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The following book shows a compilation of more than 20
basic exercises for competitive programming, all of them
are written in Python. In addition, desktop tests are added
to observe the operation of each algorithm.
Hoping you can take knowledge of the pages of this book,
my best wishes.
Jan Pol
Exercise 1
Write a program that reads a string S, and prints that line
on the standard output in reverse, that is, flipped right-to-
left.
Input
The only input has a string S.
Output
Print the string in reverse

Example
Input
1 2 3 hello
Output
olleh 3 2 1
Solution
One way to easily solve this task is to use a loop to print the
characters from the last position to the first. This avoids the
need to save the reverse list, just print each character.
The code for the solution written in Python is shown below.
1 l = input()
2 i = len(l)
3 while i > 0:
4 i = i - 1
5 print(l[i], end='')
6 print()

Desktop Testing
Doing a desktop testing, it is observed how in each iteration
each character is added inversely.
Exercise 2
Given of input a positive integer n. If n is even, the
algorithm divides it by two, and if n is odd, the algorithm
multiplies it by three and adds one. The algorithm repeats
this, until n is one. For example, the sequence for n=5 is as
follows:
5→16→8→4→21
Your task is to simulate the execution of the algorithm for a
given value of n.

Input
The only input line contains an positive integer n.
Output
Print a line that contains all values of n separated with
spaces.

Example
Input
5
Output
5 16 8 4 21
Solution
To solve this task, a cycle is used to verify that the number
is not yet 1. Within the cycle it is checked if the number is
even, it is divided by two, otherwise the number is multiplied
by 3 and 1 is added to it. the number is printed, like this
until the number is 1.
The code for the solution written in Python is shown below.
1 n = int(input())
2 print(n, end= ' ')
3 while n > 1:
4 if n % 2 == 0:
5 n //= 2
6 else:
7 n = 3 * n + 1
8 print(n, end=' ')

Desktop Testing
Doing a desktop testing, it shows if the number is odd or
even and the operation is performed.
Exercise 3
Write a program that reads a list of non-negative numbers
from the standard input, with one number per line, and
prints a histogram corresponding to those numbers. In this
histogram, each number N is represented by a line of N
characters "#"
Input
The only line contains n non-negative integers.
Output
Print the histogram result.

Example
Input
10 15 7 9 1 3
Output
##########
###############
#######
#########
#
###
Solution
To solve this task, it is taken into account that a list of non-
negative integers will be received so that they are saved
using a “map” of integers for the input, removing the
spaces. Then '#' is printed as many times as the value of the
number.
The code for the solution written in Python is shown below.
1 arr = map(int, input().split())
2
3 for a in arr:
4 print('#' * a)

Desktop Testing
Doing a desktop testing, it is shown how in the next line of
each iteration as many '#' as the value of the number are
added.
Exercise 4
You are given all numbers between 1,2,…,n except one.
Your task is to find the missing number.

Input
The first input line contains an integer n.
The second line contains n−1 numbers. Each number is
distinct and between 1 and n (inclusive).
Output
Print the missing number.

Example
Input
10
2 8 10 6 5 1 3 7 4
Output
9
Solution
To solve this task, the integer n is saved. Then the integer
line is saved. A sum is initialized, each integer is added. At
the end, the Gauss sum formula is used: n * (n + 1) / 2.
The previously made sum is subtracte it to obtain the
missing number. This works because the Gauss sum gets
the real total sum based on the total of numbers, if the sum
of the provided numbers is subtracted, the result will show
the missing value to get the real total sum.
The code for the solution written in Python is shown below.
1 n = int(input())
2 arr = map(int, input().split())
3 s = 0
4
5 for a in arr:
6 s += a
7
8 print(n * (n + 1) // 2 - s)

Desktop Testing
Doing a desktop testing, it is shown how in each iteration
the respective number is added. At the end the operation is
printed.
The final result is:
10 * (10 + 1) // 2 – 46
10 * 11 // 2 – 46
110 // 2 – 46
55 – 46
Result: 9
Exercise 5
Given a sequence of integers A, a maximal identical
sequence is a sequence of adjacent identical values of
maximal length k. Write a program that reads an input
sequence A, with one or more numbers per line, and
outputs the value of the first (leftmost) maximal identical
sequence in A.
Input
The first input line contains an integer n.
The second line contains n integers.
Output
Print one integer: the length of the longest repetition

Example
Input
24622
Output
2
Solution
To solve this task, an efficient way to know which number is
the most repeated is to use variables that help us in the
process. In this case, 'k' is used to determine how much a
number is repeated, 'i' saves the previous index, 'j' saves
the current index and 'v' stores the number that is repeated
the most sequentially.
At the beginning of the cycle, the previous and current
values are compared, if they are different, the indices are
exchanged. The index 'j' increases and is compared if the
numbers that are repeated is greater than 'k', if so, 'v' takes
the value of the number and 'k' takes the value of how
much that number was repeated.
The code for the solution written in Python is shown below.
1 A = list(map(int, input().split()))
2
3 v = A[0]
4k = 1
5i = 0
6j = 1
7 while j < len(A):
8 if A[j] != A[i]:
9i = j
10 j += 1
11 if j - i > k:
12 v = A[i]
13 k = j - i
14
15 print(v)
Desktop Testing
Doing a desktop testing, it is observed how in each cycle
the previous number and the current number are compared,
as well as the increase or exchange in the indexes according
to whether the sequential number is different. When the
numbers compared are equal, the index 'j' increases more
than the 'i', when not, the indexes go hand in hand.
Below is the sequence of integers 'A' and the desk test.
Exercise 6
You are given a DNA sequence: a string consisting of
characters A, C, G, and T. Your task is to find the longest
repetition in the sequence. This is a maximum-length
substring containing only one type of character.
Input
The only input line contains a string of n characters.
Output
Print one integer: the length of the longest repetition.

Example
Input
ATTGCCCA
Output
3
Solution
To solve this task, the input string is taken, using the
variables 'ans' stores the response, 'count' counts the
repetitions and 'l' contains the character to compare. A loop
is used to go through each character in the string, if the
character is repeated, add the counter and replace 'ans'
with the maximum between 'count' and 'ans', otherwise 'l'
becomes the new character and the counter is reset.
The code for the solution written in Python is shown below.
1 s = input()
2 ans = 1
3 count = 0
4 l = 'A'
5 for cha in s:
6 if cha == l:
7 count += 1
8 if count > ans:
9 ans = count
10 else:
11 l = cha
12 count = 1
13 print(ans, end=' ')
Desktop Testing
Doing a desktop testing, it shows how each character of the
sequence is compared, each that is equal increases the
counter and the maximum between the response is verified,
when the values are not reset.
Exercise 7
Write a program that takes a number N (a positive integer)
in decimal notation from the console, and prints its value as
a roman numeral.
Input
The only input line has an integer n.
Output
Print the value as a roman numeral.

