'JENA' OR 'SEDAN'?

FROM THE GERMAN OF

FRANZ ADAM BEYERLEIN

LONDON
WILLIAM HEINEMANN

1905

All rights reserved

Publisher's Note

The German original of this novel had a larger circulation in the first year of its career than any novel of our days, close upon one quarter of a million copies having been sold. It was praised by some as a superb piece of imaginative literature of the realistic school: by others it has been anathematised as a libel on the great army that made Modern Germany. The truth about it is probably best summarised in the words of a reviewer of the "Daily Mail":--

"The author holds up the mirror with impartiality, without fear or passion, and with an unmistakably friendly intention, and asks, 'Where art thou going? Towards Jena or Sedan?'"

It is perhaps unnecessary to remind the English reader in explanation of the title that Jena stands for French supremacy and German defeat--Sedan for German victory and a French débâcle; but he should be warned that in this truthful mirror of life there may be details liable to shock insular notions. The author could not shrink from such in the fulfilment of his task, which was to give the truth--the whole truth and nothing but the truth. His work must be judged not only as a novel (and assuredly as such it is a most admirable and artistic piece of work), but it must be regarded also as the cry of a patriot who loves his country above anything in the world. This is most completely realised in the following opening sentences of a long and careful review given to the original by the "Spectator":--

"The Englishman who is acutely distressed by the report of shortcomings in the German Army can hardly be human. The frank pleasure which the Germans took in our troubles is too recent to be quite forgotten, even by a people so forgetful as we are. But for all that, only those who crave for the 'wicked joys of the soul,' which grow, the poet tells us, near by the gates of hell, can lay down Herr Beyerlein's story without a sense of sadness. In spite of its freshness and its humour, there breathes through it that note of disappointment, almost of lassitude, which is not seldom audible in Germany to-day. If is as though the nation, which has travelled such an astonishing distance in the last thirty years, were pausing to ask, 'Is this all that has come of it?'

"Herr Beyerlein's theme is the decadence of the German Army. That it is decadent he has no doubt at all, and he is a close, careful and not unfriendly observer. But the writer who deals boldly and broadly with the German Army is in reality dealing with a much larger subject. The British Army is a piece cut from the stuff of which the nation is made, and shaped to a particular end. In Germany the whole material of the nation passes through the Army, and is to some extent shaped and coloured in the process; if does not come out precisely as it went in. German military training is an iron pressure to which men cannot be submitted for two years at an impressionable age and remain unchanged. Symptoms of decay in the Army point, therefore, not only to possible disaster abroad, but to demoralisation at home; and it is with this aspect of his subject that Herr Beyerlein is chiefly concerned."

JENA OR SEDAN?

CHAPTER I

Franz Vogt was on his way home. He carried a neatly tied-up parcel containing the under-linen and the boots that he had been buying in the town. He had trodden this same road a countless number of times during his life; but now that he must bid good-bye to it so soon, the old familiar surroundings presented themselves to him in a new light.

Of course it was not good-bye for ever, nor was it even as though he were going to America. At the most he would only be away for his two years of military service, and between-whiles there would, he supposed, be leave now and again; moreover, this was not the first time he had left the village. But there was one circumstance peculiar to this going away--he was obliged to go.

Franz Vogt did not trouble his head much about the why and the wherefore of this obligation. He reasoned it out thus: Germany had enemies--the French and the Russians, to wit--who might some day and for some unknown reason begin a war; therefore, of course, it behoved Germany to keep watch and ward, and for that soldiers were necessary. Furthermore, there was a certain consolation in the thought that this authoritative call took no respect of persons; the sons of the two richest peasants in the village had been called up just like himself--they to the Uhlans, he to the field-artillery.

The life, however, must be so different from anything hitherto experienced that one could not but feel a little nervous about it. For the men on leave whom he had come across were never tired of talking about the hard words and harder usage that fell to a soldier's lot. Never mind! hard words break no bones. He was strong and active; no one had done better than he in athletics. One must take things as they come, and perhaps after all they won't turn out as bad as they have been painted.

The young man pushed his hat back from his brow and began to whistle as he stepped forward more briskly.

It was fairly warm for October. The broad dusty road that led onward up the hill lay shining as brightly in the sun as if it were July and the corn rising on either side, tall and golden. But instead the stubble showed in paler streaks against the darker ground that was already prepared for a new sowing. Further on in the valley green meadows stretched away to the border-line of a forest.

On the hither side of those woods, but disappearing at last in the dense verdure, ran the straight line of the railway. A cloud of white smoke could just be seen above the trees, and then the train would glide out into the open. By that line Franz Vogt must travel on the morrow to the place where he would have to sojourn for the next two years; and again the thought, "How shall I get on there?" forced itself upon his mind, and absorbed his thoughts until he reached the cross-roads where stood the paternal dwelling. Years ago, when toll was still levied on the highway, it had been the gate-keeper's cottage; and Franz Vogt's father, the last turnpike-keeper, had bought it from the State when the toll was abolished. Nearly twenty years had gone by since the white-painted barrier had been let down at night for the last time, but the little house remained the same in appearance. His father had even stuck the old barrier up in the garden, and had nailed at the top a box for the starlings to nest in; every spring a pair of birds built there.

And his father himself, how little he had altered! Only the beard, which he wore after the fashion of the old Emperor William, had become more and more grey, and the hair of his head had retreated from the crown in an ever-widening circle. But the old man who now stepped to the door held himself as stiff and erect as ever; the eyes looked forth from beneath the bushy eyebrows with a stern yet kindly gaze, and the deep