o have to sit quite alone and drink like that!

[Footnote A: Wife.]

Mr. Tiralla did not go to the inn any more, he shunned all those
inquisitive eyes. Everybody used to ask him about his wife when he went
there, and he confessed to the maid with a sigh that he could no longer
boast about her, for when he did he felt as if he were going to choke,
and he could not utter a single word.

Mrs. Tiralla often heard her husband and the maid laughing together as
she sat in her room upstairs; and drinking as well, for she could hear
them draw four or five corks every evening. Ugh! how he could drink!
The woman shuddered with disgust. There was that monster sitting with
the vulgar hussy, cracking jokes that were anything but refined, and
drinking hard. How could he forget himself like that! How could he
intoxicate himself to that degree! Beer alone could not do it, it must
be Tokay as well. But wait, was it not a good thing that he drank so
much? What would otherwise have happened to her? He would have worried
her continually. If she could not be released from him altogether, in
this way she could at least reckon on some hours' freedom. And after
such nights he used to sleep until morning without waking. Oh, if only
he were always, always drunk!

Mrs. Tiralla lay in bed listening to the sounds downstairs, with her
nerves on edge. Now the jokes must [Pg 159] 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