Example
Input
2021
Output
MMXXI
Solution
To solve this task, the predefined characters of the Roman
numerals are listed, separated by groups, from one to nine,
from ten to 90 and from 100 to 900, each one with the
number zero. It is checked if the quantity is greater than or
equal to 1000, if so, the symbol 'M' is added as many times
as thousands it contains. Then the hundreds are extracted
and replaced by their respective symbols, in the same way
the tens and units, printing the result at the end.
The code for the solution written in Python is shown below.
1 ten_zero = ['', 'I', 'II', 'III', 'IV', 'V', 'VI',
'VII', 'VIII', 'IX']
2 ten_one = ['', 'X', 'XX', 'XXX', 'XL', 'L', 'LX',
'LXX', 'LXXX', 'XC']
3 ten_two = ['', 'C', 'CC', 'CCC', 'CD', 'D', 'DC',
'DCC', 'DCCC', 'CM']
4
5 n = int(input())
6
7 r = ''
8 while n >= 1000:
9 r += 'M'
10 n -= 1000
11
12 c = n // 100
13 r += ten_two[c]
14 n -= c*100
15
16 d = n // 10
17 r += ten_one[d]
18 n -= d*10
19
20 r += ten_zero[n]
21
22 print(r)

Desktop Testing
Doing a desktop testing, it is shown how each thousand is
subtracted from the quantity and the symbol 'M' is added, in
the same way the hundreds, tens and units are extracted to
obtain the result.
Exercise 8
You are given an array of n integers. You want to modify the
array so that it is increasing. Every element is at least as
large as the previous element.
On each move, you may increase the value of any element
by one. Your task is find the minimum number of moves
required.
Input
The first input line contains an integer n, the size of the
array.
Then, the second line contains n integers, the contents of
the array.
Output
Print the minimum number of moves.

Example
Input
5
21415
Output
4
Solution
To solve this task, we must find the least amount of
movements necessary to increase the values of an array so
that the list increases. After reading the input data, the
variables 'mx' are initialized, the maximum and 'ans' are
stored with a value of zero, each one of the data in the
array is traversed, the maximum is searched and the value
of the number is subtracted, the result is saved in response.
This works because it is looking for if the number before the
current one is greater, it obtains the difference between
current and previous, in other words it obtains the increase
that is needed so that both values are equal.
The code for the solution written in Python is shown below.
1 n = int(input())
2 arr = map(int, input().split())
3 mx = 0
4 ans = 0
5
6 for x in arr:
7 mx = max(x, mx)
8 ans += mx - x
9
10 print(ans)
Desktop Testing
Doing a desktop testing, it is shown how the maximum value
is obtained, at the moment in which the value of x
decreases, it obtains the necessary value to be equal to the
previous one.
Exercise 9
A ‘beautiful’ permutation is a permutation of integers
1,2,…,n, if there are no adjacent elements whose difference
is 1.
Given n, construct a beautiful permutation if such a
permutation exists. If there are no solutions, print “NO
SOLUTION”
Input
The only input line contains an integer n.
Output
Print a beautiful permutation of integers 1,2,…,n. If there
are several solutions, you may print any of them. If there
are no solutions, print "NO SOLUTION".

