have tried to influence her. She herself esteemed the steward no more than the dust in her eyes and would not have accepted him even if he had offered her the entire noble estate. She said neither yes nor no to Miss Pepinka, but conspired secretly with Elška. She herself carried to the town post-office Elška’s letter detailing everything fully to her Prague aunt.
From the time that Elška learned of the steward’s intent he did not have a pleasant word or glance from her. No one would have said that the kind-hearted and always amiable Elška could speak sharply or frown. Whenever he approached the parish he heard in the village square or from some hedge abusive songs, as if composed and sung for him especially. He tolerated it all, however, except once when he met Bára and she began suddenly to sing—
“Any sort of manikin,
On spindly legs so thin
Would like to choose our prettiest girl,
It surely is a sin.—”
He nearly burst with bristling anger, and his nose crimsoned like a turkey gobbler’s when it sees red. But what was the use? The steward had already swallowed all sorts of shaming and mockery—so he gulped down the teasing of the girls, thinking to himself, “Just wait, my girl, until I have you and your money—then I’ll show them all what’s what!” But the steward forgot that even in Stupidville they don’t hang a thief until they catch him.
