I--I"--she struck her breast and again raised her fingers to
swear--"I'm innocent of it. The saints have willed it."
He looked her full in the face scrutinizingly, as though he would
pierce her with his eyes. "The [Pg 315] saints have willed it," he
repeated, then, as though reconciling himself to the fact. But when she
attempted to seize his hand in her elation--ah, he still loved her
after all, he could not leave her--he shook his head and looked away
from her in fear. "Even if it were heaven on earth here, I would not
stop," he whispered. "I see that man"--pointing to the door--"the whole
time before my eyes. He must separate us, so help me God. Good-bye."
He held out his hand to her, although he could hardly bring himself to
do it. All at once he feared her hand, it was as though something were
dragging him away from it. "I prefer to go immediately. Mikolai is
there, he'll arrange everything for you. I cannot--cannot stay any
longer." And he rushed out of the door and into the yard.
She stood there as if turned to stone, and her eyes were fixed. What,
he was going after all? Mr. Tiralla was dead and yet he was going to
leave her?
"Martin!" she screamed shrilly, rushing after him. He ran like a stag
and she like a hind. "Martin, Martin!" But she could not reach him.
Purgatory and Hell were flaming behind Martin Becker and Eternal
Salvation was beckoning to him. So he ran as he had never done before,
without coat or hat, and but thinly clad for such a raw day. He would
let everything remain behind, box and belongings, everything he called
his own, he did not want anything more from Starydwór, for sin was
cleaving to it, sin that clave like blood.
He ran through the fields like a boy who has lost his way and is trying
to get home to his mother.
She saw him ran, but she could not follow him further, she sank down at
the gate. She crouched in the frozen snow with a low cry. How red
everything [Pg 316] looked. Was it blood that had been spilt? She
shuddered as she gazed around like one demented. Or was it the wintry
sun that had dyed everything red? Yes--she drew a deep breath--oh, yes,
it was only the sun. The whole sky was aglow, and it was that which
made the glistening snow look red.
She would implore the saints to help her. But she could not rise, her
ankles felt broken, so she slid on her knees to the grating in the
wall, behind which stood the image of the Holy Mother with her Child.
The withered wreath was still there, which she had made of corn and
flowers and clover, and hung up on a happy day.
"Bring him back, oh, bring him back," whispered the woman beseechingly,
and then burst out sobbing. The saints had helped her once, why should
they not do so again? Innumerable tears rolled down her cold cheeks and
turned to ice on her bosom. She prayed and wrung her hands. She begged
for the return of the one as she had formerly begged for the death of
the other. One prayer had been granted; Mr. Tiralla was dead. And she
knelt there guiltless--for who, who could say that she was to blame?
She looked around with wild eyes. At that moment she saw somebody
standing before her, between heaven and earth, accusing her.
"No!" she shrieked, stretching out her arms. How dared he accuse her?
Was it she, she, who had given Mr. Tiralla poison? And even if she had
attempted to do so before, the poison had no longer been poison in her
hands, for the mushrooms had not harmed him, and the corn had not
harmed the poultry. "No, I'm innocent, quite innocent of it." The
saints had willed it, they had put into his mind to take some of the
powder and swallow it. And they had willed [Pg 317] that he should die
of it. So his death had been decided upon in heaven.
Folding her hands once more the woman prayed in a whining, fervent
voice; would the saints not fulfil her second prayer too, and bring
back the man who had fled from her?
Her thoughts grew more and more confused. Now she saw Martin Becker,
now Mr. Tiralla, and then the angel with the flaming sword. She
cowered; alas, alas, was he going to punish her with its sharp edge?
But suddenly the sword fell from the angel's hand, and lay gleaming in
the snow. He laid his cool hand on her burning brow--oh, that was no
longer the cherubim who drives sinners out of the Garden of Eden, that
was Rosa, Rosa's hand, and that was her dress.
"Help, help!" cried the woman, clinging to her daughter as though she
were awaking out of a frightful dream. "You help me. Shall I be lost?
Oh, speak! Help, you help me!"
And her daughter answered, "I'll pray for you day and night. Calm
yourself, mother, I'll intercede for you." She laid both her hands on
the woman writhing in despair, and it was as though a soothing stream,
as though a mighty saving flood, proceeded from those delicate, yet
firm hands.
That was no longer Rosa, her young daughter, the delicate girl, who now
stood with erect head before the sinner imploring help, and seemed to
be visibly growing bigger and bigger. And that was no longer Rosa's
voice. It was a more powerful voice, which dominated the howling and
whistling of the wind.
That was the Bride of Christ. But not the humble, longing maiden; it
was the Bride of Christ, the powerful [Pg 318] Church herself, whose
voice resounds over the plains as far as the church steeple in
Starawie['s], and further, much further, resounds powerfully throughout
the whole world:
"_Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis!_"
THE END