Bartek went home so tipsy that for some days he was unfit for work.
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. God 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 Cuirassier'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 hoarse 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 assailant
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 assistance. 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 assiduously 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
assistance. 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 mass, and struggling
convulsively.
Suddenly, however, from out of this fighting mass 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 reassembled, 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.