Kitabı oxu: «Tales by Polish Authors »

TRANSLATOR'S NOTE

Of the contemporary Polish authors represented in this volume only Henryk Sienkiewicz is well known in England. Although the works of Stefan Żeromski, Adam Szymański, and Wacław Sieroszewski are widely read in Poland, none have as yet appeared in English, so far as the present translator is aware. 'Srul – from Lubartów' is generally considered one of the most striking of Adam Szymański's Siberian 'Sketches.' The author writes from personal experience, having himself been banished to Siberia for a number of years. The same can be said of Wacław Sieroszewski; during the fifteen years spent in Siberia as a political exile, he made a study of some of the native tribes, especially the Yakut and Tungus, and has written a great deal on this subject. Stefan Żeromski is also one of the most distinguished modern Polish novelists; several of his books have been translated into French and German.

The translator is under a deep obligation to the authors, MM. Sienkiewicz, Szymański, and Żeromski, for kindly allowing her to publish these tales in English, and to Mr. J. H. Retinger, Secretary of the Polish Bureau in London, for authorising the same on behalf of M. Sieroszewski.

E. C. M. B.

POLISH PRONUNCIATION:

BARTEK THE CONQUEROR
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ

CHAPTER I

My hero's name was Bartek Słowik¹; 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'² 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.'

'Szloik³ 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 horse.
 

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:

 
'Skrzynecki⁴ 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.'⁵ 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 eyes 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!'

Bartek turned a face with pensive, wide open eyes towards him.

'Why do you look like a calf going to be slaughtered?' Gwizdała whispered. 'True, you, poor beggar, are going to be slaughtered, that's certain!'

'Oh, my word!' groaned Bartek.

'Are you afraid?' Gwizdała asked.

'Why shouldn't I be afraid?'

The crimson in the sky was growing deeper still, so Gwizdała pointed towards it and went on whispering:

'Do you see that brightness? Do you know, Blockhead, what that is? That's blood. Here's Poland, – our frontier, say, – do you understand? But there in the distance, where it's so bright, that's France itself.'

'And shall we be there soon?'

'Why are you in such a hurry? They say that it's a terribly long way. But never fear, the French will come out to meet us.'

Bartek's Pognębin brain began to work laboriously. After some moments he asked: 'Wojtek.'

'Yes?'

'What sort of people are these Frenchmen?'

Here Wojtek's wisdom suddenly became aware of a pitfall into which it might be easier to tumble headforemost than to come out again. He knew that the French were the French. He had heard something about them from old people, who had related that they were always fighting with everyone; he knew at least that they were very strange people. But how could he explain this to Bartek to make him understand how strange they were? First of all, therefore, he repeated the question, 'What sort of people?'

'Why, yes.'

Now there were three nations known to Wojtek: living in the centre were the Poles; on the one side were the Russians, on the other the Germans. But there were various kinds of Germans. Preferring, therefore, to be clear rather than accurate, he said:

'What sort of people are the French? How can I tell you; they must be like the Germans, only worse.'

At which Bartek exclaimed: 'Oh, the low vermin!'

Up to that time he had had one feeling only with regard to the French, and that was a feeling of unspeakable fear. Henceforth this Prussian Reservist cherished the hatred of a true patriot towards them. But not feeling quite clear about it all, he asked again: 'Then Germans will be fighting Germans?'

Here Wojtek, like a second Socrates, chose to adopt a simile, and answered:

'But doesn't your dog, Łysek, fight with my Burek?'

Bartek opened his mouth and looked at his instructor for a moment: 'Ah! true.'

'And the Austrians are Germans,' explained Wojtek, 'and haven't they fought against us? Old Swierzcz said that when he was in that war Steinmetz used to shout: "On, boys, at the Germans!" Only that's not so easy with the French.'

'Good God!'

'The French have never been beaten in any war. When they attack you, don't be afraid, don't disgrace yourself. Each man is worth two or three of us, and they wear beards like Jews. There are some as dark as the devil. Now that you know what they are like, commend yourself to God!'

'Well, but then why do we run after them?' Bartek asked in desperation.

This philosophical remark was possibly not as stupid as it appeared to Wojtek, who, evidently influenced by official opinion, quickly had his answer ready.

'I would rather not have gone myself, but if we don't run after them, they will run after us. There's no help for it. You have read what the papers say. It's against us peasants that they bear the chief grudge. People say that they have their eyes on Poland, because they want to smuggle vodka out of the country, and the Government won't allow it, and that's why there's war. Now do you understand?'

'I cannot understand,' Bartek said resignedly.

'They are also as greedy for our women as a dog for a bone,' Wojtek continued.

'But surely they would respect Magda, for example?'

'They don't even respect age!'

'Oh!' cried Bartek in a voice implying, 'If that is so then I will fight!'

In fact this seemed to him really too much. Let them continue to smuggle vodka out of Poland, – but let them dare to touch Magda! Our friend Bartek now began to regard the whole war from the standpoint of his own interests, and took courage in the thought of how many soldiers and cannon were going out in defence of Magda, who was in danger of being outraged by the French. He arrived at the conviction that there was nothing for it but to go out against them.

Meanwhile the brightness had faded from the sky, and it had grown dark. The carriages began to rock violently on the uneven rails, and the helmets and bayonets shook from right to left to the rhythm of the rocking. Hour after hour passed by. Millions of sparks flew from the engine and crossed one another in the darkness, serpentining in long golden lines. For a while Bartek could not sleep. Like those sparks in the wind, thoughts leapt into his mind about Magda, about Pognębin, the French and the Germans. He felt that though he would have liked to have lain down on the bench on which he was sitting, he could not do so. He fell asleep, it is true, but it was a heavy, unrefreshing sleep, and he was at once pursued by dreams. He saw his dog, Łysek, fighting with Wojtek's Burek, till all their hair was torn off. He was running for a stick to stop them, when suddenly he saw something else: sitting with his arm round Magda was a dark Frenchman, as dark as the earth; but Magda was smiling contentedly. Some Frenchmen jeered at Bartek, and pointed their fingers at him. In reality it was the engine screaming, but it seemed to him that the French were calling, 'Magda! Magda! Magda!' 'Hold your tongue, thieves,' Bartek shouted, 'leave my wife alone!' but they continued calling 'Magda! Magda! Magda!' Łysek and Burek started barking, and all Pognębin cried out, 'Don't let your wife go!' Was he bound, or what was the matter? No, he rushed forward, tore at the cord and broke it, seized the Frenchman by the head, – and suddenly – !

Suddenly he was seized with severe pain, as from a heavy blow. Bartek awoke and dragged his feet to the ground. The whole carriage awoke, and everyone asked, 'What has happened?' In his sleep the unfortunate Bartek had seized the Sergeant by the head. He stood up immediately, as straight as a fiddle-string, two fingers at his forehead; but the Sergeant waved his hand, and shouted like mad:

'Ach, Sie! beast of a Pole! I'll knock all the teeth out of your head, – blockhead!'

The Sergeant shouted until he was hoarse with rage, and Bartek stood saluting all the while. Some of the soldiers bit their lips in order not to laugh, but they were half afraid, too. A parting shot burst forth from the Sergeant's lips:

'You Polish Ox! Ox from Podolia!'

Ultimately everything became quiet again. Bartek sat back in his old place. He was conscious of nothing but that his cheek was swollen, and, as if playing him a trick, the engine kept repeating:

'Magda! Magda! Magda!'

He felt a heavy weight of sorrow upon him.