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Updated: June 23, 2025
Martin Becker was filled with aversion as he looked at him; it was a shame, a disgrace to drink like that. He turned his eyes away. Then he flashed a tender glance at Mrs. Tiralla; poor, dear woman, if only he could carry her away in his arms, away from him, away from all this foulness! Would to God he could get away from it all!
He stammered words full of frantic, jealous passion and sobbed. "Let my hands go," she said impatiently, endeavouring to free them. "Let them go, I tell you. How can you kiss these hands" she laughed strangely "hands that wanted to give Mr. Tiralla rat poison this morning. If the poultry had died from eating the corn this morning, he would by now have lain dead from taking the same poison."
Putting her trembling hands into her pocket, she got hold of a little box, and in the little box was Clenching her teeth together she went downstairs. She wanted to go into the yard, but whilst flitting through the passage she heard her husband and Rosa talking together in the sitting-room. "Where's your mother?" Mr. Tiralla was asking. Call her; she's to come. "I'm so happy."
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 Starydwór, the old, lonely farm where she had to go on living year after year with Mr. Tiralla. How much longer?
Tiralla never dreamt of fearing that anybody should see them; she walked calmly along in her light-coloured dress that could be seen afar off in the flat fields in spite of the twilight. Martin did not feel so calm. "If anybody were to see us!" he said, as figures, more suspected than actually seen, appeared and disappeared among the corn. "There are still people about."
At last the landlord had fallen asleep behind the bar, and was only awakened by a dull sound. Mr. Tiralla had thrown the big, empty gin bottle at him, after helping himself to the very last drop. Was Mr. Tiralla going home alone? How would Mr. Tiralla get home? The landlord was very anxious about him. It was a night in early spring as Mr. Tiralla staggered home.
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.
Tiralla driven away with Rosa than Mrs. Tiralla left the maid to bake the cakes alone. There was no need to keep up appearances any longer. What did she care about the stepson who was coming home to-day? She had never liked nor disliked him; still, she felt that he played a more important part in her life now. She must, she would please him.
How tender it sounded; it seemed to Mrs. Tiralla as though it had never sounded so tender before. And the cock was strutting about among his hens; the woman thought she could see that he particularly wished to please the white hen. A couple of early white butterflies, the first heralds of approaching spring, were fluttering about, exhausted by their amorous dalliance.
Tiralla had been more angry with her daughter than she had ever been before, and had pulled her plaits and called her a stupid goose. All the mushrooms growing in the Przykop were fit to eat; there was not a single poisonous one among them. "But Mr. Böhnke says, and Marianna says oh, mammie, I'm so afraid of poisonous mushrooms. How awful it would be if anybody ate one."
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