to a romantic arbor in the park, which commanded an expansive view of the picturesque countryside about; there she intended to await the concert of nightingales that had resounded for several evenings past in the vicinity of the castle. The baron had scolded the butler for his fleshiness and ordered him on that score out to the fields for a walk. The director and his wife, in the secrecy of a locked kitchen, were putting away some fruit preserves. Miss Melanie had a toothache.
At this idyllic, restful period it occured to old Foltýn’s mind that Mary was tarrying a rather long time in the gentry's apartments. He dispelled the thought, but it returned. The more he tried to banish it, the more insistent it became. “What can she possibly be doing there this long?” he grumbled into his moustache, musingly: “the mistress is not at home.”
Quite without aim, he wandered out into the hall and passing up and down it, he listened at tentively for any sound which might come from above. Then he ventured, impelled by a power unknown, on the stairs; upon the tips of his feet he ascended to the corridor of the upper story. Stealing towards the door of servants’ chamber, he pressed the knob; it was locked. He crept in the direction of the drawing-room. Suddenly he stopped; a voice sounded from within—the baron’s voice. He distinctly heard these words: “Don’t be childish! Foolish prejudices! The world is different from what told by priests and your lowborn parents. I’ll make you happy, whatever your desires, they shall be fulfilled: handsome gowns, jewels, money—everything. I’ll create your father the manor’s manager or something even greater. You shall be alone in the city. Come, little one, be not a bashful, raise your beautiful eyes; heaven knows I never saw a finer pair!”
Foltýn remained as if thunderstruck. All the blood left his face, which expressed naught but dread and great terror. Lowering his head to the keyhole, he saw the baron inside completely changed: in his pale, clear-cut face there wasn’t a trace of sleepiness and his dark eyes were fairly teeming with passion beneath his thin, proud brow. Raising by its chin Mary’s superb face which was of crimson color with shame, he stared lustfully at her agitated bosom. Her eyes were lowered, one of her hands holding the statuette, the varicolored feather-crop, disheveled, being in the other.
Wild with the desperation, old Foltýn clutched at his grey head with his hands; grave concern laid hold of his throat, his head being flooded with a swarm of horrible thoughts. He was just at the point of reaching for the door-knob, but he withdrew his hand. No! That the baron should find that a father listened to his words, that he should stand shamed, caught at a vile deed by his servant—no , that could never be, that was too repugnant to the inborn loyalty of Foltýn. But what was there to do?
“The butler is sure to be at the office; I’ll send him up under some pretense or other;” he thought, hurrying down. But the office was locked, the silence of a grave reigning within. Beruška and the butler who were in there playing at cards just a while ago were there no longer; one was loitering in the courtyard, the other out on his health-walk.
Despondently, Foltýn hastened up the corridor. Before the doors of the lock-up though, he came to an abrupt stop. Here he stood awhile: then, forcing the door, he seized the huge drum that hung there and swinging it across his shoulder, he ran out into the passage. Waving the drumsticks in a wild flourish, he lowered his head as the deafening reverberations of the drum sounded. He drummed with such earnestness that drops of perspiration appeared upon his brow.
The director upon hearing the noise, became deathly pale. “Good Lord, Foltýn must have gone crazy”; he stammered, flying into the passage. There he saw Beruška holding a pack of cards in one hand, and the collar of the undesirable drummer in the other.
“Are you drunk?” cried the clerk. Foltýn kept up his obstinate drumming. Diverse figures collected from various points in the evening’s dusk, hastening to the place of the unusual noise.
The director came to Beruška’s aid: “Stop you idiot!” he thundered at Foltýn. “The baron must be sleping by now. I shall dismiss you immediately!”
“Just let him go on;” sounded the baron’s voice in their rear. “He drums capitally.” Then he passed through the group which bowed in reverence, whistling and flogging his riding-boots. He was going out walking.
When the baroness, lured by the mysterious sound of the drum, returned from the nightingales’ concert and entered the drawingroom, she saw her fetish broken into many pieces. From the reddened eyes of Marietta, whom she had summoned, she instantly recognized the guilty one. In great anger she ousted her at once from her service. Short was the dream of the stately edifices, illustrious folk and sumptuous carriages!
At noon of the day following, Foltýn stood before the castle drumming people together for work. Meanwhile he gazed towards the forest bend of the road along which the gentry’s equipage was travelling with marvelous speed on its way from the village. When the vehicle vanished in the forest, Foltýn gave a deep sigh, hung his drumsticks and shook his head. Then came the thought that, like his old drum, he no longer fitted into the present world. The cause of disturbance which occured the previous day he preserved a headstrong secret until his death.
