The future of Europe and of Western civilisation largely turns on our power to place these discrepant facts side by side, to recognise that both are true and then to strike some balance between them. It is extraordinarily difficult to judge what the incidence of brutality was among the Germans during the war; how far it was natural, how far deliberately stimulated by those in authority. Our own gallant Hun hunters, who glowed with patriotic pride and satisfaction over the persecution of some wretched hairdresser or inoffensive nursery governess, are a sorry proof as to the ease with which vile instincts can be cultivated and spread. The overwhelming majority of the English in Cologne arrive with rigid ready-made ideas about the country and people, and they do not part from them willingly. They feel it below their dignity to study the Boche dispassionately, to watch him at work, at play, at prayer. But if we are concerned in this distracted world not to rest perpetually in the barren measures of strife, then it may be worth while to consider dispassionately what qualities the Germans possess which hold out some hope for the future. From this aspect it seems to me that Cologne Cathedral and its congregations are worthy of attention. The heart of every man is an altar, neglected, desecrated perhaps, but never forfeiting its right to serve the divine purpose. The sacred fire may burn low, but so long as one votary remains, holden though his eyes may be, the fire can never know extinction. A spark from heaven may fall again upon the ashes so that they blaze upwards into a pure light of truth and knowledge. Is it for us to say that no such spark can fall, that the shrine must remain forever unworthy?
CHAPTER IV
ON THE DOM PLATZ
If the Dom is the central point of the religious life of Cologne, the Dom Platz is no less the central point of official and ceremonial life in the town. During the last eighteen months the massive towers of the cathedral have looked down on strange and, to German eyes, unwelcome scenes. It is all part of the German temperament to have a great affection for reviews, and parades, and processions. What is obvious and pompous makes a real appeal. When in old days the Uhlans clattered down the street and sabres were rattled, the average German standing meekly on the pavement was filled with pride at this visible demonstration of “Weltmacht.” Among the minor trials of the Occupation, the absence of the great military displays common under the old régime has been a sorrow to the natives of Cologne. One morning a military band struck up under the windows where I was talking with my Fräulein. She nearly jumped from her seat and I saw her eyes fill with tears: “We had such wonderful bands in old days,” she said sadly. But the large majority of her fellow-citizens are less sensitive. “Quand on n’a pas ce que l’on aime il faut aimer ce que l’on a”—a sensible doctrine on which apparently the Boche acts. For his habit of turning up in large numbers at every function held by the English on the cathedral square is sufficiently surprising.
Can we imagine a German parade held in front of Buckingham Palace to which the inhabitants of London would flock? We should, full of rage and mortification, be burying our heads and ears in the remotest quarters of the suburbs. But the Germans, in this as in other respects so strangely constituted, have apparently no feelings on the subject. They attend in large numbers and follow the proceedings with deep interest. On occasions when I have been among the crowd myself, I have not seen or heard any signs of hostility. In early days the conscript Army of the Occupation was hardly up to the standard which Prussianism had exacted of its legions. But criticism at least was never audible. There have been reviews in later times on the Dom Platz which could hold their own with any of the past. Often have I longed to see what was going on inside the shaved square heads of the spectators as the British troops marched by. What were the Germans thinking about these trained and disciplined men belonging to the conquering Army they had been taught to despise? For how great a gamut of failure and disillusion these khaki-clad ranks must stand!
The Tanks are always impressive as they lumber along, menacing as some prehistoric monster. They must be unpleasant objects to meet on the battlefield if your side does not happen to hold the counter to them. Many German eyes follow them as they waddle about the square. In lighter vein, the Highlanders, as always abroad, excite a great deal of interest. “We saw your Scottish troops,” is the invariable remark after a review, and then follow endless inquiries as to the why and wherefore of such extraordinary clothes. A ring of Germans at a race meeting collected round the very excellent band of the Black Watch and applauding the music is a memory which survives. In the early days of the Occupation it was an order to salute the colours and remove hats when God Save the King was played. But though the order has long since been repealed the habit persists. The large majority of German hats come off when the National Anthem begins. With a different government and ideals a people so tractable might have been led in a direction widely different from that which has overwhelmed themselves and others in ruin.
