"I knew all about those hares," said Bilkowski, the forester, laughing.

"You knew it?" The gendarme opened his eyes wide.

"Oh, I say, don't look like that. If I were to publish everything that happens here," and the forester shrugged his shoulders, "I should never get any further."

"But a man ought to—it's his duty—I'm obliged," and the gendarme, who had only been transferred to this post the spring before, pulled out an enormous note-book from his pocket with a determined look, and took out the pencil. "I always write everything down. Things were bad enough in Upper Silesia, but they seem to be worse here."

[Pg 58]

"Oh, you'll get used to them," said the forester reassuringly. "It's really very nice here. I shouldn't like to live anywhere else now. It was also rather difficult for me at first, and especially for my wife. She made enough fuss about it. But now I never hear anything more, and"—he paused for a moment, then added with a smile that was half embarrassed, half sly—"I only see what I want to see. What else is there for me to do? Am I to act in opposition to the nobility, who would continue to do exactly what they liked all the same, or am I to let the peasants kill me when they commit outrages in the royal woods? Of course I always go to the Przykop when I hear a shot; but if they don't shoot, if they only make use of their cudgels, what then?"

He was right. They all agreed that it was no easy matter to be a forester. Still the gendarme did not exactly approve of Mr. Bilkowski speaking so frankly. "But, my dear fellow," and Bilkowski patted him on the shoulder, "we're all in the same boat. Why shouldn't I speak frankly amongst friends?"

The priest cast a glance at the open door leading into the tap-room. Then he whispered to the schoolmaster, "Close it."

Boehnke hastened to comply with the hint.

"Do you think that the Tirallas would come to our Gardewitz ball?" asked the clerk from the post office, blushing like a young girl. "I'm getting it up, and if the Tirallas were coming I would arrange a cotillon with flowers. If we were to order them at a big shop in Posen we could get real ferns and wired flowers at sixpence a bouquet. Why, it would even be worth while writing to Berlin for them. If you want to give such a ball you must be prepared to spend something on it."

"When do you intend having it?" This was a [Pg 59] matter that interested everybody, and the little man felt very important.

"On Shrove Tuesday, as usual. After that there's always such a long spell where there's nothing whatever to do. It'll be splendid, I can tell you, splendid! I hope Sophia Tiralla will come."

"Why shouldn't she, I should like to know?" Schmielke resolved at all events to secure her for the cotillon in good time, as that meant he would take her into supper as well.

They all had the same intention, and all had made up their minds to call on the Tirallas at the earliest opportunity. It was quite a different kind of thing to clasp a woman like that in your arms instead of Miss Stumpf, the baker's daughter, who was both clumsy and stout; or the stupid, snub-nosed Miss Musielak, the stationmaster's daughter; or even Miss Stanislawa, who was rather pretty, but whose father, Count Jagodziuski, was the town clerk, and was always borrowing money from them all. Could even little Jadwiga Haehnel, with the freckles, the rich mill-owner's only unmarried daughter, or the fair Marianna Rozycki, the butcher's daughter, who, after the first glass of beer, always fell violently in love with her partner, could they be compared with Sophia Tiralla? All the young ladies of Gradewitz, Starawieś, and neighbourhood were in turn reviewed, but the prize was unanimously bestowed on the fair Sophia.

"A pretty little woman, to be sure," said the priest.

"Have you noticed that as well, sir?" asked Schmielke pertly, with a sly wink.

The schoolmaster started angrily, another impertinence from that man. Even Zientek gave an embarrassed little cough; really, how could Fritz say such a thing?

[Pg 60]

But the priest did not appear to have taken it amiss, and laughed when he saw Schmielke wink. Why shouldn't he see it as well as the others? Did he think he was blind? He was fortunately still in possession of his eyesight, and there could surely be nothing wrong in his admiring a pretty creature.

The schoolmaster listened in amazement to this free and easy confession. How could his reverence say such things aloud? And in Schmielke's presence too, that heretic. It would of course be at once repeated and turned to account.

The others, however, were very much amused by the confession, and shouted and laughed loudly. Jokisch, the inspector, who had hitherto hardly opened his mouth—he had been too busy drinking—now raised his glass. "Long live our priest. We've the best in the whole kingdom. Let him live and let live."

They all clinked with the priest, and Jokisch was even so impertinent as to slap him on the shoulder as he said, "What a pity, sir, that you can't go to the ball."

"Do you think I couldn't dance, eh?" said the priest, eyeing his long boots, which resembled those of an officer in a cavalry regiment. "You needn't fear that I should be out of place there. What a pity"—he gave a little sigh—"but it would never do."

"Why not, I should like to know?" asked Schmielke, and laughed. "The youth does not know the reason why."

"Those are some fine ideas you've got," the schoolmaster blurted out. He had worked himself into such a passion that he could not restrain himself any longer. "You Germans seem to have some nice ideas of us. But, of course, you're a heretic." It sounded very [Pg 61] venomous. "It's quite possible that your clergy do such things."

"Now, now," said the priest, giving the schoolmaster a sign to be quiet. He felt annoyed that the differences of religion and nationality should have been brought up. How stupid of this Boehnke to make such a to-do. They had to live together and get on with each other. The first in the land were striving to do the same. Hiding his momentary embarrassment under a jovial laugh, the priest broke the silence that now reigned in the room by saying in a loud voice:

"I would advise you to take a glass of bitters, Boehnke, or some Glauber-salt. That would do you good."

A roar of laughter greeted this witticism.

The schoolmaster turned pale and bit his lips, for he dared not say anything; but he looked down on them all with supreme contempt. How far superior he was to them in education—even superior to the priest, who was only a peasant's son, whilst his father had been a schoolmaster. He was to have studied philology and have been master of a higher-grade school. But even with the less advanced education he had received at the seminary, he still felt himself far superior to all of them. And this he thought he could say without putting too high a value on his own capabilities.

Boehnke always kept aloof from everybody; he had no friends, he was harsh to the children, and was often bad-tempered. Rosa Tiralla was the only child to whom he spoke kindly; but she was quite different to the other children, much better bred. You could see that she had a nice mother, who was of good family. The schoolmaster took an interest in this woman. But it was not only her beauty that attracted him, he [Pg 62] also felt that they were kindred spirits on account of her parentage. He was filled with jealousy and anger when he heard those ill-bred fellows calling her "Sophia Tiralla," plain and simple Why couldn't they say "Mrs. Tiralla"? That would have been the proper thing for them to do. The schoolmaster continued to bite his lips and stare in front of him, pale and morose.

But a spark had fallen into the straw, and the former peaceful conversation was at an end. Jokisch and Schmielke suddenly commenced quarrelling. Jokisch, who had already drunk too much, began to speak disparagingly about Mrs. Tiralla. She was one of those whom you couldn't trust out of your sight. He felt quite sorry for Tiralla, who wasn't a bad fellow, but imposed upon, imposed upon. "My wife says—"

"Tut, tut, your wife's jealous," said Schmielke teasingly, and laughed. "Naturally it can't be agreeable for her to have the fair Sophia as her nearest neighbour."

"What do you mean?" roared the man. "I suppose you mean to infer that I've been carrying on with her. I've not had anything to do with her; I wouldn't touch her with a pair of tongs." He grew more and more furious.

"H'm, your wife has taught you well, I see," remarked the tax-collector superciliously.

"Taught me—taught me? I've finished my training long ago," roared the inspector. "I needn't learn any more. I was inspector for five years at Count Bninski's, in Opalenitza; I needn't learn any more for your rotten Prussian crown land, especially in that neighbourhood"—he spat on the floor—"in that——"

A blow closed his mouth. The schoolmaster had [Pg 63] jumped up from his seat; all his vaunted culture had disappeared. "Hold your tongue!" he shouted, facing the tipsy inspector like a turkey-cock that has been infuriated by a piece of red cloth. He was a delicate-looking fellow, a mere stripling compared with the broad-shouldered inspector, but there was a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

Jokisch had, indeed, gone too far. "Psia krew!" cried the priest, without knowing what he said, whilst the others shouted in the wildest confusion, "Prove it, prove it!" He was to prove that he had the right to say such things about Sophia Tiralla. They were all simply burning with curiosity. What did he know of her, what, what? That anybody knew such things about her only added to her charm and piquancy in their eyes.

"Well, fire away," said Schmielke in a jovial voice.

The priest also smiled. He had often before listened to two men quarrelling, for he knew very well that they would in the end always bow to his judgment, although the matter was no concern of his.

"I don't know anything," said Jokisch, all at once quite sober. Oh, what a fool he had been, suddenly flashed through his mind. If he now said something about her, wouldn't they all believe that he had burnt his fingers? So far nobody knew that he had tried to kiss her in the dark stone passage at Starydwor a short time ago, and that she had given him a sound box on the ears for it. He therefore entrenched himself behind his wife. "My wife says she's a very bad housekeeper. My wife says she's very unkind to her husband. She sleeps alone in her own room."

"Alone? I say, really?" They were all delighted to hear it, and their eyes again began to sparkle. And no wonder, he was such a horrid old fellow.

[Pg 64]

"My wife says she would like to poison him, judging from the way she looks at him." That was his highest trump card, but even that did not seem to excite any indignation, for every one present was busily occupied in devising a plan by which he could curry favour with the fair Sophia.

But the priest smiled. "You're biassed, Mr. Jokisch, biassed. There's nothing wrong with Mrs. Tiralla."

