“All is right,” said the sheriff.
“Well, what did the justice do?”
“Well, what harm had he to do? He married you.”
“Married!”
“Well, don’t people marry?”
If a thunderbolt had burst on a sudden, Hans and Miss Newman wouldn’t have been astonished to that degree. Hans stared, opened his mouth, hung out his tongue, and looked like a fool at Miss Newman; Miss Newman stared, opened her mouth, hung out her tongue, and looked like a fool at Hans. They were petrified. Then both screamed, —
“Am I to be his wife?”
“Am I to be her husband?”
“Murder! murder! Never! A divorce right away! I won’t have a marriage!”
“No, it’s I that won’t have it!”
“I’ll die first! murder! A divorce, a divorce!”
“My dears,” said the sheriff, quietly, “what good will screaming do you? The judge marries, but the judge cannot divorce. What’s the use in screaming? Are you millionnaires from San Francisco, to get a divorce; or don’t you know what that costs? Ai! What’s the use in screaming? I have nice children’s shoes for sale cheap. Good-by!”
When he had said that he went away. The people too went away laughing; the newly married remained alone.
“That Frenchman,” cried the married lady, “did this purposely, because we are Germans.”
“Richtig [correct],” answered Hans.
“But we’ll go for a divorce.”
“I first! You took me that t from the middle.”
“No! I’ll go first! You caught me in the trap.”
“I don’t want you.”
“I can’t bear you.”
They separated and closed their shops. She sat at home thinking all day; he sat at home. Night came. Night brought no rest; neither could think of sleep. They lay down, but their eyes would not close. He thought, “My wife is sleeping over there;” she, “My husband is sleeping over there.” And some strange feeling rose in their hearts. It was hatred, anger, together with a feeling of loneliness. Besides, Hans began to think of the ape on his grocery. How keep it there when it was now a caricature of his wife? It seemed to him that he had played a very ugly trick when he gave an order to paint the ape. But again that Miss Newman! But he hates her; through her his ice thawed; he caught her during moonlight in a trap. Here again those outlines came to his mind, which he saw in the moonlight. “But, really, she is a brave girl,” thought he. “But she can’t stand me and I can’t stand her. That’s a position! Ach! Herr Gott! I am married. To whom? To Miss Newman! And here a divorce costs so much that the whole grocery wouldn’t pay for it.”
“I am the wife of that Dutchman,” said Miss Newman to herself. “I’m no longer a maiden, — that is, I mean to say single, — but married! To whom? To Kasche, who caught me in a trap. It is true that he took me up and brought me home. And how strong he is! Just took me up. — What’s that? Is there some noise here?”
There was no noise whatever; but Miss Newman began to be afraid, though up to that time she had never been afraid.
“But if he should dare now — O God—” Then she added, with a voice in which was heard a certain strange note of disappointment, “But he won’t dare. He—”
With all that her fear increased. “That’s always the way with a lone woman,” thought she. “If there was a man in the house it would be safer. I’ve heard of murders in the neighborhood [Miss Newman had not heard of murders]. I swear that if they kill me here — Ah, that Kasche! that Kasche! has stopped my road. But it’s necessary to take measures for a divorce.”
Thinking thus she turned sleeplessly on her wide American bed, and really felt very lonely. She sprang up again suddenly. This time her fear had a real foundation. In the silence of night was heard distinctly the pounding of a hammer.
“Heaven!” cried Miss Newman, “they are breaking into my grocery!”
She sprang out of bed and ran to the window; but when she looked out she was at rest in a moment. By the light of the moon a ladder was visible, and on it the portly white figure of Hans drawing with a hammer the nails fastening the sign of the ape.
Miss Newman opened the window quietly.
“He is taking down the ape, — that is honorable on his part,” thought she. And she felt all at once as if something were melting around her heart.
Hans drew out the nails one after another. The plate fell to the ground with a rattle; then he came down, took off the frame, folded up the plate in his strong hands, and began to remove the ladder.
Miss Newman followed him with her eyes. The night was quiet and warm.
“Herr Hans,” called she, in a low voice.
“You are not sleeping?” answered Hans, in an equally low tone.
“No; good evening, Herr.”
