



Produced by Charles Bowen, from scans obtained from The
Internet Archive.





Transcriber's notes:
  1. Source is Web Archive
"http://www.archive.org/details/jenorsedan00beyerich."

  2. [oe] is the diphthong oe.





                           '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 debacle; 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
 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

                                         "Must I go, must I go,
                                          Away into the town?"
                                               (_Swabian Folk-song._)


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 voice rang out with military precision and sharpness.

"Why, boy," he cried, "you're looking quite dashed! Shaking in your
shoes about to-morrow, eh? See what comes of having a woman for your
mother! Come along in." He preceded his son into the parlour, and made
him exhibit his purchases.

"Dear, very dear, all these odds and ends!" he grumbled; but finally
declared himself pleased that Franz had preserved intact a good portion
of the money entrusted to him.

"That you can keep," said his father; "for you know at first you'll
have nothing more from me. By-and-bye, perhaps, a few groschen now and
then; but first you must learn to shift for yourself. That's always
good for one. I had to get along on my pay the whole time, from the
first year to the fifteenth. Now go up and pack your traps, and make
everything shipshape."

At supper the fare was no more sumptuous than usual; but Franz was
surprised to see that his father had set out two smoked sausages
instead of one.

"To-morrow, boy," said the old man, "you'll have regimental black
bread. Good nourishing stuff! You'll soon like it." And