"She's a good woman, a really good woman," agreed the gendarme. "I came past the farm the other day on my way from the Przykop, and found the servant lounging at the gate—Marianna Śroka, from Althof, you know, a buxom lass, but awfully cheeky. 'Panje,' said she in a low voice, and crept close up to me, 'Panje, there's murder in that house.' She pointed to the Tirallas' house and made such eyes, she looked quite mad. She wouldn't let me go. Then I got curious, and felt I must go into the house. The woman came out of the room at once. 'Where's Mr. Tiralla?' I asked, and at the same moment I heard a voice saying, 'Who is it, Sophia darling? Come in, come in, it's very comfortable here.' He was in high spirits, and we were all very happy together, although Marianna kept rolling her eyes about and winking at me quite openly as if to say, 'Take care!' What a horrid person she is, a real serpent. And Mrs. Tiralla is just like her husband, and continues to warm such a creature at her bosom. She's a good mistress, you can take my word for that. 'Please,' she said, and 'Thank you,' when Marianna brought something up from the cellar. But that's just like that kind of person. She's as comfortable with them as she can possibly be anywhere, and still she abuses them. I said to Mrs. Tiralla, 'How do you like your [Pg 65] servant?'—I wanted to introduce the subject, but she answered, 'Oh, she's very good, very good,' and praised her highly."

"A very nice feature," remarked the priest.

Everybody was filled with indignation against Jokisch. How dared he say a single word against Mrs. Tiralla, even when he was drunk? The schoolmaster had been quite right this time. Jokisch was to keep a civil tongue in his head. He was a henpecked husband, a tattler. All the bachelors jeered at the inspector. Little Zientek poured the dregs from his tumbler over his head, and when he resisted, and snorted and swore loudly as he hit about him, they drew the chair from under him, so that he sat down on the floor on which everybody had been spitting. On any other occasion the gendarme would have separated the men, but now he looked on with the utmost calm. It served the man quite right. The priest had at first watched the proceedings very doubtfully, and had kept an eye on the door to see if anybody were spying upon them. But when the others took their tumblers, and, following Zientek's example, poured the dregs over the man's head, he almost split his sides with laughing.

He saw, however, that it was about time for him to be going, so he got up from his seat and disappeared as quietly as he had come; and the men were laughing, quarrelling, and shouting so loudly that they hardly noticed his departure.

The schoolmaster felt like a hero, as he tramped home through the snow. He was her knight; he had just paid that vulgar, disgusting fellow out. Jokisch had received the first and last kick from him as they all together had conveyed the heavy man to the door. "Throw him out, that slanderer!" This [Pg 66] time they had all made common cause, all except the gendarme, who had retired at the very last moment. He always did so when there was any quarrelling going on in the private room at the inn, otherwise he would have been obliged to write down the names of these disturbers of the peace.

The stars shone down on the schoolmaster as he walked home all alone; the cold wintry sky looked like a huge glass bell that had been put over the flat country. The stars gave light; he could easily discern the empty village street, which was as wide as the widest street in a big town—so wide that it made the low cottages on either side look twice as low as they really were. Boehnke stumbled along as though he were intoxicated. But that was not the case, for he never drank too much, whatever the others might do. He was tormented with an ambitious longing to win this woman. Mrs. Tiralla was always very kind to him; he thought he had noticed that she also looked upon him as a kindred spirit. To-morrow he would see little Rosa—that dreamy child who would sit with a vacant stare on her face and not know what the others had been talking about—and he would tell her to remember him very kindly to her mother, and to ask her if she wanted anything to read during these long winter days. She could take her choice among his books. He would gladly lend her them all, in spite of the many hardships he had had to undergo in order to procure them. She had certainly borrowed a volume from him almost three years ago; she had had it almost the whole time he had been in the neighbourhood, and he would probably never see it again. But he did not mind that. To-morrow he would again place his library at her disposal. The best thing would be to write her a note and give it to [Pg 67] the child. He wrote a most beautiful hand, it looked like print. How the other people in this neighbourhood did scrawl!

The Gradewitz ball would cost him a lot of money, and he had hardly any. But what did that matter? He would go there, even if he had to borrow from the Jew. Happily there was always one thing he could do; if Isidor Prochownik dunned him, his daughter Rebecca should lose her place in the class—she should go down to the very bottom; but if the old man left him in peace Rebecca should have a very high place. He laughed to himself at the splendid idea. But then he turned scarlet, although there was nobody watching him, only the starry heavens above him, and around him the deserted, sleeping village. He was overcome with shame, for he felt that it was not right of him to move Rebecca up and down just to please himself. But then he stifled all qualms. What did it matter to that girl, who was so dirty, so stupid, so utterly neglected, even if she did go down to the bottom? It was of no importance to her. And he—he must go to the ball.

Boehnke dreamt that night of the beautiful Mrs. Tiralla. She wore a silk dress, and had given him a decoration in the cotillon. He stretched out an eager hand, and she pinned the gold paper-star on his breast. And then she clung to him, the silk dress gave way, and her white bosom opened like a book. "Read it," she said, smiling, "we two understand each other."

It was a confused dream, for then followed all kinds of nonsense which the young man could no longer remember when he awoke.

He went to school next morning feeling like a schoolboy who carries his first poem to his beloved one in his [Pg 68] pocket, and is longing impatiently to give it to her. Although he had gone to bed very late the evening before, he had got up early and had twice written a note to Mrs. Tiralla. He had not been satisfied with it the first time, and had therefore written it again. Rosa was now to take it to her. But when he went into the schoolroom his eyes sought in vain for the pale, absent-looking face under the mass of curly hair. All the brown, snub-nosed, sly-looking faces were there, but Rosa Tiralla was wanting. This was a great disappointment. He was more harsh and impatient than ever that day; he required his questions to be answered at once, without any hesitation, otherwise he took the first book he could lay hands on and hurled it over the forms. He could scarcely contain himself, he felt so irritable. Why the deuce had that red-haired girl just stopped away that day?

As Rosa was again absent the next day and the day after that, and as none of the children could tell him the reason why, he came to a decision—he would go to Starydwor. She must be ill. Would it not be the proper thing for him to make personal inquiries about his pupil?

The crows were cawing over his head as he endeavoured to find the path over the snow-clad fields. He could hardly see it, for there was only a very faint trace left of the cart that had taken the milk from Starydwor to Gradewitz early that morning. He shuddered as he wandered through the enormous white fields. It was true they were no more melancholy-looking at this time of the year than when full of turnips and ripe corn; but their uniform whiteness seemed to give them a larger and more desolate appearance. Even the hares, as they nibbled away at the few stalks that were left, and the birds of prey, [Pg 69] as they lazily flapped their wings in the direction of the Przykop, did not enliven their desolation; for the sluggish inertness of their movements, which enabled passers-by to approach them quite closely, proved only too clearly how very rarely they were disturbed.

Was it because he was not warmly enough dressed that he trembled so? Boehnke put his hands to his face—ugh! how cold it was. His top-coat was certainly very thin, it was only meant for summer wear; but he really couldn't have put on that thick, rough coat he wore every day for school. He was wearing his best black coat and kid gloves; his fingers were quite numb. He would have liked to run, in order to get warm, but big lumps of snow clung to his boots like lumps of lead. When he came in sight of the trees in the low-lying Przykop, it was as though something were holding him back, and as though the wind were pushing him back so as to prevent him from going any further. And he was longing with all his heart to get to Starydwor as soon as possible.

To the left lay the settlement—the distillery chimney reared its head in the air like a big white asparagus—and there Jokisch lived. But he would not live there much longer. When the land had been parcelled out and the settlers had come, he would go. Thank God! Boehnke was filled with a vague jealousy; they were neighbours, he and she, and he considered every neighbour dangerous. Jokisch was certainly a fine-looking man, and Boehnke felt firmly convinced that he also found Mrs. Tiralla very fascinating, in spite of all he had said to the contrary, for who would not? Perhaps that was the very reason why he had been so angry with her.

Then the schoolmaster began to run. Who would [Pg 70] hinder him in getting to Starydwor as quickly as possible? There it lay.

The old farm, which had been in the hands of the Tirallas for over a hundred years, had rather an imposing look in the distance. Not much was to be seen of the farmhouse itself—it was very low, as though sunk in the ground—but the barns and stables, all roofed with new, red tiles, formed a wall round the square courtyard in front of it, and the whole together constituted a very fine property. But what good was it to her if she didn't love her husband?

The young man cast one more look at his clothes, and then, after flipping the snow off his trousers, walked through the open gateway, over which was a figure of the Holy Virgin sitting on a throne, which was protected by a grating. A couple of dogs rushed at his legs and barked; but he was not a coward, although he was no giant, and a kick soon frightened the curs away. A man stood in the stable door watching the schoolmaster as he walked up to the farmhouse.

What did the Starawieś schoolmaster want? Ha, ha, was he also coming to kiss the mistress's hand? Somebody had already been there yesterday, and the day before yesterday as well. How they all ran after her. But they had no luck, thought Jendrek with a broad grin on his face. The Pani bestowed the kindest look on him, and she gave him bacon every day in the kitchen, and an extra glass of gin as well. God bless the good woman!

Boehnke stepped into the stone passage, but nobody came. He gave a loud cough; he had never been there before, and did not know where to knock. He scraped his feet, and as there was still no sign of anybody he called out in a polite voice, "May I come in? Hallo! is nobody at home?"

[Pg 71]

Then he heard Mr. Tiralla's voice coming from the room on the right, "Come in, come in, it's very comfortable here."

The schoolmaster knocked at the door.

"Confound you! Come in, I say."

Boehnke went in, but he at once drew back. Oh, he didn't wish to disturb. But still he stood as though rooted to the spot, and stared and stared. There was Mr. Tiralla lying all his length on the bench by the stove with his head resting on his wife's lap.

Mrs. Tiralla blushed crimson as their eyes met. Then she lowered hers, and jumped up so hastily that the heavy man on her lap was in danger of falling on the floor.

"Psia krew!" cried the man, and then he laughed. Surely she didn't feel shy, weren't they husband and wife?

She answered nothing, but she glanced at her husband with such an expression of disdain, and then looked so hopelessly out of the window, that Boehnke at once knew that she was unhappy, and that her husband did not understand her. And he felt his heart beat.

"Oh, it's you, Mr. Boehnke," she said in a friendly voice, and held out her hand. It felt like velvet as it lay in his, but it was as cold as ice. He ventured to press it slightly; but she did not return the pressure, she only gave him a sad look out of her splendid eyes and smiled a little. Oh, that poor woman! How he would have liked to give that abominable fellow a blow as he lay on the bench.