“Good evening.” —
“What are you doing?”
“Taking down the ape.”
“Thank you, Herr Hans.”
A moment of silence.
“Herr Hans,” said the maiden again.
“What is it, Fräulein Lora?”
“We must arrange for the divorce.”
“Yes.”
“To-morrow?”
“To-morrow.”
A moment of silence; the moon was laughing, the dogs not barking.
“Herr Hans!”
“What, Fräulein Lora?”
“I should like to have that divorce right away.” Her voice had a melancholy tone.
“I too, Fräulein Lora.” His voice was sad.
“So there should be no delay, you see.”
“Better not delay.”
“The sooner we talk the question over the better.”
“The better, Fräulein Lora.”
“Then we may talk it over right away.”
“If you permit.”
“Then come over here.”
“Only let me dress.”
“No need of ceremony.”
The door below opened. Herr Hans vanished in the darkness, and after a while found himself in the young woman’s chamber, which was quiet, warm, tidy. She wore a white dressing-gown, and was enchanting.
“I am listening to you,” said Hans, with a broken, soft voice.
“But, you see, I should like very much to get a divorce, but — I am afraid somebody on the street will see us.”
“But it is dark in the window,” said Hans.
“Ah, that is true!” answered she.
Thereupon began a conversation concerning divorce which does not belong to this narrative.
Peace returned to Struck Oil City.
BARTEK THE CONQUEROR
CHAPTER I
My hero’s name was Bartek Słowik; but owing to his habit of staring when spoken to, the neighbours called him ‘Bartek Goggle-Eyes.’ Indeed, he had little in common with nightingales, and his intellectual qualities and truly childish naïveté won him the further nickname of ‘Bartek the Blockhead.’ This last was the most popular, in fact, the only one handed down to history, though Bartek bore yet a fourth, — an official — name. Since the Polish words ‘man’ and ‘nightingale’ present no difference to a German ear, and the Germans love to translate Barbarian Proper names into a more cultured language in the cause of civilization, the following conversation took place when he was being entered as a recruit.
‘What is your name?’ the officer asked Bartek.
‘Słowik.’
‘Szloik Ach, ja, gut.’
And the officer wrote down ‘Man.’
Bartek came from the village of Pognębin, a name given to a great many villages in the Province of Posen and in other parts of Poland. First of all there was he himself, not to mention his land, his cottage and two cows, his own piebald horse, and his wife, Magda. Thanks to this combination of circumstances he was able to live comfortably, and according to the maxim contained in the verse:
To him whom God would bless He gives, of course, A wife called Magda and a piebald h
orse.
In fact, all his life he had taken whatever Providence sent without troubling about it. But just now Providence had ordained war, and Bartek was not a little upset at this. For news had come that the Reserves would be called up, and that it would be necessary to leave his cottage and land, and entrust it all to his wife’s care. People at Pognębin were poor enough already. Bartek usually worked at the factory in the winter and helped his household on in this way; — but what would happen now? Who could know when the war with the French would end?
Magda, when she had read through the papers, began to swear:
‘May they be damned and die themselves! May they be blinded! — Though you are a fool — yet I am sorry for you. The French give no quarter; they will chop off your head, I dare say.’
