FROM RUSSIA BY SWEDEN AND GERMANY
On our way from Saratov on the Volga, to Reval, the interesting old
capital of Esthonia, my colleagues and I discussed the possibility of
returning to London via Berlin. Dr. Haden Guest and I were especially
interested in the condition of child-life in the German cities, he
from the point of view of a humane medical man, I as a member of the
Executive Committee of the Save the Children Fund, charged with the
administration of large sums of money for the relief of the suffering
children of Europe. A view of the problem at close quarters would
be valuable to our various committees, and useful to ourselves as
propagandists.
Reval is a quaint old city, with odd winding streets and cobbled roads.
Its harbour is very fine; but at the time of our visit in June, 1920,
it showed very few signs of an awakening commerce. The position of the
Border Republics was very uncertain, both politically and militarily,
and the social condition of the people was lamentable. The fear and
hatred of Bolshevism was upon them. The minefields of the Baltic had
not been cleared up, which added difficulties to the trade with Sweden,
prolonging the voyages and reducing the number of sailings owing to
the necessity of careful and roundabout navigation. Finland was too
poor to attempt to sweep them; and perhaps a little reluctant through
fear of Russia, her powerful neighbour. The Allies were indifferent,
and still giving aid and comfort to counter-revolutionaries of all
sorts. Anything which added to the miseries of Russia they were slow to
destroy; but Russia’s near neighbours suffered also.
Poverty and hunger abounded in Esthonia. The shops were almost empty of
goods. The value of money was incredibly low. Enough roubles to paper a
room could be bought for an English pound. The British Military Mission
was obliged to have a large part of its necessary stores sent from home
or from Denmark on account of the scarcity; which added to the cost of
the mess and made the hospitality so freely and graciously offered a
gift of more than ordinary value.
What extraordinarily good fellows were those British officers in Reval!
It would be invidious to mention names; but it was perfectly clear why
they were so universally popular. A well known and genuine interest in
the people they had come to help was the foundation of it.
Mr. Leslie, the able and courteous young British Consul, facilitated
our departure from Reval to the best of his ability, and we cast off
from all Russian or related contacts on the third day after our arrival
in the city. Our destination was Stockholm, where we hoped to get the
necessary visa for Germany.
No words can adequately describe the voyage through those lovely
Finnish islands. The nearest approach to it is the trip through the
Canadian Lake of the Woods or the Greek Archipelago. The little islands
stood out like emeralds against the clear horizon line of glowing pink,
yellowing into the deep blue of the night sky, with its crescent moon
and evening star. The ice-blue waters were as placid as a lake, and
no sound but the swish of the ship’s propeller disturbed the heavenly
stillness that held us through the greater part of the night. Wealthy
Americans who rush to Europe to see beauties which abound in their own
country might do a service to mankind by popularizing this tour.
We were compelled to submit to medical examination both in Reval and
Stockholm, but this being satisfactory, we proceeded to our hotel. The
trip to Russia obliged us to spend two weeks in Stockholm, one week
each way, because of the infrequency of boats to Russia; which gave us
the opportunity of making some interesting acquaintances, and seeing
with some degree of thoroughness the most beautiful city of Northern
Europe, well wooded and spotlessly clean, and threaded through and
through with canals and waterways--a veritable “Venice of the North.”
Amongst these new acquaintances was a lady I first met in Geneva
at the conference of the Save the Children Fund. The Countess
Wilamowitz-Moellendorf is a lovely woman of about thirty-two years of
age, tall and graceful as a lily, with a lily’s whiteness in her skin,
and a lily’s pale gold in her hair. She has a soft voice and a gentle
blue eye, which occasionally sparkles with pure mischief. She possesses
the elegance and simplicity of manner of the _ancien régime_, to which
she belongs, and has the gift of humour, suggestive of the Irish strain
that is actually hers. Her distinguished husband died during the war at
Bagdad and lies buried there. She has an only child, a graceful girl of
sixteen growing up into the likeness of her beautiful mother.
This charming woman and devoted mother, Swede by birth and German
by marriage, is giving herself without stint to the work of saving
the starving babies of Europe. She also has ideas on Labour and
International questions which would raise the ghosts of many of her
departed friends did they but know these. She attended with me a
meeting at the Volkshaus in Stockholm to hear an address by a Labour
speaker, and I saw with what regard she is held by the Radical forces
of the city.