Mr. Tiralla was in a very good humour. He shouted to Marianna to fetch beer and gin, and then told his wife to bring out some food. Boehnke will be hungry—such a schoolmaster is always hungry—bring what [Pg 72] you can find: ham, eggs, cake, sausages, cheese, and what else you've got in the larder. "We've got plenty." Then, without rising from the bench, he seized hold of the schoolmaster with the words, "Take a seat, pray," and forced him down on the nearest chair in spite of his resistance. "We're pleased to give you it. Psia krew, only no excuses."

Boehnke had stammered something about not wishing to give trouble, about not being hungry, about going away immediately. But the farmer had given a boisterous laugh as usual, and had said that the schoolmaster had better tell that to the marines, for he didn't believe it. He had probably been brought up in the same way as his wife, eh? She had always worn shoes and stockings as a child, and had been as dainty-looking as a doll; but her little bread-basket had been as empty as a barn before harvest. She had been as thin as a church mouse in those days.

The schoolmaster saw Mrs. Tiralla give her husband a second look, but there was more than disdain in her look this time—something else gleamed in the depths of those dark eyes. Then she turned away and went out of the room without saying a word.

"Heigh, Sophia, be quick!" shouted the man after her.

And then he began singing her praises to the schoolmaster. Mr. Tiralla loved to have visitors; he was so delighted to have an opportunity of talking about his wife and his happiness to somebody. He bragged about everything, and dilated loquaciously upon matters that a husband does not generally mention to other men. His Sophia had a wonderful figure, a wonderful figure! As slender as a birch! And she was so dainty, slim in the waist and still rounded, broad across the hips, soft and warm like a partridge [Pg 73] or like one of those little pigs made of marzipan, which Wolkowitz, in Posen, used to put in his window at Christmas time. And her bosom! Would you believe that——Lowering his voice but very little he was about to confide some more intimate particulars to the young man. But the latter tore himself away from the hand that was pressing him down on the chair. He had been fidgeting about on his seat for some time, but now he felt he could stand it no longer. A burning blush suffused his face—was it from shame or desire? Oh, that woman, that poor woman, at the mercy of such a man! He was filled with an inexpressible repugnance for this stout, coarse old man, who literally undressed his wife in the presence of others. Could anybody blame her if she disliked him as much as Mrs. Jokisch had said?

The farmer had not noticed that the schoolmaster was struggling with his feelings. It had not even struck him that he was silent. He had found him a modest young man who did not talk much, and that was a good thing, because then he was listening. Mr. Tiralla was very pleased with his visitor.

Marianna appeared with three bottles of beer under each arm and a small tray with glasses in her hand. She looked hale and hearty, and there was no trace left of that fearful indisposition which had attacked her at the commencement of the winter. She scanned the visitor with sparkling, roguish eyes. Would he in time become the Pani's lover? It wouldn't surprise her if she got hold of one now. But this man—she made a grimace of disapproval—this man wasn't half good-looking enough. And he didn't seem very enterprising either, for he had never even glanced at her, although she had more than once touched him with her sleeve and had reached right over him in [Pg 74] order to place the glasses and the six bottles on the table.

"That's enough for the present," said Mr. Tiralla. "But listen, girl," he added, pinching her in the thigh so that she screamed aloud, "go down to the cellar and fetch us another bottle of Tokay. And where's the gin? You must have a glass to begin with, little Boehnke, or you'll catch cold. Hallo, you little devil, why are you still there?" he roared at the maid, who stood smiling and showing all her teeth. "Can't you understand me? Do you think I'm speaking German? Isn't it Polish I'm speaking? She's very stupid," he said apologetically, as the girl left the room with a bold laugh, "but she's faithful—and she's pretty."

He said this with a smile which horrified the schoolmaster anew. Had it come to that? The man was not even faithful to her? Poor, poor thing! He had never felt so sorry for anybody in his life, and he was not soft-hearted as a rule. He longed for her return. She probably felt ashamed of what had happened, otherwise she would have returned long ago.

Mr. Tiralla was also growing impatient. The gin didn't taste half so good if his Sophia hadn't taken the first sip of it, and he didn't care for the beer at all. He shouted again for the maid, and when she came with the bottle of Tokay and a large tray of eatables he said to her angrily, "Put it down. Where's your mistress? Psia krew, what's become of her?"

Marianna shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know why the Pani doesn't come. Gospodarz must know best himself."

"Confound you! Call her. She is to come."

The maid disappeared. A few minutes later she stuck her head in at the door and said with a sad look, "Pani can't come, the Paninka is worse again; oh, [Pg 75] she's very ill." Then she withdrew as quickly as possible.

The glass which Mr. Tiralla hurled after her only hit the door, and then broke into a thousand pieces.

The schoolmaster could not stand it any longer. What was the good of staying there? Of course, she wouldn't show herself any more. Such bad luck! Why on earth should that stupid, red-haired child just get worse now? Or was it only an excuse? Oh, of course, it was an excuse. She would be sitting upstairs in a corner, bowed down with shame and weeping, weeping so much that her beautiful figure—broad across the hips, a waist as slender as a birch, slim and still rounded—shook with it. Although the young fellow tried his utmost not to think of it, he could not help it; he saw her the whole time just as the old man had described her to him. He changed colour; one moment he felt hot, the next cold. Mr. Tiralla went on filling his glass with beer, gin, and Tokay, the one after the other, and he drank more than he was accustomed to in his absent-mindedness. He was thinking of nothing but her. He could not believe that he was to leave the house without seeing her once more. So he sat and sat, until the sky grew darker and darker and the early afternoon turned into pitch-dark night. At last he rose from his chair with despair in his heart. He had attained nothing of all he had meant to attain; he hadn't offered her any books, he hadn't secured her for a dance at the Gradewitz ball, he hadn't even inquired about the child, which had been his nominal reason for coming to Starydwor. He felt furious with Mr. Tiralla; he was to blame for everything. Then he bade him good night.

Mr. Tiralla did not accompany him to the door—little Boehnke would be able to find it alone—so he [Pg 76] groped his way through the dark passage to the front door, reeling a little as he walked. Suddenly a warm hand grasped his, some one chuckled near him in the dark, and the servant's deep voice said half compassionately, half mockingly, "Did you find it slow with Pan Tiralla? I'm sorry. Pani is upstairs with little Rosa. If Pan Boehnke wants to say good night to her——" she pushed him in the direction of the stairs and disappeared in the dark, chuckling.

Like a gnome, he thought—oh, no, like an angel. He was seized with a superstitious terror. Everything seemed so strange; the old house, the chuckling maid, the loud-voiced man, the beautiful woman. He began cursing all the drink he had had and cursing Mr. Tiralla. Oh, if only he had been as sober and as clear-headed as he generally was.

The old staircase creaked under his feet. What would she say? Wouldn't she consider him intruding if he came up to her? But weren't those groans that he heard above the creaking of the stairs? That poor, beautiful woman! He must go to her. Where was she?

Now he was at the top. Hark, wasn't that the child's voice?

"Mother," he heard Rosa say, "sweet mother, I really did see her, you can believe me. She was as beautiful, as beautiful as you. She had hair like yours, when you undo your plaits. And she gave me the Child Jesus to hold. I love it, I love it!" She repeated that several times with great fervour.

What nonsense was the child talking? Of whom was she speaking? The schoolmaster drew nearer to the door. Ah—he gave a start—ah, now she, Mrs. Tiralla, was speaking. But he couldn't very well understand what she was saying, she spoke so softly. [Pg 77] And now and then she seemed to be sobbing. He knocked at the door and walked in. Rosa was lying in bed and her mother was sitting on the bed near her. They both stared at him in astonishment, but when he said with a voice that hesitated at first, but then grew firmer, that he felt he couldn't leave without hearing how she was, the child looked pleased.

"I'm very well," she answered, with a shy smile. "Very well, thank you, Panje Boehnke."

"She's feverish," said her mother. "She fainted the day before yesterday; Marianna came rushing down to tell us. We shall have to send for the doctor if she doesn't get better."

"No, no," cried the child, sitting up in bed and looking as though she were going to cry. "I'm not ill, mother darling, I'm not ill." She threw her arms round her mother and pressed her head against her breast.

The schoolmaster stepped up to the bed and laid his hand on the child's head. No, she wasn't feverish, but he began to feel so as soon as he came near that beautiful woman. He busied himself with Rosa; what was the matter with her, wouldn't she soon come back to him?

Rosa nodded, and then raising her head from her mother's breast, she pushed her tangled hair away from her face, which looked dazzlingly white in spite of the freckles. Even Boehnke, in his agitation, noticed how bright her dull eyes had become.

"She dreams so much," said her mother sadly. "She frightens us by screaming aloud in her sleep. And she talks in her sleep as well; Marianna is really terrified. Oh, those awful dreams!" She sighed.

But the schoolmaster did not inquire any further into the matter. Little Rosa's dreams did not interest [Pg 78] him in the slightest, all he wanted to do was to give Mrs. Tiralla a proof of his devotion.

"Would the Pani like to borrow some of my books?" he inquired. "I shall be very pleased to bring some." And then wishing to give her a hint of how he understood and pitied her, he took heart and added, "If people live such a lonely life as the Pani does, and are so un——" he wanted to say "unhappy," or "so little understood," but he faltered, and his veiled eyes looked longingly at her. He did not know how it was, but he always lost his self-possession when he was near her.

She must have understood him in spite of his faltering, for she sighed and said, "Ah, yes, Mr. Tiralla doesn't care much for reading. He eats, drinks, sleeps, and——" she also faltered and blushed. And then she gave him a long look out of her black eyes, so that his heart stood still. "I shall be very grateful to you if you'll lend me some books," she continued in a soft voice. "Mr. Tiralla doesn't like to spend money on them. Oh, I'm so fond of reading beautiful tales, sentimental ones."

The man was in the seventh heaven. So she wanted books? That meant that he would often have a chance of coming to see her. For he would take good care not to give Rosa the books; he would bring them himself, and never more than one at a time. "I'll bring you some," he said, overjoyed.

