We passed through the low door into the hall or Kneipe. It is a handsome room decorated with flags, shields and foils. The furniture is dark and very richly carved. At the farther end the ceiling is dome-shaped and frescoed with the arms of the corps. Here the students meet evenings. The other rooms of the house are far less elaborate, and almost all contain pictures of students duelling, for in order to enter this exclusive club one must first of all be a good fighter.
The bowling-alley was a failure as a bowling-alley, but as a picture gallery it was a great success. Around the room ran a double row of students' photographs, about five inches in height. There were all sorts of students and they never failed to have the scarred side of their faces towards the camera. Each wore the cap of their corps.
"Now I must take you into the main house. This is only the ell, you know," said our guide.
"And—and do you fight there?" asked Mütterchen hesitatingly. I think she had visions of walking in on a crowd of masked creatures fiercely plunging at one another with swords.
Herr Martens laughed in hearty German fashion. "There is a small room up six flights in a house not far away," he said. "We hire it especially for fighting. You know that duelling of any sort is strictly prohibited by the police. But if one isn't a good fighter he cannot join the corps, so of course we have to have a place where we can fight secretly."
I glanced at his deeply scarred cheek and remarked that I had seen several students on the Parada Sunday wearing tightly fitting black skull-caps.
"That is because they have head injuries," he explained. Then he added proudly, "I have forty-two scars."
Mütterchen gasped. I endeavored to look properly impressed.
"But what do you find to fight about in these peaceful times?" I asked, after what I considered to be a reverential pause.
"Oh, anything serves as a pretext," he answered, quite frankly. "The students are always quarrelling over something or other. It's rather good fun to settle it by swords."