Marija wants the orchestra to continue. They are exhausted. A new country with new customs. Young people do not follow traditions. They have no respect. Ona is worried. They have so many bills to pay.
It was all
Marija Berczynskas. Marija was one of those hungry souls who cling with
desperation to the skirts of the retreating muse. All day long she had been in
a state of wonderful exaltation; and now it was leaving—and she would not let
it go…
And she would go
back to the chase of it—and no sooner be fairly started than her chariot would
be thrown off the track, so to speak, by the stupidity of those thrice accursed
musicians. Each time, Marija would emit a howl and fly at them, shaking her
fists in their faces, stamping upon the floor, purple and incoherent with rage.
In vain the frightened Tamoszius would attempt to speak, to plead the
limitations of the flesh; in vain would the puffing and breathless ponas
Jokubas insist, in vain would Teta Elzbieta implore. "Szalin!" Marija
would scream. "Palauk! isz kelio! What are you paid for, children of
hell?" And so, in sheer terror, the orchestra would strike up again, and
Marija would return to her place and take up her task.