Anna blushed violently:  she remembered that her severe master would have been very pleased to find her frivolous a few evenings ago in the summerhouse.  A sharp retort was on the tip of her tongue, but forcibly suppressing it, she started to take up a white porcelain soup-tureen, and, in a violent struggle with her natural fearlessness, let it fall to the ground.  The valuable dish broke and the Baron, who had already taken a few steps forward, turned around, his face flaming with anger.

“What!” he exclaimed loudly, and strode up to the girl, “would you cool your temper on my mother’s kitchen crockery, you little sneak, because your stubborn spirit will not allow you to accept a well-merited reproof quietly, as becomes you?” And with that, scolding and storming, he gave her, right and left, box after box on the ear, while she, stunned, gazed at him, like a child, bereft of speech, indeed almost of her senses, still holding the handle of the tureen in one hand, and involuntarily pressing the other against her breast.

She was first aroused from this state, which bordered on a swoon, by the mocking laughter of the chamber-maid Frederika, who, more easy going than she, gladly allowed the Baron to trifle wantonly with her and pinch her cheeks or play with her curls.  The insolent wench looked at her derisively, and called out, “That will give you a good appetite for the kermess, Miss Prude.”

The Baron, however, laughed loudly and placing his arms akimbo, said:  “You might just as well give up all desire for dance and play; I withdraw the permission accorded by my mother, you shall take care of the house.  Is there nothing then for her to do today?” he continued, talking to himself.  Frederika whispered something to him.  “Right,” he shouted, “she shall comb the flax until late at night; do you hear?” Anna, completely bewildered, nodded her head, and then sank down powerless on her knees; at the same time, however, she instinctively snatched up a brass utensil, and, while the hot, uncontrollable tears overflowed her eyes, she began to scour it bright.

The gardener had witnessed the foregoing scene from a distance.  Fresh and blooming as she was, he had long pursued her with attentions, but in vain; coming up at that moment, he greeted her and asked maliciously how she was?  “Oh, oh,” she moaned, quivering spasmodically, and springing, up she clutched at the sneering fellow’s breast and face.

“Madwoman,” he cried, growing frightened, and, defending himself with all his masculine strength, pushed her away.  She stared after him with wide-open eyes as though not realizing what she had done; then, as if coming to her senses, returned to her work, which she continued without interruption, except at times unconsciously heaving a loud sigh, until at midday she was called to the kitchen to dinner.  Here nothing but faces expressing malicious joy at her discomfiture awaited her, and more or less suppressed laughter and tittering, which grew stronger and more pitiless as she continued to gaze down at her plate with burning cheeks, and replied not a word to the volley of allusions.