CHAPTER IICOLOGNE AND THE OCCUPATION
Duringthe war we thought and talked with anguish daily of that line of trenches stretching from Switzerland to the sea where men suffered and died. Even the most unimaginative were stirred to emotion by stories of the strange semi-subterranean existence which modern conditions of warfare had imposed on the armies of Europe. To-day another line stretches for a distance nearly as great along the banks of the Rhine, but the men composing it are no longer compelled to dwell as troglodytes. The German word for Armistice, “Waffenstillstand,” literally “the standing still of the weapons,” expresses very graphically the conditions under which the Armies of Occupation live. The line has moved east from the horrors and desolation of devastated France to the rich provinces of the left bank of the Rhine. Cannons are silent; bombs drop no more. But the weapons, though standing still, are there, and determine the strange existence which we Allies lead among a conquered people.
Along the line of the Rhine, therefore, lie the armies of the conquering powers in a peace their guns have ensured and maintain. The French hold the southern end with their headquarters at Mainz, and Wiesbaden, most attractive of spas, as a centre of refreshment in the lighter moments of life. Next come the Americans at Coblenz, then the English at Cologne, finally the Belgians in thenorth. As time has gone on the English occupation has become smaller and smaller, while the French has increased proportionately. Nobody quite knows what position the Americans hold at Coblenz, for America has not signed the Peace Treaty, and her forces remain in theory entirely independent of obligations which apply to the signatory powers. But, thanks to the wise and statesmanlike guidance of the American Commander-in-Chief, General Allen, an anomalous position has in practice worked without friction.
As for the life we lead in Occupied Germany, certainly during the early days very few people at home were able to appreciate the measure of its comfort and security. On returning to England for the first time on a visit from Cologne, I was met by many anxious inquiries from friends and relatives. Was it really safe for me to be in such a place? Of course I never walked about the town alone? Did the Germans spit at me? Perhaps out of fear they repressed that natural inclination, but of course they were as insolent as they dared under the circumstances? Had we machine guns at every street corner ready to fire? Others in the same breath, both militant and inconsequent—of course I never spoke to the brutes, but naturally I laid it across them if I did ... it was to be hoped I had lost no opportunity of rubbing in their enormities. Two pictures out of many rose before my mind as I listened to these remarks....
A hot August evening in Cologne. A large crowd fills the Zoological Gardens, where an open-air concert is being held. Singers from Cologne and other opera houses have given us selections of German, French, and Italian music in a spirit entirely catholic. Equally catholicis their reception by the large and appreciative cosmopolitan crowd. In front of the open-air stage, Germans, French, English, and Americans sit side by side at little tables drinking beer or Rhine wine. The music is heard in complete silence, even Thomas Atkins compelled thereto by thegenius loci. On the terrace of the neighbouring restaurant dinner is proceeding. Numerous German families, the girls in muslin frocks and summer hats, are out together for the evening. At a table next to ours a small group of men, unmistakably soldiers, are dining together. They are all in plain clothes, but two of them wear in their buttonholes the minute, scarcely visible black-and-white ribbon of the Iron Cross. The German prima-donna sings the well-known air fromLa Bohème. She is loudly applauded by all present, by no one more energetically than by a French officer sitting near me. As darkness comes on, illuminations add their gaiety to the scene, pink and white lights shining among the dark leaves. A peaceful, happy gathering, with laughter, and music, and beer—the music and the beer both of excellent quality. Forget for a moment that the uniforms are khaki, not grey, put back the clock five years, and who would suspect the tragic bonds of blood and strife in which the company are united? Is the war a dream or a nightmare? Is Europe white with the bones of the millions who have died; is Germany itself staggering on the edge of ruin and starvation? If so, how can this musical fête, this peaceful bourgeois gathering, be possible; the enemies of yesterday eating and drinking and applauding side by side as though nothing had happened? What does it all mean? What is one doing there oneself?...
