Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 68, No. 421, November 1850

THE EJECTMENT

It was early upon a bright morning. The farmer's servants had long betaken themselves, with plough, and harrow, and horses, to their labour in the fields. The women had swept and cleaned hall and kitchen, and were dispersed at their work – some in the garden, digging and planting, others in the wash-house, or in the rooms where provisions for the winter were stored. The cows in the great stable had already been milked, and received their fresh fodder. At an early hour the farmer had exchanged his jacket for a coat, taken hat and stick, and gone out: he had not yet returned.

The mistress of the house went round the extensive tenements, to see if all were in order. She was a tall, robust, vigorous woman, about forty years old, fresh and comely, and still handsome, although that morning her countenance was grave and anxious, and her eye had an uneasy glance. She inspected the kitchen, looked at the hearth, the kettles, the ash-tub, the stock of wood for the day, the potatoes, which were peeling for the midday meal, the shining array of pots and pans. Then she went, followed by the kitchen-maid, into the adjacent larder, and gave out meat and bacon for dinner. Thence she betook herself to the dairy, and here there was a gleam of satisfaction in her eye; but on leaving the room, as she gave one more glance at the numerous brown bowls with their rich white contents, it faded away, and was replaced by earnestness, almost by grief. From the dairy she went to the spacious barn. It was so clean swept that a needle might have been found on the floor. On either hand was a stable; to the right for the horses, to the left for the cows. The former was nearly empty; the animals were at work in the fields, with the exception of some broodmares, which lay on clean straw with their foals beside them. The cowhouse had more occupants. The white, brown, black and brindled beasts stood in long rows at their cribs, smooth, shining, and well fed, and munched the sweet-smelling hay. They all knew the housewife: she patted them all in turn, although she did not, as was her wont, speak caressingly to them, but went silently from one to the other. Pleasure at the full and prosperous aspect of the stable struggled in her features with some secret cause of grief.

Above the stables were a number of rooms; these contained the provisions of hemp, flax, and yarn, and, above all, great store of snow-white linen, from the coarse house linen up to the finest damask. The sturdy farmer's wife had already set foot on the stairs, to ascend and feast her eyes with her treasure; but she hastily turned away, back into the kitchen, and thence into the farm-yard.

The farm-yard was large and roomy. On the one side stood the farm-buildings; in their centre, separated from them by tolerably wide intervals, was the snug farm-house, with its walls of dark bricks, and its roof of bright red tiles, with green shutters to the windows, and vines trailing over its southern and eastern sides. On either hand were sheds for carts, sledges, ploughs, and other farm implements. Opposite to the farm-house, in a smiling little garden, stood a smaller dwelling, of even pleasanter aspect than its neighbour. This house, then uninhabited, was to be the residence of the present owners of the farm, when increase of years should induce them to resign its management into the more vigorous hands of their children. Judging from the robust aspect of the farmer's wife, that day was yet far distant.

A thick forest enclosed the farm on three sides. On the fourth, garden and pasture and arable land stretched out in all directions, as far as the eye could reach. The underwood in the forest was already bursting into leaf, and the lofty beeches here and there put forth tender green buds. The knotty branches of the huge oaks were still gray and bare.

Not far from the farm-house, where the ground rose a little, stood a long table of white deal, surrounded by green branches, and canopied by the spreading limbs of an elm. Near at hand were groups of walnut-trees, and a few chestnuts, budding into white and pink blossom; and a little farther five or six venerable oaks, which seemed to have stemmed the storms of centuries, and to have witnessed the building and decay of more than one farm-house, the growth and decline of many generations.

The soft beams of the spring sun gave friendly greeting to the housewife as she stepped out into the farm-yard, and a light breeze wafted to her senses the fresh perfumes of awakening nature. Thousands of birds sang and twittered exultingly amongst the trees; the woodpecker tapped perseveringly at the dry branches of the oaks; and over the house, from an almost invisible elevation, was heard the joyous carol of the lark.

Two children came forth from the garden of the smaller house. A boy of six or seven years old dragged a child's cart, in which sat a little girl of three. Both were pictures of health and cheerfulness. The boy sprang shouting to meet his mother, the cart rattling behind. With a joyful "Good morning, mother!" he held out his hand. She pressed it, then stooped down, took the little girl from the cart, kissed her and put her upon the ground.