Example
Input
5
Output
24135
Solution
To solve this task, the difference between elements is
required to be different than 1. When n is equal to 1, 1 is
printed, if it is less than 4 there is no solution, in all other
cases, it will be enough to print 2 by 2 starting at 2 up to
the value of n + 1 and in another cycle the same strategy
but starting at 1.
The code for the solution written in Python is shown below.
1 n = int(input())
2 if n == 1:
3 print(1, end=' ')
4 elif n < 4:
5 print('NO SOLUTION')
6
7 else:
8 for i in range(2, n+1, 2):
9 print(i, end=' ')
10
11 for i in range(1, n+1, 2):
12 print(i, end=' ')
Desktop Testing
Doing a desktop testing, it is easy to observe that it is only
enough to print numbers from 2 to 2 with different start, in
this way it ensures that the difference between the numbers
is not 1.
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And now I am going to tell you a short story about two of these poor
people, belonging to a class that from time immemorial has been
faithfully doing its part in the great work of universal civilization.
Alas! They have not yet reaped many of the benefits of this
progress. But it is not my intention here to paint in vivid colors the
unhappy fate of those pariahs of society who build our cathedrals
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on the part which this so-called fifth class may have to play in the
course of events—that I will leave to the sociologists. I wish to show
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meagre existence, with its terrible struggle for daily bread, goes on
unknown and unnoticed, and finally passes away in some obscure
corner without leaving a trace. I only wish to show you that in a
small way the world’s great tragedies repeat themselves everywhere.
The railway across the Semmering was finished. The cyclopean noise
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countless and restless crowds that had gathered here, coming from
distant Bohemia, from the lowlands of Moravia and Hungary, from
the stony Karst and sunny Friuli, had moved on toward the south to
continue their labors there. The wild animals that had been driven
back into the deep woods were returning, and, as if out of curiosity,
ventured upon the road which, still unused, was resting here like a
forgotten trace of human energy in the quiet peace of the mountain.
Only here and there, separated by a two hours’ walk, perhaps, stood
one of those large log cabins which the nomads of labor had once
inhabited in swarms, and then in many cases torn down again on
the eve of departure. In these parts were still living a number of
laborers who had either been left behind or had arrived later, in
order to put the finishing touches to the railway; for there were still
tracks to be laid, the space between the rails to be filled out with
crushed stone, telegraph poles to be erected, and the masonry work
on the small houses built for the watchmen to be completed,
although the graceful swallows, that perched all day in long rows on
the electric wires, had begun to build their nests under the eaves.
On the threshold of one of these log cabins—it stood at some
distance back from the tracks, supported against a steep, rocky wall
—sat a woman. She was barefooted, had a coarse, dark kerchief
over her head, and the face underneath looked worn and showed
that sallow complexion which constant work in the hot sun gives to a
naturally pale face. Her brow was deeply lined, and around the
mouth lay such a sad, forlorn expression that it made the woman
appear much older than her years, and served to accentuate the
immaturity of her form. The sun no longer stood high in the sky;
most of the mountain-tops and slopes were already in deep shadow.
But on the meadow in front of the house, and in the tree-tops along
the wooded slope at its side, there still sparkled the bright sunshine,
in which swarms of butterflies, bees, and dragon-flies played,
dancing over the gay flowers.
The lonely woman heeded none of all this grace and loveliness that
summer had spread before her; she never looked away from her
work of repairing the torn blouse of some one of the men. It was
hard work, for her rough, callous hands, which held the needle
rather awkwardly, had probably been used to only hoe and shovel.
Approaching footsteps roused her finally, and, looking up, she
noticed a man coming from the tracks toward the house; his
appearance was pitiable. Over his small, weak-looking body he wore
a much tattered soldier’s coat, which, far too long and wide, hung
loosely about him, while a torn blue foraging cap was drawn far
down over his face. He swayed in walking, although he held in his
hand a knotty stick, on which he leaned heavily at times; the small
knapsack that he carried strapped to his back was too empty to be
much of a burden. As he drew nearer, his tired, colorless eyes looked
shyly and embarrassed at the woman, who was watching him. “Is
this Cabin No. 7?” he asked in a somewhat uncertain voice.
“Yes, it is,” she answered, in that strange, harsh-sounding dialect
spoken in Southern Bohemia. “What do you want?”
“I have been sent here to work.” And he showed her a slip of paper
which he held in his hand. The woman was still looking with wonder
at his strange dress and at the face so miserably pale and emaciated
under the slight growth of beard. “The foreman is not at home,” she
said at last. “He has gone down the mountain to Schottwien to get a
drink of wine. Sit down here in the mean time, if you are tired.” And
with one more look at the worn figure, she hastily took up her
needle and thread again, suddenly remembering the work in which
he had interrupted her. The man said nothing, only dragged himself
a few steps farther, and then sat down on the grass with every
indication of complete exhaustion. There he lay, while the sun sank
lower and lower. Not a sound disturbed the peace; only high up in
the azure of the evening sky a vulture was circling, emitting a long,
drawn-out cry. Suddenly they heard in the distance the singing of
rough and coarse voices. The busy woman started: “Heavens, there
they are,” she said to herself, “and the blouse is not yet finished.”
Nearer and nearer came the singing, and before long there appeared
a crowd of wild-looking fellows; in their midst, better dressed than
the others, towered a man of Herculean size. He was probably fifty
years of age; his broad and bloated face showed the effects of
heavy drinking. Under the straw hat, which he had pushed far back,
his gray hair hung in tangles. He had taken off his coat and thrown it
over his left shoulder. In his right hand, that stretched, fat but
sinewy, out of the loose sleeve, he carried a large basket, filled with
provisions of all kinds. Two of the other men carried heavy sacks
with potatoes on their backs.
“Hello! Tertschka!” (Theresa) called out the man with the basket, in
a hoarse voice; “give us some light in the house, so that we can take
the provisions into the cellar.” But when he stood before her and
noticed the blouse she was holding in her trembling grasp, he added
harshly: “Well, is it finished?”
“Not quite,” she answered timidly.
“What? Not yet?” he shouted, and his face took on a bluish hue.
“Did I not tell you that I needed it to-morrow?”
“I have worked hard all the afternoon, but I can’t sew as fast as one
who has learned to do such work.”
The gentle yet firm tone in which she said these words seemed to
enrage him all the more. “You always find some excuse!” he cried.
“But I tell you, if I don’t have that blouse to-morrow morning
something will happen to you!” Putting his basket on the ground, he
made a movement toward the frightened woman as if he were going
to strike her. Just then he noticed the man in the soldier’s coat, who
was approaching timidly. “Who is that?” the furious man asked,
dropping the hand that had been raised to deal the blow.
“He has been sent here to work,” Tertschka said, breathing heavily.
The foreman, for he it was, planted himself with all the heaviness
and importance of his big bulk before the small man, looking him
over from head to foot. “To work? Why, the fellow can’t even stand
on his feet!”
“I have had a long tramp,” the other said. “I come from Ottertal.”
“That is something wonderful!” sneered the foreman, trying to read
in the dim light a slip of paper that was now passed to him by the
trembling hand. “Your name is Huber?” he asked after a while,
looking up again.
“Yes, George Huber.”
“How did you get that uniform?”
“I am a soldier on furlough.”
“What? You have served in the army?”
“Yes; seven years in the twelfth regiment. They sent me home now
because I can not get rid of the fever I caught during the siege of
Venice.”
“Oh, fever, too! Well, they take all kinds of people in the offices!
Most of them are cripples, to be used only as stone-crushers. Now,
remember,” he added, raising his fist in a threatening manner, “if you
don’t show me every evening two loads of crushed stone as a day’s
work, I will discharge you. This is not a hospital!” He took up the
basket and went into the house, followed by the others. There he
unlocked a heavy door plated all over with sheets of iron; it led into
a cave that had been blasted into the rock and was now used as a
cellar. While Tertschka held as a candle the piece of resinous pine
which she had taken from the big hearth and lighted, the provisions
were packed away. The foreman closed the door and retired behind
a partition; the others stretched themselves out on straw, chattering
among themselves, without noticing their new comrade.
George waited timidly at the entrance door; at last Tertschka went
up to him. “Go and sleep there,” she said, pointing to the straw.
He obeyed her, anxiously trying to occupy as little room as possible;
he put his knapsack under his head, used his coat as a cover, and
with a heavy sigh settled himself to sleep. Tertschka lighted a small
oil lamp and, crouching near the hearth, took up her sewing again.
At last she put the needle away and examined the blouse closely.
Satisfied with her completed task, she blew out the smoking lamp