One day she came to the British Labour delegation to ask their
interest in a matter of relief. The Swedish Red Cross, hearing of
the epidemics in Russia, and particularly in Petrograd, organized a
relief expedition comprising sanitary engineers, plumbers, doctors and
nurses to the number of almost a hundred, with supplies of medicines,
soaps, disinfectants, and all the equipment of a sanitary and medical
expedition. Prince Charles, President of the Red Cross, was extremely
anxious that the Mission should set out. He had written twice to
the Russian Foreign Office offering his gift; but, although weeks
had passed, there was no reply. Would it be possible for us to see
Tchicherine and get something definite from him, either an acceptance
or a rejection, so that in the event of the latter the Mission might
proceed elsewhere?
Some of us saw Prince Charles and heard the story from his own lips.
His sincerity was impressive. We promised to do what we could. This
grave Swedish prince is a man of distinguished appearance, with a
manner of great reserve. He is tall, grey haired and blue eyed, with
strong, fine hands. His royal reserve melted for a moment and his blue
eyes softened with appreciation when I ventured softly to commiserate
him on the death of Sweden’s popular Crown Princess, who had died the
preceding day. We left his presence reinforced in the belief that
humane feeling and practical social service are the disposition and
occupation of no particular class. They are the characteristics of the
generous and refined of all classes. We told the story to Tchicherine
when we saw him; but I very much doubt if the royal gift were accepted.
The Russians trust only the Society of Friends. All other relief
organizations do propaganda against the Soviet Government, they allege.
One of the most interesting personalities I met in Stockholm was the
great traveller and scientist, the friend of kings and kaisers, the
distinguished supporter of Germany, Sven Hedin. I lunched at his house
in company with some of my fellow delegates. It is a lovely home,
especially his own room. This room is lined with exquisitely bound
books and filled with curios of priceless value collected during many
marvellous journeyings. Signed photographs of numerous monarchs stand
in the recesses and on tables. Rich Oriental carpets cover the floor,
and precious hangings of rarest quality add colour and character to the
room.
He is a remarkably handsome man, with a mass of raven hair slightly
tinged with grey, brushed but rebellious; and brilliant eyes, flashing
thought. He has a happy manner, full of little gallantries. He
possesses the great and saving gift of humour, can be gaily ironical
and ironically severe. He is unmarried; but is tenderly devoted to his
adoring family of aged mother and gifted sisters. He has an astounding
capacity for work, sleeps a little in the afternoon and then works till
4 o’clock every morning. We had great argument with him, which changed
neither his opinion nor our own. But there was no crudity of speech or
manner on either side to spoil our reputation in a neutral city, or to
lessen the quality of his generous hospitality.
The Countess succeeded in getting permission for us to go to Berlin.
She introduced us to the German Minister to Sweden, and Prince Wied
of the Legation, who were touched by our interest in the children of
Berlin. The tax upon aliens entering Germany--at this time about 60
marks--was graciously remitted in our case as we were going on relief
work, and we booked our places on train and steamer and began to pack
our bags.
* * * * *
The last day in Stockholm was spent most happily with Mr. Branting
and his gifted wife at their country house two hours’ distance up
the straits. Mr. Branting was at this time Prime Minister of Sweden,
whose Government was preponderatingly Social Democratic. He and his
colleagues in the Cabinet had richly entertained the British delegates
to Russia on their way out. This meeting of the great man in his home
was of a more precious and intimate character.
The good-natured statesman at home is all that his kindly personality
promised it would be. Considerate of the guest who took no wine he
had provided specially for her needs. We had lunch in the garden, our
table shaded by trees from the hot sun and placed in view of the
quiet waters of the channel. Neighbouring houses embedded in foliage
peeped at us from leafy bowers. There was no trace of a wind. Bright
sunshine filtering through the leaves made a pattern upon the short
smooth grass. It was an ideal place for a tired politician seeking to
escape for a while from the sordid squabbles and bitter feuds of his
profession.
