CHAPTER VI

Some months had passed, and the Spring was now well advanced. The cherry trees at Pognebin were in blossom and the young corn was sprouting abundantly in the fields. One day Magda, seated in front of the cottage, was peeling some rotten potatoes for dinner, fitter for cattle than for human beings. But it was Spring-time, and poverty had visited Pognebin. That could be seen too by the saddened and worried look on Magda's face. Possibly in order to distract herself, the woman, closing her eyes, sang in a thin, strained voice:

Alas, my Jasienko has gone to the war! he writes me letters; Alas, and I his wife write to him,--for I cannot see him.

The sparrows twittered in the cherry trees as if they were trying to emulate her. She stopped her song and gazed absently at the dog sleeping in the sun, at the road passing the cottage, and the path leading from the road through the garden and field. Perhaps Magda glanced at the path because it led across to the station and, as God willed, she did not look in vain that day. A figure appeared in the distance, and the woman shaded her eyes with her hand, but she could not see clearly, being blinded by the glare. Lysek woke up, however, raised his head, and giving a short bark, began to grow excited, pricking up his ears and turning his head from side to side. At the same moment the words of a song reached Magda indistinctly. Lysek sprang up suddenly and ran at full speed towards the newcomer. Then Magda turned a little pale.

'Is it Bartek,--or not?'

She jumped up so quickly that the bowl of potatoes rolled on to the ground: there was no longer any doubt; Lysek was bounding up to his shoulder. The woman rushed forward, shouting in the full strength of her joy: 'Bartek! Bartek!'

'Magda, here I am!' Bartek cried, throwing her a kiss, and hurrying towards her. He opened the gate, stumbled over the step so that he all but fell, recovered himself,--and they were clasped in one anothers' arms.

The woman began to speak quickly:

'And I had thought that you would not come back. I thought "they will kill him!"--How are you?--Let me see. How good to look at you! You are terribly thin! Oh Jesu! Poor fellow!--Oh, my dearest!... He has come back, come back!'

For one moment she tore herself from his neck and looked at him, then threw herself on to it again.

'Come back! The Lord be praised! Bartek, my darling! How are you? Go indoors! Franek is at school being teased by that horrid German! The boy is well. He's as dull in the upper storey as you are. Oh, but it was time for you to come back! I didn't know any more which way to turn. I was miserable, I tell you, miserable! This whole poor house is going into ruins. The roof is off the barn. How are you? Oh, Bartek! Bartek! That I should actually see you, after all! What trouble I have had with the hay!--The neighbours helped me, but they did it to help themselves! How are you?--Well? Oh, but I am glad to have you,--glad! The Lord watched over you. Go indoors. By God, it's like Bartek, and not like Bartek! What's the matter with you? Oh dear! Oh dear!'

At that instant Magda had become aware of a long scar running along Bartek's face across his left temple and cheek and down to his beard.

'It's nothing.--A Cuirassier did it for me, but I did the same for him. I have been in hospital.'

'Oh Jesu!'

'Why, it's a mere flea-bite.'

'But you are starved to death.'

'Ruhig!' answered Bartek.

He was in truth emaciated, begrimed and in rags:--a true conqueror! He swayed too as he stood.

'What's wrong with you? Are you drunk?'

'I--am still weak.'

That he was weak, was certain, but he was tipsy also. For one glass of vodka would have been sufficient in his state of exhaustion, and Bartek had drunk something like four at the station. The result was that he had the bearing of the true conqueror. He had not been like this formerly.

'Ruhig!' he repeated. 'We have finished the Krieg. I am a gentleman now, do you understand? Look here!' he pointed to his crosses and medals. 'Do you know who I am? Eh? Links! Rechts! Heu! Stroh! Halt!'

At the word, 'halt,' he gave such a shrill shout that the woman recoiled several steps.

'Are you mad?'

'How are you, Magda? When I say to you "how are you" then how are you? Do you know French, stupid? "Musiu, Musiu!" What is "Musiu?" I am a "Musiu," do you understand?'

'Man, what's up with you?'

