"Unser Karl"

"Unser Karl" by Bret Harte is a poignant short story that explores themes of friendship, loyalty, and cultural differences. Set in a mining town during the California Gold Rush, it centers around the character of Karl, a German immigrant, and his relationships with the local townsfolk. Through a series of engaging interactions and humor, Harte delves into the complexities of immigrant life and the bonds that form in a diverse community. The narrative highlights the significance of understanding and acceptance, ultimately delivering a message about the humanity that connects us all, regardless of background.

								
The American consul for Schlachtstadt had just turned out of the broad
Konig's Allee into the little square that held his consulate. Its
residences always seemed to him to wear that singularly uninhabited air
peculiar to a street scene in a theatre. The facades, with their stiff,
striped wooden awnings over the windows, were of the regularity, color,
and pattern only seen on the stage, and conversation carried on in the
street below always seemed to be invested with that perfect confidence
and security which surrounds the actor in his painted desert of urban
perspective. Yet it was a peaceful change to the other byways and
highways of Schlachtstadt which were always filled with an equally
unreal and mechanical soldiery, who appeared to be daily taken out of
their boxes of "caserne" or "depot" and loosely scattered all over
the pretty linden-haunted German town. There were soldiers standing on
street corners; soldiers staring woodenly into shop windows; soldiers
halted suddenly into stone, like lizards, at the approach of Offiziere;
Offiziere lounging stiffly four abreast, sweeping the pavement with
their trailing sabres all at one angle. There were cavalcades of
red hussars, cavalcades of blue hussars, cavalcades of Uhlans, with
glittering lances and pennons--with or without a band--formally
parading; there were straggling "fatigues" or "details" coming round
the corners; there were dusty, businesslike columns of infantry, going
nowhere and to no purpose. And they one and all seemed to be WOUND
UP--for that service--and apparently always in the same place. In the
band of their caps--invariably of one pattern--was a button, in the
centre of which was a square opening or keyhole. The consul was always
convinced that through this keyhole opening, by means of a key, the
humblest caporal wound up his file, the Hauptmann controlled his
lieutenants and non-commissioned officers, and even the general himself,
wearing the same cap, was subject through his cap to a higher moving
power. In the suburbs, when the supply of soldiers gave out, there
were sentry-boxes; when these dropped off, there were "caissons," or
commissary wagons. And, lest the military idea should ever fail from
out the Schlachtstadt's burgher's mind, there were police in uniform,
street-sweepers in uniform; the ticket-takers, guards, and sweepers at
the Bahnhof were in uniform,--but all wearing the same kind of cap, with
the probability of having been wound up freshly each morning for their
daily work. Even the postman delivered peaceful invoices to the consul
with his side-arms and the air of bringing dispatches from the field
of battle; and the consul saluted, and felt for a few moments the whole
weight of his consular responsibility.

Yet, in spite of this military precedence, it did not seem in the least
inconsistent with the decidedly peaceful character of the town, and this
again suggested its utter unreality; wandering cows sometimes got mixed
up with squadrons of cavalry, and did not seem to mind it; sheep passed
singly between files of infantry, or preceded them in a flock when on
the march; indeed, nothing could be more delightful and innocent than
to see a regiment of infantry in heavy marching order, laden with every
conceivable thing they could want for a week, returning after a cheerful
search for an invisible enemy in the suburbs, to bivouac peacefully
among the cabbages in the market-place. Nobody was ever imposed upon
for a moment by their tremendous energy and severe display; drums might
beat, trumpets blow, dragoons charge furiously all over the Exercier
Platz, or suddenly flash their naked swords in the streets to the
guttural command of an officer--nobody seemed to mind it. People glanced
up to recognize Rudolf or Max "doing their service," nodded, and went
about their business. And although the officers always wore their
side-arms, and at the most peaceful of social dinners only relinquished
their swords in the hall, apparently that they might be ready to buckle
them on again and rush out to do battle for the Fatherland between the
courses, the other guests only looked upon these weapons in the light
of sticks and umbrellas, and possessed their souls in peace. And
when, added to this singular incongruity, many of these warriors were
spectacled, studious men, and, despite their lethal weapons, wore a
slightly professional air, and were--to a man--deeply sentimental and
singularly simple, their attitude in this eternal Kriegspiel seemed to
the consul more puzzling than ever.

As he entered his consulate he was confronted with another aspect of
Schlachtstadt quite as wonderful, yet already familiar to him. For,
in spite of these "alarums without," which, however, never seem to
penetrate beyond the town itself, Schlachtstadt and its suburbs were
known all over the world for the manufactures of certain beautiful
textile fabrics, and many of the rank and file of those warriors had
built up the fame and prosperity of the district over their peaceful
looms in wayside cottages. There were great depots and counting-houses,
larger than even the cavalry barracks, where no other uniform but that
of the postman was known. Hence it was that the consul's chief duty
was to uphold the flag of his own country by the examination
and certification of divers invoices sent to his office by the
manufacturers. But, oddly enough, these business messengers were chiefly
women,--not clerks, but ordinary household servants, and, on busy days,
the consulate might have been mistaken for a female registry office,
so filled and possessed it was by waiting Madchen. Here it was that
Gretchen, Lieschen, and Clarchen, in the cleanest of blue gowns, and
stoutly but smartly shod, brought their invoices in a piece of clean
paper, or folded in a blue handkerchief, and laid them, with fingers
more or less worn and stubby from hard service, before the consul for
his signature. Once, in the case of a very young Madchen, that signature
was blotted by the sweep of a flaxen braid upon it as the child turned
to go; but generally there was a grave, serious business instinct and
sense of responsibility in these girls of ordinary peasant origin which,
equally with their sisters of France, were unknown to the English or
American woman of any class.

That morning, however, there was a slight stir among those who, with
their knitting, were waiting their turn in the outer office as the
vice-consul ushered the police inspector into the consul's private
office. He was in uniform, of course, and it took him a moment to
recover from his habitual stiff, military salute,--a little stiffer than
that of the actual soldier.

It was a matter of importance! A stranger had that morning been arrested
in the town and identified as a military deserter. He claimed to be an
American citizen; he was now in the outer office, waiting the consul's
interrogation.

The consul knew, however, that the ominous accusation had only a mild

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