"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.