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 quant.i.ties 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 gla.s.s 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 Bohnke, 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 gla.s.s and bawled at the top of his voice, so that everybody could hear it, "Your health, little Bohnke.

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 gla.s.ses as well. "Your good health, Mr. Bohnke."

Had none of them noticed how rude that was of Mr. Tiralla? Bohnke'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 gla.s.s 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 tw.a.n.ging 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 ap.r.o.n 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 c.o.c.ks 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, n.o.body 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, gla.s.sy 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 gla.s.sy 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 pa.s.sage 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 hoa.r.s.e with excitement. Then he s.n.a.t.c.hed 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--G.o.d 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.