"You are early up this morning, dear children!" said she.

"Oh yes, mother," replied the boy, with childish unconcern. "Father said yesterday this would likely be our last day here, so, before we went, I thought to take little Margaret a ride round the garden."

"Good boy. But your father was not in earnest. We shall stay here to-day and many another day besides."

"That is capital! Then I shall have a field to myself, and a strip of meadow, and I can bring up the foal and calf which father gave me."

"That you can and shall do."

"And I shall have my chicken," cried little Margaret.

"You shall, my dear Margaret."

The woman went with the children into the garden, and sat down on a bench in an arbour. There she took the little girl upon her lap, whilst the boy stood beside her, and she gazed alternately at the substantial farm-house and at the pleasant cottage close at hand.

"How dull you are to-day, mother; is anything the matter?" said the boy.

"Nothing, my child – it will pass away."

Through a wicket in the hedge, a countryman entered the farm-yard. He looked about him on all sides, and when he saw the woman, he went up to her.

"Good morning, neighbour. How goes it?"

"Good morning, neighbour. How should it go?"

"I see no preparations as yet. Is not the commissioner coming?"

"I believe not."

"Is your husband at home?"

"He is gone out."

"Do you really believe the gentlemen will not come? Do not rely upon it. These are bad times."

"They cannot come."

"Don't say that, neighbour. Who can tell what can or cannot happen now-a-days!"

"Why prophesy evil, neighbour? Ill luck comes fast enough; there is no need to invoke it."

"Well, well, don't be angry. I meant no offence. It is good to be prepared for misfortune. And my word for it, these are bad times. The humble are oppressed; the great nobles have the power; justice is no more in the land – by the peasant, especially, it is never to be found. The nobleman and the fisc are too powerful for him."

"But we have laws, neighbour; and the laws govern both rich and poor, great and small."

"They should, they should! But what is the use of laws, when judges are not honest? When bailiffs can squeeze us, and tax-gatherers cheat us, without our daring to make a stir about it."

"But bailiffs and tax-gatherers have their superiors."

"Ay, but all are links of the same chain. All stand by each other. They dine at each other's tables, and make each other presents. The bailiff sends the best carriage-horses to the president's stables. The president is a good friend of the minister's. And the nobleman is hand and glove with all of them."

The woman rose from her seat. "It is breakfast-time, neighbour Littlejohn; come in. My husband will soon be back."

They walked toward the farm-house. They were but a few paces from the door, when two carriages drove into the yard, containing several persons. On the box of one sat two gendarmes, and upon the other were two officers of justice.

"There they are," exclaimed Littlejohn. "Keep up your heart, neighbour."

The woman's countenance worked convulsively for a moment, but she quickly composed herself, and taking little Margaret in her arms, she stood calm and silent before the door.

The gendarmes and officers got down from the box; the gentlemen alighted from the carriages. One of the latter, a short, corpulent person, approached the farmer's wife.

"I come upon a mournful errand, Mrs Oberhage!" said he in a tone of sympathy, disagreeable because it did not sound sincere.

The woman neither stirred nor replied.

"Our duty, Mrs Oberhage – believe me, it is often very painful; but so much so as on this occasion I never yet have known it to be."

The woman answered him not.

"Believe me, this is an unhappy day for me."

"To us you have never yet brought happiness, judge," said the woman bitterly.

One of the other gentlemen now stepped forward. He was tall, thin, and pompous, and had two orders upon his breast. The judge had but one, in his button-hole.

"I think we will to business, Herr Justizrath," said he to the judge.

"Oh, gentlemen!" said the woman, still calm but earnest, "surely you will wait. My husband is not yet here, nor our lawyer. I expect them both immediately."

"What have we to do with either of them?" said the counsellor,⁴⁵ carelessly. "The matter is settled, and admits of no alteration."

"The matter is not yet settled. The day is not yet over!" quickly replied the woman.

"My good woman, I can make all allowance for your present mood, but do not cause useless delay. Let us go into the house and begin, Herr Justizrath."

