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Updated: June 23, 2025
The gentry used to meet at the inn every evening and discuss the most important events of the day; and as nothing much happened in Starawieś, Gradewitz, and neighbourhood, they would speak of Mrs. Tiralla. This they did rather often, for the men considered her the most interesting topic of conversation in Starawieś, Gradewitz, and the neighbourhood.
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. 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 was so repulsive to look at, and his continual coughing and groaning were horrible to listen to. If only she could deliver them all from him, and at the same time give the man his freedom! It would, indeed, be a good deed. But how was she to set about it? Mr. Tiralla had an excellent constitution in spite of everything; he would not drink himself to death quickly enough.
But the strangest thing of all was that he did not know anything about it. Did not know anything about it? Jendrek would not believe that. How can a man hang himself and afterwards know nothing about it? That astounded everybody. People came running to see Mr. Tiralla and press his hand in mute condolence whilst they gazed at him with curious, disappointed eyes.
Tiralla had not used the prescribed form of prayer, that her heart had cried out in its own words. Then she whispered, "Martin, Martin," as if the beloved name were a form of conjuration, and stretched out her arms longingly in her cold, dark room. Oh, how warm and bright it had been at Starydwór!
But when the maid's cry for help brought her downstairs, there was no more fear in her heart. She surmised that the decisive hour had come, but all she felt was eager curiosity. "What what? Where where?" she cried, seizing Marianna by the arm with a convulsive grip, as the latter came rushing up to her. "Dead, dead!" stammered the girl trembling. "Dead?" Was Mr. Tiralla dead? But tell me then.
But still, if Mikolai were holding him, if they were quarrelling, struggling with each other, the one wanting to go, the other endeavouring to hold him back? Hark, what a noise! How Mikolai was shouting! "What is it, what is it?" cried Mrs. Tiralla, as she stood in front of her stepson, panting. "Where, where is he?" She caught hold of her stepson's arm. But then she bethought herself.
Tiralla was quite drunk. He had only enough sense left to whisper in a tender voice, "Little Böhnke, friend, take care. If Mikolai catches you, he'll chop you into small pieces, perhaps with the hatchet, perhaps with the chopper. Ugh! he's a brute they're all brutes here ugh! my friend, you don't know what brutes they all are. My dear, beloved friend." Mr.
Her blue ribbon could hardly keep the plait together, and the dry, curly mass emitted hundreds of sparks as soon as a sunbeam fell on it. As they drove through Starawieś they saw Mr. Böhnke coming out of the rectory. They were stopping for a moment at the inn, as Mr. Tiralla felt so chilly that he wanted a glass of gin. They called to him, that is, Mr.
But now those words seemed to express something desirable, something really necessary. Was there any reason why the man should go on living for ever? An all-wise Providence had no doubt seen what was happening and would probably remove this fellow, who would leave no vacant place behind him, and would be mourned for by no one. No, Mr. Tiralla could not go on living for ever.
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