Tales by Polish Authors Part 8

This was most unfortunate for all his household affairs, which were in need of a strong man to look after them. Magda did her best. She worked from morning till night, and the neighbours helped her as well as they could, but even so she could not make both ends meet, and the household was being ruined little by little. Then there were a few small debts to the German Colonist, Just, who, having at a favourable moment bought some thirteen acres of waste land at Pognebin, now had the best property in the whole village. He had ready money besides, which he lent out at sufficiently high interest. He lent it chiefly to the owner of the property, Count Jarzynski, who bore the nickname of the 'Golden Prince,' but who was obliged to keep up his house in a style of befitting splendour for that very reason. Just, however, also lent to peasants. For six months Magda had owed him some twenty thalers, part of which she had borrowed for her housekeeping, and part to send to Bartek during the war. Yet that need not have mattered. G.o.d had granted a good harvest, and it would have been possible to repay the debt out of the incoming crop, provided that the hands and the labour were forthcoming. Unluckily Bartek could not work. Magda did not quite believe this, and went to the priest for help, thinking he might rouse her husband; but this was really impossible. When at all tired, Bartek grew short of breath and his wounds pained him. So he sat in front of the cottage all day long, smoking his clay pipe with the figure of Bismarck in white uniform and a Cuira.s.sier's helmet, and gazed at the world with the drowsy eyes of a man still feeling the effects of bodily fatigue. He pondered a little on the war, a little on his victories, on Magda,--a little on everything, a little on nothing.

One day, as he sat thus, he heard Franek crying in the distance on his way home from school. He was howling till the echoes rang.

Bartek pulled his pipe out of his mouth.

'Why, Franek, what's the matter with you?'

'What's the matter?' repeated Franek, sobbing.

'Why are you crying?'

'Why shouldn't I cry, when I have had my ears boxed?'

'Who boxed your ears?'

'Who? Why, Herr Boege!'

Herr Boege filled the post of schoolmaster at Pognebin.

'And has he a right to box your ears?'

'I suppose so, as he did it.'

Magda, who had been hoeing in the garden, came through the hedge, and, with the hoe in her hand, went up to the child.

'What are you saying?' she asked.

'What am I saying--? If that Boege didn't call me a Polish pig, and give me a box on the ears, and say that just as they have beaten the French now, so they will trample us underfoot, for they are the strongest. And I had done nothing to him, but he had asked me who is the greatest person in the world, and I had said it was the Holy Father, but he boxed my ears, and I began to cry, and he called me a Polish pig, and said that just as they have beaten the French....'

Franek was beginning it all over again,--'and he said, and I said,'--but Magda covered his mouth with her hand, and she herself, turning to Bartek, exclaimed:--

'Do you hear? Do you hear? Go to the French war, then let a German beat your child like a dog!--Curse him! Go to the war, and let this Swabian kill your child!--You have your reward!... May....'

Here Magda, moved by her own eloquence, also began to cry to Franek's accompaniment. Bartek stared open-mouthed with astonishment, and could not bring out a single word, or comprehend in the least what had happened. How was this? And what of his victories?--He sat on in silence for some moments, then suddenly something leaped into his eyes, and the blood rushed to his face. With ignorant people astonishment, like terror, often turns to rage. Bartek sprang up suddenly, and jerked out through his clenched teeth:--

'I will talk to him!'

And he went out. It was not far to go; the school lay close to the church. Herr Boege was just standing in front of the verandah, surrounded by a herd of young pigs, to which he was throwing pieces of bread.

He was a tall man, about fifty years of age, still as vigorous as an oak. He was not particularly stout, but his face was very fat, and he had a pair of very protruding eyes which expressed courage and energy.

Bartek went up to him very quickly.

'German, why have you been beating my child? _Was?_' he asked.

Herr Boege took a few steps backwards, measured him with a glance without a shade of fear, and said phlegmatically:--

'Begone, Polish prize-fighter!'

'Why have you been beating my child?' repeated Bartek.

'I will beat you too, you low Polish scoundrel! I will show you who is master here. Go to the devil, go to the law,--begone!'

Bartek, having seized the schoolmaster by the shoulder, began to shake him roughly, crying in a hoa.r.s.e voice:--

'Do you know who I am? Do you know who did for the French? Do you know who talked to Steinmetz? Why do you beat my child, you cursed Swabian dog?'

Herr Boege's protruding eyes glared no less than Bartek's, but Boege was a strong man, and he resolved to free himself from his a.s.sailant by a single blow. This blow descended with a loud smack on the face of the victor of Gravelotte and Sedan.