and lay down near the hearth for the night, just as she was. Outside
the summer night was filling everything with fragrance, and down
through the opening in the roof the twinkling stars were shining into
the dark room, the stillness of which was broken only by the
breathing of the sleepers.
With the first signs of dawn, life began to stir in the house, and
George awakened. He watched the men leave their crude beds,
looking for the tools that had been left leaning against the wall; then
they left the house. He, too, had risen, put on his coat, and now
waited anxiously, not knowing what to do. Tertschka, carrying a
heavy hammer with a very long handle over her shoulder, said: “The
foreman is still asleep, but I know what your work is to be. Take that
other hammer, and, if you like, you may go with me.” Together they
went out into the open air. It was cool and still; now and then a bird
sang; the meadows glittered with dew. Silently the two walked to
the road, and then along the tracks to an old stone quarry; here
they found some of the men already at work, while others were busy
at the tracks with carts and shovels. Tertschka went up a little higher
with George until they reached a hollow. “This is my place,” she said,
sitting down on the ground in the midst of stones and gravel. “I do
not like to stay with the others; they are unruly and malicious. But
you may stay here, if you like.” Without answering, he sat down.
“You see, all these broken stones have to be crushed into small
pieces.” And, pointing to a pile of them, she added: “All that I have
done this week.” He pulled a large limestone toward him and dealt it
a blow with his hammer; the stone did not break. “Strike harder,”
said Tertschka; and she herself made the stones fly in all directions
by her blows. He looked at her in astonishment and tried his
strength once more. This time he had better success, so the two
were soon eagerly at work without speaking at all.
The view from the place where they sat was wonderful and
extensive, showing the gigantic heights and deep valleys of the
mountain range. Quite close to the tracks and on a level with the
road, the ruins of Castle Klamm could be seen, clinging to the rocks
like an eagle’s nest. Down below in the narrow valley lay the small
town of Schottwien with its red roofs. Behind towered the
Sonnwendstein, and at its foot, on green meadows and surrounded
by trees, stood the little church, called “Maria Schutz.” But those two
busy people had no glance for the exquisite picture; with heads bent
to the ground, they hammered and hammered incessantly, eagerly,
dully. The sun climbed higher and began to shine burning hot on
their heads. George’s blows grew weaker and weaker; at last he
dropped the hammer, took off his cap, and wiped his brow, on which
the perspiration stood in large drops. Tertschka stopped for a
moment, too, and looked at him kindly. “Are you tired already?” she
asked.
“God knows, I am,” he said, almost inaudibly; “the fever has
weakened me more than I thought.”
“But why did you come here, if you are so sick and faint?” she
asked.
“What else could I do? Go begging? Never! I did not learn a trade,
for my father and mother died when I was a small child; so I had to
mind the geese and later the cows in our village until I was eighteen
years old. None of the peasants ever hired me for work; I was not
strong enough. The recruiting officers thought differently; they took
me and put me into the white coat, saying: ‘He is good enough to
run along in the second rank.’ Then when I was sick and miserable
they sent me home. For a time the home parish took care of me.
Then they, too, sent me away to work—to crush stones up here.
Well, I do crush stones,” he concluded, and a bitter smile passed
over his face as he again took up the hammer.
She had listened quietly; and now very gently she said: “You can
never stand such work!”
“Perhaps I can, if I could only get something to eat. I have had bad
luck lately, and since yesterday morning I have not had a morsel to
eat.”
She did not answer immediately, but took out a piece of black rye
bread, which she had wrapped into her apron, broke it and gave him
the larger piece. “Eat that!” she said.
He looked at it. “But that is yours, and you need it,” he said, gently
declining it.
“Never mind! I have enough left for myself,” she answered.
And when he made no effort to take it, she laid it on the ground
close to him. “You must be thirsty, too,” she continued. “I will get
you a drink of water; there is a good spring a little higher up.” She
arose, picked up a broken jug that was lying between the stones,
and climbed to a place above the quarry, where some fir trees were
growing and a small stream of water trickled from under the moss.
She filled the jug, drank, filled it again, and returned. George had
not yet touched the bread, but accepted the water gladly and
gratefully.
“But now you must eat,” she urged him, sitting down again. “You
needn’t hesitate to take it from me.”
With rather a shamefaced manner he reached for the bread. “I
suppose you have gone through a great deal of suffering or you
wouldn’t be so kind,” he said, without looking at her, and, breaking
off a small piece of the bread, he began to eat.
“Indeed, I have. Even now I know often enough what it means to go
without food.”
He felt as if he could not swallow his piece of bread. “Even now?” he
asked after a while. “Do they pay so badly for work here?”
“I don’t receive any pay at all.”
“Why? What does that mean?”
“The foreman keeps my wages.”
“The foreman keeps your wages?”
“Yes, he is my stepfather.”
“Your stepfather?” he repeated, quite stupefied with astonishment.
“Yes; my own father met with an accident and died when I was very
young; he was killed by some falling timber and earth. After his
death my mother stayed with the foreman, who was at that time a
dike laborer like my own father; they were working together in
Bohemia.”
“Oh, you are from Bohemia? That is the reason you speak with a
different accent and have such a strange name! Ter— I can not
pronounce it.”
“Tertschka,” she said. “It means ‘Therese,’ in German.”
“Here in Austria they would call you Resi. But,” he continued, “if your
stepfather takes your wages, he must at least give you enough to
eat.”
“Just enough to keep me from starving. You have no idea how stingy
he is. He himself lives well; scarcely a day passes without his
drinking too much; but to others he would not give even a drop of
water unless they paid him for it; he could see them all starve first
before he would voluntarily give them a bite to eat. So I have to
content myself with the leavings, while he keeps my wages and also
the forty florins[3] which my mother left to me. And that is not the
worst. He is brutal and malicious and beats me cruelly quite often.
You saw yourself yesterday how he lost his temper on account of the
blouse I was mending for him.”
“Yes, I did see it.”
“My poor mother he treated in the same way. I firmly believe she
sickened and finally died of consumption brought on in consequence
of a violent blow he dealt her on the chest when he came home
intoxicated and in a bad temper.”
She was silent for a while, lost in all these sad memories. Finally
George said: “If your stepfather treats you so badly, why do you stay
with him?”
“Because I know he would never let me go away,” she answered.
“He needs this poor, helpless creature whom he can torture at will.
With all his brutality and violent temper, he is, after all, just a
coward. And besides—where should I go?” she added with a deep
sigh. She took up the hammer again; George, now a little stronger,
reached for his, too, and soon they were both hard at work.
Hour after hour passed; the burning heat of midday lay oppressively
over mountains and valleys; not a sign of life anywhere, save the
monotonous click of the hammers and now and then the call of a
woodpecker and the rough singing of the men working along the
tracks.
Suddenly there came the shrill sound of a bell.
“What is that?” asked George, noticing that the laborers had laid
down their tools and were walking toward the house.
“The foreman rang the bell; it is meal-time.”
“Is it time to eat?” he asked, with a faint voice. “What do you get
here?”
“Buckwheat gruel and potatoes. To-day probably some roast pork,
too; they brought some meat up yesterday.”
“It is very long since I tasted meat the last time,” he said
thoughtfully. “Who is doing the cooking here, tell me?”
“The foreman; he does not trust any one else. Besides, he likes to
do it. This work up here he cares very little about and lets it all drift.
Once in a while he goes about and inspects, never without scolding
and cursing, especially those who have not the courage to answer
back. And now I will give you a piece of advice: do not eat any meat
to-day. You are still suffering from the fever, and it might hurt you.
For you must know that man has no conscience whatever and often
buys bad meat from the butcher at Schottwien. He pays very little
for it and sells it here at a high price, for the railway officers have
given him the sole right to deal in provisions, and every one here is
compelled to buy from him all that is necessary; so he makes a great
deal of money.”
“Well, there is no danger of my buying any meat,” said George
bitterly. “I have no money.”
“Oh, he would be glad enough to give you credit until Sunday, when
the wages are paid. But woe to you if you owe him money! He will
not only charge you double for everything you take, but he will force
you to drink and gamble with him until you are altogether at his
mercy. You will never see one penny of your own money and will be
forever in his power!”
George grew frightened as he listened to her. “But how can I
manage to live until Sunday?” he said, crestfallen. “To-day is only
Wednesday, and if I am not to take anything on credit I shall have to
starve.”
For some minutes she busied herself with the hem of her skirt,
ripping out a part of the seam. At last she took out a crumpled
paper, which she unfolded carefully; it was one of those notes of low
denomination that circulated in Austria at that time and answered
the purpose of coin; they were called “quarters.” She passed this to
