CHAPTER XVIII. BERLIN—ITS MILITARY ATMOSPHERE.
Two men sit on their horses like statues in front of the Brandenburg Gate of Berlin. They wear spiked helmets. The numerous buttons on their tight-fitting coats gleam in the sun. Their weapons are swords. When you ask to what crack regiment they belong, you are told that they are policemen. You find hundreds more of the same grave, martial persons, mostly on foot, in the Berlin streets. You soon come to distinguish them from the regular troops whom they so much resemble. But it is hard to tell where the policeman ends and the soldier begins. If the moral effect of this grim constabulary is as great on the citizens of Berlin as on the stranger within her gates, then there are few breaches of the peace committed here. At the railway-stations you see other men who are soldierly in their dress and bearing. They wear the well-known fatigue-caps with broad colored bands and a little circle embroidered just above the visor. Their breasts are decorated with metal badges, of which the crown emblem is a part. You naturally suppose them to belong to the army, and to be ornamented with some kind of “order,” until you go near enough to read the word “Portier,” with which they are labeled. Thus it is that a strong military air is imparted to Berlin, over and above that which comes from the corps in garrison here. This corps comprises all arms of the service. The various uniforms—sometimes simply neat, but often very showy—exhibited in Unter den Linden during the evening promenade, form one of the chief attractions of that most beautiful of Berlin streets. Such, at least, is the verdict of visitors—especially Americans with whom army accoutrements are happily things of the past.
It must be confessed that the most peaceful-minded person may catch the military fever here. The people of Berlin, like all other Germans, protest to you that they hate war and desire peace above all things. No men can look more pacific as they smoke their pipes and drink their beer, and listen to the best music in the “Gartens.” Still, it is the truth that they impress the impartial tourist as the most warlike race in Europe. No capital that I have seen compares with Berlin in the predominance of military ideas and suggestions. The officers and privates everywhere on view are but a small part of this total. The aged and heroic Emperor, the Crown Prince, Bismarck, Moltke, Roon, and other heroes of the Franco-German War, are served up in every possible way in the shop-windows of every street. Statues, busts, oil-paintings, photographs of these distinguished men in full “regimentals,” are as thick in Berlin as crucifixes and other religious symbols in the most devout city of Southern Italy. It is a patriotism which runs to idolatry. In the Königsplatz stands a splendid monument, designed to commemorate the victorious issues of the recent wars with Denmark, Austria, and France. On each of the four sides of the pedestal are bronze reliefs of the Kaiser and all the rest of the gallant company. If one is not tired of these repetitions of figures and faces, he may climb an interior staircase of the column and come out on a balcony, where he can regale himself with the sight of a noble work in mosaic, in which the identical celebrities reappear in new combinations and with still more brilliant effects. Visiting the modern picture-galleries about town, he can not enter a nook or recess so obscure that it does not hold at least one first-rate picture, or marble or bronze bust of the Emperor or his heir, or his great Chancellor, or his incomparable Field-Marshal and strategist.
It is but natural that the Germans should love to honor the illustrious sovereign, the statesman, and the general who have made their country united and powerful. They know perfectly well that what they have won by the sword can be kept only by the sword in that terrible struggle for national supremacy, and even for existence, of which Europe is the theatre. As long as the profession of the soldier is thus exalted above every other by force of circumstances, what wonder that the Germans should indulge their passion for hero-worship to an extent unknown in all modern history?
The American who passes through France and Germany finds this question a very interesting one: How long will it be before these two countries will be fighting again? He takes it for granted that they will fight some time. All the signs point to that conclusion. He sees troops incessantly drilling in all parts of Germany and France. If he can read the native papers, he finds in almost every column some allusion more or less covert, but unmistakably unfriendly in tone. If he inspects the rows of yellow-covered pamphlets at the railway book-stalls, he will be sure to see “Avant la Bataille,” or “Pas Encore,” or the spirited replies in German, of which those and other sensational volumes have been the occasion. Works like these are multiplying on both sides of the frontier. They seem to be pilot balloons sent up to try the winds. It is true that the authors are unofficial persons. They do not speak for nations. But they do, nevertheless, succeed in straining the relations between countries which require for the preservation of peace the observance of mutual forbearance, if hearty good-will can not be expected of them.