"Oh, not so loud, not so loud," begged Rosa, and her face was burning. She had fallen back on the pillow, her eyes were wide open, but she spoke as though in her sleep. "I hear her, sh, mother, sh!"

What did she hear? The two looked at each other, whilst the howling wind outside seemed to creep along the walls of the house like clinging fingers. [Pg 79] Boehnke shook his head; the child was really very peculiar.

But Mrs. Tiralla gave a slight shudder, and, bending over her daughter's bed, she said in a strangely soft voice, "Go on listening, Rosa dear, go on listening." Then she grasped the schoolmaster's hand and drew him out of the room. "Come. She is already asleep."

They stood outside in the dark. A murmuring sound was heard from the bedroom, a few joyful exclamations and then Rosa's voice rose clear and triumphant. Boehnke was full of amazement; what was the meaning of it all?

Mrs. Tiralla, who was still holding his hand, now whispered to him, "I've no friend. I stand quite alone. I often wish I were dead."

The young man pressed his burning, eager lips to her sleeve. He felt almost stifled with emotion and stammered something hardly intelligible. He was her friend, her faithful, devoted friend. He had already once been her knight, but if she commanded, he would also be her dog. For ever and ever.

If the schoolmaster had hoped for a proof of her favour he was disappointed. She only pressed his hand, and oh, how icy-cold hers was, and how firm. Her dainty hand could press as firmly as any man's. "I rely upon you, Panje Boehnke," she whispered, and then, raising her voice, she added calmly and distinctly, "Don't fall. Here's the staircase, here."

Mr. Tiralla's powerful voice was heard downstairs. "Where are you, Sophia? Let the devil take hold of you by the tip of your shift. Why don't you come to me, my little dove, my darling?"

"Good night," she whispered hastily, once more pressing the schoolmaster's hand.

[Pg 80]

He stood alone in the silent courtyard; there was no light in the stables and sheds, the cattle made no sound. He felt oppressed. Did he dread the walk through the lonely fields? Oh, no, on the contrary he was able to breathe once more when he reached the open fields, and the howling wind threw a whole load of snow into his face and over his clothes. "Ah," he drew a long, trembling breath. But all at once he felt terrified. There came a long-drawn, shrill whistle from the Przykop, a quite peculiar whistle. No bird screamed like that, and no human being either. A shudder ran down his back; he was seized with a superstitious fear, which he could not shake off again in spite of his common sense and his education. That was the witch that whistled in the pitch-dark Przykop.

And he made the sign of the cross as the peasants do when they hear the witch whistling, and spat on the snow that gleamed in spite of the darkness. When that's done, the witch has lost her power and you need not follow her.

[Pg 81]



CHAPTER V

Rosa Tiralla had seen visions; but whether they were good or bad visions nobody knew. Marianna Śroka cried loudly when she brought the news to the village, and her lover, Jendrek, confirmed it with a nod. The Paninka had seen something, the Paninka was bewitched.

Mr. Tiralla was deeply grieved about his Roeschen, as deeply grieved as he could possibly be about anything. He had already been looking out for a husband for his little daughter—she would be fourteen next autumn, and a wife cannot be too young-and now she seemed only fit for bed. The strong man had never suffered from nerves—didn't even know what they were—but all sorts of things happened nowadays to alarm him. Rosa was so irritable that she cried if anybody spoke crossly to her. The doctor advised them not to treat her harshly, for she cried so bitterly that she became quite hysterical. And after the attack was over she was so feeble that she could not move a limb, and looked exactly like somebody who was going to die; so that her father in his terror used to say, "yes," and "my angel," "everything you like, my angel."—nothing but "my angel."

And Roeschen imagined that she was always surrounded by angels. She thought her father, Marianna, and Jendrek were angels, but especially she thought her mother one. Pan Boehnke was also an angel. He [Pg 82] often came to see her, and then he and her dear mother would sit by her bedside and talk to each other, and their voices would sound so soft and low that her eyes would close, and she would fall into a sweet sleep.

Mrs. Tiralla had never imagined that she could feel so much love for her daughter. She was really fond of her now. Marianna would on no account sleep any longer in the same room as Rosa; she said that it was impossible to close an eye the whole night through, and if she worked so hard during the day she really must rest at night. The truth was that when Marianna stole out of bed in order to go to her lover, the child would sit up in bed and call out, "Where are you going, Marianna?" and there was such a strange note of reproach and admonition in her voice, that the girl shuddered and did not venture to go to Jendrek. How had the child found it out?

So Mrs. Tiralla had her bed brought up to her daughter's room. Her husband cursed and raged, for hitherto he had at least had his wife next to him on the same floor. But she insisted upon having her own way. She said that Roeschen wanted care, and mustn't sleep alone. And he saw that she was right.

At night, when the house was so quiet that the ticking of the big clock sounded like peals of thunder and her husband's snores like a saw-mill hard at work, Mrs. Tiralla would sit by her child's bed. She would hold her hand—a small, narrow, delicate-looking hand with blue veins—and they would whisper together about the joys of Paradise. Whilst all around was joyless—the dark night, the lonely farm buried in deep snow, the solitude in which a soul so often gets lost—those two would whisper together about the joys of Paradise—about nothing else.

The heavenly world in which Mrs. Tiralla had also [Pg 83] lived as a child had once more drawn near to her by means of Rosa. She could very well understand what occupied the child's thoughts to the exclusion of everything else. And that was right, for she was to be a saint. Was she not almost one now? There was a rapt expression in Rosa's eyes, when she used to tell her mother about what she had seen, about the Holy Mother and the Child Jesus, and about her beautiful, beautiful guardian angel who always sat at her bedside when she was asleep. A short time before, she had suddenly awaked in the night, but had been too tired to open her eyes properly, and she had found the angel bending over her—such a beautiful angel in a long white garment.

Mrs. Tiralla knew all about it. It had been she, and the white garment was her nightdress, which was long and fine, like those worn by smart ladies. But she let the child remain in her belief. Why undeceive her? And after that she used to creep every night to Rosa's bed and disturb her sleep by laying her hand on her head and bending over her as if she were her guardian angel, to the child's and her own great delight. She loved doing it. She even practised her part, so that she grew more and more proficient in it every night.

In the daytime, Mrs. Tiralla would rummage in her drawers and show Rosa the things she had possessed as a child, precious relics which she devoutly kissed. These were consecrated beads, a consecrated palm branch, a little white china angel, a vessel for holy water and many gaudy pictures of saints, which her priest had once given her. Then she would relate something about each of these treasures as they lay on the child's bed. She would speak in a low, monotonous whisper, as though praying and with a dreamy smile on her face, and would gradually work herself [Pg 84] up into such a state of eagerness and excitement that her radiant eyes would become veiled, and, bursting into tears, she would sink down on the child's bed. Then mother and daughter would weep in each other's arms.

Rosa's tears were tears of ecstatic rapture and longing, of a great longing for something she could not name—the dear Virgin, the dear little Child Jesus, the dear guardian angel and all the dear saints. She knew them all; she knew the history of every martyr that now wore a halo. Her mother had read about them aloud to her again and again from the book of holy legends that she had brought out of the gaily painted chest in which she, as a girl, had kept her belongings.

How splendid it must be to live like those holy women. If you were like St. Julia or St. Helena, or even St. Agnes, you would get leave to nurse the Child Jesus in Paradise, and rock it and sing it to sleep with hallelujah.

When Rosa was all alone she would try to sing the heavenly lullaby; she would try to take the highest notes with her small, weak voice, and make them sound soft and harmonious instead of shrill and piping.

Then the servants in the yard used to say, "St. Panusia is singing," and they would listen devoutly to the long-drawn song, sounding like a chant, that came from Rosa's bedroom.

But Rosa never felt quite satisfied with her lullaby, and often burst into tears. It must be because she didn't pray fervently enough, because she was far from being good and pure enough. So she wrote down all her sins on a piece of paper in her stiff, uneven handwriting, that she might not forget any of them—there was a long row of them—and she made up her mind to [Pg 85] confess them all and get forgiveness for them as soon as the snow was so far melted that she could go to the priest.

She did not attend school at present, not being strong enough to walk all the way from Starydwor to Starawieś.

Mr. and Mrs. Tiralla were preparing to go to the Gradewitz ball in spite of the snow and the bad roads. They hoped they would be able to get through all right. Mr. Tiralla could never have brought himself to let an opportunity pass of gloating over the many eager eyes that would watch his wife in the mazes of the dance, whilst he sat comfortably in the corner of the ballroom with his glass and his cards.

Mrs. Tiralla was a very good dancer, and her heart beat as she unpacked the ball-dress her husband had ordered for her from a fashionable dressmaker in Posen. She could very well have worn her blue silk again if the rats had not been nibbling it! However, this filmy white gauze, with its long flowing sash and a small bouquet of artificial roses for the bodice and another for the hair, was certainly much prettier; there was an underskirt of silk, too, which rustled and swished every time she moved.

Mrs. Tiralla was dressing in the large sitting-room on the ground floor. The bedroom upstairs was too cold, so Marianna had brought the looking-glass down and had fixed it up on a table by means of some pieces of wood, and placed two lighted candles in front of it. Mrs. Tiralla was doing her own hair. The Gradewitz dressmaker would have been asked to do it, as she was also the hairdresser of the neighbourhood, but she had taken offence when she heard that Mrs. Tiralla had got her ball-dress from Posen.

[Pg 86]

Mrs. Tiralla did not crimp her hair as a rule, but to-day she got a waving-iron, and she and Marianna did it together. The maid was by no means clumsy, although she had such big hands, and she helped her mistress to pile up her wavy hair at the top of her head. But when at last it was ready, Mrs. Tiralla thought it so hideous, that she burst into tears and tore it down with an angry "Psia krew!" which made Rosa shrink. The child was crouching in a dark corner of the room with her hands clasped round her knees, gazing with admiration at the beautiful vision in the white embroidered petticoat.