'What's that to you! Was? "Doné diner," do you understand?'

A storm began to gather on Magda's brow.

'What rubbish are you jabbering? What's this,--you don't know Polish? That's all through those wretches. I said how it would be! What have they done to you?'

'Give me something to eat!'

'Be quick indoors.'

Every command made an irresistible impression on Bartek; hearing this 'Be quick' he drew himself up, held his hand stiffly to his side, and, having made a half-turn, marched in the direction indicated. He stood still at the threshold, however, and began to look wonderingly at Magda.

'Well, what do you want, Magda? What do...?'

'Quick! March!'

He entered the cottage, but fell over the threshold. The vodka was now beginning to go to his head. He started singing, and looked round the cottage for Franek, even saying 'Morgen, Kerl,' although Franek was not there. After that he laughed loudly, staggered, shouted 'Hurrah!' and fell full length on the bed. In the evening he awoke sober and rested, and welcomed Franek, then, having got some pence out of Magda, he took his triumphant way to the inn. The glory of his deeds had already preceded him to Pognebin, since more than one of the soldiers from other divisions of the same regiment, having returned earlier, had related how he had distinguished himself at Gravelotte and Sedan. So now when the rumour spread that the conqueror was at the inn, all his old comrades hastened there to welcome him.

No one would have recognized our friend Bartek, as he now sat at the table. He, formerly so meek, was to be seen striking his fist on the table, puffing himself out and gobbling like a turkey-cock.

'Do you remember, you fellows, that time I did for the French, what Steinmetz said?'

'How could we forget?'

'People used to talk about the French, and be frightened of them, but they are a poor lot--_was_? They run like hares into the lettuce, and run away like hares too. They don't drink beer either, nothing but strong wine.'

'That's it!'

'When we burnt a town they would wring their hands immediately and cry "Pitié, pitié,"[7] as if they meant they would give us a drink if we would only leave them alone. But we paid no attention to them.'

'Then can one understand their gibberish?' enquired a young farmer's lad.

'You wouldn't understand, because you are stupid, but I understand. "Doné di pe!"[8] Do you understand?'

'But what did you do?'

'Do you know about Paris? We had one battle after another there, but we won them all. They have no good commanders. People say so too. "The ground enclosed by the hedge is good," they say, "but it has been badly managed." Their officers are bad managers, and their generals are bad managers, but on our side they are good.'

Maciej Kierz, the wise old innkeeper of Pognebin, began to shake his head.

'Well, the Germans have been victorious in a terrible war; they have been victorious--but I always thought they would be. But the Lord alone knows what will come out of it for us.'

Bartek stared at him.

'What do you say?'

'The Germans have never cared to consider us much, anyhow, but, now they will be as stuck up as if there were no God above them. And they will illtreat us still more than they do already.'

'But that's not true!' Bartek said.

Old Kierz was a person of such authority in Pognebin that all the village always thought as he did, and it was sheer audacity to contradict him. But Bartek was a conqueror now, and an authority himself. All the same they gazed at him in astonishment, and even in some indignation.

'Who are you, to quarrel with Maciej? Who are you--?'

'What's Maciej to me? It isn't to such as he that I have talked, you see! Why, you fellows, I talked, didn't I, to Steinmetz--_was_? But let Maciej fancy what he likes. We shall be better off now.'

Maciej looked at the conqueror for a moment.

'You Blockhead!' he said.

Bartek struck his fist on the table, making all the glasses and pint-pots start up.

'Still, der Kerl da! Heu! Stroh!'

'Silence, no row! Ask the Priest or the Count, Blockhead.'

'Was the Priest in the war? Or was the Count there? But I was there. It's not true, boys. They'll know now how to respect us. Who won the battle? We won it, I won it. Now they'll give us anything we ask for. If I had wanted to become a land-owner in France, I should have stayed there. The Government knows very well who gave the French the best beating. And our regiment was the best. They said so in the military despatches. So now the Poles will get the upper hand;--do you see?'

