Mrs. Tiralla lay in bed listening to the sounds downstairs, with her nerves on edge. Now the jokes must have become very practical, for the girl was screaming with laughter, and it sounded as if he were choking. And now--she heard it quite plainly, although not a single word reached her ears--now he was babbling some absurd nonsense, at which the girl was almost suffocated with laughter, until he at last grew silent, and letting his head sink on the table fell asleep.
Now he was happy; he was dreaming blissfully. Oh, it could not be so bad when you got to the stage of neither knowing nor feeling anything of it all. She really did not wish him ill--Mrs. Tiralla was almost praising herself--when she wished for his sake that he were always so drunk. What good did he get out of life? He had no sense for higher things, and he did not derive any pleasure from her. He really did not, she must be just. But how could she give others any pleasure if she were not happy herself?--for he was there, still there.
She clenched her fists and bit her lips so as not to lament aloud. Nothing, nothing had helped her, neither the mushrooms, nor throwing him into the ditch, nor the rat poison. She had not cooked any more mushrooms for him, although he had often asked for some. "Gather them yourself," she had answered curtly, and had not allowed Rosa to fetch any more. There was no object in doing so. And throwing him into the ditch? Bah! Her upper lip curled contemptuously at the thought of her own childish stupidity. A ditch was nothing to Mr. Tiralla; he was able to get out of a much deeper pit. But rat poison! What about that poison still lying in her chest in the lumber-room? A great longing for it took possession of her. There was release, it lay in her hands, and still she did not venture to make use of it. Would he also be guarded against that poison, which was said to be strong? Or was it after all not strong enough to kill people? If only she could find out exactly. Who could give her the most reliable information? Böhnke? Oh, that liar! Her whole body shook, she sobbed so tempestuously. He had deceived her. He had pretended to teach her which were poisonous mushrooms, and he had not done so. The wretch! Let him never appear before her eyes again.
Mrs. Tiralla felt furious when she thought of her slave. Had he not sworn that he was devoted to her, first mutely and then in words? On Easter Sunday after their festive meal, when Mr. Tiralla had fallen asleep, surfeited with all the usual rich dishes, and Rosa had gone to the village church with Marianna, he had besought her on his knees, and she, with a look at the sleeper, had hastily whispered to him, "If I were free." Then he had sworn to her with the most solemn oaths that she should be free, that she must be free. And now? Oh, the coward! The whole summer had passed by; the swallows had departed long ago, but the son was flying back to the paternal nest and was bringing somebody else with him; four more eyes to pry on her.
She was tormented with a great fear when she thought of Mikolai's return. He had keen eyes, he was not stupid. He was certainly not like Rosa, who had only one foot on earth, and who used to dream with open eyes, and believed implicitly what was told her. If anything were to happen, it must happen before Mikolai returned to his father.
Mrs. Tiralla made up her mind to get out of bed; nobody would see or hear her now. She had sent Rosa to another room, she could not bear to have anybody with her. Now the child slept in a room on the other side of the passage that had stood empty; and Marianna would sleep with her when the room downstairs was to be used for the two men; that is, if Mr. Tiralla's were not at liberty by that time.
She hastily stuck her feet out of bed. She would slip over to the lumber-room now and fetch it out of the chest. She would not let Marianna take it to him any more, she would give it to him herself tomorrow, either in his coffee or wine.
She put her feet on the floor with a jerk. But all at once she felt she could not walk; her limbs refused to move. She felt as weak as the first time she got up after Rosa's birth. She began to tremble and perspire, to sigh and pray, but no angel restored her strength.
Then at last she perceived that the saints did not will it at present, that the right hour had not yet come. So she crept back into bed and drew the feather bed over her head. She lay under all the feathers, and still she felt icy cold, and unutterably miserable and wretched. Downstairs her husband was carousing with the woman, but she was as though tied hand and foot. She thought she was dying. She gnashed her teeth and clenched her hands; she could not move a limb, but her thoughts flew with lightning rapidity. It was fury, pain, and disappointed hopes that made her feel so ill, that were consuming her life. She was going to die; alas, die, before she had lived, before she had even lived one year in the way she wanted to live.