Again: near the house in which we live a chronic fair goes on every afternoon. Swing-boats, roundabouts, shooting-galleries, all the various side-shows of an English country feast are here. Drinks, ice-cream, and refreshments are no less to the fore. Music, that monotonous braying music which always accompanies a merry-go-round, goes on mechanically for many hours. Here Thomas Atkins gathers in force. The thrifty Boche, in fact, has created the whole fair for his entertainment at a modest price. It is characteristic of the race that they not only accept the British Occupation with entire acquiescence, but endeavour by every means in their power to turn it to good account. Notices in English explain the nature of the side-shows. All prices are marked in plain figures. Reprehensible though it may be, Gretchen not infrequently is to be seen on the roundabouts and in the swing-boats with the said Thomas. Picture-postcards, trinkets, souvenirs, are all for sale. The shooting-galleries are crowded by soldiers still anxious to let off their piece in a more harmless fashion than on the scarred battle-line far away to the west. The Germans are out to amuse, the English to be amused. Perfect good temper animates both buyers and sellers. Introspection is hardly the hall-mark of the soldier in the ranks, and the English lads who lounge about from booth to booth never give a thought to the amazing situation in which they find themselves. Many of them on demobilisation leave Cologne with real regret. It is a clean, decent place, with more than decent beer. After all Fritz is not such a bad fellow.... In the long and varied history of Britain’s rule overseas has the Pax Britannica ever held sway under conditions so strange as these? As darkness falls the fairis lit up by great flares, and the scene grows more and more animated. Cologne, with large resources in the shape of a cheap fuel supply in its immediate neighbourhood, is well off both as regards light and heat. But at last all is silent. Curfew has rung for the Germans, the Last Post for the English. That desperate tune repeated for hours by the merry-go-round is mercifully at an end for the night. To-morrow it will all begin again, and so on day after day....
What are we to make of the civility of these people among whom we live as conquerors? How can it be reconciled with their arrogance and brutality when they had the upper hand in France and Belgium? These middle-class families, these quiet, respectable working-class people enjoying their simple pleasures, what part did they take in the insults heaped on prisoners and captives? Did these parents and children rejoice and cheer when submarines sent other women and children to their deaths? What kind of conscience do they carry for the war? How can they outwardly at least bear so little grudge against the people who have beaten them? With whom does the responsibility for the war rest? During the struggle many of us would have vowed Burke was at fault in his great axiom that you cannot indict a nation. Germany seemed to us then to be the very spirit of wickedness incarnate. Here face to face it seems more difficult. What baffling chameleon-like quality do these people possess, that they can outrage the conscience of the whole world and yet give one the impression that as individuals many of them are kindly, decent folk?
The riddle seems insoluble, and I do not pretend to have any key to it. German mentality is so constitutedthat it is violent and arrogant in success, chastened and polite in defeat. That the whole nation is consciously playing a part seems hard to believe. They are too clumsy in mind and body for so continuous an effort of deception, too thick about the ankles and too thick about the wits. Some of the English in Cologne call them servile. Personally the adjective hardly seems to me to meet the case. But they are curiously correct, even courteous. I went about Cologne, on arrival, Baedeker in hand, as any pre-war tourist might have done. Both in trams and trains I received, more than once, small civilities from Germans who put me on my way seeing that I was a stranger. As an English woman I marvelled at their civility. It was the same in the shops. The family in whose house we were billeted on my first arrival, were, I am sure, far less embarrassed by my advent than I was at the prospect of using their rooms. I was haunted by a sense of the rage with which I should have endured the presence of a German woman in my house. But after a day or two I ceased to have scruples about a situation which apparently did not trouble them. It was a relief to accept their attitude to us, as it might be, of hosts and paying guests to whose comfort they desired to contribute. Daily we exchanged small civilities. Naturally we were careful to leave no ragged edges in such a situation. Often I speculated on the transformation scene which might have resulted from a change in our respective positions. The old housekeeper had the hall-mark of the Prussian on her. I should be sorry to be within her reach as a prisoner. But the lady of the house, who had lost two sons in the war, appeared to be a kindly soul. She was a good musician, and I furtively and unsuccessfullyransacked the music she put at my disposal to find a copy of the Hymn of Hate.