Ugh! how difficult it was to please the mistress this evening; now she wanted this, now that. If Marianna had not consoled herself with the thought that she would soon be mistress of the house for a whole night, she would have cried instead of laughing pleasantly as she was doing now. "Pani must do her hair in her usual way," she said. "That suits Pani best of all."

"She is right," sighed Mrs. Tiralla, as she began once more to comb out her tangled hair, and she tore at it so savagely that at last her silky, black tresses clung to her white temples in big, smooth waves. Then she twisted the plaits in a huge coil at the nape of her neck; that was the way she had worn her hair in her girlhood, and that suited her best.

"By Jove, you look like a little girl, my love," smirked her husband from his seat, on the bench near the stove, where he was lying as usual in spite of his clean shirt, black coat, and hair covered with pomade. "Many people will envy me to-night."

She did not answer; she felt annoyed with him. Wasn't it disgraceful of him to lie there in his new, clean clothes, just as though he had his greasy, everyday coat on?

[Pg 87]

"How beautiful, oh, how beautiful," whispered Rosa, who had crept out of her corner and was kneeling before her mother with both hands raised as though worshipping her. Mrs. Tiralla had now put her ball-dress on, and the snowy-white gauze fell round her like a fleecy cloud. She thought herself that she looked beautiful, just like a young girl. Ah! A slight but burning pain made her tremble. How sad to think that all this beauty was to wither away at her husband's side—always at her husband's side. All at once she was seized with a violent fit of fury, one of those sudden attacks which deprived her for a time of her senses. "Get up," she said to Rosa coldly, as the child gently stroked her dress. "Get up. Why do you do that? You're soiling my dress."

Rosa began to cry.

"Why do you frighten her so?" exclaimed Mr. Tiralla reproachfully; he could not bear to hear his daughter cry. "Come here, my Roeschen, my little lady-bird; leave your mother, she's in a bad humour to-day. Come to me, Roeschen, my sweetheart, come; take hold of my coat, you won't soil that."

"Yes, go, go!" and the woman dragged her dress so violently away from the clinging hands that a flounce came undone. Then she grew still more furious, for now the dress would have to be sewn. She scolded Rosa in a loud voice, and the child gazed at her with a strange look in her dilated eyes. Could angels scold as well? Alas, she must have done something very bad, must have been a very good-for-nothing girl if the angel scolded her. She crept back into her corner sobbing in a subdued fashion.

"That's right, be angry, it suits you," said Mr. Tiralla, laughing.

Neither of the parents took any more notice of the [Pg 88] child. The father rose from the bench when he heard the crack of Jendrek's whip, as the carriage drove up to the front door. It was late. If they wanted to be there in time they would have to start at once, as it would take quite two hours to drive to Gradewitz to-night with the roads in such a condition.

"Dalej, my dear," he said, holding his wife's fur cloak for her, in a sudden fit of politeness.

Marianna drew her master's thickest woollen socks over her mistress's dainty shoes. "Oh, what beautiful little shoes," she exclaimed ingratiatingly. "Pani mustn't walk in the snow with her beautiful feet."

As the woman bent forward in order to help the maid, her husband threw a look at her low-necked dress and smirked. Then he pressed a resounding kiss on her smooth, cool neck.

The maid screamed with laughter, and continued to do so long after the carriage had jolted out of the gate. She and Jendrek had accompanied them so far, each carrying a lantern for fear they should fall into any of the dangerous holes in the unpaved yard made by the pigs and poultry, and now covered with loose snow.

The child remained alone in the big, stifling room, into the dark corners of which the light from the two flickering candles on the table could not penetrate.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Mrs. Tiralla sat with closed eyes behind her husband, whose broad back kept off the wind. They could not have taken any other carriage, as it would have been upset on the bad roads. It was difficult enough even for this open conveyance, with its big, clumsy wheels, to get along, for sometimes the wheels would be high up, sometimes low down, it all depended on whether there was more or less ice in the ruts.

[Pg 89]

How awful it was to live in such a flat country. Mrs. Tiralla sighed, as she sat wrapped up in her fur cloak and many shawls. The schoolmaster was right, this was no place for her. Life in these surroundings made one feel quite strange. She had, indeed, been born for something else. Had not her priest said to her even in the old days when she was still so young, "Thou art chosen amongst many"? And what had been her lot? The woman flashed a furious look through her half-closed lids at the man sitting in front. Now he was taking her once more to be exhibited, just like a breeder who wishes to win a prize for the animal he has kept in such good condition.

Mrs. Tiralla was filled with a wild fury; she would have liked to hurl her husband out of the carriage. If only he were lying in the snow; if only the wheels would go over him; if only she could seize the reins and whip up the horses, "Huj, het!" Free, free! But—then her head drooped and a sudden sadness came over her—she had not the courage to do it. She had put the rat poison in the lumber-room in the old gaily painted chest from her girlhood, where nobody would look for it. She had told her husband that the rats had eaten it all, and he had believed her. He had not been surprised that they had not found any dead rats, for it is a well-known fact that animals hide in any hole they can find when they have been poisoned. There they die. If only she had not been so terrified when Marianna shrieked "Poison, poison!" How awful it would be if that big man were to roll his eyes and foam at the mouth and shriek, "Poison, poison!"

"Holy Mother!" she said to herself as she folded her hands under her fur cloak, "look down on me. Thou gracious one, lend me thy assistance in what [Pg 90] I'm about to do." To do it alone was too great an undertaking; would she ever, ever find courage to do it again? It had not seemed so difficult the first time. But the saints had not willed it; the maid, that idiot! had upset the coffee, and her husband had not got a single drop of it. What a pity, thought Mrs. Tiralla regretfully. How could she have felt so happy that morning when she saw her husband sitting at the breakfast-table safe and sound? He grew more and more repugnant to her every day. How long—how long would she have to bear it? Had Heaven no understanding? So many husbands died and left wives to weep and mourn for them, and he—he—she wouldn't shed a single tear for him, she was sure of that. She would laugh, laugh! Ha, and to-night she would dance, dance! She felt as though she must deaden all feeling.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Tirallas were anxiously awaited. The ball had no attraction as long as Mrs. Tiralla was not there.

As their carriage rumbled up to the market-place little Zientek, in evening dress and a tall hat on his fair hair, rushed to the hotel door to receive them. Thank goodness, there they were! He, as master of the ceremonies, had suffered agonies at their nonarrival. What should they have done with all those bouquets for the cotillon? Half of them would have been enough.

A good many of the guests had congregated on the dirty, straw-covered pavement, in order to watch, by the feeble light from the lantern that swung backwards and forwards in the wind, the fair Sophia get down. Many eager hands were stretched out to [Pg 91] assist her, but she did not seem to notice them. She gave a neat jump, and next moment stood on the stone steps, over which a piece of old carpet had been laid, shaking out her skirts. She did not wait until her husband had got down, but, walking straight into the cloak-room, took off her things, gave a peep into the dingy glass, and was dancing the mazurka with Mr. Schmielke when Mr. Tiralla entered the ballroom.

He at once looked out for a seat for himself. Let her dance, he liked her to do so. He was not afraid of her virtue, for she was as cold as ice; you had to be thankful when she did not scratch your eyes out. She had been trying him very sorely lately. Since Roeschen's illness she would have nothing to do with him.

Then he played a game with Count Jagodziuski, the cards for which (a pack soiled by much usage and many dirty fingers) the Count at once produced from the back-pocket of his coat. What did it matter to Mr. Tiralla if he lost three or four pounds? It amused him when the Count won them, for that was the only harvest the poor devil had nowadays.

The Count was not accustomed to have such an indulgent opponent; everybody else used to keep a strict eye on him except Mr. Tiralla. In his heart the gallant old Count pitied the latter's beautiful wife. Poor thing, to have such a fool of a husband.

Mrs. Tiralla was like a flame, in spite of her white dress and her cheeks that never got red—hot, but never red—for she set fire to the whole ballroom.

Crimson and white flags, that swayed incessantly backwards and forwards in the draught created by the dancers as they whirled past, had been fixed to the bare wooden partitions, through which the wind whistled straight from the plain. The withered garlands, [Pg 92] that had been there since the Sokol's[A] last entertainment, rustled softly as they hung from one flagstaff to the other. The boards on the floor were only loosely laid down, and moved up and down under the hopping and gliding of many feet. If a foot happened to stamp a little more than usual, or a couple to fall down with a crash, then clouds of dust would whirl up and obscure the light from the swinging paraffin lamp, round which twelve candles, fixed in a metal disc, were flickering. A stove roared in the corner. The wall behind it had been scorched by the heat, and in front a large iron-plated screen had been placed, in order to protect the women's dresses from the sparks that flew out of the open door.



[Footnote A: A Polish gymnastic society.]



The piano stood on a platform, which was now and then used as a stage; and there was a pianist from Gnesen, not at all a bad player, who was supported by a violin and a double-bass. The musicians played with a good deal of rhythm, a fiery rhythm that carried the dancers away. People danced well in Gradewitz. Schmielke's dancing was nothing special here, although it had been considered exceedingly good at home. The girls were as light as soap-bubbles; even stout Miss Trampel, the baker's daughter, and the stupid, snub-nosed Miss Musielak, the stationmaster's daughter, danced like feathers; still, they were not in very much request.

Little Jadwiga, the rich mill-owner's daughter, who was wearing a brand-new pale blue cashmere frock, cut square in front, which left her neck bare as far as the freckles went, did not meet with as much success as could be expected from her dress, which the Gradewitz dressmaker had declared to be her masterpiece. And even Mariechen Rozycki, whose very red arms [Pg 93] and hands stuck out of a pink silk blouse, had to look on, while one man after another marched over to Mrs. Tiralla. It was a bitter blow.

The girls put their heads together in the intervals between the dances. All of them, whether fair or dark, brown or red, had had their hair done exactly in the same way. The Gradewitz hairdresser had waved their front hair and made it into an enormous roll over the forehead, with the help of some padding. And then she had made three puffs of the back hair, which she had placed at the top of the head. The only difference between them all was the greater or lesser quantity of hair they had, and the colour of the little bow placed coquettishly on the left side.