Many striking ceremonies have been held in the Dom Platz under English rule. Great figures and great names concerned with the making of history have played their parts in them. We have welcomed the generals to whom France owes her salvation—Joffre, who came unofficially and seemed a little bored at being shown off; Foch, the conqueror, who arrived early one cold spring morning only to find Germans, anxious to have a look at him, clinging figuratively to every crocket of the cathedral. Photographers are busy on these occasions; very interesting is a picture of Marshal Joffre and Sir William Robertson standing alone together on the north terrace of the cathedral. The steps were strewn at the moment with unhewn blocks of stone brought there for restoration purposes. The stone, solid and rugged, seemed to symbolise the characters of both men—soldiers not easily moved from their purpose or their duty. We have received the Army Council in state, and the politicians have looked at the crowd and the crowd at the politicians. Mr. Winston Churchill—grey frock coat and top hat to match—has been duly admired. We have commemorated great events and decorated our brothers in arms among the Allied Armies. Then on the morrow, in sharp contrast to the military display; may follow some great Catholic ceremonial, wholly German in character.
Religious processions lend much variety and colour to street life in Cologne. Throughout the summer months each parish has a procession every Sunday morning; long rows of priests, nuns, children, and parishioners walk through the streets carrying banners, flowers, and emblems. The central point of the procession is the canopy under which the priest carries the Host. Red-robed acolytes swing censers as they move slowly along. Altars are erected at convenient halting points in the streets, where prayers are said and hymns chanted. The pavement is strewn with green boughs, houses are decorated, and the faithful erect shrines with crucifixes, sacred images, candles, flowers, etc. These local festivals culminate in the most famous of all Cologne processions—that of Corpus Christi. On that day every ecclesiastic, great and small, from the Archbishop downwards, as well as every Catholic guild and society, take part in an elaborate and impressive tour of the town. The vestments are of a gorgeous character. The uniforms worn by the guilds are of quaint design and many-coloured. The centuries roll backwards, and for a brief space the finger of the Middle Ages touches the modern city. The procession concludes with a service in the cathedral, and the great company of people winding across the square with banners and emblems and passing up the steps suggests some mediaeval picture. Religious processions are the only German pageants which survive to-day on the Dom Platz. One event alone on the square, brief but memorable, has concerned conquerors and conquered alike—the first commemoration of the Armistice on 11th November 1919. Yet of all my recollections of the square it remains the most impressive.
A bitter morning with a blizzard driving across the river; snowflakes drift disconsolately over the square, as though doubtful of trying conclusions with the sombre pile of the cathedral surveying the scene with gloomy aloofness. Under foot dirt and slush. From every corner of the square whistles a wind which pierces through furs and coats. Yet the usual crowd of German spectators are there, pressing as is their wont on the ranks of the men in khaki who line the square. No less crowded are the cathedral steps, on which stand a row of trumpeters. I came late, to find to my surprise that my neighbours are nearly all Germans. In spite of the dreadful weather there is little movement among the crowd. People speak under their breath, as though in the presence of some great solemnity. English and Germans alike, we are thinking of our dead. For a moment we draw near to one another in the consciousness of common sorrow, common loss, common pride. The snow drives in our faces, the merciless wind searches out the shivering crowd cowering under its umbrellas.
Then the hour strikes, and a word of command rings out from the half-obliterated square, where the khaki lines can be seen dimly through the driving snow. Umbrellas are lowered; cruel though the weather, German hats are all removed. A lad standing near me, obviously cold and shivering, shows signs of keeping his cap on; an older German man has it off in a moment. The trumpeters step forward on the cathedral steps, and in a silence broken only by the moaning of the wind the Last Post is heard. For most British folks those familiar notes, which salute the sinking sun and say farewell to the dead, are at all times full of poignant memory. But never surely have they been heard under conditions more poignant than in the heart of an enemy town on the first anniversary of the Armistice. Is it two minutes or two hours that we stand in that unbroken silence—no sound, no murmur, no movement from the dense crowd? For the men and women on the square, be they British or German, what memories are packed into those tense moments! The snow falls fitfully: again a word of command is heard: the brief ceremony is over.