A pleasant Fräulein comes to talk German with me daily, and from her, directly and indirectly, I have learnt much which interests me about the German attitude. I was fortunate in the chance which threw us together, for she is an attractive, broad-minded girl, singularly free from prejudice and bitterness. During an acquaintance extending over many months we have learnt to know and like each other, and have long since forgotten we are technically enemies. My Fräulein has lived both in England and France and has friends in both countries. Her lover and her brother were killed in the war. Another brother survives, more dead than alive. The hunger pinch was severe in the Rhineland, which was always better off than other parts of Germany. Of air raids she spoke with unmistakable horror. Bombs had fallen in her near neighbourhood on one occasion, so she told me; it was a case of spending every night in the cellar. All this came as a surprise to me, because not a brick seems out of place in Cologne. Still more was I interested by her denunciations of evils which sounded strangely familiar. Profiteering, it was scandalous what had gone on! All the horrible people who had made money out of the war and the sufferings of the nation. The new rich were a disgrace. The Government had been very slack in dealing with them. And then the skulkers, the shameful young men who went to earth in reserved occupations and offices and did not go to fight. Food? They had starved in the towns, so ineffective was the system of distribution. The country people who grew the food took care not to part with it. The new Government? She shrugged hershoulders in despair. Since the Revolution things had gone from bad to worse. Every one was discontented, especially all the work-people, who spend their time demanding higher wages and shorter hours. And servants, there were none left. No girls would go out to work; they had all been spoilt by high wages in munition works.
As I listened I rubbed my eyes, and wondered if I were sitting in London or Cologne. How often at home had one listened to complaints of this very type about the shortcomings of the working-classes, always pointed by the remark that, however wicked, the efficient Hun Government managed these things much better in Germany. And yet apparently every complaint with which we were familiar in England was also in full blast here. Always with one great difference, to which I must refer again in another chapter: the Germans for years were hungry, and they fought the war with starvation slowly eating out their hearts.
A remark current in England, and sometimes heard even on the Rhine, is to the effect that the Germans do not know they are beaten. Do not know they are beaten? Should we know we were beaten if great districts of our country were occupied by enemy armies; if we had German officers and their wives and families quartered in our houses; if our officials had to take their orders from occupying Prussians; if all our barracks and public buildings and places of amusement were taken over; if the opera and theatre had to conform to German rules; if the tennis courts, the golf club, the polo ground, the racecourse were all monopolised by Germans, and we obtained by an act of grace on the part of our conquerors such privileges as they might think well to bestow on us? If thatwere our fate, should we labour under much doubt as to the hard facts of the situation?
Superficially it is true that life seems to flow in very normal channels in Cologne. But, in fact, the country is beaten flat and cannot at the moment stand alone. However bitter the cup of humiliation, better the presence of a conqueror who has kept order, provided food, administered even-handed justice, and dealt fairly between man and man, than the horrors of hunger and revolution. As for the French, it cannot be expected that France with the memories of 1870 and 1914 burnt deep into her very marrow, France dragged twice through the fire, can approach the tasks of occupation in the same spirit as the more detached Britons who have less to forget. Set an Englishman to administer the country of his worst enemy, and that country at once becomes an administrative problem, to be run on the best possible lines. The Watch on the Rhine yet again has proved the half-unconscious genius of our race for government, which is at one and the same time just, firm, and sensible.
We have been very fortunate in our military administration. Those in command are able, far-sighted men, who have known how to take a broad view and a long view of Germany’s present position. The blood-thirsty old women of both sexes whose one object in life is to perpetuate the hatreds and violences of the war are civilian products. The fighting soldiers are at one and the same time more generous, and in the true sense more pacific. They realise the chasm on the brink of which Germany stands shivering. They also realise the truth, still but dimly grasped in England, that a general collapse on the part of Germany will be disastrous, not only for her, butfor the rest of the world. No one will benefit by a spread of anarchy through Central Europe, least of all ourselves. The men who have smashed the German war-machine have taken the measure of their foe. No nonsense of any kind would be tolerated. When an order is given it has to be obeyed. They are equally devoid of sentimentality and false illusions. But they realise the appalling task with which the new German Government is struggling, and the importance of a successful outcome to that struggle. And it is their aim to make it possible for the country to stagger to its feet again, to put an end to starvation, to set industry going, to preserve law and order. Also they will admit frankly they have found many of the Germans with whom they have had to deal capable and amenable.
