So we salute our glorious dead, and who is ungenerous enough in such an hour to withhold respect from the brave men among our foes who fell in the service of their country doing their duty as simply as those whose names and memories we cherish? “So long as men are doing their duty, even if it be greatly under a misapprehension, they are leading pattern lives,” writes Robert Louis Stevenson. Strife and bitterness belong to the things temporal. We may rest assured that the heroes of all races who meet and greet each other in Valhalla will drink without hatred in their hearts from the cup of reconciliation.
Felix von Hartmann, Cardinal Archbishop of Cologne, is dead. For a week he has lain in state in the crypt of the Gereonskirche, watched by day and by night by monks and nuns who pray unceasingly for the repose of his soul. Round the bier ablaze with candles pours a steady stream of spectators and mourners. The faithful have come in their thousands to bid farewell to the chief shepherd of the flock. For the Archbishop of Cologne is the greatest ecclesiastical dignitary in Germany. Cologne is the premier See, and in old days the rank of its Archbishop stood second only to that of the Emperor; Cardinal von Hartmann’s death must have stirred some painful memories in the breast of the Amerongen exile. Emperor and Cardinal, despite their differences of faith, were firm friends. Felix von Hartmann was a Prussian of the Prussians, and united by many personal ties to the Kaiser. Even in death the face had lost nothing of its pride and haughtiness. He looked every inch of a Prince of the Church and a ruler of men as he lay at the last on his bier. The gorgeous vestments, the pastoral staff, the great ring worn on the red gloves covering the nerveless hands: all this was impressive and dignified. But it was not a countenance even in the great calm of death which bore much trace of the milder Christian virtues.
Cardinal von Hartmann took a violently pro-national line about the war. Race hatreds and animosities were fanned, not discouraged by him. His correspondence with Cardinal Mercier shows how perfunctory were his efforts as regards any alleviation of the lot of prisoners or the civilian victims of the struggle. Bitterly anti-English, the proud Prussian Cardinal must have suffered a full measure of humiliation when he lived to see his cathedral city in British Occupation. Some Tommies unacquainted with Catholic ritual, who saw him in the street one day wearing a mitre and greeted him as Father Christmas, roused his special ire. A man of war rather than a man of peace, the British authorities were under no obligations to him as regards any assistance with their task. Now he lies dead it falls to their lot, by an irony specially cruel in the Archbishop’s case, to keep order at his funeral.
In old days, so my Fräulein tells me, the funeral of an Archbishop of Cologne was a tremendous event. The Emperor in all probability would have attended in person. The occasion would have lent itself to a great military display, soldiers lining the route, the Prussian Guard adding lustre to the scene. Shorn of all its pomp and ceremony must the occasion necessarily be in view of the Occupation. But it was the weather which conspired to make a melancholy event still more depressing. Never have I seen a more dismal ceremony than that of the Archbishop’s funeral, which was held, of course, within the Dom. Rain and sleet descended mercilessly, while squalls of wind swept the square. The long procession of priests, monks, nuns, students, and children was wet and draggled. The white-robed choristers and the acolytes carrying ineffectual candles were no less dripping. Particularly miserable looked a detachment of unfortunate orphan children whose thin clothes and shoes were soaked by the penetrating rain. The monks and nuns and other ecclesiastics had provided themselves sensibly with umbrellas, but withal the wonderful vestments with their lace and embroidery must have suffered severely. There is always a wind on the Dom Platz, and to-day the angry gusts led to many struggles between umbrellas and their holders. In default of soldiers the numerous student guilds in their many-coloured uniforms had turned out in force. They alone with their banners struck a note which varied the drabness of the scene. But the pitiless rain beat down on them and caused the gay flags to hang faded and colourless. It was as though some wind devil had established itself opposite the main entrance of the cathedral and was bent on plaguing the Archbishop’s mourners. Banner after banner was caught by the wind and overthrown at that point; portly ecclesiastics were swept off their feet; nuns held on despairingly to their great white caps which threatened to fly away. Despite the leaden sky and pouring rain the square was crowded with spectators.
Keeping the line were a few British Military Police mounted on their fine grey horses. England is not given to pompous advertisements of her strength, and the might of the Empire is symbolised rather than represented by this handful of men. At the head of the whole procession, as it wound its way singing solemn chants from the Gereonskirche to the cathedral, rode a detachment of the same mounted police. As the familiar grey horses appeared, who could fail to reflect on the ironical staging of events in which Fate so often seems to delight? It is not only that the accounts are balanced. A spirit of fine mockery appears not infrequently over the audit. That the police of the detested enemy power should clear the way when Cardinal von Hartmann of all men was carried to his last resting-place, is a circumstance to give pause to the proud when life flows apparently in prosperous channels.
At last came the modest black bier, drawn by two decrepit-looking horses, in which the coffin of the Cardinal was placed. As was becoming in a Prince of the Church, there were no flowers or decorations of any kind. A group of high ecclesiastics surrounded the bier, and the melancholy chanting of the choristers, together with the prayers of the priests, rose like incense to the grey unfriendly heaven. Everything was wet and cold and drab and shabby. Perhaps the most dismal touch in a dismal ceremonial was the unusual sight of two German officers in full uniform who walked behind the coffin. They had come by permission from the Bridgehead to do honour to the Archbishop. These forlorn-looking representatives of the broken military power, what bitter memories the situation must hold for them as they find themselves face to face with the khaki police keeping order in Cologne!
The bier halted before the west door of the Dom. Black-robed monks carried the coffin swiftly up the steps. As it passed within the great main portal the thick black line of the spectators broke at last, and a vast crowd of people poured across the square and followed the procession through the open doors into the cathedral. The crowd was so dense that you might have thought all Cologne was on the square. Yet the vast Dom had no difficulty in absorbing the mass of men and women who flocked up the steps and disappeared within. When shortly afterwards I made my own way across to the cathedral, there was still ample room in the nave to move about freely. The choir was hung in black and silver and myriad electric lights defined the exquisite outlines of the pointed arches. The coffin rested under a black and silver catafalque. Everything was severe and dignified without one tawdry note. The solemn funeral mass was very lengthy. A brother bishop preached about the virtues and qualities of the dead Cardinal. Then at a given moment all the bells—those that remain of the cathedral—were tolled, and from every church in Cologne bells tolled in reply. The coffin had been lowered to its resting-place near the High Altar; Felix von Hartmann had vanished forever from the scene of his labours. The weather, whimsical to the last, had changed its mind while the service was going on. I came out into bright sunshine on the cathedral steps. Having ruined the procession and soaked the pious, it was now pleased to be fine.
Unfortunately I was not in Cologne for the more cheerful ceremony of the enthronement of the new Archbishop, Dr. Schultz. Cardinal von Hartmann’s successor is at present a somewhat unknown quantity in public affairs. But if he lacks the commanding appearance and aristocratic features of his predecessor, Dr. Schultz is in many ways a more attractive personality. His face is wise and benevolent; a face which gives the impression not only of goodness but of good sense. Republican rule in Germany must result in many changes in the relations of the Church and State. Hot controversy already rages about various points, in particular the burning question of religious education in the schools. That men of wisdom and moderation should hold high positions in Germany is a matter of importance, not only to their own country but to the Allies as well. Honesty and goodwill on the part of all concerned are essential to the growth of a better understanding. If the new Archbishop of Cologne can make some contribution to this end, he will have deserved well of his country and his church.