A great many Frenchmen have made no concealment of their burning desire for revenge ever since the war of 1870-’71. But in my previous visits to Europe I have never found the Germans so outspoken on this ticklish subject as at present. Every one with whom I have conversed believes that the renewal of the struggle is not far off. No reason is given for this belief. It is one of faith, resting on portents in the skies. There does not seem to be, in Germany, the least doubt of the sequel, if France, single-handed, should attempt to recover what she has lost. But there is some anxiety to know whether she would have Russia as an ally. In that event the Germans are counting on the support of Austria and Italy. These, however, are questions of the future, and there we will leave them, with the single remark that the physical and mental health of Bismarck and Moltke, as trusted counselors of the indomitable Kaiser, constitutes the best present security against any surprise in diplomacy or war at the expense of Germany.
I never saw in any one place in France as many French cannon as are packed in the great court-yard of the arsenal of Berlin. They line the sides of the quadrangle, and point to the center. Each of these pieces bears some terrible name—“Le Vengeur,” “La Terreur,” “Le Destructeur,” “Le Volcan,” “Le Borreau,” and the like—which now read strangely by the light of history. Some show ugly scars, like bull-dogs gashed in fighting. A frequent mark is the tearing away of a lip of the muzzle, the effect of German shot. Others have deep scores in the sides, where the balls struck them and glanced off. They are mostly bronze of slender, graceful shapes, and profusely ornamented with arabesque raised patterns. They have a certain Gallic look of trimness and taste, and, if they failed to frighten off the German invader, they still survive as works of art in the German capital, and fulfill the peaceful mission of amusing the Berlinese. I roved among these trophies, and patted them on the back, stopping occasionally to decipher the date of their making. The year is cast in bold figures near the mouth of the gun, and is often accompanied by the name of the sovereign in whose reign it was born. There are specimens dating as far back as Louis XIV; others are marked “Napoleon,” “Louis XVIII,” “Louis Philippe,” and the larger number “Napoleon III.” As I saunter among these grim souvenirs of the wreck of the Second Empire and the terrible humiliation of France, I wonder how a French soldier would feel if he were present among this throng of exulting Germans, with whom the exhibition is a treat inexhaustibly popular. But then, of course, no Frenchman visiting Berlin could bear the idea of witnessing these proofs of his country’s disaster.
As this thought passed through my mind, I looked up from a long, handsome gun—“Le Tourbillon”—which I had been inspecting, and noticed a martial face near me. It had piercing black eyes, a clipped, white mustache, a prominent chin, and instantly reminded me of the portrait of Marshal Pelissier, Duc de Malakoff. The lips were grimly set, and there was no mistaking the frown in those corrugated lines of the brow which the civilian’s hat did not conceal. Caught unawares, this remarkable face showed shame, rage, hate, and revenge, or I am no judge of the human countenance. But the moment the stranger’s eyes met mine, this expression of the passions vanished. He smiled forcedly, and whispered, “Pardon, monsieur,” then moved hastily away, as if to avoid conversation or observation. The incident impressed me deeply. He was certainly a Frenchman, perhaps an officer of high rank, who, while visiting Berlin and out of his uniform, could not resist the temptation to see what use the victors were making of all the spoils of Sedan, Strasburg, and Metz, and of those venerable trophies of Waterloo which fell into Blucher’s hands. He was too young for old Pelissier; and, besides, that hero of the Crimea had been dead about two years.