The German civilian officials and the police work under the military authorities, and have worked without difficulty or friction. The Occupation has a fine and honourable record. The behaviour of the troops has been good. Soldiers have won real popularity in the country districts. Incidents and brawls will of course occur from time to time among large bodies of men, but they have had no racial or political significance. The forces on the Rhine are at present one of the great factors making for peace and order in Europe. Not for the purposes of military adventure or conquest, but as a constructive administrative machine, the present British régime in the Occupied Area is an admirable instrument.
To an island race like ourselves, dwelling in a land long inviolate, there is something peculiarly humiliating in the thought of an enemy occupation. But it must be remembered that the German, in this as in many otherrespects, is made of tougher stuff. Invasion is to him an old and familiar story. The Rhineland in particular has been overrun time after time. Neither is it any novelty for the French to find themselves again in provinces on which in the past French armies have left their mark repeatedly. It is an old story, this quarrel between France and Germany, and to date it from 1870 is to err in historical perspective.
Yet disciplined and submissive though the German is to the harsh verdicts of war—never harsher than when applied by himself—there must be some peculiar sting in the presence of the enemy on the banks of the Rhine. For every national sentiment the nation possesses centres round the river famed in song and story. German patriotic literature of the “Wacht am Rhein” type is mediocre in quality, but it is eloquent of the spirit of the people. Even Heine, cynic and often anti-patriot, sings proudly of “der heilige Strom.” In periods of defeat and oppression Germans of an older date have found in the cleansing waters of the great stream a symbol of hope and regeneration. Few foreigners even can resist the spell of the Rhine. Mighty rivers have a message to give to the restless heart of man as their waters sweep by, eternal yet ever changing. Cradled in mountain snows virginal and remote, destined in the end to know the final purification and joyousness of the ocean, the course of any famous river as it flows from mountain to plain, from village to town, becomes an image of the flight of time and the vicissitudes of human life.
The romantic stretches of the Rhine lie south of Bonn. Here are castles and vineyards, and scenes of many a legendary exploit. At Bonn the long gorge beginning atBingen comes to an end, and the Rhine enters the broad plain in which Cologne is situated. Often sullied and defiled by the factories on its banks, nothing can destroy the sense of grandeur as the great volume of water sweeps forward to its fate. A hard lot for such a river to be caught in the end by the mud shallows and flats of Holland, and to make its final way to the sea broken up into countless minor streams!
At Cologne the Rhine is still untroubled by any sense of the doom which awaits it. The river takes a wide bend as it approaches the town, a lucky chance which is admirable from the aesthetic point of view. The traffic is very considerable. Huge barges bearing coal, iron, and all manner of merchandise are dragged up stream by powerful tugs. At night the view from the banks is mysterious and beautiful. A great net of twinkling lights cast over town and quays is reflected a hundredfold in the dark waters. Lights from the barges, anchored alongside the banks after the day’s work, twinkle back in reply to the messages from the shore. Everything seems astir, as though town and river were moved by some dim half-earthly emotion. When morning comes it will reveal that many of these fairy lights only mark the presence of factories and workshops. But night with her indigo mantle has given another and more mysterious turn to the scene. The massive Hohenzollern bridge which spans the river exactly opposite the Dom is a typical expression of the spirit of modern Germany—strong, powerful, practical. It is a fine bridge, and I have so much to say in criticism of German taste that I am glad for once in a way to note the entire success with which they have handled an architectural problem concerned with the carrying,at one and the same time, of railway lines, trams, and passenger traffic. Especially fine is the bridge at night, when it hangs like a chain of light across the river; trams and trains passing like swift-moving constellations among the firmament of the illuminated spans and pillars. The awkward mass of the Dom lies in close proximity to the bridge, but they do not interfere with one another.
