"Unser Karl" Page #5

"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.

								

follow a merely foreign society craze, or alter her English household so
as to admit the impossible Karl, struck him oddly.

A month or two elapsed without further news of Karl, when one afternoon
he suddenly turned up at the consulate. He had again sought the consular
quiet to write a few letters home; he had no chance in the confinement
of the barracks.

"But by this time you must be in the family of a field-marshal, at
least," suggested the consul pleasantly.

"Not to-day, but next week," said Karl, with sublime simplicity; "THEN I
am going to serve with the governor commandant of Rheinfestung."

The consul smiled, motioned him to a seat at a table in the outer
office, and left him undisturbed to his correspondence.

Returning later, he found Karl, his letters finished, gazing with
childish curiosity and admiration at some thick official envelopes,
bearing the stamp of the consulate, which were lying on the table. He
was evidently struck with the contrast between them and the thin, flimsy
affairs he was holding in his hand. He appeared still more impressed
when the consul told him what they were.

"Are you writing to your friends?" continued the consul, touched by his
simplicity.

"Ach ja!" said Karl eagerly.

"Would you like to put your letter in one of these envelopes?" continued
the official.

The beaming face and eyes of Karl were a sufficient answer. After all,
it was a small favor granted to this odd waif, who seemed to still cling
to the consular protection. He handed him the envelope and left him
addressing it in boyish pride.

It was Karl's last visit to the consulate. He appeared to have spoken
truly, and the consul presently learned that he had indeed been
transferred, through some high official manipulation, to the personal
service of the governor of Rheinfestung. There was weeping among the
Dienstmadchen of Schlachtstadt, and a distinct loss of originality and
lightness in the gatherings of the gentler Hausfrauen. His memory
still survived in the barracks through the later editions of his
former delightful stupidities,--many of them, it is to be feared,
were inventions,--and stories that were supposed to have come from
Rheinfestung were described in the slang of the Offiziere as being
"colossal." But the consul remembered Rheinfestung, and could not
imagine it as a home for Karl, or in any way fostering his peculiar
qualities. For it was eminently a fortress of fortresses, a magazine of
magazines, a depot of depots. It was the key of the Rhine, the citadel
of Westphalia, the "Clapham Junction" of German railways, but defended,
fortified, encompassed, and controlled by the newest as well as the
oldest devices of military strategy and science. Even in the pipingest
time of peace, whole railway trains went into it like a rat in a trap,
and might have never come out of it; it stretched out an inviting
hand and arm across the river that might in the twinkling of an eye be
changed into a closed fist of menace. You "defiled" into it, commanded
at every step by enfilading walls; you "debouched" out of it, as you
thought, and found yourself only before the walls; you "reentered" it at
every possible angle; you did everything apparently but pass through it.
You thought yourself well out of it, and were stopped by a bastion. Its
circumvallations haunted you until you came to the next station. It had
pressed even the current of the river into its defensive service. There
were secrets of its foundations and mines that only the highest military
despots knew and kept to themselves. In a word--it was impregnable.

That such a place could not be trifled with or misunderstood in its
right-and-acute-angled severities seemed plain to every one. But set on
by his companions, who were showing him its defensive foundations, or
in his own idle curiosity, Karl managed to fall into the Rhine and was
fished out with difficulty. The immersion may have chilled his military
ardor or soured his good humor, for later the consul heard that he had
visited the American consular agent at an adjacent town with the old
story of his American citizenship. "He seemed," said the consul's
colleague, "to be well posted about American railways and American
towns, but he had no papers. He lounged around the office for a while
and"--

"Wrote letters home?" suggested the consul, with a flash of
reminiscence.

"Yes, the poor chap had no privacy at the barracks, and I reckon was
overlooked or bedeviled."

This was the last the consul heard of Karl Schwartz directly; for a
week or two later he again fell into the Rhine, this time so fatally and
effectually that in spite of the efforts of his companions he was swept
away by the rapid current, and thus ended his service to his country.
His body was never recovered.

A few months before the consul was transferred from Schlachtstadt to
another post his memory of the departed Karl was revived by a visit from
Adlerkreutz. The general looked grave.

"You remember Unser Karl?" he said.

"Yes."

"Do you think he was an impostor?"

"As regards his American citizenship, yes! But I could not say more."

"So!" said the general. "A very singular thing has happened," he added,
twirling his mustache. "The Inspector of police has notified us of the
arrival of a Karl Schwartz in this town. It appears he is the REAL Karl
Schwartz, identified by his sister as the only one. The other, who was
drowned, was an impostor. Hein?"

"Then you have secured another recruit?" said the consul smilingly.

"No. For this one has already served his time in Elsass, where he went
when he left here as a boy. But, Donnerwetter, why should that dumb fool
take his name?"

"By chance, I fancy. Then he stupidly stuck to it, and had to take the
responsibilities with it. Don't you see?" said the consul, pleased with
his own cleverness.

"Zo-o!" said the general slowly, in his deepest voice. But the German
exclamation has a variety of significance, according to the inflection,
and Adlerkreutz's ejaculation seemed to contain them all.

*****

It was in Paris, where the consul had lingered on his way to his new
post. He was sitting in a well-known cafe, among whose habitues were
several military officers of high rank. A group of them were gathered
round a table near him. He was idly watching them with an odd
recollection of Schlachtstadt in his mind, and as idly glancing from
them to the more attractive Boulevard without. The consul was getting a
little tired of soldiers.

Suddenly there was a slight stir in the gesticulating group and a cry of
greeting. The consul looked up mechanically, and then his eyes remained
fixed and staring at the newcomer. For it was the dead Karl; Karl,
surely! Karl!--his plump figure belted in a French officer's tunic; his
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