At that the man forgot everything. Boege's head was shaken from side to side with a swift motion recalling a pendulum, but with this difference that the shaking was alarmingly rapid. The formidable vanquisher of Turcos and Zouaves awoke in Bartek once more. Boege's twelve year old son, Oscar, a lad as strong as his father, ran in vain to his a.s.sistance. A short, but terrible struggle took place, in which the son fell to the ground, and the father felt himself lifted up into the air. Bartek, raising his hand, held him there, he himself scarcely knew how. Unluckily the tub of dishwater, which Herr Boege had been a.s.siduously mixing for the pigs, stood near. Into this tub Herr Boege now capsized, and a moment later his feet were to be seen projecting from it, and kicking violently. His wife darted out of the house:--

'Help, to the rescue!'

The German colonists rushed from the houses near to their neighbour's a.s.sistance. Some of them fell on Bartek and began to belabour him with sticks and stones. In the general confusion which followed it was difficult to distinguish Bartek from his adversaries: some thirteen bodies were to be seen rolling round in a single ma.s.s, and struggling convulsively.

Suddenly, however, from out of this fighting ma.s.s Bartek burst forth like fury, making towards the hedge with all his might.

The Germans ran after him, but an alarming crack was heard in the hedge at the same moment, and Bartek's iron hands brandished a stout stick.

He returned raging and furious, holding the stick in the air: they all fled.

Bartek went after them, but luckily did not overtake anyone. Thus his rage cooled, and he began to retreat homewards. Ah! if only it had been the French he had been facing! His retreat would then have made immortal history.

As it was, he was being attacked by about a dozen people who, when they had rea.s.sembled, set on him afresh. Bartek retired slowly, like a wild boar pursued by dogs. He turned round now and then and stood still: then his pursuers stood still too. The stick had earned their complete respect.

They threw stones at him, nevertheless, one of which wounded Bartek in the forehead. The blood poured into his eyes, and he felt himself growing faint. He swayed once or twice, let go the stick, and fell down.

'Hurrah!' cried the Germans.

But by the time they reached him, Bartek had got up again: then they held back. This wounded wolf was still dangerous. Besides, he was now not far from the first cottage, and some labourers could be seen in the distance hurrying to the battlefield at full speed. The Germans retired to their houses.

'What has happened?' enquired the newcomers.

'I have been trying my hand a bit on the Germans,' Bartek answered.

And he fainted.

CHAPTER VIII

It proved a serious affair. The German newspapers published flaming articles on the persecutions to which the peaceful German population was subjected at the hands of the barbarian and ignorant ma.s.ses, who were roused by socialist agitation and religious fanaticism. Boege became a hero. He, the quiet, gentle schoolmaster, spreading the light of learning on the far borders of the Empire; he, the true missionary of culture amid barbarians, had fallen a first victim to the riot. It was fortunate that there were a hundred million Germans to stand up for him, who would never allow.... And so on.

Bartek did not know what a storm was brewing over his head. On the contrary, he was in good spirits; he was certain that he would win at the trial. For Boege had beaten his child, and had dealt him the first blow, and it had afterwards been he who had been attacked from behind!

Surely he had a right to defend himself. They had also thrown a stone at his head,--actually thrown it at him, who had been mentioned in the daily despatches, who had won the battle of Gravelotte, had talked to Steinmetz himself, and received so many medals. It is true it never entered his head that the Germans did not know all this when they wronged him so greatly, any more than it occurred to him that Boege could substantiate his threat to Pognebin that the Germans would now trample it underfoot in the same way in which they, the Pognebinites, had so thoroughly beaten the French whenever they had had an opportunity. But as for himself, he was certain that public opinion and the Government would be in his favour. They would certainly know who he was, and what he had done during the war. If he was not a different man to what he thought him, Steinmetz would espouse his cause. Since Bartek was the poorer through the war, and his house in debt, they were, anyhow, not doing him justice.

All the same, the police from Pognebin rode up to Bartek's house. They had expected serious resistance, for as many as five appeared with loaded revolvers. They were mistaken; Bartek had not thought of offering any resistance. They told him to get into the carriage,--and he got in. Magda alone was desperate, persistently repeating:--

'Oh dear, what did you fight those French for? You will catch it now, poor fellow, that you will!'

'Be quiet, stupid!' Bartek answered, and smiled quite cheerfully to the pa.s.sers-by as he drove along.