How awful these young girls looked. The one in bright pink, the other in bright blue, the third in almost orange, the fourth in the colour of arsenic. And then the women! Mrs. Rozycki, the butcher's wife, shone in a stiff silk—dark reddish brown, trimmed with yellow lace—not at all bad in itself, but how common her fat face looked over her tight silk bodice that seemed ready to burst. And then the others! Mrs. Jokisch, in black, trimmed with mauve and a white lace collar, looked exactly like her own grandmother. How a man's soul seems to show itself in his garments. Mr. Boehnke, the schoolmaster, stood in a corner of the ballroom criticizing the company. He had never laid so much weight on appearances before—his mother was a very unassuming woman, and his sisters, oh, dear!—but he had been spoiled since he had made Mrs. Tiralla's acquaintance. She was always beautiful, and especially so this evening. He almost devoured her with his eyes. How splendid she looked in that dainty white dress. She was harmony personified in this confused mass of gaudy [Pg 94] colours. The only coloured thing about her was her smooth, silky dark hair, with the rosebuds in it, and the little bouquet at her bosom.

She was the only one who was wearing a low-necked dress. Such a thing had never been the fashion in Gradewitz, where it was only customary to expose the throat and shoulder-blades. It was really extremely indecent to be so uncovered; but none of the women would have dared say that aloud, and the young girls even less. Next time, however, that there was a ball in Gradewitz, all the dresses should be made like Mrs. Tiralla's. The men seemed to approve of it. Even the most innocent children noticed how their fathers' eyes glittered as they looked down at Mrs. Tiralla's shoulders.

Sophia Tiralla did not seem to notice all these looks. She gave herself up to the pleasures of the dance like a child—like a little innocent child. All her misery had been wiped away for this short hour. What did it matter to her that all these men stared at her in the same way as her husband always did? Her blood did not course more quickly on that account. Let them! She laughed at them, laughed! If they had known that she had almost killed a human being! Almost poisoned her! She was seized with a nervous inclination to laugh.

When Mr. Schmielke whispered to her, as he pressed her to his heart in the gliding waltz, "My beautiful one, the sweetest rose in Poland"—he thought that very fine, really poetical—"I'm dying of love for you," she laughed in his face.

"You're dancing very badly, Mr. Schmielke," she said, and next moment flew past him in little Zientek's arms.

"Psia krew!" Mr. Schmielke had already accustomed [Pg 95] himself to the Polish way of swearing. That hop o' my thumb, that little milksop of a post office clerk, had better try to come near him, he would soon take him in hand. He called himself master of the ceremonies, and his duty was obviously to provide for the entertainment of the guests. Why, he was thinking of nobody but himself—the perjurer, the liar! the vain little Pole!

Mr. Zientek danced much better than the Prussian tax-collector, but even he found no favour in Mrs. Tiralla's eyes. She finished the dance with him; but just as he, with laboured breath and beating pulse, was about to commence an intimate, low-toned conversation with her, she nodded an absent-minded "Thanks," without listening to what he was saying, and was immediately carried off by Mr. Rozycki, the butcher.

Rozycki was a capital dancer, in spite of his stoutness. He had dragged on a pair of white kid gloves, and was enjoying himself so much that the perspiration was streaming down his face and falling in big drops on to his partner's shoulder. But that was quite immaterial to Mrs. Tiralla at the present moment, and she did not mind either if it were butcher or baker or post office clerk with whom she was dancing, as long as she could dance. But not with Mr. Tiralla, she would not have liked to dance with him. As their eyes met, and he raised his glass and gave her a pleasant nod, she frowned gloomily and took no notice of him. She looked very worn at that moment; all her youthfulness seemed to have disappeared.

But that was only for a moment, and her face became quite smooth again as she whirled round the room with her skilful partner, against whose body she was constantly knocking. He remained in the middle [Pg 96] of the room with her, just under the chandelier, so that everybody could see him and her. He felt as though he were the king of the ball. He would soon stop his wife's tongue if she should venture later on to reproach him for having danced so long with Sophia Tiralla. He had now danced three times round the room with her without stopping, he didn't seem to be able to tire her out. However, when he felt that he could not dance any longer, he drew a deep breath, gave an exultant cheer, and lifted his charming partner right up into the air.

Deafening cheers resounded through the ballroom. The men were like mad. They pushed and buffeted and pressed round the snow-white little lamb under the chandelier like rams that had been let loose.

Mrs. Tiralla did not utter a sound as her strong partner raised her from the ground. Her lips were scarlet, her little nostrils trembled, her eyes laughed.

A feeling of deep dejection came over her later on when she was sitting at the table with Mr. Schmielke, with Zientek on the other side, and her husband opposite to her. She did not want to eat anything; when she saw how Mr. Tiralla was devouring his food she lost her appetite. All at once she felt she had had enough of it all; the dance nauseated her as well as the food. For to-morrow she would again be alone with her husband at Starydwor. The more court the men paid her that evening the more she abhorred him. There was nobody here who could have charmed her. This Mr. Schmielke at her side, bah! True, all the girls ran after him, and he was constantly whispering some amorous nonsense in her ear and secretly pressing his knee against her dress, and seeking her foot. But she could have lived a hundred years on a desert island with him, and he would never have been dangerous to [Pg 97] her. And Zientek, that little fair-haired fellow, what did she care for such a stupid boy? Her lip curled with a disdainful smile. What did she care for all the others, those husbands who cooed round her like pigeons? On the whole, what did she care for all the men in the world? She felt herself infinitely superior to them all; her hand remained cool in spite of the most ardent pressure; no hot blood ever flew to her head. And still she would rather have given herself to any one of them than to her husband. It angered her that he should show so little jealousy. Was he so sure of her? What would he say if she chose somebody else?

Her eyes began to rove about—big, restless eyes, that wandered all over the table.

Mr. Schmielke intercepted such a glance, and took it as an encouragement. What, was he to conquer this little woman after all? He boldly pushed his chair still nearer to hers, for he knew that audacity had more effect upon women than anything else. He had drunk a considerable amount during the course of the evening, and he went on drinking during supper: a glass of Tokay with the salad, beer with the roast pork and duck, and now he ordered a bottle of Moselle with the vanilla ice.

Others followed his example. Count Jagodziuski would not be satisfied with anything less than champagne, for Mr. Tiralla's silver was burning a hole in his pocket.

They all grew very animated. The gentlemen in their black clothes showed they had fists, and now and then one of them banged on the table.

The tightly-laced Mrs. Rozycki gave a loud shriek—the man next to her had tickled her. Her daughter Mariechen dung languishingly to her neighbour, the [Pg 98] forester's young pupil, with whom she was already very much in love. They had all been rather stiff and shy when they entered the ballroom a few hours before, but now they showed that they could eat, drink, and be merry. Enormous quantities of food disappeared; Mr. Tiralla alone had eaten a whole duck. The women especially liked the ice, for they were so very, very hot, and all that beer and sweet wine had made them still hotter. The men cast ardent glances at their neighbours; it was immaterial to them now if it happened to be Sophia Tiralla or anybody else, for they were all nice. And the glances were returned. The young girls were no longer so shy.

They threw themselves back in their chairs and laughed as they listened with glistening eyes and red ears to the young men's compliments. The married people told each other tales; Mr. Tiralla especially excelled in that. Mrs. Jokisch, the inspector's wife, who sat next to him, gave him a tap on his mouth; but you couldn't be angry with him, all the same, she said, however horrid he was. Thereupon he pressed a resounding kiss on her cheek. And then he kissed the baker's wife, who was sitting next to him on the other side—otherwise she would have been offended—and neither of them made any resistance. They evidently didn't find him so repugnant, thought Mrs. Tiralla, much surprised.

The schoolmaster sat stiff and silent amongst them all. Their mirth disgusted him. What a party! And he had thought he should meet people like himself there. Raising a pair of reproachful eyes, he caught a glance from Mrs. Tiralla. She looked at him for a second, and her face, that a moment before had been so bright, became more and more serious. [Pg 99] Then she raised her glass a little, gave him a slight nod, and emptied it in one draught.

He felt so happy whilst she looked at him, so elated; but only for a few moments. For Mr. Tiralla, who had noticed his Sophia's nod, now also wanted to show some politeness to little Boehnke, who walked out so regularly to see them all, and brought his Sophia books and the latest news, and sat for hours with the child. It was really very kind of him. So Mr. Tiralla also raised his glass and bawled at the top of his voice, so that everybody could hear it, "Your health, little Boehnke. Have you nothing to drink? Come here, sonny, you can get something from me. Dalej, dalej, why aren't you coming?"

All eyes were fixed on the schoolmaster, who said "Thanks" in a curt voice and without looking at the farmer, but did not move.

Then all the others raised their glasses as well. "Your good health, Mr. Boehnke."

Had none of them noticed how rude that was of Mr. Tiralla? Boehnke's blood boiled. He, the schoolmaster, whose mission it was to train the young—he, the only one there who could lay claim to any education, he was to stand that? "Dalej, dalej!" the peasant had shouted at him, as if he were his stableboy or his farm horse. Was he to put up with that? Was he really obliged to put up with it? No, no, no! The slim-looking schoolmaster was on the point of jumping up from his seat, but he got no further. He had again caught a glance from Mrs. Tiralla, and he had understood what those black eyes were saying to him. His fury subsided as he remained quietly in his place, but deep down in his heart there was born a hatred for Mr. Tiralla.

The dancing recommenced after supper, but the [Pg 100] feet did not trip as lightly as before, and they did not always agree; for when the man's foot went to the left, his partner's wanted to go to the right. The dancers also fell down more frequently. The boards shook, and the clouds of dust became thicker and thicker. The ballroom was gloomy and oppressive.

Mrs. Tiralla's dress no longer flew about as it had done during the first part of the evening. She was standing in the cloak-room with Mariechen Rozycki, who was sobbing bitterly, whilst old Piasecka, the attendant, whose business it was also to carry "In Memoriam" cards round, was busily rubbing her. "Oh, my pink blouse!" wailed the girl, "my beautiful blouse!"