The bronze equestrian figures of the four Hohenzollern kings which guard the two ends of the bridge are among the few satisfactory examples of modern monuments which I have seen in Germany. Generally speaking, the country is bespattered with statues of the Hohenzollerns, the artistic merit of which is nil. Never did a reigning house impose itself so mercilessly, in bronze, stone, and iron, on a docile people. Cologne, needless to say, has an ample share of imperial statues. The Emperor William I. had a head which in particular did not lend itself to plastic treatment; his whiskers, which jump at one from innumerable squares, have a tendency to rouse my worst passions. There is little humorous in the state of Germany to-day, but the onlooker can extract some minor entertainment from the squabbles which rage in official and unofficial German circles as to the fate of the Hohenzollern statues. The Socialists, in fiery language, complain that the mind of young Germany is being corrupted by these flaunting images of an oppressive autocracy, and demand that the statues be consigned to the decent obscurity of the cellars of the local museum. The bourgeoisie are equally loud in the demand that the statues should be treated as historical relics and left where they are. The topic bids fair to become the hardy annualof Socialist perorations. Meanwhile there is other work to be done and the Hohenzollerns remain.
Life in Cologne is very pleasant for the occupying army. As with the Hohenzollern bridge, so with the town itself—it is typical of the material excellence which before the war marked the German organisation of practical life. German local authorities throughout the country have kept a firm and admirable grasp on the town-planning of their large modern cities. The individualism of the speculative builder is not allowed to run riot here. Not only are the new quarters in Cologne well and solidly built, but open spaces abound. Fortifications can have their sanitary uses, for near the antiquated forts in the suburbs stretches a broad belt of open country devoted to allotments and market gardens. There are no signs of the jerry-builder running up shoddy houses to the detriment of future generations. Except in the old quarters of the town along the Rhine there are no obvious slums. Yet Germany, like all the rest of the world, is feeling the shortage of houses which has been an economic consequence of the war, and complaints of overcrowding are common.
But the real interest of Cologne lies elsewhere than in the prosperous latter-day development of the town. The wide streets and boulevards encircle the kernel of a famous mediaeval city. And mediaeval Cologne goes back to a still older foundation. The modern buildings and opulent dwelling-houses of the Ring smother, but cannot wholly obliterate, the memories of the Empress Agrippina and the settlement, called after her, Colonia Agrippina—subsequently Colonia—Köln.
My friend, Mr. John Buchan, always declares thatcountries which have been romanised stand in a wholly different category from savage lands, such as Prussia, which have never known that great civilising influence. The Rhineland, with its more liberal culture and gentler manners than Germany east of the Elbe, is a good illustration of this theory. Rome has been here, and where Rome has passed some element of quality abides. Famous among the Roman settlements, Cologne played a part no less important in mediaeval history. A leading member of the Hanseatic League, the relations between Cologne and London in the fifteenth century were close. If we rule Cologne to-day, Cologne at an earlier date has dictated to us. In the reign of Edward III, foreign trade in the city of London was largely conducted through the corporation of Cologne merchants established in the Steelyard. The internal life of Cologne was torn in mediaeval times by fierce dissensions. Nevertheless, mediaeval German art owed much of its development in painting and architecture to the artists and master builders of the lower Rhine.
After the sixteenth century Cologne, like other cities of the Hanseatic League, lost much of its importance, and the place fell to a low ebb for more than two centuries. Its rise into new prosperity during the nineteenth century registers various phases in the great national revival which took place throughout Germany, and also the considerable social improvements which, it must be admitted, followed on Prussian rule.
The traces of mediaeval Cologne are sadly obliterated. Of the Roman period practically nothing remains. The Germans are desperate people in all matters concerning the upkeep and restoration of ancient buildings. Theyare terribly painstaking and have the best intentions, unhappily with dire results. No words in Baedeker lay so cold a hand on my heart as the frequent phrase, “the church has in recent times undergone a thorough restoration.” Thorough in their vandalism such efforts are. Meagrely endowed with artistic taste, no nation in the world lays hands so heavy and so obliterating on the monuments of the past. The one idea apparently is to make everything clean and tidy. To this end interiors of ancient Romanesque churches are covered with a pitiless layer of reinforced concrete on which lines are scratched to represent stones. German taste further revels in modern mosaics of a gross and gaudy character sprawling over wall and vault. Church after church in the Rhineland have I seen ruined in such fashion. In Cologne the noble proportions of ancient Romanesque buildings, such as the Apostelkirche, the Gereonskirche, Santa Maria im Capitol, stagger under the weight of the artistic atrocities they are forced to carry.