"A little patience, Mrs Oberhage," said the judge, still more blandly than before.

They went into the house. The other officials followed them. The gendarmes remained outside.

Meanwhile, a number of neighbours had arrived at the farm, their countenances expressing the warmest sympathy, mingled with feelings of rage and bitterness – feelings which they did not scruple to express in words, notwithstanding the presence of the gendarmes and men of law.

"So it has come to earnest at last, gossip Oberhage," said an old peasant. "'Tis shame and scandal thus by main force to drive you from house and home."

"Not yet, Father Hartmann!" said the woman, with great external calm. "You know we have sent in a memorial. So long as all is not lost, nothing is lost."

"True enough, but don't be too sure. The world has grown very bad. Only see yonder false-hearted judge and insolent counsellor. They it is who have brought the whole misfortune upon you, and now they are not ashamed to come here and feast their eyes and ears with your lamentations."

"Not with our lamentations!" said the woman, drawing herself up with a feeling of pride and courage which would have done honour to a queen. "It is God's truth," she continued, after a momentary pause, "that these two men have done their utmost to drive us from the farm, on which I and my husband, and my forefathers, have dwelt for now more than two hundred years."

"Ay, ay," said the old peasant, "the little judge was heard to say, as much as ten years ago, that there were records in the office which would be your ruin if brought to light."

"He said as much to my husband, that he might buy the papers of him. And when my husband would not, he came and tried it with me."

"And when you sent him about his business, he went and plotted with the counsellor, who had then just arrived here from the capital, with an appointment to the chamber. That is a bad fellow, neighbour Oberhage. He has feeling for no man, nor for anything but fisc and taxes, impost and extortion. There is not a farm in the district on which he has not found means to lay new burthens. Day and night he rummages old records and registers, to find out new rights for the exchequer, and new means of oppressing the peasantry. And so he brought forward the old papers, by which he makes out that your farm is the property of the sovereign. The fat judge put him up to it."

"That the farm," said the woman by way of amendment, "had belonged to the sovereign, more than two hundred years ago. My ancestors bought it of the government, and paid its price. My grandfather had the papers in his possession, but at his death they were not to be found. My father was away when he died, so the authorities scaled up the inheritance and took charge of all documents. Amongst these were the papers proving the purchase of the farm, and since then we have never seen them. It was said they were not sealed up with the others, or that they got lost."

"The sly judge knows well enough where they are."

"Who can prove it? We told him as much, but he only laughed, and threatened us with an action for slander. Thereupon they began proceedings to turn us out of the farm. The old papers were accepted as valid; all sorts of laws were brought forward – laws which the sovereigns themselves had made; and they so twisted and turned the matter that, at last, house and land were adjudged to the crown. There is no justice for the poor peasant: justice in this country is a crying scandal. The judges think only how best to be agreeable to the nobility and the sovereign, that they may get a bit of ribbon, or an increase, of salary, or a better place.

"But I have yet one hope left," continued the woman. "We have addressed a memorial to his Highness, placing plainly before his eyes the injustice that the tribunals have done us. We have told him everything – how the judge wanted to bargain with us about the documents, how he suppressed our papers, how he and the long-legged counsellor laid their heads together, and plotted, and planned, and bribed witnesses for our ruin. I expect the answer every minute. If there be yet one spark of justice in our sovereign's heart, he cannot and will not suffer them to expel us from our farm."

"Poor woman, build not too much upon that."

"But I do build upon it, for I have trust in God and in good men."

"In good men. Good men have a heart for poor people. But where will you find that amongst those in high places?"

The old peasant's presentiment as to the fruitlessness of the memorial is well-founded. On the return of the farmer without any reply from the reigning prince, his wife appeals to the commissioners, who are busy taking an inventory – preparatory to making over the property into the hands of an administrator – to suspend execution of the judgment obtained until the pleasure of the sovereign shall be known.

"Judge," said the woman, "we have petitioned the sovereign; an answer may come any minute: until then, we need not go."

"But, my dear Mrs Oberhage, think of the judgment rendered. You have already made all the appeals possible. Justice must have its course."