The first time I saw Mr. Branting was at an Allied Socialist Conference
in London. His burly form and erect grey hair, standing squarely off
a broad forehead, as if seeking to escape from the brush of a pair
of fierce, shaggy eyebrows, his large powerful hands and the broad
shoulders of a Viking gave him a command over the assembly which a
rather weak voice and a slow and deliberate speech might otherwise
have diminished. He speaks several languages well, although one who
speaks these better, an impish member of the fraternity of the press,
whispered to me in Berne that “Mr. Branting confuses the delegates
admirably in seven languages!”
On this occasion his wife was dressed in forget-me-not blue, which
matched her eyes and set off her fair skin to perfection. Her light,
fluffy hair was softly tucked under a large garden hat designed for
the sun. She has the strong prejudices mingled with the charm of the
French-woman that I am told she is. Mr. Branting is her second husband,
and her son has adopted the name of his step-father. She is a writer of
books with some claim to serious attention, but I have the misfortune
not to have read any of them. She is a delightful hostess, a devoted
wife and a very charming woman.
Branting was at this time gravely concerned about the effects of the
Peace of Versailles and the Allied policy towards Russia. His Allied
predilections during the war entitled his opinions to the gravest
consideration, and he expressed himself of the opinion that the conduct
of both France and England towards Germany and Russia was conceived
in a spirit hostile to true internationalism, and was calculated to
produce new wars by reviving old hates. The claim was being made that
Russia should pay for the damage due to her withdrawal from the war.
Russia retorted by demanding payment for damage done in Russia by
counter-revolutionaries paid by England and France. Branting agreed
there was logic in the retort. Anti-Bolshevik to the last ounce of him,
he none the less regretted a policy which he believed could only have
the effect of strengthening the Bolshevik power.
We bade farewell to our good friends at the water’s edge and boarded
the steamer for Stockholm and the night journey towards Berlin. The
Countess accompanied us, and she and I shared a compartment. The swift
Swedish express brought us by morning to the Trellborg-Sassnitz steamer
which conveyed us across waters as smooth as a lake to the German side.
* * * * *
We could only spend four days in Berlin. We had therefore carefully
to map out a programme so as to accomplish as much as possible. There
were the courtesy calls at the British Embassy and the British Military
Mission to be made first. At both places the greatest interest was
manifested in our trip to Russia. We told the story to Lord Kilmarnock
over a pleasant cup of tea at the Embassy, and repeated it to General
Malcolm and his staff at the Military Mission during lunch.
But I was extremely anxious, if it could be done in the time, to see
representative men and women of every shade of German politics. The
Countess was of the greatest possible help in bringing us into touch
with one section. The German Foreign Office was equally obliging.
British newspaper men gave a hand, with the result that we actually
accomplished our desire in this respect, and left Berlin having seen
the spokesmen of every party in the Reichstag. We found time to visit
the Reichstag in session, and had the experience of hearing the speech
of Herr Fehrenbach and seeing the dignified temper of the Assembly
under circumstances of extreme trial and provocation.
The Allied representatives in Berlin were seriously concerned at the
time with Germany’s alleged defaulting in the matter of disarmament.
Our generous Britons, with not an ounce of ignorant hate in them,
were not quite sure that Germany was not playing a game of gigantic
bluff. It was impossible for me to believe that, after talking with
many cultivated and sincere Germans. Fear of Communists on the part of
the middle classes as strong as the fear in France of Germany; fear
of the Junkers and the middle classes on the part of the Communists
(of whom it was alleged there are 500,000 in Germany), was responsible
for the charges of concealed guns and hidden rifles freely made by
both sides. The Communists had thousands of rifles hidden in the
woods, it was wildly said. The Junkers had quantities of ammunition
and machine-guns secretly stored for future use against the common
people was the counter-charge. It was this fear that put the Englishman
Phillips Price on the side of the Allies in their demand for Germany’s
complete disarmament. This interesting character has given up his
wealth in England, embraced political Communism and married a German
workgirl. When I saw him he looked very happy, rejoicing in the birth
of a child to him. He, as guileless as many another, believed that
France would disarm when the Germans were made helpless. With a truer
estimate of the realities Germany refused to be convinced. Hence the
passionate plea from her political leaders for more consideration of
her difficulties, which had been interpreted by the Allies as a crafty
attempt to evade the terms of the Treaty.