The ex-Emperor was one of the worst offenders in these matters. His vain and restless spirit exacted incense as connoisseur and art critic no less than as war lord. An entourage of docile snobs hastened to encourage him in this view, and he was allowed to destroy at will the beauty of various churches which, thanks to his fiat, have lost all their essential quality. The Altenberger Dom in the Bergische Land, a model in miniature of Cologne Cathedral and an exquisite example of early Gothic, was immolated in this way thanks to a visit from the Emperor. He declared that the church must be restored, as it did not look clean. To-day the interior presents the appearance of a bathroom.
This being the typical German spirit in matters artistic, it is hardly surprising that many precious relics of the past have gone under in Cologne. The fine old Rathhaus still remains, but the mediaeval town walls have inevitably succumbed to the needs of modern traffic and expansion. At several points the old gates have been left standing, forlorn-looking objects marooned among the substantial buildings of the last twenty years. Broad though the highway of the Ring, beyond which modern Cologne spreads outwards, the principal streets in the neighbourhood of the Dom Platz are unusually narrow. The mediaeval houses have vanished; the cramped space of the mediaeval street remains.
The Höhe Strasse, the principal thoroughfare, is crowded with people throughout the day. In the evening it is almost impossible to elbow your way through the dense mass of sightseers. A pedestrian must make up his mind to float along with the great stream of traffic and reach his destination when borne there on the current. Here are the principal shops, and shopping and bargains have played a considerable part in the life of the Army of Occupation. Bargains were certainly to be had in the early days before old stocks were exhausted, but their elusive delights have long since vanished from the scene. Prices have soared as the mark fell in value, and did not fall in turn when the mark improved. They stand to-day at a high level even for the English, who benefit by the exchange. How the German population can afford to buy anything at figures so exaggerated in marks is a mystery.
The fluctuation of the exchange is another matter in which the Army of Occupation takes a deep interest. We inquire with real concern daily as to the health of themark, the caprices of which baffle most forecasts. These constant fluctuations in the value of money are very demoralising for every one concerned. Naturally such a situation is a premium on speculation, and for the German merchant and shopkeeper the lack of stability has disastrous consequences.
The real necessities of Germany to-day lie below the surface, and it is very difficult to associate at first sight any ideas of poverty or disaster with the crowds of well-dressed people in the streets. The overflowing population of the big German towns is very striking. It is hard to believe they have had any real losses in the war. Men, women, and children; children, women, and men: it is always the same story. The Germans are a very plain race; few of them have any pretensions to good looks. But, men and women alike, they are tall and powerfully built, and convey an outstanding impression of physical strength and vigour.
And what have they done with their wounded? That is a perpetual puzzle to the English. It is a matter of very rare exception to see a lamed, or maimed, or blinded man. One poor wreck without arms or legs who frequented the Höhe Strasse in a little trolley was a familiar figure. But the injured lads who have become too sad a feature of our town and village life seem to be non-existent here. Yet the heavy German casualties must have left their mark on the people. Why, therefore, are there so few signs of wounded men? I have heard it said that with the removal of the German military hospitals following on the Occupation, other arrangements had to be made for the disabled, and that many left the district. Whether this is true or not I cannot say. Germans are proverbiallyskilful at tucking out of sight all signs of their drunken and disreputable classes. Something of the same kind has happened apparently with the wounded. When one comes to the children, the toll of the war becomes apparent in a very different way. As regards adults, the superficial impression received is that neither physique nor population has suffered. I should add that all superficial impressions of German life to-day require to be discounted heavily. All the evidence goes to prove that the very real suffering in the country lies beneath the surface, and that the rich people and the profiteers who crowd shops and cafés give no true measure of the condition of the masses.
Overwhelmingly military though the aspect of Cologne in the early days of the Allied victory, the civilian character of the town has re-emerged, as during the course of months the great Army of the original Occupation has shrunk to a moderate garrison. To-day the impression is merely that of an English reserve in a foreign land. The garrison conducts itself, officers and ranks alike, after the ordinary fashion of garrisons all the world over. Work is done and done thoroughly; for the rest there are the normal amusements, dancing, sports, and games.