"Justice!" said the woman bitterly, "we will say nothing about that, judge. But the sovereign has to decide whether he will have our property or not. He cannot take the farm, he cannot wish to accept stolen goods. For his decision you, his servants, are bound to wait: the farm won't run away.

"Woman," said counsellor Von Eilenthal pompously, "cherish not vain delusions. I can tell you the answer you will receive from the royal cabinet; I know it: the sovereign referred your application to his excellency the prime-minister, and the minister desired the chamber to report upon it – I myself made out the report."

"Then is our fate indeed decided!" said the farmer.

"Your own sense of what is right tells it you; justice must have its free course."

"These are hard times for us poor people," said the woman. "Our persecutors are set as judges over us, and interpose between the children of the soil and their sovereign, so that our complaints cannot be heard. Their voices alone are heard; ours, never."

"My good woman, the officials do but their duty."

"Yes, yes, Herr Regierungsrath, that is well known – everyone for himself. You now have doubtless wellnigh gained your end; you have reduced enough poor people to yet greater poverty, and may expect a place in the ministry or a president's chair – that has always been your aim."

The counsellor turned to the judge: "Let us proceed with our business," he said.

All hope had now fled from the breasts of the Oberhages, and departure was inevitable. The farmer's brother offered him an asylum; the honest-hearted peasants, indignant at the crying injustice of the case, and commiserating a misfortune which all felt might some day be their own, volunteered their carts and their labour to transport such part of the farmer's property as he was allowed to carry away. This was but a very limited portion, consisting solely of personal effects. Farm implements, live and dead stock, the corn and vegetables in the granaries, the tall stacks of hay and straw, must all be left behind. They stood upon the inventory, and were the property of the state. But the severest cut of all, for the frugal and industrious housewife, was yet to come. Her eldest daughter, a blooming maiden of nineteen, came up to her, followed by the counsellor, the judge, and the Oberhages' lawyer. The girl looked pale and frightened.

"Mother," she said, "you sent me to the linen-room, to give out the linen to be put on the carts."

"Well, what then?" cried the woman in anxious astonishment.

"The gentlemen have taken the key from me, and will not let me have the linen."

"Who has done that? – who will not?" demanded the woman violently, flushing crimson with anger. It was plain that her household gods were attacked.

"His worship the judge."

"His worship the judge? My linen? What have you to do with my linen?"

"Dear Mrs Oberhage, I have already explained to you that you are allowed to take away from the farm only your own property – your own personal effects."

"And is not the linen my own property?"

"No."

"And what is it, then?"

"An appurtenance to the farm."

The woman burst into a laugh – a laugh of sudden and terrible rage. "My linen," she cried – "my linen, for which I and my mother, my grandmother, and my great-grandmother, and at odd times this girl too, have spun the yarn – which we ourselves have woven and bleached, and on whose every thread has fallen a drop of our sweat – my linen, you say, is an appurtenance of your farm, and belongs to you, or to the counsellor there." And she looked from the one to the other of the magistrates. Then, growing calmer, she added scornfully, "take some other notion into your heads, gentlemen; but my linen you shall not have."

"It is your treasure, your pride, Mrs Oberhage," replied the judge, with his everlasting friendliness: "every one knows that; but, unfortunately, there is no alternative. I am grieved on your account, but the linen belongs to the farm, and not to you."

The fury of the farmer's wife seemed about again to break out. Her lawyer stepped forward. "His worship is unfortunately in the right," he said. "The store of linen, inasmuch as it does not appear necessary to the personal wants of yourself and your children, is legally an appurtenance of the farm. You must make up your mind to give it up."

The woman cast a glance at her husband; but neither in that quarter did she find succour. He looked straight before him, like one absorbed in thought.

"Take it then," said she resolutely. And making an energetic effort to conceal a violent trembling that came over her, she returned to her work. Aided by her daughter, by the weeping servants, and by the neighbours, the packing was soon done. The carts, laden with the whole earthly goods of the expelled farmer, were at the door, ready to start. The neighbours stood around, deep sympathy and suppressed anger upon their stern countenances. The farm-servants – men and maids, big and little, boys who had been but lately taken on, and old men, bent by labour, who had perhaps served three generations upon that farm – stood on one side, also silent, but with grief in their faces. The gentlemen of the commission sat at the long table, under the elm, and breakfasted. The gendarmes and officers were near at hand.

