Produced by David Clarke, JoAnn Greenwood and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
TALES BY POLISH AUTHORS
London
SIMPKIN, MARSHALL & Co., LTD.
New York
LONGMANS, GREEN & Co.
FOURTH AVENUE AND 30TH STREET
TALES
BY
POLISH AUTHORS
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
STEFAN ZEROMSKI ADAM SZYMANSKI
WACLAW SIEROSZEWSKI
TRANSLATED BY
ELSE C. M. BENECKE
Oxford
B. H. BLACKWELL, BROAD STREET
1915
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 Zeromski, Adam Szymanski, and Waclaw 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 Szymanski'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 Waclaw 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 Zeromski 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, Szymanski, and Zeromski, 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.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
Henryk Sienkiewicz: '_Bartek the Conqueror_' 1
Stefan Zeromski: '_Twilight_' 101
'_Temptation_' 113
Adam Szymanski: '_Srul--from Lubartów_' 119
Waclaw Sieroszewski: '_In Autumn_' 137
'_In Sacrifice to the Gods_' 163
POLISH PRONUNCIATION:
After k, rz = English sh.
sz = English sh
cz = English ch
l = English w
w = English v
BARTEK THE CONQUEROR
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
CHAPTER I
My hero's name was Bartek Slowik[1]; 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.
'Slowik.'
'Szloik[3] _Ach, ja, gut._'
And the officer wrote down 'Man.'
Bartek came from the village of Pognebin, 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
Pognebin 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 Pognebin 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
Pognebin, 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[4] 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 Pognebin 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! Kaska!
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 Pognebin had declared war against the French. Pognebin 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 Wywlaszczyniec, 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 Pognebin,
Krzywda Gorna, Krzywda Dolna, Wywlaszczyniec, 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, 'Jada.'[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
Pognebin, of both Krzywdas, of Niedola, and Mizerów.