The forester's pupil, the idiot, had poured a whole glass of beer down the front of it, when she was tenderly leaning against him just before they left the table. She was beside herself with grief.

"You can send it to Spindler in Berlin," said Mrs. Tiralla consolingly. "There is also a very good dry cleaner in Posen. Why, child!" she exclaimed, putting her finger under the girl's chin and raising her face, that was quite swollen with crying, "surely you aren't crying for the sake of a blouse?"

All at once it seemed so infinitely futile to cry on account of a spoilt blouse. Mrs. Tiralla had quite forgotten that she also had shed tears on account of her hair just before she had left home. She felt so much more unhappy now, really so miserable. She would have liked to stop up her ears so as not to hear that twanging music. The dancing disgusted her. She had never gone to a dance as a child. What would her priest have said if he had seen her that evening? Father Szypulski was not so strict; but she would be strict with herself. She wouldn't go into the ballroom [Pg 101] again, she would drive home and sit by Rosa's bed and be her guardian angel. Perhaps she would then see some of those wonderful things that had been revealed to the child. She would pray for it, pray for happy dreams. She longed so ardently, so impatiently for happiness.

She called to a waiter who was running past in a short black jacket and a white apron spotted with gravy, and sent him back to her husband. Would Mr. Tiralla kindly tell them to bring the carriage round, it was time to be going? The cocks were already crowing in the little yards behind the labourers' cottages.

She remained standing in the cloak-room, gloomily gnawing her Up, with Mariechen, who was still sobbing on account of her blouse, as her companion. She had hidden herself behind the clothes-rack, nobody would discover her there. Vain hope! Scarcely had the waiter given the message than the whole flock of her partners came rushing in. Sophia Tiralla wanted to go—go away now? But they wouldn't let her go, even if they had to make a wall of their bodies before the door. Zientek wrung his hands in despair; if she went away the whole cotillon would be spoilt, that up-to-date cotillon with all those bouquets.

They discovered her and brought her out from behind the rack. They begged, flattered, teased, threatened, and swore loudly that they wouldn't let her go, she would have to remain and dance.

"Of course she'll stop and dance!" bawled Mr. Tiralla from the doorway leading into the ballroom.

What, he as well? No, she wouldn't stop, not even a quarter of an hour longer, hissed the woman like a serpent that has been trodden on. "Tell the carriage to come round," she said to the waiter in a curt, shrill voice. Then, without looking at her husband, she [Pg 102] added, "I'm going. If you don't want to go, you can stop. I'm going."

Mr. Tiralla looked very discomfited; but then he grew angry. What, to be so horrid to him before all those people? A wife had to obey. He was the one who had to decide. He was very drunk, or it would never have occurred to him to oppose his wife's wishes in this way. And that was what made him now shout, "Confound you, woman! You shall not drive; for I intend stopping here as long as I choose—until six, seven, or eight o'clock, if I choose."

"Stop," she said icily, but her eyes glowed. "Then I'll walk."

No, she couldn't do that, surely she wouldn't do that. That would be quite impossible through that snow.

But she did not listen to her admirers' persuasions; she tore her fur cloak down from the peg and threw her shawl over her head. She felt that if they did not let her go she would burst into tears—into loud, hopeless tears. She stamped her foot defiantly; why did they all stare at her with such stupid, glassy eyes? And Mr. Tiralla, was he already asleep? "Dalej!" she said curtly, and her voice sounded like the cut of a whip, "dalej!"

He obeyed her. What else was there for him to do if his dear little wife was so anxious to get home? "Women are amorous little doves," he lisped, "they always want to be going home to their nests." Laying his arm heavily round her neck he stammered caressingly, "Yes, yes, I'm coming, my dove, only have patience." And then he gave such a sly wink with his glassy eyes that the men broke into a laugh, which resembled nothing so much as a horse whinnying.

Mrs. Tiralla had shrunk back. A wave of burning [Pg 103] colour mounted to her pale face. Oh, if he treated her in that way, was it surprising that they all ran after her like that? But they should not imagine that she was ready to cast herself into the arms of the first man who came along—far from it.

Throwing her head back with a curt, scornful movement, and restraining her tears with the utmost strength of will, she said, forcibly jerking out every word, for she could hardly speak, her lips trembled so, "You can lie on the threshold, as you've done before, you braggart!"

Now the laugh was on her side. They were all delighted to think that Mr. Tiralla had been reprimanded in that way. Why did he brag like that? They also found favour with the ladies, but they didn't boast of it in that way. What did this vulgar peasant want with such a dainty little wife? A milkmaid would have been good enough for him. They all applauded the little woman, who seemed to have grown a head taller, she held herself so erect. But when Mr. Schmielke, who now hoped to win the prize, bent his knee and said jokingly, "Padam da nog!" and then, stroking his moustache in his usual challenging way, added, "Allow me to see you home," she stared at him for a moment. And when he smiled at her with all the impertinence which the wine and the advanced hour, the spectators' goading looks, and the conviction of his own irresistibility had given him, she administered such a violent, resounding box on his ears that he and all the others started back.

She rushed out of the cloak-room and across the passage to the front door, and, standing on the pavement which the downtrodden straw had made still dirtier, she shouted for her carriage. She was weeping.

The wind had veered round in the early morning, [Pg 104] and was blowing from the west, as she stood in the deserted market-place. Large flakes of watery snow were being driven along before the wind, and clung to her cheeks and mingled with the hot drops from her eyes. Oh, how she would have liked to lie down there in the dirt and die! That beautiful ball! Alas, there would never be any more pleasure for her where her husband was. How he had made a laughing-stock of her before them all. And he had lied into the bargain.

The carriage had not come yet; she stood trembling with cold and grief. She clenched her hands; she would do it quite, quite alone now, if she couldn't find anybody to help her.

All at once she had a feeling that somebody was standing behind her; that somebody was breathing on her cheek. It was the schoolmaster.

He had quietly followed her. He was no less excited than she. She had been insulted by Mr. Tiralla, but Mr. Tiralla had also insulted him; he had insulted them both.

The schoolmaster looked upon the harmless man as a criminal. "He doesn't deserve the sun to shine on him," he whispered, in a voice that was hoarse with excitement. Then he snatched hold of the hand which she held out to him, and pressed it to his lips, to his eyes, and stammered wildly, "Pani, let me die on the spot—God punish me if ever I forget Mr. Tiralla's behaviour. I—I——" he suppressed something he was going to say. Then he once more pressed her willing hand to his burning lips and stood near her in silence, until they heard Mr. Tiralla's voice at the hotel door at the same moment as the carriage rattled out of the yard and round the corner.

She got in without help; the schoolmaster had disappeared, swallowed up by the darkness. Mr. [Pg 105] Tiralla was hoisted up on the front seat with great difficulty by the boots. He was a heavy weight and the man's shoulders and arms ached, but he was pleased to help the gentleman. That good Mr. Tiralla—Heaven bless him—had given him a new two-shilling bit as a tip.

Not a word was spoken by the couple. Mrs. Tiralla sat motionless at the back with her cloak wrapped tightly round her, for she was icy cold. She had drawn her shawl far down over her forehead, but her burning eyes wandered in mute despair over the desolate, slushy fields in the early morning twilight. Oh, how uncomfortable she felt, how tired out. She couldn't understand now why she had wanted to go to the ball instead of lying in her warm bed and being lulled to sleep by Rosa's soft-toned prayers, and thus forgetting her miserable existence in the arms of the saints.

She was seized with an unutterable aversion for her present life. There, alas!—and her big eyes grew bigger and bigger and more desperate-looking—there was the first of the big pines on the Przykop, looking just like a flagstaff with a waving pennon on it, and near it, although not yet visible, lay Starydwor, the old, lonely farm where she had to go on living year after year with Mr. Tiralla. How much longer?

A ditch ran along the side of the road, a broad, deep ditch. The carriage jolted as they rumbled along. How would it be if they were to fall into the ditch with carriage and horses, and break their necks? Ha, wouldn't that be a good thing? She stood up in the carriage—how stiff she was after sitting so long—and, resting her left hand on the side-rail, carefully bent over her husband.

He was asleep. His head had fallen on his breast, [Pg 106] his snores mingled with the rattle of the wheels. He was sleeping as deeply and soundly in the wet and cold and discomfort as though he were at home in his bed. The reins hung loosely between the enormous fingers of his fur gloves. All she had to do was to take them away from him, he wouldn't notice it. She did so. He was sleeping so soundly that he had no idea of what was going on behind him.

She was standing on the seat now, erect and with flashing eyes, holding the reins with both hands. Now a tug, a turn to the left—she could not reach the whip, but a "Huj, het!" was enough—then a sudden jerk with all her strength, and the terrified horses jumped to the left. One wheel was already hanging over the side of the ditch—farewell, Mr. Tiralla!—a grimace partly of horror at what she had done, partly of triumphant delight, distorted the woman's face—crash—they lay at the bottom.

But not the horses and not the carriage, only Mr. Tiralla and his wife. The clever animals had stopped short as though they recognized the danger, and were now standing quite close to the edge, their bits covered with foam.

"Psia krew!" Mr. Tiralla scrambled out of the ditch, all of a sudden quite sober. The soft snow had felt like a downy feather bed, and he hadn't hurt himself in the slightest. What a joke! How often he had been upset in that ditch. H'm, if the horses hadn't been so sensible. He patted their necks and praised them. And then he called to his wife, "Heigh, Sophia, where have you got to?"

She did not answer. She had not hurt herself either; she lay on her back in the ditch, snow under her, snow on both sides of her, and above her the early morning sky, clear and rosy. She closed her eyes [Pg 107] again; let him call her, she would remain where she was for ever.

Then she suddenly remembered that her beautiful ball-dress from that good dressmaker in Posen might be spoiled. Her fur cloak could not keep the snow-water out very long; she already felt it penetrating into her shoes. Ugh, how wet and horrid it was! She would never be able to put the dress on again. She jumped up hastily, and called to her husband to help her. And when she had safely got out of the ditch, she shook her skirts and examined her dress, and was delighted to find that nothing had been spoiled.