The farmer, his wife, and children, had remained behind in the house. Presently they came out: first the farmer, then his wife, with her youngest child on her arm and leading the boy by the hand; last of all came the eldest daughter. In the countenances of the parents, as in that of the daughter, was to be discerned an expression of dignified resignation to a hard lot.

The man and his wife cast searching glances at the carts, and apparently found all things in order. They then approached a cart upon which seats had been reserved for them; and the woman set down the child upon the ground, the better, as it seemed, to take leave of the sympathising groups that stood around. She and her husband went first to the neighbours, then to the servants, and shook hands with every one. Not a word was spoken.

Whilst this farewell scene occurred, the little girl ran to a flock of chickens, which were pecking for food in the yard. A snow-white hen, with a tuft upon its head, came tamely to meet her. She took it up in her little arms, caressed and played with it.

Suddenly a thought came into the boy's head: he went up to his mother, who had just concluded her sorrowful leave-taking.

"Are we going away for good, mother?" he said.

"Yes, my child, never to return."

"Shall we not take my foal and calf? You promised me this morning that I should rear them."

"I did promise you, my child, but they no longer belong to us."

The firm character of the mother already manifested itself in the son. With scarcely a change of countenance.

"Mother," he said, "will they remain on the farm?"

"They will remain here."

He ran to the farm-servants, and begged them to take care of his calf and foal, and let them want for nothing. Then he returned contentedly to his mother's side. For the poor woman, however, yet another trial was in store.

"I take my white chicken with me, mother!" cried the little girl, pressing the pretty bird to her bosom.

"Does the fowl also belong to the inventory?" said the woman to the lawyer, who stood near her amongst the peasants.

"But, Mrs Oberhage, such a trifle!"

"Does the chicken belong to the inventory?"

"Yes."

"Child, we must leave the chicken here. I will give you another."

"I won't leave my chicken; I take my white chicken with me." The child was crying.

The little fat judge, observant of the incident, rose from his seat. "Mrs Oberhage, let the child have the chicken. With the permission of the Herr Regierungsrath I make you a present of it."

The child jumped for joy, and the chicken remained perched upon her little hands.

For a moment there was a struggle in the breast of the farmer's wife. She looked at her joyous child, she gazed around her at the house and farm she was about to quit; then, with sudden resolution, she went to the little girl, took the bird from her arms, and let it run away. "Judge," she said, turning to the magistrate, "sorry as I am for the poor child's sake, I nevertheless can accept nothing, as a gift, from you and the counsellor."

But she could hardly complete the sentence. The resolute woman's strength seemed suddenly broken, and hot tears gushed from her eyes. Snatching up the weeping child, she pressed it to her breast, and hid her agitated countenance in its rich golden curls.

It was dinner-time. At this hour, it was customary for a dozen poor persons, old women and grayheaded men, to repair to the farm, where, for long years past, they had received a daily meal. As usual, they had made their appearance, and now stood aloof with sad and downcast looks. The housewife perceived them. This was to be her last sorrow in the home that had hitherto been hers. She stepped towards them. "I can no longer give you a dinner," she said; "another master is now here."

An old man limped forward, supported upon crutches. "To-day," he said, "we are here only to thank you, and to pray God that he may repay you what you, and your husband, and your children, and your fathers before you, upon this farm, have given to the poor. We have heard of the injustice done you; but the injustice of men is the blessing of heaven. Farewell, go in peace to your new home. And may the Lord bless you there and for ever."

He hobbled back amidst the group of beggars, who stood praying, with clasped hands. The housewife gave to every one of them an ample dole. "The Lord be with you also," she said. Then she went to the cart in which the children were already seated. Without another word, she got in. Her husband followed her, and his brother, who accompanied them, was the last. She took her little girl upon her lap, and drew down her kerchief far over her face, so that none could distinguish her features.

The cart drove slowly out of the farm-yard. It was met by a servant on horseback, who dashed past at a gallop, and handed to the Counsellor, Baron Von Eilenthal, a letter with a large seal. That distinguished functionary eagerly opened it, as with a foreboding of good news.