* * * * *
Amongst the politicians I saw in Berlin was a little group of German
Nationalists. The most distinguished of them was the uncle of my
gentle Swedish friend, a scholar of international reputation whom the
great Universities of this country delighted to honour before the war,
Professor Wilamowitz-Moellendorf. He is a proud and gentle old man,
whose white hair only gives the impression of many years, with a grave
scholarly manner, and an air of great distinction. His reasonable and
proper regret was that scholarship and culture should have steeped
itself in the vulgar passions of the slum and the gutter during the
years of war, forgetting their dignity and worth in the disgusting
welter of political hates. All the time his speech about England was
courteous and kind, and though his Oxford friends had given him just
cause for resentment, he kept his happier memories of her green. His
was not the anger of that other scholar, Herr Edouard Meyer, half mad
with the sense of injustice and wrong.
This little group of German Nationalists met me in the splendid lobby
of one of the big Berlin hotels, and in a quiet corner we discussed
the then political situation and the ominous signs of the times.
There was the usual keen interest in the Russian adventure. Professor
Wilamowitz-Moellendorf was not present on this occasion.
The most remarkable personality of the group was a tall soldierly man
whose stern expression of face and grey hair were possible relics of
bitter war experiences. After a few idle phrases in complimentary vein,
he turned suddenly upon me and demanded fiercely: “Mrs. Snowden, why
have you come to Germany?”
The sudden question startled me, but I concealed my surprise and
replied: “Ever since the publication of the Peace Treaty I have been
trying to come to Germany to tell the people here that there _are_ men
and women in England who do not break their pledged word and who want a
square deal even for their foes. I want to shake hands with everybody
here who is willing, along with us, to help to mend a broken world.”
His reply was startling: “When I came into the room just now I shook
hands with you and I am still suffering from the surprise of it. I
had taken a vow that never again would I touch the hand of an English
person, man or woman. I had believed in your nation. I had thought
it would honour its pledged word. I was foolish enough to think that
British statesmen meant what they said, and that Wilson’s programme was
seriously intended. I was wrong. I made that vow. And I took your hand
just now. I was wrong again.”
“I think I understand,” I murmured. “In the same circumstances I should
have felt as you feel.”
“_Do_ you understand, I wonder? Do you understand that for us Germans
there is nothing left but black despair? Do you realize that our
children are dying of hunger? Do you understand that our young men have
no careers open to them? Do you understand the pain of being spat upon,
the torment of being thrust down every time you attempt to rise? Do you
know what it is to be robbed of your faith in idealism, your belief in
goodness, your hope for mankind? I find it difficult to believe that
you understand.”
The pain in his voice, the look in his eyes hurt. He went on: “If
there is any gleam of hope for Germany to be found anywhere it lies in
religion. No, no,” he said hastily, noting my glance of inquiry, “I do
not mean the Churches, although there must be Churches to give form
and substance to the thing. The Churches must remain, but they must be
reformed and reformed from within. By religion I mean that looking and
striving upwards for better things without which the world perishes.
If my unhappy people can lay hold again of that and keep it, there may
be a little hope for them. For myself there is no hope. Everything is
gone. My country is utterly destroyed. There is nothing left to live
for, unless”--and here a new and fiercer light came into his tired
eyes--“unless after all the Communists are pointing the way. Russia’s
untold millions and our officers. It may be so.”
He was quiet for a moment. “I do not like Communism. I do not want to
see Communism in Germany But when our position is so bad that nothing
we can do will make it worse and something we may do might make it
better, what would you?”
Another and a longer pause, and then came his final word: “If our
enemies refuse to give us a gleam of hope for the future, and if the
Communists of Russia _have_ shown us the only way to throw off the
intolerable burden of insult and oppression, _I go with them_. And
there are many like me in Germany.”
And I learnt before leaving Berlin that of the many like him, General
Ludendorff was one.