George. “Take it,” she said; “that is enough until Sunday, if you are
careful. You can return it to me little by little, taking it from your
wages every week.”
He looked at the tattered paper in her hand, speechless with
emotion. Surprise, joy, embarrassment, one after the other were
reflected in his face.
“It is all that I have,” she continued with simple confidence. “The
engineer gave it to me when he was here last month. He had
forgotten one of his instruments he had left at another station, and I
had to get it for him. Really, it would please me very much if you
would take the money. I am in constant fear of losing it; that is why
I sewed it into my skirt. If the foreman knew of it he would have
taken it long ago.” She put it into his hand, adding: “And now let us
go to dinner. Don’t forget what I told you about the meat. The flour
is often musty, too; but there will be good potatoes at least; they
brought some yesterday. And in the evening you might allow
yourself a glass of gin; that will do you good.” He got up and
followed her silently; but for a few steps he stood still, looked
earnestly into her gentle, brown eyes, and said with trembling voice:
“How can I ever thank you enough, Tertschka? No one has ever
been as kind and good to me as you are.”
“Oh, don’t speak of it,” she answered; “we ought to help one
another in this world. And, besides, you would do the same for me, I
know. You are kind, too; I saw it in your face when you came to the
house yesterday.” By this time they had reached the house. Inside
they found the others, most of them eating from broken dishes. The
foreman, with sleeves turned up and a big apron tied in front, stood
by the stove, ready to carve a large piece of roast beef. Poor George
heaved an involuntary sigh when he smelt the savory odor of the
roast. All the men looked greedily at it, and each one in turn
received a large piece, which he ate with his hand. Some of them
paid in coin, but only a very few; the others bought on credit, the
foreman keeping an account in a little book. George approached the
man, holding a dish that Tertschka had given him. At first the
foreman did not recognize him, but soon he remembered: “Oh, there
is the little man who came yesterday!” he cried. “Well, have you
done any work?”
“Yes, I have crushed stones!”
“And now you want something to eat, I see. What shall I give you?”
“I would like some porridge and potatoes.”
The foreman filled his plate and took the money that George gave
him. “Of course, you want a piece of meat, too?” he said.
It was a great temptation to the poor man, but he remembered
Tertschka’s advice, and only said:
“No, I do not care for meat.”
“Oh, you are a niggard! You look starved; you ought to be glad to
get something decent to eat.”
“He has the fever,” said Tertschka; “the fat meat might hurt him;” for
she felt that George’s willpower needed support to withstand the
other man’s gruff importunity.
“Hold your tongue!” he shouted. “How do you know what is good or
bad for him! Don’t you interfere; this is none of your business!” And
turning to George, he asked again: “Well, do you want some meat or
not?”
The words sounded like a command, not to refuse the tempting
dish, but the man, shy as he was, took all the courage he could
summon, and answered: “She is right; I ought not to eat any meat.”
“Well, then, don’t!” the other hissed, throwing the knife aside. “I’m
not going to beg you to take it!” As George remained standing, he
asked: “What else do you want?”
“My change,” the other stammered.
“Oh, yes, yes!” the foreman shouted. “Do you think I am going to
keep your miserable pennies?” He threw him some copper coins and
turned away scornfully. The money scattered in every direction
about the room. George, with one hand occupied in holding the dish
with food in it, had some trouble in picking up his change with the
other. When finally he sat down in the corner to eat, his meagre fare
had grown quite cold. He noticed that the foreman was pouring gin
from a large green bottle into a small glass, then filling it again for
the next man until nearly all had had their turn. George consoled
himself with the thought of the treat in the evening, as Tertschka
had advised. The girl too had received her dinner, meagre as it was,
and now, at her stepfather’s command, began to wash and scrub the
cooking utensils. The workmen had already left the house and were
seeking the shade outside, to stretch their tired bodies and have a
short nap. The foreman now began to make preparations for his own
meal; he took a small pan from the stove and put it on the table,
with plate, knife, and fork; to these were added a bottle of wine and
a glass. Then he sat down lazily, lifted a nice, fat chicken from the
pan, and began to eat. All at once he noticed George, who was still
sitting in the corner, with the empty dish between his knees,
considering how he might manage to help Tertschka with her work,
for secret fear of the brutal man before him made him hesitate.
“What are you sitting there for, staring at me?” he heard him shout.
“Leave the room as quick as you can! I don’t want any spies here, to
watch every mouthful I eat!”
George went out and lay down in the sun, all the shade being
occupied by the others. After a while the bell sounded for work
again; the foreman went into his room to rest. The men stretched
and yawned and went very leisurely to work, some of them, indeed,
not getting up at all, but turning over again for another nap. George
and Tertschka went quietly to the quarry, and labored hard and
faithfully until evening. During the days following they always
worked together. George seemed to improve rapidly; he had enough
to eat, and the invigorating air of this high altitude had a very lively
effect upon his body, so worn out by fever. He swung the hammer
quite vigorously now, and related to his companion his varied
adventures during years of service in the army. They were by no
means gay adventures, such as might happen in the life of a soldier
of spirit; for, unfortunately, his shy and hangdog manner had caused
him a great deal of trouble, so that he had seen only the dark side
of a profession in which so many others find pleasure and
excitement. He told her of his sufferings at the time he was a raw
recruit, and when the tyranny of the corporal made life not worth
living; of long nights of picket duty in snow and ice, of tiresome
marches, followed by camping in rain and storm, and then—most
interesting of all—of the time during the siege of Venice, when he
stood with his regiment before Fort Malghera, where so many
hundreds of them had died of typhoid and cholera. Tertschka
listened attentively, although she understood only half of what he
told her. It was all so far removed from her own life that she could
not even picture any of it to herself. How could she imagine a city
built in the water! Even the word “ocean” meant nothing more to her
than did a vague, far-away cloud. Yet instinctively she felt that
George’s life had been full of trouble, and in turn she told him all
that she remembered of the sadness and misery in her own dull and
monotonous existence. So they consoled each other, and were glad
that they could go to work every morning together, and spend the
long sunny days in the quiet quarry. Often they missed the call of
the dinner-bell, or were startled by it, vexed because it compelled
them to leave a solitude that had become so dear to them, and go
down and mix with the rowdy men at the house.
But the time was not long during which these two were being drawn
closer and closer together by their poverty, as others are by joy and
pleasure and exuberance of life. Whether the foreman received
information concerning them from some malevolent person or
perhaps guessed at the state of affairs with the instinct of a bad
heart, matters not; at any rate, one day he suddenly surprised them.
“What are you doing here all by yourselves?” he cried. “Away with
you to your comrades, you poor thing, where you belong!” With a
gesture of command, he pointed toward the lower part of the
quarry. George, dumb with fright, obeyed.
“And you, you spiteful creature,” turning to Tertschka, “it seems to
me you are too warm a friend of that cripple there? Just wait, I will
cure you! If I see you together again, he shall be discharged and
you shall not see daylight for many a day.”
So they were separated, rudely and suddenly. After that George was
made to work on the tracks, and when he and Tertschka met in the
house at noon or at sundown, they did not dare even to look at each
other, far less exchange words. For the foreman observed them
closely, and the others, too, seemed to take a kind of malicious
pleasure in watching them.
One evening—it was a Saturday—the foreman and some of his
companions had gone to an inn in one of the villages not far away;
the other men had settled down to a game of cards, as usual, after
receiving their weekly wages. As the noise and excitement grew
louder and boisterous, George took courage to approach Tertschka,
who was sitting on an old wooden box in her accustomed corner, her
face buried in her hands.
“Tertschka,” he said softly, taking a small, leather bag from his
pocket, “here is the rest of the money that I owe you.” And he put
some kreutzers[4] into her lap.
“Oh, never mind,” she answered; “you had better keep it, you may
need it.”
“What for?” he asked, disappointed. “All pleasure is gone for me
since I can not work with you any more.”
“Yes, I feel the same,” she answered.
After a while he began again: “I wonder why he separated us? It
must be a matter of utter indifference to him whether we sit
together or not, as long as we do our work well.” She was silent. At
last she said:
“He is a bad man, and can not bear to see any one else having a
good time. He never allows one to go to church, yet he knows I can
pray only when I am kneeling before the altar. How often he has
scolded my mother because she wouldn’t for anything miss going to
church on Sunday, and always took me with her; he, indeed, knows
no God or religion. But to-morrow I shall go to Schottwien, no