The judge looked inquisitively over his shoulder.

"Ah, my humblest congratulations, Herr President. Delighted to be the first to give you joy. I recommend myself to your further favour."

In front of the house, the beggars struck up in slow and solemn strains the hymn from the Psalm-book —

 
"Meine Seele, lass es gehen,
Wie in dieser Welt es geht.
Lass auch gerne das geschehen,
Was Dem Herz hier nicht versteht.
Arme Seele, fromm und stille,
Denk, es waltet Gottes Wille."
 

We have preserved, as dramatic and characteristic, the terminations of the two chapters from which we have extracted. The last was worth giving entire, being perhaps the most carefully finished in the book, but its length compelled compression. As regards its truthfulness, and the state of things it is intended to illustrate, we need hardly inform persons acquainted with the social and political condition of Germany, that acts of corruption and oppression, similar to those above set forth, have been of no rare occurrence, up to a very recent date, in more than one sovereign state of that extensive country. The time of the story of Anna Hammer is 1830, the period when things were probably at the worst, before the petty despots of Germany had been warned and alarmed by the second French revolution, and by other evidences of the growing spirit, throughout Europe, of resistance to tyrannical and irresponsible rule. The book hinges on the supposed existence of a secret association, having extensive ramifications, for the purpose of establishing constitutional government throughout Germany. Three of the earliest members of the society have lingered, at the date of the story's commencement, for five years in a state prison. These three men are Anna Hammer's brother-in-law, Madame Von Horberg's husband, and a certain Count Arnstein, whose son, after passing four years in the United States, returns to Germany, in the character of an American, and under the assumed name of Bushby, with the double purpose of assisting the plans of the conspirators, and of accomplishing his father's escape. The place of imprisonment of the three political offenders is, however, a mystery which one of the most active and intelligent of the confederates has for years been in vain endeavouring to solve. It is at last discovered by the ingenuity of Geigenfritz, an old soldier, and trusty agent of the society, who then contrives to introduce Anna Hammer into the fortress, in the capacity of servant girl to the commandant's housekeeper. The housekeeper, Miss Bluestone, who has lived in a military prison until she has acquired the tone, and much of the appearance, of a grenadier, and her comrade, Corporal Long, a veteran converted into a gaoler, who divides his affections between the wine barrel and a huge bunch of keys, are capitally hit off. The account of Von Horberg's dungeon, and of the means of communication he contrives with a prisoner lodged in the lower floor of the tower, in which he occupies an upper cell, is very well done. Indeed this, the first chapter of the second volume, entitled Dungeon Life, is one of the best of the book, and reminds us not a little of Baron Treuck's exciting prison narratives. It acquires additional interest from the circumstance that Anna Hammer is said to have been written in a prison, where the author was long confined on political charges, of which he was ultimately found guiltless. Before coming to the prisons, however, we are taken to court, and are introduced to the old prince-regnant, to his dissolute grandson and heir, and to his amiable granddaughter, who is in love with Arnstein alias Bushby. For a final extract, we select a scene in the grounds of the country residence of the sovereign, who has just installed himself there for the fine season, and where two important personages of the novel – the crown-prince and Geigenfritz – are first brought before the reader.

The park behind the palace was of great extent. Gardens, pieces of water, slopes planted with vines, thick shrubberies and tracts of woodland, were there mingled in an apparently wild disorder which was in reality the result of careful arrangement and consideration. The whole was surrounded by a lofty wall, in which were three or four small doors. A thick forest came close up to the outside of the wall, and was intersected by several roads.

Along one of these roads drove an elegant travelling carriage, drawn by two extremely swift and powerful horses. A bearded man, of Jewish aspect, muffled in a huge coachman's coat, sat upon the box. The shutters of the vehicle were drawn up, so that it could not be seen into. It stopped at the edge of the forest. The door opened, and a little man, also of Israelitish appearance, but very richly dressed, got out. He left the door open.

"Turn round, Abraham!" said he in Jewish jargon to the driver.

The coachman obeyed, so that the horses' heads were in the direction whence they came.