Kierz waved his hand, stood up, and went out. Bartek had carried off the victory in the field of politics also. The young men remaining with him, regarded him as a perfect marvel. He continued:

'As if they wouldn't give me anything I want! If I don't get it, I should like to know who would! Old Kierz is a scoundrel, do you see? The Government commands you to fight, so you must fight. Who will illtreat me? The Germans? Is it likely?'

Here he again displayed his crosses and medals.

'And for whom did I beat the French? Not for the Germans, surely? I am a better man now than a German, for there's not one German as strong. Bring us some beer! I have talked to Steinmetz, and I have talked to Podbielski. Bring us some beer!'

They slowly prepared for their carouse.

Bartek began to sing:

Drink, drink, drink, As long as in my pocket Still the pennies chink!

Suddenly he took a handful of pence from his pocket.

'Beer! I am a gentleman now.--Won't you? I tell you in France we were not so flush of money;--there was little we didn't burn, and few people we didn't put a shot into!--God doesn't know which--of the French--.'

A tippler's moods are subject to rapid changes. Bartek unexpectedly raked together the money from the table, and began to exclaim sadly:

'Lord, have mercy on the sins of my soul!'

Then, propping both elbows on the table, and hiding his head in his hands, he was silent.

'What's the matter?' inquired one of the drinkers.

'Why was I to blame for them?' Bartek murmured sadly. 'It was their own look-out. I was sorry for them, for they were both in my hands. Lord! have mercy! One was as the ruddy dawn! next day he was as white as cheese. And even after that I still--Vodka!'

A moment of gloomy silence followed. The men looked at one another in astonishment.

'What is he saying?' one asked.

'He is settling something with his conscience.'

'A man must drink in spite of that war.'

He filled up his glass of vodka once or twice, then he spat, and his good humour unexpectedly returned.

'Have you ever stood talking to Steinmetz? But I have! Hurrah!--Drink! Who pays? I do!'

'You may pay, you drunkard,' sounded Magda's voice, 'but I will repay you! Never fear!'

Bartek looked at his wife with glassy eyes.

'Have you talked to Steinmetz? Who are you?'

Instead of replying to him, Magda turned to the interested listeners, and began to exclaim:

'Oh, you men, you wretched men, do you see the disgrace and misery I am in? He came back, and I was glad to welcome him as a good man, but he came back drunk. He has forgotten God, and he has forgotten Polish. He went to sleep, he woke up sober, and now he's drinking again, and paying for it with my money, which I had earned by my own work. And where have you taken that money from? Isn't it what I have earned by all my trouble and slavery? I tell you men, he's no longer a Catholic, he's not a man any more, he's bewitched by the Germans, he jabbers German, and is just waiting to do harm to people. He's possessed....'

Here the woman burst into tears; then, raising her voice an octave higher:--'He was stupid, but he was good. But now, what have they done to him? I looked out for him in the evening, I looked out for him in the morning, and I have lived to see him. There is no peace and no mercy anywhere. Great God! Merciful God!--If you had only left it alone,--if you had only remained German altogether!'

Her last words ended in such a wail, it was almost like a cadence. But Bartek merely said:

'Be quiet, or I shall do for you!'

'Strike me, hit my head, hit me now, kill me, murder me!' the woman screamed, and stretching her neck forward, she turned to the man.

'And you fellows, watch!--'

But the men were beginning to disperse. The inn was soon deserted, and only Bartek and his wife, with her neck stretched forward, remained.

'Why do you stretch out your neck like a goose?' murmured Bartek. 'Go home.'

'Hit me!' repeated Magda.

'Well, I shan't hit,' replied Bartek, putting his hands into his pockets. Here the innkeeper, wishing to put an end to the quarrel, turned out one of the lights. The room became dark and silent. After a while Magda's shrill voice sounded through the darkness:

'Hit me!'

'I shan't hit,' replied Bartek's triumphant voice.

Two figures were to be seen going by moonlight from the inn to the cottage. One of them, walking in front, was sobbing loudly; that was Magda; after her, hanging his head and following humbly enough, went the victor of Gravelotte and Sedan.