Stories in Light and Shadow. Bret HarteЧитать онлайн книгу.
to bring his papers with him in revisiting his own native country. It so chanced, however, that the consul enjoyed the friendship and confidence of the General Adlerkreutz, who commanded the 20th Division, and it further chanced that the same Adlerkreutz was as gallant a soldier as ever cried Vorwarts! at the head of his men, as profound a military strategist and organizer as ever carried his own and his enemy's plans in his iron head and spiked helmet, and yet with as simple and unaffected a soul breathing under his gray mustache as ever issued from the lips of a child. So this grim but gentle veteran had arranged with the consul that in cases where the presumption of nationality was strong, although the evidence was not present, he would take the consul's parole for the appearance of the “deserter” or his papers, without the aid of prolonged diplomacy. In this way the consul had saved to Milwaukee a worthy but imprudent brewer, and to New York an excellent sausage butcher and possible alderman; but had returned to martial duty one or two tramps or journeymen who had never seen America except from the decks of the ships in which they were “stowaways,” and on which they were returned—and thus the temper and peace of two great nations were preserved.
“He says,” said the inspector severely, “that he is an American citizen, but has lost his naturalization papers. Yet he has made the damaging admission to others that he lived several years in Rome! And,” continued the inspector, looking over his shoulder at the closed door as he placed his finger beside his nose, “he says he has relations living at Palmyra, whom he frequently visited. Ach! Observe this unheard-of-and-not-to-be-trusted statement!”
The consul, however, smiled with a slight flash of intelligence. “Let me see him,” he said.
They passed into the outer office; another policeman and a corporal of infantry saluted and rose. In the centre of an admiring and sympathetic crowd of Dienstmadchen sat the culprit, the least concerned of the party; a stripling—a boy—scarcely out of his teens! Indeed, it was impossible to conceive of a more innocent, bucolic, and almost angelic looking derelict. With a skin that had the peculiar white and rosiness of fresh pork, he had blue eyes, celestially wide open and staring, and the thick flocculent yellow curls of the sun god! He might have been an overgrown and badly dressed Cupid who had innocently wandered from Paphian shores. He smiled as the consul entered, and wiped from his full red lips with the back of his hand the traces of a sausage he was eating. The consul recognized the flavor at once—he had smelled it before in Lieschen's little hand-basket.
“You say you lived at Rome?” began the consul pleasantly. “Did you take out your first declaration of your intention of becoming an American citizen there?”
The inspector cast an approving glance at the consul, fixed a stern eye on the cherubic prisoner, and leaned back in his chair to hear the reply to this terrible question.
“I don't remember,” said the culprit, knitting his brows in infantine thought. “It was either there, or at Madrid or Syracuse.”
The inspector was about to rise; this was really trifling with the dignity of the municipality. But the consul laid his hand on the official's sleeve, and, opening an American atlas to a map of the State of New York, said to the prisoner, as he placed the inspector's hand on the sheet, “I see you know the names of the TOWNS on the Erie and New York Central Railroad. But”—
“I can tell you the number of people in each town and what are the manufactures,” interrupted the young fellow, with youthful vanity. “Madrid has six thousand, and there are over sixty thousand in”—
“That will do,” said the consul, as a murmur of Wunderschon! went round the group of listening servant girls, while glances of admiration were shot at the beaming accused. “But you ought to remember the name of the town where your naturalization papers were afterwards sent.”
“But I was a citizen from the moment I made my declaration,” said the stranger smiling, and looking triumphantly at his admirers, “and I could vote!”
The inspector, since he had come to grief over American geographical nomenclature, was grimly taciturn. The consul, however, was by no means certain of his victory. His alleged fellow citizen was too encyclopaedic in his knowledge: a clever youth might have crammed for this with a textbook, but then he did not LOOK at all clever; indeed, he had rather the stupidity of the mythological subject he represented. “Leave him with me,” said the consul. The inspector handed him a precis of the case. The cherub's name was Karl Schwartz, an orphan, missing from Schlachtstadt since the age of twelve. Relations not living, or in emigration. Identity established by prisoner's admission and record.
“Now, Karl,” said the consul cheerfully, as the door of his private office closed upon them, “what is your little game? Have you EVER had any papers? And if you were clever enough to study the map of New York State, why weren't you clever enough to see that it wouldn't stand you in place of your papers?”
“Dot's joost it,” said Karl in English; “but you see dot if I haf declairet mine intention of begomming a citizen, it's all the same, don't it?”
“By no means, for you seem to have no evidence of the DECLARATION; no papers at all.”
“Zo!” said Karl. Nevertheless, he pushed his small, rosy, pickled-pig's-feet of fingers through his fleecy curls and beamed pleasantly at the consul. “Dot's vot's der matter,” he said, as if taking a kindly interest in some private trouble of the consul's. “Dot's vere you vos, eh?”
The consul looked steadily at him for a moment. Such stupidity was by no means phenomenal, nor at all inconsistent with his appearance. “And,” continued the consul gravely, “I must tell you that, unless you have other proofs than you have shown, it will be my duty to give you up to the authorities.”
“Dot means I shall serve my time, eh?” said Karl, with an unchanged smile.
“Exactly so,” returned the consul.
“Zo!” said karl. “Dese town—dose Schlachtstadt—is fine town, eh? Fine vomens. Goot men. Und beer und sausage. Blenty to eat and drink, eh? Und,” looking around the room, “you and te poys haf a gay times.”
“Yes,” said the consul shortly, turning away. But he presently faced round again on the unfettered Karl, who was evidently indulging in a gormandizing reverie.
“What on earth brought you here, anyway?”
“Was it das?”
“What brought you here from America, or wherever you ran away from?”
“To see der, volks.”
“But you are an ORPHAN, you know, and you have no folks living here.”
“But all Shermany is mine volks—de whole gountry, don't it? Pet your poots! How's dot, eh?”
The consul turned back to his desk and wrote a short note to General Adlerkreutz in his own American German. He did not think it his duty in the present case to interfere with the authorities or to offer his parole for Karl Schwartz. But he would claim that, as the offender was evidently an innocent emigrant and still young, any punishment or military degradation be omitted, and he be allowed to take his place like any other recruit in the ranks. If he might have the temerity to the undoubted, far-seeing military authority of suggestion making here, he would suggest that Karl was for the commissariat fitted! Of course, he still retained the right, on production of satisfactory proof, his discharge to claim.
The consul read this aloud to Karl. The cherubic youth smiled and said, “Zo!” Then, extending his hand, he added the word “Zshake!”
The consul shook his hand a little remorsefully, and, preceding him to the outer room, resigned him with the note into the inspector's hands. A universal sigh went up from the girls, and glances of appeal sought the consul; but he wisely concluded that it would be well, for a while, that Karl—a helpless orphan—should be under some sort of discipline! And the securer business of certifying invoices recommenced.
Late that afternoon he received a folded bit of blue paper from the waistbelt of an orderly, which contained in English characters and