CHAPTER IVON THE DOM PLATZ
Ifthe 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 theBlack 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 AlliedArmies. 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—thefirst 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 silencebroken 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.
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 intheir 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. Nowhe 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 establisheditself 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 andshabby. 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.