Magda, with the crowd of women, returned crying to Pognebin 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; Pognebin 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 Pognebin 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 manoeuvres 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 Pognebin 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 Pognebin 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 Gwizdala, a peasant from Pognebin,
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?' Gwizdala
whispered. 'True, you, poor beggar, are going to be slaughtered,
that's certain!'
'Oh, my word!' groaned Bartek.
'Are you afraid?' Gwizdala asked.
'Why shouldn't I be afraid?'
The crimson in the sky was growing deeper still, so Gwizdala 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 Pognebin 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, Lysek, 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 Pognebin,
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, Lysek,
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!' Lysek
and Burek started barking, and all Pognebin 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.