Franz Adam Beyerlein

"Love of the fatherland,
Love of the freeborn man,--"

(German National Anthem.)

Franz Vogt had calculated that his release from prison would take place at the beginning of February. He had hoped for a clear sunshiny day, a blue winter sky, a hard frost, and crackling snow beneath his feet.

Everything turned out according to his wish; yet when the heavy prison-gates opened, Vogt never noticed the beauty of the winter day. He thought of Wolf, whom they had shot down in his attempt to escape. He himself had helped to lift the dead man, whose skull had been shattered by the shot.

Vogt was escorted back to the garrison by a sergeant. He would have had about two months more to serve, as the five months of his imprisonment were not counted; but on account of his father's death he had in any case to be given his discharge, in order that his little property might not suffer by neglect.

He had to wait a few days till all the formalities were gone through. Gunner Vogt did everything he was told punctually and obediently, though hardly with that cheerful frank readiness which had of old proved him such a good soldier. During his punishment the fresh open-hearted lad had become a gloomy, self-contained man.

One evening KÄppchen, the clerk, who among all the changes in the battery seemed to be the only person who remained in his place, announced to him: "Vogt, your papers are made out. To-morrow you can go."

And Vogt answered him respectfully: "Very good, sir."

He was alone in Room IX. on the morning of his release, putting on his civilian clothes. The battery had gone down to the big exercise-ground for general foot-drill. He took his time over his dressing. What need was there to hurry? Nobody was waiting for him outside; and nobody would miss him here. He was quite alone in the wide world.

At the door he gave a last look round the bare barrack-room. Once these grey walls had seemed almost home-like to him; once, when the faithful Klitzing had the locker next his own. But that was long ago.

He went down the steps and out towards the back-gate, In the drill-ground the battery, just returned from exercise, was drawn up.

Vogt pulled off his hat and the captain slightly touched his cap. The greeting looked almost embarrassed.

This was a topsy-turvy world. Wegstetten's eyes chanced to rest on Gustav Weise, who was in his place in the right wing as corporal in charge of the first column. It would be unjust to complain of him; Weise did his work very well. But the captain would have preferred to see a Corporal Vogt in his stead.

In front of Weise stood Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider as leader of the first column. With his stiffened neck and proudly erect carriage he gave the impression of wishing to point out what an immense gulf separated him from the men. Between this officer and his subordinates there was no kind of sympathy.

And at that sight the commander of the battery looked still more glum. Brettschneider might have been quite brilliant at the Staff College in tactics and military history, but he was of no real use as an officer; still less could he instil into the men either military efficiency or convinced patriotism.

When Vogt arrived at the station the train he had meant to take had already gone.

Well, that couldn't be helped. He must wait for the next.

The dull February day was drawing towards its close when he stepped out upon the road that led to his native village. Joylessly he saw the familiar details of the neighbourhood appearing out of the fog, and he gave a casual, uninterested glance over the fields that bordered the highway.

Before the turnpike-keeper's cottage he stood still a moment. The dusty windows looked strange and dead; and the closed door over the well-worn threshold seemed to warn him off.

The little side-gate into the yard was not locked. Franz Vogt entered by it upon his paternal inheritance.

Just then old Wackwitz came hobbling with his wooden leg across the yard, carrying a pot of steamed potatoes.

"Nobody has any business here!" he cried out to the intruder.

Then he recognised "young Herr Vogt." He took him at once across the yard, and pointed out to him, in his clumsy, babbling way, the fine glossy appearance of the cows and the appetising sleekness of the pigs. Who could be found to take more trouble with the beasts than he? And he had been very economical with the food, although the local authorities had not given him too liberal an allowance!

Vogt listened perfunctorily. He nodded assent to all the garrulous old man said. It was quite true, the beasts looked well cared-for.

He patted the strawberry cow, who was in calf; and she turned her head towards him as she lay in her stall comfortably chewing the cud. Yet he could not feel easy. With his foot he pushed aside some straw that was littering about the place, and he carefully avoided the dung that lay on the stones of the yard.

He went down to the village and got the keys. A stuffy, chilly atmosphere met him in the passage and exhaled from every room. Thick dust lay everywhere on floors and furniture.

Nothing had been moved from its place, and every picture hung as usual on the wall. But it seemed to Vogt as if the rooms were empty and the walls bare. He shuddered with cold and with the sense of loneliness.

In the living-room his father's plain easy-chair was pushed up to the table, and beside it the stool on which the son had usually sat. It looked as if they had both only been out into the field for a moment and would return immediately; but yet he could not feel at home.

Franz Vogt looked about him sadly. All else was as of old; but his father lay in the churchyard beneath the heaped-up clay of his newly-made grave, and the son stood like a stranger in his father's house.

The lowing of the cows aroused him from his dismal brooding. He had sent away old Wackwitz after rewarding him liberally: for he meant to do as his father had done, and manage all the work himself.

He gave the beasts their food, which had already been prepared for them. There was not a scrap of bread nor of butter in the house for himself. He made his way down to the village in the dark, and was glad to find that the baker's shop was not yet shut, and that a neighbour could provide him with some butter.

And when, dead tired after the varying experiences of the day, he went upstairs, there were no sheets on his bed. He could not take the trouble to rummage in the linen-chest, and crept heavy-heartedly between the rough woollen blankets.