After glancing at the immense display of other cannon, home-made and captured, old and new, the apparatus for mining and sapping, the elaborate miniature plans of fortresses and (most curious of all) the topographical models of historic battlefields, with tin troops in position on both sides, just as they were drawn up at some crisis of the conflict—all these on the vast lower floor of the arsenal—I climbed an easy flight of stairs, and found myself in another hall of trophies. The objects here exhibited were French muskets and French standards. There were enough chassepots to equip a division of troops. A Frenchman himself, if he could dismiss his patriotic sensibilities, must admire the highly artistic way in which the Germans have grouped these shining weapons. Thousands of them are set in racks, and look like organ-pipes, recalling Longfellow’s lines on “The Arsenal at Springfield”; others are displayed against the walls as spokes of a wheel, as triangles, as pentagons, and other geometrical forms, beautiful in their perfect regularity. A committee of French artists could not have treated the material more effectively.
Above and all around droop the flags of conquered France. Some are old and rent by bullets. I read among their folds such names as “Jena,” “Austerlitz,” “Borodino,” “Alma,” “Inkermann,” “Solferino.” Others are new and untorn and unstained. Their fresh, tricolored hues make the long gallery gay as I look down its perspective. What would the French officer say (to himself) if he could gaze upon these flags of his country which now serve only to decorate the enemy’s arsenal? There he is again by my side. His face is pale. His lips pinch each other. His eyes shoot fire. He is staring intently at a poor old flag in tatters—a mere rag—on which I spell out the word “Marengo.” No wonder his patriotic soul is cruelly disturbed by the spectacle! How can he endure it? As I ask this question, the object of it is suddenly aware that I am looking at him. His eyes again meet mine, his face mechanically becomes smooth if not pleasant, and his lips move as if murmuring, “Pardon, monsieur!” in apology for not more successfully commanding his emotions. Then he disappears among the crowd—there is always a crowd at the arsenal—as before, and that is my last sight of this mysterious personage.
During one of our rides in the outskirts of Berlin we came upon a regimental drill. It was taking place in a large, perfectly flat and dry field or parade-ground. We sat comfortably in our carriage close by, and watched the operations. An entire regiment was present, with all its officers in command, and fine-looking men they were, from the colonel down to the sous-lieutenant. It may be largely a question of clothes. Perhaps the long frock-coat, with two rows of buttons on the breast, and the spiked helmet, should be credited with part of the effect. The bobtail, white coats of Austria, and the short, blue tunics and red breeches of France, somehow detract from the impressiveness which should adhere to the followers of Mars. And the Pickelhaube of the Germans is unquestionably more warlike than the French kepi, or the cloth cap of the Austrians awkwardly set on the back of the head, or the plumed, top-heavy, round hat of the Italian bersaglieri. The German officers, for one reason or another, are more soldierly of aspect than any of their European brethren in arms. The studious and impartial observer must also give the German privates the palm over all others of the rank and file, the English troops always excepted. They look healthier, larger, stronger, with more staying power, than the common soldiers of Austria, France, or Italy.
These officers and these men are machines with souls. We are looking at some wonderful automatic exhibition. Every arm and every leg of every soldier responds to the orders as if pulled by invisible wires. When they march in company columns, the line along the waist-buckles of the men is perfectly straight. When they ground their muskets, a thousand strike the earth with one thud. To me the most remarkable part of the show is the goose-step parade, never seen outside of Germany. It is a survival of the great Frederick’s iron system. The men throw out one leg after another from the hip-joint, without a bend at the knee. There is absolute uniformity in this strange combined movement. A line of puppets operated by steam could not perform it better. A Prussian officer would take that as the highest compliment, his purpose being to impart to these thinking bodies before him all the formalism of a machine complete in every part, thoroughly oiled and working faultlessly. The goose-step parade is the pride of his heart. The fierce colonel, who sits on his coal-black horse at a little distance, and watches his regiment with merciless eyes, beams his silent approval as they all stride toward him, with their thousands of stiff legs rising and falling together as one.