matter what he says or does; I don’t wish to become quite heathen
among all these drunkards and gamblers.”
She arose, opened the box on which she had been sitting, took out a
woolen jacket, a calico skirt, and a pair of heavy shoes; also a faded,
red kerchief and an old rosary with a cross of brass on it. All these
things she laid carefully over the contents of the box, and closed the
cover again.
George watched her. “I, too, have not been to church for a long
time,” he said. “Wouldn’t it be fine if I could go with you to-
morrow?”
“Yes, but it’s impossible.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” he answered. “The foreman need
not know of it. We might leave here, each alone on a different road,
and then meet down in the valley.”
She considered the plan. “You are right, it can be done. But you
must start long before me. Close to the house, on the left side, is a
narrow path, almost hidden under the trees, that leads directly down
into the valley. When you come to the wooden cross on the wayside,
wait for me there. But you had better leave me now,” she added,
becoming anxious; “the others may notice our talking together.”
He went back, threw himself on the straw, and fell asleep in the
midst of the noisy quarreling of the gamblers.
The next morning, when George descended along the path of which
Tertschka had told him, the world was full of bright sunshine. He
looked eagerly ahead to find the cross in the valley, where they were
to meet, and soon he saw it, toppling over and half rotten,
surrounded by a few pine saplings. When he reached the spot he sat
down on a moss-grown rock, which was lying in front of the cross,
forming a natural praying-stool. The deep quiet of the Sabbath
rested over everything; even the bees did not seem to be humming
exactly as they flew over the dark-blue gentians that grew here in
plenty. George felt himself listening to something, he knew not what,
but it seemed like a solemn, yet gentle, ringing of bells, high above
him in the air. But soon he became impatient. He walked about,
picking gentians and other flowers, yellow and white, and thought as
he looked at the nosegay in his hand: “I will give these to Tertschka
when she comes.” Finally he plucked some ferns and put them into
his cap, where they waved like feathers. Now he saw a dress
fluttering in the wind on top of the hill, and quickly he ran to meet
her.
“Here I am,” she said, a little out of breath. “I got away more easily
than I expected.”
George looked at her. She was without the kerchief which she always
wore over her head; her hair was parted simply and braided, and the
red of her neckerchief shed a soft glow over her face. The dark
jacket, somewhat broad, and the light skirt, both looked well on her.
“How nice you look,” he said slowly. She blushed. “All these things
belonged to my mother,” she told him, stroking the stiff skirt, that it
might fall a little more gracefully. “I wear them so seldom, that is
why they keep so well.”
“Here are some flowers that I picked for you,” said George. She took
the bouquet which he had been hiding behind his back, and was
about to pin it to her jacket, but it was too large, so she carried it in
her hand, around which she had wound the rosary. Then they
walked on through green meadows and fields, where the grain had
been cut and shocked, until they came to Schottwien. Here there
was great excitement; it was kermess (a sort of church fair), and the
street was filled with vehicles and people in holiday attire. Booths
had been built near the church, where all kinds of things were
displayed for sale: kerchiefs and pipes, knives and beads of glass or
wax, cooking utensils, gingerbread, and toys for the children. George
and Tertschka looked admiringly at all these fine things, and George
felt tempted to buy a pipe. He had smoked when he was a soldier;
later, during his illness, he had to give it up, but now he thought,
since he was earning his bread again, and neither drank nor
gambled, he could allow himself the luxury.
Tertschka encouraged him when he told her of it, adding that she
would go on while he made his purchase. “In the village church,” she
said, “there are too many people, but about half an hour farther on
is a lonely little church, where I have been before, and wish to go
again to-day.” She referred to the church called “Maria Schutz,” at
the foot of the Sonnwendstein.
George made his way through groups of hagglers and onlookers,
and succeeded in buying a neat little pipe, with a porcelain bowl with
gay tassels hanging from it. Suddenly a glittering ornament of yellow
glass beads attracted his attention; he could not help thinking how
nice it would look around Tertschka’s neck. As the price was not too
high, he bought it and put it into his pocket after wrapping it
carefully in paper. With the few kreutzers left from his florin he
bought a large heart of gingerbread, and some tobacco, and then,
happy with all his treasures, he hastened after Tertschka. He showed
her first the pipe, which she duly admired. Then he gave her the
gingerbread heart; it had a picture on it of another small heart,
pierced by an arrow, the whole surrounded by a wreath of flowers.
“That is for you!” he said. She looked at it quietly, thanked him, and
with a pleased smile put it between the bouquet and the rosary. “I
have something else for you,” he continued, drawing the little parcel
from his pocket, and showing her the glittering beads. “Oh, how can
you spend so much money for me!” she exclaimed, but her face
beamed with happy surprise and joy. “I should like to spend
everything I have for you,” he said with fervor. “Please put it on
now; it will be so becoming to you!” She pushed everything that she
was carrying into his hands and then tried to fasten the ornament
around her neck, but did not succeed very well. “Let me do it,” he
said, and giving everything back to her again he stepped behind her,
gently pushed away her braids, and fastened the clasp. “So, that is
done!” With a happy smile he looked at her. Then they walked on,
and soon reached the little chapel almost hidden under some fine,
old linden trees. Here were only a few people worshiping; an old
priest was officiating; he read mass in a rather indifferent manner.
Tertschka knelt down in one of the last rows of seats, set her flowers
and the gingerbread heart in front of her, and then folded her hands
in prayer. George remained standing behind her. A strange feeling
crept into his heart while in this quiet place, filled with a soft light
that fell through the high arched windows; he heard the murmuring
of the priest, the bell of the sacristan; his heart bowed in worship,
but he could not say a prayer; he only looked steadily at Tertschka,
whose lips were moving. The service was short; the priest spoke the
blessing, and the worshipers left. Only Tertschka did not move; the
sexton grew impatient and jingled his keys; at last she rose, crossed
herself, and went to the door, followed by George. Golden sunlight
greeted them outdoors, and not far from the chapel a prosperous-
looking inn, with a great bunch of fir branches over the door,
seemed very inviting. “Are you going home directly,” asked George
as Tertschka was turning toward Schottwien again.
“Well, where else could we go?” she answered.
“Over there into the inn. I think we might allow ourselves a treat to-
day, Tertschka. Who knows when we may have such a chance
again!”
“Well, if you wish it! Only the foreman will bully when I return so
late. But you are right, we may never again go out together.”
They walked toward the inn. In front of it, on a small knoll, stood an
old beech tree, spreading its gigantic branches over a number of
roughly hewn tables and benches. No one was sitting there at the
time; everything was quiet; but in the house they seemed very busy.
At last the landlord appeared, in snowy-white shirt sleeves, a small
velvet cap on his head. He glanced at his rather odd-looking guests;
but at George’s order he brought a large glass of wine, bread, and
meat, put it on the table where they were sitting, asked for his
money, and then hurried back into the house. George pushed the
plate toward Tertschka, who cut the meat into small pieces; then
they divided the bread and began to eat, Tertschka using the knife,
George the fork, for they had been served with one set only. The
wine, too, they drank in turns out of the same glass. When they had
finished eating, George lighted his pipe and contentedly watched the
blue ringlets of smoke as they curled into the sunny air.
“Now, Tertschka,” he said at last, “we never dreamed yesterday
morning that so much pleasure was in store for us; did we?”
“No,” she answered, “I never expected that!”
It was almost noontime. Suddenly there came the sound of horns
and clarinets from the distance. The innkeeper came rushing out of
the house, and called to the servants: “Hurry up, the bridal party is
coming, and we have not yet set the tables.” His orders were carried
out instantly, and but just in time, for the procession was already in
sight, preceded by a noisy crowd of boys and youths from the
village. The musicians marched at the head, then followed the bride
and groom, and behind them came all the relatives and other invited
guests, and, of course, a large crowd of curious onlookers. In a
moment the tables were all occupied, and soon eating, drinking, and
making merry were in full swing, while the musicians played with
great spirit. With what strange sensations the two watched all this
gaiety. At first it was the crowd that excited their curiosity, but
afterward Tertschka gave all her attention to the bride. She was very
handsome, indeed; probably the daughter of a rich peasant. She
wore a tight-fitting bodice of black velvet, that showed off her fine
figure to great advantage; a chain of pure gold was wound five or
six times about her neck, and the myrtle wreath in her blond hair,
that fell in two heavy braids over her back, looked like a crown over
her proud and rather stern face. The groom was very good looking
too; quite contrary to the usual fashion among peasants, he wore a
slight mustache, while his green felt hat, ornamented with chamois-