They got into the carriage again. But now Mr. Tiralla kept his eyes open, although he felt fit to drop with fatigue. What would Sophia say if he were to upset her once more? "I'm sorry, my dear," he murmured, in a crestfallen voice. She said nothing.

As they reached the gate, they found it wide open just as they had left it. The front door was not locked either, the latch was, of course, down, but the door had not been bolted.

"Jendrek, Marianna," shouted Mr. Tiralla, at the top of his voice. Was nobody coming to take the horses? Where were those rascals sleeping? And the other men, the day labourers, hadn't come yet. The farmer scolded and groaned when he found that he would have to unharness the horses himself and take them to the stable.

Mrs. Tiralla went into the room and called the maid. But Marianna, who always came running so submissively when her mistress called her, did not appear either. The woman grew so angry, that she almost tore the ball-dress off her back, and then let it lie on the floor. Disgraceful, disloyal, shameless [Pg 108] hussy! Where could she be sleeping so sweetly that she neither heard nor saw anything?

When Mr. Tiralla came into the room his wife snubbed him as angrily as if he had been Marianna.

He tried to appease her. "That'll do, that'll do, my love. We know all about it." He laughed good-naturedly. "They're young, we must excuse them."

Oh, so he condoned such things? Perhaps even considered them right? Well, then! There was a strange expression in Mrs. Tiralla's eyes as she stared straight in front of her. She let her husband press a kiss on her neck without feeling it, and then she ran in her petticoat and without anything over her shoulders through the cold house up to her bedroom.

There lay Rosa with the feather bed drawn up to her eyes. The woman fell on her knees beside the child's bed, and, burying her head in the bedclothes, she sobbed aloud.

Rosa awoke. "Mother, sweet mother?" There was a note of anxious inquiry in her exclamation; was her mother in a good humour again, was she no longer cross as the evening before?

"Do you love me?" stammered the sobbing woman. "Tell me that you love me."

"Oh, I do love you, I love you so dearly."

"Tell me that you'll pray for me. Swear that you'll pray for me—always."

"Oh, I'll pray for you. I always pray for you."

"Pray for me, pray for me," sobbed the excited woman. "I'll pray with you, perhaps that'll help me. Rosa, my angel"—she covered the child's face with kisses—"we'll pray."

"What shall we pray?" asked the child. "What do you want to pray now, mother dear? Shall I pray [Pg 109] to the beautiful guardian angel, 'Holy angel, thou who standest before the throne of God,' or shall I repeat the litany to the sweet name of Jesus? Or shall I pray as I did at my confirmation, 'Come, thou Heavenly Physician, I need Thee. Heal my soul, oh Saviour. Come, save me'? Oh, you left me alone," cried the child, in a plaintive voice, as she broke off in the midst of her prayer. "You were at the ball, you were so beautiful, mother. Daddy was with you. Marianna went away as well. She said it would only be for half an hour; she wanted to see her little ones, who are living with an old woman in the village; but she stopped away. I was all by myself in the house. And something creaked in the big cupboard, and in the stove, and in all the furniture. And something moved in all the corners. Ugh, the room was so lonely, I ran out of it. And the candles—those two before the looking-glass—flickered so. Marianna says that if you look into a glass before which two candles are burning, as the clock strikes twelve, either Death or your future husband will be standing behind you. Oh, and I daren't cross the passage, it was so dark. Just think if anybody had been lurking there? I screamed aloud, but nobody answered—ugh, the passage was so icy cold—so I rushed into the kitchen; there was still a little fire there, and I crept behind the stove. Oh, mother, I was so frightened, I couldn't stop there either. I trembled so, my heart went like that the whole time"—she took hold of her mother's hand and moved it quickly up and down—"the whole time like that. Just think if that fiery man, that Marianna is always telling me about, had got out of the stove? I believe that fiery man is the devil; I've asked Marianna, but she didn't know. Do you think, mammie, that it's the devil?"

[Pg 110]

She sat up in bed. She was still completely dressed. "Is it the devil?"

Mrs. Tiralla nodded.

"So you also believe that it's the devil?" Rosa's voice expressed a certain satisfaction, a kind of childish pride; oh, yes, she knew all about such things. "I know him." she said triumphantly.

"What does he look like?" whispered her mother, with a shudder, as she hid her face in her hands. Oh, if that should have been he, that handsome young man who had suddenly appeared before her a short time before, as she stood half-dressed in the room downstairs and Mr. Tiralla was making excuses for the amorous maid?

"I saw him on the altar in the chapel," whispered Rosa. "Holy Michael was treading him underfoot. He's like a worm, but he has a face and horns on his head. Father Szypulski says he comes to tempt us. Pray, pray! He pokes the fire in Purgatory, in which the souls are burning. 'Pray for the peace of the poor souls in Purgatory,' says the priest, 'and for your own as well.' I commend all the souls in Purgatory to thee, oh, most holy Mother Mary." Rosa's whispers became more and more agitated and her wild, restless eyes began to wander about the room. "He's red, mother, red with black horns. He dances in the flames wherever there's a fire; he sends out sparks, mother—he's fetching us all! Mother! Oh, he's burning us all!"

The child uttered a heartrending sigh, and pressing both hands to her breast reared herself up in bed. Throwing back her disordered hair, she shrieked in a loud voice, "Oh, it hurts me, it hurts me so here—it hurts, hurts, hurts!"

"It hurts, hurts, hurts!" shrieked her mother. [Pg 111] She did not know that she was repeating the same words.

Rosa tore her dress open, her breast heaved and sank as she gasped for breath in her terror. Then she clung to her mother, and hiding her face in her neck she whimpered, "Carry me out of the kitchen again, carry me up the dark stairs, oh, Holy Mother, that I needn't fear. Put me down, keep me warm—hail, Mary, thou that art highly favoured"—(the child's voice had grown soft and low)—"how beautiful thou art—I love thee—hail, Mary, blessed art thou among women—blessed—the fruit—of thy womb——"

Her words grew more and more indistinct, until they at last became nothing but an incoherent murmur.

Ah, now Rosa saw the Holy Virgin. Seized with a superstitious terror, Mrs. Tiralla loosened the child's arms from about her neck. What did Rosa see? What did she hear? Did she really see something? If only Rosa could find out something which could be of use to her—her!

The child had fallen back on her bed heavy and stiff. Spurred on by an intense eagerness her mother leant over her and whispered:

"Ask the Holy Virgin—tell the Holy Virgin that I'll let ten candles burn before her on the altar—ten wax candles—she's to release me—Glisten, all she's to do is to release me."

Rosa was silent. She did not hear. Although her eyes were wide open, she did not seem to see her mother's terrified, excited mien, nor her burning, piercing looks, so full of entreaty.

"Listen!" Mrs. Tiralla's voice sounded almost fierce as she shouted to the child. "Listen, listen!" she repeated several times, in an impressive voice. [Pg 112] "Tell the Holy Virgin she's to release me—I want to be released—I must be released—listen, listen!"

All at once a convulsive movement passed over Rosa's face. Her mother bent over her, lower and lower, full of trembling eagerness. The child's staring eyes began to move, and her mouth as well.

"You'll be released," she stammered, as though in her sleep. "The dear Virgin hears all prayers—she is smiling—ah, how she's smiling."

Bearing herself up once more, and stretching out her arms, the over-excited child burst into tears.

Her mother wiped the tears and beads of perspiration away from her face with her trembling hands. Oh, her little dress was quite wet through, and her bodice and chemise as well. She undressed the child and made her bed more comfortable. Poor little thing! Her mother felt very sorry for her, although she was full of joy and of an insuppressible exultation. She was to be released! The Holy Virgin had spoken. She was to be released from him, from Mr. Tiralla!

[Pg 113]



CHAPTER VI

Rosa was singing as she crossed the fields. She felt so well, so light-hearted. At last she had been to confession. The snow had melted, Eastertide was drawing near, now she could sing.

"Mary Magdalene weeping Went to Jesu's tomb. Her dear Lord, her sorrow knowing. Came to light her gloom. She saw His glorious countenance."

Her clear voice sounded jubilant as it rose into the blue sky. It was spring, spring. The fresh grass was sprouting near the broad ditch, the corn that had been kept warm under the snow was now green and thick. Christ was risen and therefore the earth rejoiced.

Rosa took out of her pocket the paper on which she, during the winter, had noted down all she had to confess. She had examined her conscience most carefully; it was a long, long piece of paper, with many sins written on it. But she had got rid of them all now, and that was why she felt so happy. Now she could tear it to pieces.

She stood still, and tearing the paper into shreds threw them high into the air. Off they flew. How the wind carried them away, higher and higher, as high as the lark which was hovering up there. They were flying to God.

[Pg 114]

Rosa mingled her song with the lark's trills, in joyous, jerky rhythm.

"The stone was rolled away As to the grave they came. At its right side in raiment bright An angel sat and calmed their fright. Hallelujah."

It was no longer the same shrill, piping child's voice; it was a girl's voice now, full and pleasing. When there was any singing going on in the school, the master always told Rosa Tiralla to stand up first so as to lead the others. She liked doing that. Mr. Boehnke was altogether very good to her, and it would grieve her to leave school. She would soon be fourteen, and then she wouldn't do any more lessons; then—a strange, dreamy look came into her eyes—oh, no, she wasn't going to marry like other girls and have children—no. Her face, that had all at once clouded over, grew bright again; she was to be the Bride of the Church, her mother had said so. Mr. Boehnke said so as well, and the priest said so. And they praised her for it. And Marianna stared at her, "Oh, a nun! That's something very beautiful, something very grand, oh!" And Jendrek almost looked upon her as a saint already. Everybody looked at her in quite a different way now from what they used to do when she was nothing but little Rosa Tiralla. Only her daddy wouldn't hear of it—poor daddy. What a pity it was that he was so wicked. A look full of deep thought cast a sudden gloom over the young face that had just been so bright. Was her mother right? Would it have been better for him never to have been born?