At Munich, on the way to Berlin, I had seen Bavarian soldiers taking their gymnastic exercise out-of-doors. The same severe physical discipline is enforced upon all the conscripts throughout the empire; but it is not often that the tourist catches them in the act of training every muscle in succession for the exigencies of a campaign. By looking over a fence which separated me from the Munich drill-ground, I could watch the performances at close quarters. There, within a rod of me, were tough young fellow’s playing all sorts of games. They were climbing ropes and letting themselves down head-foremost. They were jumping over bars four or five feet high without touching. They were scaling barricades fifteen or twenty feet high by mounting on the shoulders of comrades. They were crossing imaginary streams on narrow planks. Some of them, with wire masks and iron breastplates, were fiercely lunging at one another with bayonets on the ends of muskets. The sharp point was covered with a wad of stuffed leather. Hundreds of men not thus engaged were marching incessantly up and down the grounds and going through the manual of arms, under the severest of tutors. When I had looked upon these men and these games about half an hour, I understood better than before why the Germans are formidable in war.
The Emperor and Empress were at Ems in mid-July, the time of my visit. Parliament was not in session. The opera-houses were closed. The month was in no sense part of “the season.” And yet the hotels and pensions were full and prices “way up.” It is worth while to know the special reason of this. Berlin was holding a great exhibition of pictures. It purported to take in “the world,” but I can not admit this claim, for America was not at all represented in the long galleries through which I paced in the vain hope of finding some scrap from the brush of a fellow-countryman. None of the official persons whom I consulted knew or cared anything about it. One or two of them had a vague impression that some American artist had sent in something after the catalogue had been printed, but could not “spot” it for me. So I patriotically hunted for myself, and after much searching gave it up. Whether our artists did not care to send coals to Newcastle, or whether the managers of this immense picture-show had forgotten to invite, or had declined to accept, offerings from the United States, I can not say. Perhaps the jealousy and feeling of resentment which the American art tariff has provoked in Germany may explain the phenomenon. Excepting for the regrettable absence of contributions from America, the Ausstellung of 1886 wanted for nothing. No better collection of modern European paintings has ever been made. It was this that packed Berlin in mid-July. There is a lesson just here which should be taken home by every city in which ambition and enterprise are not yet extinct. Great galleries of fine pictures are unfailing attractions.
Perhaps, when New York has doubled her supply of Croton, she will provide a fountain worthy of the name. Nothing seems to captivate a crowd quite as effectually as a big jet of water. It must be fired into the air straight and high. It makes little difference whether the stream is thick or thin at the nozzle. At the Interlaken Casino there is a slender fountain of this kind. Its topmost drops tremble some hundreds of feet above the ground. No one dreams of quitting the scene till the water ceases to play, and I believe the spectators would stay there all night if it were not turned off. At Dresden, behind the Zwinger, there is a jet of far less pretensions. But, while it is playing, everybody from far and near flocks around to see it. Visiting the park of Sans Souci, not far from Berlin, I found the great fountain just as irresistible as all of its kind have proved everywhere else. The by-standers never tired of watching the sparkling column as it shot aloft. They would hardly move out of the way, even when its spray drenched them as the wind swayed the flashing summit to and fro. Nature and art have combined to make the old pleasure-ground of Potsdam lovely. But there is nothing in it as beautiful as its fountain.
The linden-trees in the great street upon which I look as I write, have shed almost all their blossoms. The wind brings with it the faintest trace of a perfume which is delicious when not too strong. The renowned Unter den Linden must be the paradise of thoroughfares when its long double lines of trees are in their full flower. Its noble palaces, museums, universities, and other public buildings make it attractive at all times. But its wealth of lindens is its unique charm in the summer. Only I am a little disappointed not to find among the leafy rows a single specimen of the tree as high as that which is so common in Southern Germany. But, in years, perhaps, they will grow to be as lofty as their predecessors in the same street which were cut down in their old age and decrepitude.