The Deutsches Theater, which is in English hands, has made a spirited and successful attempt to bring first-rate English drama within reach of the Occupying Army. But the greatest factor in recreation undoubtedly has been the Opera. The opportunity of hearing night after night the best music of all schools, classical and modern, is one for which we have had much cause to be thankful. The repertoire is not only large, but wholly catholic in spirit. No foolish demand exists to place French and Italianmusic under a ban: the Germans have the good sense to recognise that genius transcends all boundaries of race. The great classical masterpieces of Beethoven, Mozart, Gluck can be heard as well as those of Wagner, Strauss, and the lighter works of Puccini, Bizet, Massenet, Mascagni, Offenbach, Gounod. The performances of the Ring are particularly fine; and the passion of the Kapellmeister, Herr Klemperer, for Mozart makes the production of these exquisite operas specially interesting. If the Germans have not eyes to see, no nation in the world have ears so fine to hear. In matters musical they are doubly and trebly gifted—the whole artistic expression of the race appears to have found an outlet in this direction. The Cologne Opera House lives up to the best pre-war standards. There are no stars, but, what is infinitely preferable, a high level of ensemble and a unity of artistic expression between the singers and the instrumentalists which can never exist in scratch companies held together by celebrities. The scenery and staging are excellent and show real artistic merit of a kind unusual in Germany. The orchestra too is first-rate—a fine and flexible instrument in the hands of its conductor.
It is unfortunate that the English have to no small extent imported the bad English habit of talking during orchestral passages. In the early days of the Occupation not a sound was ever heard in the body of the house. As time went on a familiar and unpleasant murmur became from time to time more noticeable. Explanations as to the involved relationships of the Wagner heroes and heroines when sought and given in the course of a performance are peculiarly exasperating to other people in the near vicinity of the earnest inquirer. It is a curioussight during the intervals to see the German audience in couples promenading solemnly round the large “foyer” while the English and French look on. But even casual meeting-places between the two races are rare. Life in Cologne flows in two distinct channels, between which there is no communication of any kind. For the large majority of the English, Germans have no existence—what’s Hecuba to them or they to Hecuba? There is nothing aggressive about the British Occupation. The Army goes about its business, acts justly, and avoids unnecessary pinpricks and irritations. The bitterness of the war has left a considerable aftermath which colours conversation, but the inherent British sense of decency and fair play rules the situation in practice. It would offend that sense of fair play to keep kicking a man, however much disliked, when he was down and out.
The Germans on their side have learnt fully to appreciate the merits of the British rule. Well-to-do people have a lively sense of the protection and security afforded by the Occupying Army. The German bourgeoisie live in terror of the new might of the working-classes. Though the first impression on arrival may be one of comfort and prosperity, there is in fact but a very thin veneer of order covering anarchy below. Germans speak with dismay of the appalling increase in crime and theft since the war. Hunger is responsible for much of the petty pilfering which goes on, but it is clear that all manner of violent elements hide their heads out of fear and fear alone. The German police are responsible for the normal daily life of the town and area, but Thomas Atkins, good-natured and indifferent, is the power behind the throne, and it is thanks to his presence that theGerman writ runs and is obeyed among the Rhinelanders.
At the same time I am sceptical as to the spread of Bolshevist ideas on any large scale among the German nation outside certain industrial circles. The genius of the race is essentially law-abiding and orderly. If it is allowed to eat and to work, and is not kept artificially in a state of hunger and unemployment, the country will, I believe, in time settle down. Bolshevism is a disease drawing its strength from hunger and despair. It is only dangerous when such conditions exist or are provoked by a short-sighted policy of fear and reprisals. “Oh, I should like to see Germany go Bolshevist for a time and all the people killing one another,” was the genial remark I overheard once in England, the speaker being an English civilian. I do not think this wish will be gratified, but what the speaker and his kind forget is that Bolshevism is a disease which can be treated by nocordon sanitaire, and that the spread of ruin and confusion in Central Europe means that the same evil spectres will knock assuredly at our own doors. The fatal habit of “thinking war” still dominates whole classes of people throughout the Allied countries. But the business of the hour is peace, and to be a laggard about peace to-day is as criminal as to have been a laggard about war when Europe and civilisation stood menaced.