Bartek felt that his wife spoke the truth. He feared the French like fire, and was sorry for himself on this account. What had the French done to him? What was he going after there, — why was he going to that horrible strange land where not a single friendly soul was to be found? He knew what life at Pognębin was like, — well, it was neither easy nor difficult, but just such as it was. But now he was being told to go away, although he knew that it was better to be here than anywhere else. Still, there was no help for it; — such is fate. Bartek embraced his wife, and the ten-year old Franek; spat, crossed himself, and went out of the cottage, Magda following him. They did not take very tender leave of one another. They both sobbed, he repeating, ‘Come, come, hush!’ and went out into the road. There they realized that the same thing which had happened to them had happened to all Pognębin, for the whole village was astir, and the road was obstructed by traffic. As they walked to the station, women, children, old men and dogs followed them. Everyone’s heart was heavy; but a few smoked their pipes with an air of indifference, and some were already intoxicated. Others were singing with hoarse voices:
‘Skrzynecki died, alas! No more his voice is heard; His hand, bedeckt with rings, No more shall wield the sword,’
while one or two of the Germans from Pognębin sang ‘Die Wacht am Rhein’ out of sheer fright. All that motley and many-coloured crowd, — including policemen with glittering bayonets, — moved in file towards the end of the village with shouts, bustle, and confusion. Women clung to their ‘warriors′’ necks and wept; one old woman showed her yellow teeth and waved her arms in the air; another cried: ‘May the Lord remember our tears!’ There were cries of: ‘Franek! Kaśka! Józek! good-bye!’ Dogs barked, the church bell rang, the priest even said the prayers for the dying, since not one of those now going to the station would return. The war had claimed them all, but the war would not give them back. The plough would grow rusty in the field, for Pognębin had declared war against the French. Pognębin could not acquiesce in the supremacy of Napoleon III, and took to heart the question of the Spanish succession. The last sounds of the bell hovered over the crowd, which was already falling out of line. Heads were bared as they passed the shrine. The light dust rose up from the road, for the day was dry and fine. Along both sides of the road the ripening corn, heavy in the ear, rustled and bowed in the gentle gusts of wind. The larks were twittering in the blue sky, and each warbled as if fearing he might be forgotten.
At the station there was a still greater crowd, and more noise and confusion! Here were men called in from Krzywda Gorna, Krzywda Dolna, from Wywłaszczyniec, from Niedola, and Mizerów. The station walls were covered with proclamations in which war was declared in the Name of God and the Fatherland: the ‘Landwehr’ was setting forth to defend menaced parents, wives and children, cottages and fields. It was evident that the French bore a special grudge against Pognębin, Krzywda Gorna, Krzywda Dolna, Wywłaszczyniec, Niedola, and Mizerów. Such, at least, was the impression produced on those who read the placards. Fresh crowds were continually assembling in front of the station. In the waiting-room the smoke from the men’s pipes filled the air, and hid the placards. It was difficult to make oneself understood in the noise, for everyone was running, shouting, and screaming. On the platform orders were given in German. They sounded strangely brief, harsh, and decisive.
The bell rang. The powerful breath of the engine was heard in the distance coming nearer, — growing more distinct. With it the war itself seemed to be coming nearer.
A second bell, — and a shudder ran through every heart. A woman began to scream. ‘Jadom, Jadom!’ She was evidently calling to her Adam, but the other women took up the word and cried, ‘Jadą.’ A shrill voice among them added: ‘The French are coming!’ and in the twinkling of an eye a panic seized not only the women, but also the future heroes of Sedan. The crowd swerved. At that moment the train entered the station. Caps and uniforms were seen to be at all the windows. Soldiers seemed to swarm like ants. Dark, oblong bodies of cannon showed grimly on some of the trucks, on others there was a forest of bayonets. The soldiers had, apparently, been ordered to sing, for the whole train shook with their strong masculine voices. Strength and power seemed in some way to issue from that train, the end of which was not even in sight.
The Reservists on the platform began to fall in, but anyone who could lingered in taking leave. Bartek swung his arms as if they were the sails of a windmill, and stared.
‘Well, Magda, good-bye!’
‘Oh, my poor fellow!’
‘You will never see me again!’
‘I shall never see you again!’
‘There’s no help for it!’
‘May the Mother of God protect and shelter you!’
‘Good-bye. Take care of the cottage.’
The woman embraced him in tears.
‘May God guide you!’
The last moment had come. The whistle and the women’s crying and sobbing drowned everything else. ‘Good-bye! Good-bye!’ But the soldiers were already separated from the motley crowd, and formed a dark, solid mass, moving forward in square columns with the certainty and regularity of clockwork. The order was given: ‘Take your seats!’ Columns and squares broke asunder from the centre, marched with heavy strides towards the carriages, and jumped into them. The engine, now breathing like a dragon and exhaling streams of vapour, sent forth wreaths of grey smoke. The women cried and sobbed still louder; some of them hid their eyes with their handkerchiefs, others waved their hands towards the carriages; sobbing voices repeated the name of husband and son.