* * * * *
From this interesting gathering I betook me to the house of the
Socialist President of the German Republic, President Ebert. I
found him seated in a comfortable library chair, in a pleasant room
overlooking a garden, a plain-spoken simple old man, of a natural
and pleasing dignity. He could speak no English, but there was an
interpreter present. Also, the Ex-Chancellor Müller, looking much
better in health than when I saw him in Berne, stood behind the
President’s chair whilst we talked. Once more we related our adventures
in Russia and drew from the President that the Communists of Germany
were a troublesome and incalculable element, complicating the situation
woefully for those desirous of keeping order till Germany was out of
her difficult debate with the Allies.
I could not help comparing President Ebert with the two other Socialist
Presidents of my acquaintance, Herr Seitz of Austria and Herr Eisner
of Bavaria. Herr Seitz was professional in style, well dressed and
bourgeois in appearance; Herr Eisner was Bohemian in appearance, not
very clean in his dress and style. President Ebert was suggestive of
the typical English Trade Union leader, good-tempered and comfortable
looking, as good as most and not so clever as many, less liable to
rouse antagonism than a more brilliant person; more apt to steer the
ship of a troubled country across a stormy sea than a steersman given
to taking risks with rocks and whirlpools in order to reach the haven
a little sooner. I must say I liked the homely President of the new
Germany.
That same evening we assembled in one of the private rooms of the
Kaiserhof the leading lights of the Independent Socialists. To our
regret Herr Kautsky was in Vienna, but there came to drink coffee with
us the Herren Breitschied, Dittmann, Ochme, Kuenzer and Oscar Cohn, an
amiable and interested group. We wanted them to talk about Germany,
but they preferred to ask us questions about Russia. Most of them
were about to leave for Russia on a similar expedition to our own. We
answered their questions rather wearily, for the story had become very
stale by this time. These men left us with two distinct impressions.
The first was that the Socialists of Germany are for the most part
disinterested in the Peace Treaty, and their minds are not engrossed to
an appreciable extent with such questions as the distribution of coal,
the assessment of reparations, the disarmament of Germany, or the mad
designs of French Imperialists. They look upon all these things as so
many inevitable steps in the dissolution of the old order. They see
representatives and supporters of the old order, as if maddened with
lust and revenge, doing their very best to make sure the passing of
their authority, and they smile and pursue their various avocations,
calm amid the storms that stir the breasts of the petty bourgeoisie and
the impoverished aristocrats. Their only apparent political interest
lies in the future and how that is to be shaped. Shall they follow the
leadership of Russia? Or shall they make their own way in their own
fashion out of the chaos which the world’s capitalists and militarists
have created? As a matter of fact, the same debate is exercising the
Socialists of every country, and the Second International (Berne) and
the Third International (Moscow) are the symbols of the conflict.
To my regret there were no Socialist women in this little party. The
rush into Berlin without letting anybody know I was coming, and the
rush out again at the end of a few days, made it difficult to see all
those it would have been pleasant and useful to see. In the Reichstag
building I had counted seven women members of Parliament seated at
their desks, and thought of our hard-working and courageous Lady Astor
still unsupported by a single woman colleague. I believe there are many
more than seven women in the German Parliament, though exactly how many
at the moment I cannot say. But they looked very normal and thoroughly
competent, and mingled with their fellows in an accepted comradeship of
political labour very pleasing to observe.
* * * * *
I met Herr Dernburg at the Club House of the Democratic Party. He
assembled a few like-minded people to meet us. Most of them spoke
excellent English, all appeared to understand it. I like Dernburg very
much; but for some he has an unfortunate manner which makes enemies.
His frankness is regarded as mere brutal bad manners. It is nothing
of the sort, and I like it. It makes for clearer understanding than
the polite pretences of the less courageous. I cannot reproduce in his
exact words what Herr Dernburg said, but the substance of part of his
long and able discourse was the cruelty of the starvation policy of the
Allies and in particular in its effect upon the children. “Your people
come to Germany and report that we are pretending to be poor. They see
our good clothes, neatly brushed, and our generally tidy appearance
and they say that Germany is better clothed than they are. They do not
realize that we are reaping now the reward of our habits of thrift. The
clothes that we are wearing are many years old, taken out of wardrobes
and altered as best might be to suit the fashion of the hour. Women’s
dresses are frequently made out of the dyed linen, bed and table, which
every German girl begins to accumulate for her marriage as soon as she
leaves school or earlier. Many of our children wear paper clothes or
garments woven of grasses. Always are our clothes kept well brushed and
used with care. It is a feature of the German character, this neatness,
cleanliness and industry. Look at Berlin. Would you think that a city
so full of woes could find time and heart to be so clean and trim?