Early next morning he was aroused by the uneasy mooing of the cows. He sprang from bed and scarcely gave himself time to wash. He had to bestir himself, and the fagging and worry lasted without intermittence from morning until night. He had hardly time to go down to the village inn in the middle of the day and get a hot meal.

He would not allow himself to fall short in any way, and was unremitting in his exertions.

But was this the condition on which, while a soldier, he had looked back with such longing? This haste and breathless labour, this hurrying from one thing to another without pause or rest?

He smiled bitterly to himself, and looked about him with dull, joyless eyes. He was tired with his day's work, and his back ached with fatigue; where was that joy of labour, which had formerly sustained him, and had lightened the burden on his shoulders?

Seed-time was coming on; when the young leaves of the lime-tree began to show as tender brown buds on the twigs, then the corn must be sown for the summer's harvest. But before that the fields, which had lain fallow through the winter, must be ploughed and harrowed.

Franz Vogt yoked the two dun cows, the strawberry remaining in her stall. Wintry weather persisted obstinately this year. As he followed the plough the hail lashed in his face, and the icy wind penetrated to the skin through his jacket and warm knitted vest. He turned his back to the storm in order to get breath, and hid his face behind a sheltering arm. More than once he broke off work half-way, and took back his team to their warm stable.

He would then spare no trouble with the beasts, and the two cows would soon be standing contentedly with their feet in the plentiful straw. But he himself would crouch before the cold hearth, trying to blow up the smouldering turf into a bright flame. He would throw his damp frieze coat over the back of a chair, and wait shivering for the fire to burn up and warm him. Sometimes he would dally with the thought that it might be best for him to sell up the whole place--house, stock, and field, and go into the town. Was he not living the life of a beast of burden? Worse, indeed! He had not had a single day of rest since his release: not one, among all these days of labour on which he had toiled till his bones ached. Wolf had told him how easily any poor devil could get on in town if he only had a fairly level head, how free and independent one could be there; how much more, then, a man with a few thousand thalers in his pocket!

It so happened that at this moment the lord of the manor made a rather advantageous offer for the land. He wanted it to "round off" his estate.

Would it not be his most prudent course to seize this opportunity? Certainly the very least he could do was to turn the matter over carefully.

Perhaps the lord of the manor would offer more if one seemed unwilling to sell.

At last the bad weather came to an end, and it seemed possible to begin to think about the sowing.

A suggestion of a warmer spell to come mellowed the freshness of the morning air when Vogt came out of the yard with his team, The eastern horizon was gaily tinted. The rising sun shone clear and bright, sending forth prophetic rays that foretold fair weather.

The young peasant glanced into the cow-house, where the strawberry seemed scarcely able to sustain her heavy burden, though she was not due to calve for another fortnight. For the first time Vogt began to feel some return of joy and content. This strawberry cow was a magnificent animal. She brought gigantic calves into the world; lively little creatures too, that made the funniest leaps and bounds, and were always beautifully marked. One could not but feel sorry when the butcher fetched them away.

The two dun cows lowed with pleasure when they came briskly out into the yard, as though they already scented summer, with its mild air and green grass. He yoked them to the small wooden cart. Then he brought the sack of seed-corn from the barn. He had laid it in some time before, and the sack had not been disturbed. But he opened it to convince himself that all was right. He took up a large handful, and let the grains of wheat run through his fingers. The seed lay plump and heavy in the palm of his hand.

Then a current of joy made his heart beat higher. He saw the crop growing green, then ripening; the stalks crowded thickly together, and as the summer breeze passed over the field the heavy ears bowed and swayed like ripples upon the sea.

With a happy glance he looked about him; house and yard were in good order, the harrow lay waiting in the field, all was ready. And he drove his team merrily onwards.

The dun cows stopped of themselves when they reached their destination.

Franz Vogt smiled. Yes, this must be a thorn in the flesh for the lord of the manor! The corn-patch was small; but it stretched out amid the turnip-fields like a long arm that could hold its own, and that would not brook encroachment. Rich fruitful soil it was, that scarcely needed the manure he gave it.

Pride awoke in the heart of the young peasant-farmer. Oh no, it was not so simple as the lord of the manor thought! It might be a good while yet before the big estate was "rounded off."

Franz Vogt opened the mouth of the sack and shook out a portion of the seed-corn. The two cows stood chewing the cud by the wayside. He turned to the field.

The sun shone gaily as it mounted upwards. The black earth lay ready and receptive; above the furrows hovered a light mist, and an invigorating aroma ascended from the soil, like incense offered by the maternal earth to the engendering sun to celebrate the new year of fruitfulness that was just beginning.

The untiring force of nature was in this fragrance, shedding courage and strength into the hearts of mankind with the full benediction of spring.

An overpowering sensation made the young peasant fall on his knees, and he touched the earth with reverent caressing hands as though it were something sacred.

He had found his home again.

A troop of hired labourers, strangers from Galicia, were approaching a field in the neighbouring property of the manor. They followed each other wearily like a band of slaves, unwilling and half asleep. Behind them came the inspector.

"Avanti, avanti!" he cried, supposing, apparently, that this was Polish.

And the strangers set to work. Their heads were bowed wearily, and their movements resembled the automatism of a machine.

But Franz Vogt stepped out into the broad sunshine with head erect, and strewed the seed into the furrows of his land with a free sweep of his outstretched arm.

Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co. London & Edinburgh.