‘Good-bye, Bartek!’ Magda cried from amongst them. ‘Take care of yourself! — May the Mother of God — Good-bye! Oh, God!—’
‘And take care of the cottage,’ answered Bartek.
The line of trucks suddenly trembled, the carriages knocked against one another, — and went forward.
‘And remember you have a wife and child,’ Magda cried, running after the train. ‘Good-bye, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost! Good-bye — —’
On went the train, faster and faster, bearing away the warriors of Pognębin, of both Krzywdas, of Niedola, and Mizerów.
CHAPTER II
Magda, with the crowd of women, returned crying to Pognębin in one direction; in the other the train, bristling with bayonets, rushed into the grey distance, and Bartek with it. There seemed to be no end to the long cloud of smoke; Pognębin was also scarcely visible. Only the lime-tree showed faintly, and the church tower, glistening as the rays of the sun played upon it. Soon the lime-tree also disappeared, and the gilt cross resembled a shining speck. As long as that speck continued to shine Bartek kept his eyes fixed upon it, but when that vanished too there were no bounds to the poor fellow’s grief. A sense of great weakness came over him and he felt lost. So he began to look at the Sergeant, for, after the Almighty, he already felt there was no one greater than he. The Sergeant clearly knew what would become of Bartek now; he himself knew nothing, understood nothing. The Sergeant sat on the bench, and, supporting his rifle between his knees, he lighted his pipe. The smoke rose in clouds, hiding his grave, discontented face from time to time. Not Bartek’s eyes alone watched his face; all the e
yes from every corner of the carriage were watching it. At Pognębin or Krzywda every Bartek or Wojtek was his own master, each had to think about himself, and for himself, but now the Sergeant would do this for him. He would command them to look to the right, and they would look to the right; he would command them to look to the left, and they would look to the left. The question, ‘Well, and what is to become of us?’ stood in each man’s eyes, but he knew as much as all of them put together, and also what was expected of them. If only one were able by glances to draw some command or explanation from him! But the men were afraid to ask direct, as war was now drawing near with all the chances of being court-martialled. What was permitted and was not permitted, and by whom, was unknown. They, at least, did not know, and the sound of such a word as ‘Kriegsgericht,’ though they did not understand it, frightened them very much.
They felt that this Sergeant had still more power over them now than at the manœuvres in Posen; he it was who knew everything, and without him nothing would be done. He seemed meanwhile to be finding his rifle growing heavy, for he pushed it towards Bartek to hold for him. Bartek reached out hastily for it, held his breath, stared, and looked at the Sergeant as he would at a rainbow, yet derived little comfort from that. Ah, there must surely be bad news, for even the Sergeant looked worried. At the stations one heard singing and shouting; the Sergeant gave orders, bustled about and swore, as if to show his importance. But let the train once move on, and everyone, including himself, was silent. Owing to him the world now seemed to wear two aspects, the one clear and intelligible — that represented by home and family — the other dark, yes, absolutely dark — that of France and war. He effectually revived the spirits of the Pognębin soldiers, not so much by his personality, as that each man carried him at the back of his mind. And since each soldier carried his knapsack on his shoulder, with his cloak and other warlike accoutrements, the whole load was extremely heavy.
All the while the train was shaking, roaring, and rushing along into space. Now a station where they added fresh carriages and engines; now another where helmets, cannon, horses, bayonets, and companies of Lancers were to be seen. The fine evening drew in slowly. The sun sank in a deep crimson, and a number of light flying clouds spread from the edge of the darkening sky across to the west. The train, stopping frequently at the stations to pick up passengers and carriages, shook and rushed forward into that crimson brightness, as into a sea of blood. From the open carriage, in which Bartek and the Pognębin troops were seated, one could see villages, hamlets and little towns, church steeples, storks — looking like hooks, as they stood on one leg on their nests, — isolated cottages, and cherry orchards. Everything was passed rapidly, and everything looked crimson. Meanwhile the soldiers, growing bolder, began to whisper to one another, because the Sergeant, having laid his kit bag under his head, had fallen asleep, with his clay pipe between his teeth. Wojtek Gwizdała, a peasant from Pognębin, sitting beside Bartek, jogged his elbow: ‘Bartek, listen!’
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz Page 660