beard and eagle’s down, aroused George’s envy. After a time,
however, George and Tertschka began to feel oppressed with a
sense of loneliness among all these gay people, many of whom
looked askance at them, as if to ask: “What business have you
here?” Finally Tertschka turned to George: “Let us go away; we don’t
belong here! Come, let us sit down near the edge of the woods; we
can see everything from there, and listen to the music too!” They
went toward the dark pine woods that covered the hill on the other
side of a sunny meadow; there they sat down on the slope and
listened to the cheerful sound of the music, that drifted across the
fields to them in subdued strains. Suddenly it stopped; they saw the
people rising from their seats to form a half-circle; then the violins
began again. “Oh, the bride and groom are dancing alone,” cried
Tertschka. And so it was. In measured time, circling gracefully, the
two slender figures danced on the greensward.
“How happy they seem!” Tertschka continued, unconsciously leaning
on George’s shoulder. “Just look at them!”
“Yes, they are happy people,” he answered dreamily, but without
looking toward them. “When will our wedding day come, Tertschka?”
“Oh, George!” she said faintly, and stooped to pick a red flower that
was growing near her.
“Resi”—it was the first time he called her so—“Resi, if you only knew
how I love you!” and, shy and trembling, he put his arm around her.
She did not answer, but in her eyes, as she looked at him, there lay
a world of happiness. Fast and furious came the sound of music
from the inn, and the bridal couple, intoxicated by the strains and by
the shouting and clapping all about them, were dancing themselves
into a delirium. George drew the girl to his heart, and their lips met
in one long, passionate kiss.
My intention is to tell you this simple story just as it happened. Shall
I try to describe the bliss that had come into the life of those two
people? I would rather not attempt it. However, they had to conceal
their new-found happiness as if it were a sin; yet it glowed in their
souls all the warmer for that. With a humility inborn and constantly
developed by their hard life they were content to greet each other
with a stolen smile or press their hands in secret whenever they met
in the morning, at noon, and in the evening. It seemed almost as if
the foreman had relaxed his watchfulness, and they soon began to
lose all fear of discovery, or even of his suspecting their walk to
Schottwien. Sometimes as George came from the tracks to the
quarry with his wheelbarrow to get the crushed stones, he would
even dare to run up to Tertschka for a moment, and then the lovers
forgot the world in a quick embrace and a kiss. One morning he had
greeted her in this way when they suddenly heard a footstep quite
close to them, and turning quickly in terror they saw the foreman
standing there, his face distorted with fury.
“At last you are caught, you thieves!” he yelled. “Is that the way to
obey me? You thought I did not notice what was going on, but I tell
you I knew all the time of your doings last Sunday, and only waited
to catch you in the act! I shall make you pay for all this!” And he
seized George by the back of the neck, and with brutal force swung
him to the ground some distance away, where he fell among the
stones. “Take your stones down, you jailbird, then pack your
belongings and go! If you dare come near me again, I will beat you
till I break every bone in your body!” With these words he ran
shoving the man, already stunned from the fall, headlong down the
hill; then he went back to Tertschka, and stared at her a long time
with fury and malice in his eyes. At last he hissed: “You miserable
wretch, you; I shall talk to you later!” and, muttering to himself,
went away.
Dazed, almost unconscious, George picked himself up and went on
to his place of work; mechanically he emptied the wheelbarrow;
then he sat down on a stone and stared into space, unable to think.
The clouds that had covered the sky early in the morning had
become darker and heavier; a cold autumn wind blew through the
trees and a penetrating rain began to fall. George did not feel the
drops that beat into his face; sparks of fire danced before his eyes
and hot and cold shudders shook him from head to foot. Gradually a
realization of the insult to himself mingled with the burning sense of
the injustice that was being done to both him and Tertschka. He was
to be driven away from one who belonged to him by right of sacred
bond! who had a right to do that? No one! And the longer he
thought of it, the more his timid, long suffering heart rebelled, and a
wonderful strength, a holy courage, began to kindle in him, ready to
face and fight any power on earth that dared to take his loved one
from him. His insignificant features took on an expression of firm
resolve, and his eyes shone with a strange fire. At last he arose and
walked up to the place where he knew he would find Tertschka; the
others looked at him in wonder. The girl sat and wept. “Do not cry,
Resi,” he said; and there was a new and strong ring in his voice.
She did not answer. He gently lifted her head, but she only began to
weep the more passionately.
“Do not cry,” he repeated, “It had to be, I suppose. But it is all right,
and we know now what to do.”
She looked straight before her.
“He has sent me away—and you will go with me!”
She did not seem to hear him.
“Down there, somewhere in Carniola, they are building a railway; we
can easily find work there.”
She shook her head slowly.
“You won’t, Resi? And see, one more thing. I have been told that
soldiers who have served their time and have gone through the war
may claim a position as watchman on a railway track. I shall send in
a petition, and perhaps if I succeed we shall have one of those little
houses by the tracks and live in it as husband and wife. And even if
that should fail,” he added quickly—for she had not yet given a sign
of consent, only kept on weeping more than ever—“well, then, we
shall have to submit and work hard for a few years and save as
much as possible. But just say one word, Resi!”
“Oh,” she moaned, “what you say is all beautiful and right, but you
forget that the man will never let me go!”
“He must let you go. You are no longer a child. You don’t belong to
him. You are a laborer here, like all the rest of them, and can go
when and wherever you please!”
“Believe me, George, he will not let me go; never, and certainly not
with you. I have not spoken about it before”—the red blood colored
her face deeply—“but I must tell you now. Even when my mother
was still living, he pursued me with his hateful caresses; I
threatened to tell my mother, and he kept away for a time. But last
summer he left the others at the inn one evening and came home
alone; he tried to make love to me and promised to marry me. But I
told him what I thought of him, and now he hates me and tries to
get his revenge wherever he can.”
George grew pale to the lips and the breath struggled in his breast.
“The scoundrel!” he panted. “And to think of your staying here with
him! Never! You go with me, and I would like to know how he can
prevent it!”
“George, beware of him! He is capable of murdering any one weaker
than himself!”
“I am not afraid of him.” And George drew up his slight figure until
he looked like a different man. “He attacked me from behind and
unawares; but now I shall be on my guard. Let us go to him, and
quietly and firmly tell him of our resolution. You will see how he
gives in; for, wicked as he may be, he must see that he has neither
right nor power to keep you.”
She wrung her hands in despair.
“Resi, take courage!” he said very earnestly. “Will you let me go
alone?” She flew to him and clasped her hands around his neck.
“Well, then”—and he gently stroked her hair—“let us go!” Together
they slowly walked toward the house; she with a heart full of
anguish and fear of what she knew was about to happen; he full of
confidence and indomitable courage. As they crossed the threshold,
they saw the foreman sitting at the table peeling potatoes. He
looked almost startled, seeing them enter together, but soon his
surprise changed to anger and fury.
“What do you want here, you two?” he cried, half rising and
grasping the knife firmly, as if for battle.
“You discharged me,” George answered coolly, “and I am come to
get my things and to tell you that Tertschka goes with me.”
The foreman made a motion as if to throw himself upon George, but
involuntarily drew back again before the quiet, determined face of
the latter.
“I have nothing to say to such talk,” he growled.
“You need not say anything,” said George. “Tertschka is free to come
and go as she pleases.” The foreman laughed. George continued:
“Now take what belongs to you, Resi,” and, turning to look for his
own knapsack, “then let us go.”
The heart of the other man labored heavily. For a moment he
evidently did not know what to do. Irresolutely he looked at
Tertschka, who could not conceal her fear, then quick as a flash as
she was going toward her trunk he rushed at her and pushed her
down into the cellar through the half-open door. He locked it and put
the key into his pocket. “There, that is my answer,” he stuttered,
trembling all over with excitement, while he sat down at the table
again, pretending to go on with his work.
This had all happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, that George did
not have time to prevent it. But he controlled himself at once, and
without a sign of haste, strapping the knapsack to his back, he
walked leisurely toward the table where the man sat. “Let Tertschka
out of the cellar!”
The hands of the foreman shook. And as George repeated his
demand for the third time, vehemently, the man sprang up and
clenched his fist. “Go at once—go!” he cried, “or—”
“Or what?” asked George calmly. “I am not afraid of you, though you
are stronger than I am. It was easy enough to knock me down
before, for I was then as defenseless as Tertschka is now, but now
we stand face to face.”
The man’s color grew livid; hate, revengefulness, cowardice,
struggled in his face. His fury almost choked him, and his hands
shook as he stretched them out to seize something, he knew not
what. George noticed all this, and his courage grew in consequence.
“I advise you to give up freely what is mine,” he said, “or I will take
it by force.”
At that moment some of the men entered; it was almost noon.
Instinct had probably told them that something unusual was going
on, and they did not wish to miss it. Their presence had a
stimulating effect upon the furious man; he felt safer, and his
cowardice, of which he was well aware, now grew to temerity, by
reason of this very fear of detection.
“Did you hear that?” he cried, addressing the men; “this miserable
fellow dares to threaten me because I locked Tertschka in so that
she could not run away with him.”
“Don’t insult us,” cried George, whose blood was mounting in spite
of himself. “We are two honest people. You have no right to lock up
Tertschka!”
“What? I have no right? Why, the girl was brought up by me!”
“God have pity on her if she was brought up by you! I shall say no
more; I will spare you before all these people!” And with that he
pointed toward the men, who were watching the growing quarrel
with a kind of dull pleasure.
“Listen to the dog! He will spare me, will he! Seize him and throw
him out!” The men looked at each other irresolutely, but they did not
move. Behind the cellar door there was an audible moaning.
“Do you see?” continued George with rising excitement, “no one
thinks of laying hands on me. For the last time I tell you, set
Tertschka free—or I will take the hammer to it.”
“Out, you thief! or I will send for the police!”
“Let them come,” cried George, in a passion. “Then we shall see who
is in the right. They will find out why you locked Tertschka in; how
you maltreated the poor girl for years, made her life miserable with
your shameful proposals, and took away her hard-earned wages as
well as the money her mother left to her—to say nothing of that
poor woman’s death, which is on your conscience, too! And they will
also discover how you treat the poor, defenseless workmen here,
how you grow fat on the sweat and blood of their labor—!” George
stopped. The weight and truth of these accusations filled the
foreman’s cup to overflowing, and he completely lost all self-control.
His face took on the color of death, foam stood on his lips, his eyes
started almost out of his head, and with a cry that might have come
from a wounded steer he threw himself upon George with knife
swinging in air. The latter had seized the hammer, and now brought
it down with a thud upon the other’s breast. The foreman swayed
and fell moaning to the ground, the dark blood streaming from his
mouth. For a moment there was silence; a mute, desolate horror
held all present. George stood there like David by the body of
Goliath.
“Resi, Resi!” he called suddenly, breaking open the cellar door with a
few sharp blows. “You are free!”
“Jesu Maria!” she cried, hastening out and beating her hands
together as she gazed at the dead man. “He is dead! Oh, George!
George! They will take you to prison now and convict you for
murder!”
“Let them; I will answer them. These people here will bear me
witness that he attacked me with a knife. Go down,” addressing the
men, “and tell them that the laborer George Huber has killed the
foreman.”
It was some time before any one could make up his mind to go.
George sat down with Tertschka in front of the house; she wept
constantly. Sometimes he gently stroked her face. At last two
gentlemen from the railway offices appeared and a policeman. “We
will have to give him up to the authorities,” said the policeman. “He
is a soldier on furlough.”
The policeman tried to comfort poor, heartbroken Tertschka, telling
her that the affair would not look very black for the prisoner if the
facts were reported correctly. He even allowed her to sit at his side
in the post-chaise in which they were to take George to Wiener-
Neustadt. So they rode out into the night, while the rain fell in
torrents, and the dead man, whom they had left behind, was taken
to his last resting-place.
A military prison is a prison just like any other, with the exception
that those who find themselves in it carry old, tattered uniforms on
their backs. One finds there soldiers of every rank and color, and as
these all feel themselves members of one profession, so more peace
and harmony rules among them than is apt to be the case
elsewhere, especially since the maintenance of the various
differences in rank results in a certain kind of order and discipline.
However, a prison is, and always will be, a sad, gloomy place, and it
is not to be wondered at that George did not feel easy at heart when
he arrived there on that dark night. A cross-looking turnkey had
locked him into a room already overcrowded and in complete
darkness. There was no straw mattress ready for him, so he
stretched himself out on the bare wooden floor. All about him were
men sleeping, but he could not sleep. During the long, sad drive
from the station his buoyant courage had begun to fail, and now
doubt and worry crept into his heart. And when the morning
dawned, and its pale light fell on the bare, dirty walls and
unpleasant faces of his fellow prisoners, the seriousness of his
situation oppressed him more and more. Not that he feared so much
the result of his deed—he did not repent, he had been attacked and
had only defended his life—but he saw the dead man before him,
saw him lying in his blood, pale and stiff; and his warm heart, so full
of sympathy for others, felt pity even for that man, and regretted
sorely that all this had to come about. Unfortunately days and weeks
passed without a summons to the court-room, without any indication
of an investigation or trial. Added to this worry about his own future
was a great anxiety with regard to Tertschka, of whose fate he knew
nothing whatever, and whose companionship he missed sadly.
Through the efforts of the honest policeman the poor girl had found
lodgings and even work among the masons on some new building.
No one who saw her carrying buckets filled with brick or mortar
would have guessed that her heart was nearly breaking with sorrow
and grief. In the evening, when work was finished, or on Sundays
and holidays, she wandered about that part of the barracks where
the prison stood, and looked up to the barred and shuttered
windows, trying to catch a glimpse of George’s face somewhere.
Several times she had been scolded by a sentry and driven away. In
her distress she finally appealed to the guard at the gate, and
begged him to tell her where George Huber was; she wanted to
speak to him. They only laughed and jeered at her. One day an
amiable-looking non-commissioned officer took pity on her and
promised to find out where the prisoner was lodged and tell him of
her wish. She herself was not allowed to speak to him without
permission from the judge-advocate. It would be well for her to see
that gentleman, but she must do so early in the morning; during the
day he could never be found at home. The very next Sunday, then,
Tertschka dressed herself in her woolen jacket and calico skirt and
went early in the morning to the judge-advocate’s house, which the
officer had pointed out to her. She had to wait in the hall a long
time, for the gentleman was still asleep, so she was told. At last he
came from his room, dressed to go out, and asked hurriedly what
she wished. He scarcely listened to what she had to say, told her
that permission to see prisoners could be given only in very rare
cases; but she need not worry, the whole affair would soon come to
a close. She went away without much comfort. Again week after
week went by and no progress in poor George’s affair. To tell the
truth, the judge was a gay young man, more interested in the
beautiful ladies of the town than in his legal documents, and
anything that concerned soldiers on furlough he particularly liked to
put off as long as possible. Tertschka’s heart filled with ever-
increasing anxiety; she spoke again to the amiable man who had
advised her before. He considered there was nothing left for her to
do but to see the Colonel of the barracks. To be sure, he was a very
grave, stern man, yet he was always ready to help others. She
decided to follow the officer’s advice again, and went to see the
commandant. There, too, she had to wait a long time, yet not in the
hall, but in a warm room. As it was a cold winter’s day, she felt
grateful for this. In the next room she heard the click of sabres;
some officers then stepped out and went away, looking somewhat
depressed, as she thought. After a while the door opened again. A
fine-looking man with a slightly gray mustache looked out, and
asked in a gruff tone what she wanted. She was frightened and
began to cry; then his manner changed, and he asked her kindly to
come in and sit down. He listened in silence to her petition. After she
had finished, he questioned her a little and made her tell the whole
story. She did so in a very simple, often awkward, manner; but her
warm, true heart spoke out of every word so frankly that the Colonel
seemed deeply touched. Finally he laid his hand very gently on her
shoulder and told her to be of good cheer; he gave his word of
honor that the matter should be attended to immediately. With a
load lifted from her heart she left him. The Colonel, however, walked
up and down in his room, deep in thought, clicking his spurs
together from time to time. At last he called an orderly and sent him
with a message to the judge-advocate. He had to wait a long time
before that young gentleman appeared, looking quite flushed and
bowing low.
“I have been told,” began the Colonel, “that about four months ago
a soldier on furlough—his name is George Huber—was brought here
for court-martial.”
The judge put his hand to his brow, as if to reflect.
“Yes, yes, George Huber!—a case of manslaughter.”
“I wish to have the trial brought to a speedy end.”
“Easy enough,” the other one said, evidently quite relieved. “It is a
very ordinary story. We let the man run the gantlet a few times, and
the matter is settled.”
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