And yet, compared with the Berlin of pre-war days, she is soiled and
stained almost beyond knowledge to those who knew and loved her well.
Our hotels are crowded with rich gourmands chiefly from foreign lands;
but go into our little homes, the homes of the miners in the Ruhr, the
homes of the workers in Leipzig, Frankfurt, Nuremberg, Hamburg, and see
in the wan, pinched faces of the children and their mothers what the
peace is doing to those whom the war did not kill.”
There were those in Berlin who had carefully preserved the speeches
of British statesmen during the war. One such drew out of his pocket
a whole note-book full of phrases from the speeches of Mr. Lloyd
George and Mr. Asquith. “Listen to me,” he said, “and I will read you
what your rulers said, and what the new-born Germany believed, to its
present sorrow.” He fingered the loose news-cuttings and selected one
from the rest. Clearing his throat he began: “Mr. Lloyd George on
January 5, 1918. ‘The destruction or disruption of the German people
has never been a war aim with us from the first day of this war to this
day.... Our point of view is that the adoption of a really democratic
Constitution by Germany would be the most convincing evidence that in
her the old spirit of military domination had indeed died in this war
and would make it much easier for us to conclude a broad democratic
peace with her!’ Mr. Lloyd George on November 12, 1918. ‘No settlement
which contravenes the spirit of justice will be a permanent one. We
must not allow any sense of revenge, any spirit of greed, any grasping
desire to override the fundamental principles of righteousness.’ Mr.
Lloyd George on the same date: ‘We shall go to the Peace Conference
to guarantee that the League of Nations is a reality!’ Mr. Bonar Law,
September 24, 1914: ‘We have no desire to humiliate the German people.’
Mr. Lloyd George, September, 12, 1918: ‘We must not arm Germany with a
real wrong. In other words, we shall neither accept nor impose on our
foe a Brest-Litovsk treaty.’”
“Enough,” I said, “I know all these speeches by heart. It has hurt
me just as much as you that the Peacemakers have departed from their
promises!”
“No, no,” he said sharply, “not so much, not nearly so much. It has
_hurt_ your _pride_, but it is _killing_ our _children_. Where is the
comparison?” And he turned away in disgust.
* * * * *
The Hôtel Adlon is like the Hôtel Belle Vue in Berne and the Bristol
in Vienna, full of the oddest assemblage of human curiosities that the
storms of war have tossed together. The Countess and I dined there
one evening after the opera to amuse ourselves with the spectacle.
Every table was crowded. It was with the greatest difficulty that
we secured places. Eventually, and with the aid of a little English
silver, we were invited to take seats in the corridor leading to the
main dining-room. Herr Stinnes, the great man of industrial Germany,
the coal king, iron master, high financier, newspaper proprietor,
political “boss,” millionaire--large-eyed, impressive--the most
powerful magnate in Central Europe at the present moment--sat at the
next table to our own. In the corner was a famous dancer, impudent and
vivacious, a dainty profligate. There were the German _nouveaux riches_
in unaccustomed corsets and high-heeled shoes, hot and miserable under
the brilliant lights. A group of fresh-looking British officers gave
the wholesome touch to a hectic scene. Hysterical women, half-dressed,
sang snatches of accompaniment to the waltz strains of the orchestra.
A French officer made undisguised love to a fascinating brunette at a
near table. Two out of three had the brilliant eyes and swarthy skin
of the Jew. Every language under the sun could be heard. It was a
veritable Tower of Babel. It suggested nothing so much as a company of
condemned criminals spending a last riotous night before the hanging in
the morning.
A pleasanter meal was eaten at the House of the American High
Commissioner. America still being at war with Germany had no
ambassador, but his equivalent, Mr. Drexel, was our courteous host on
this occasion, and at the same table I met my old acquaintance of the
American Legation in Berne, Mr. Hugh Wilson. Mr. Wilson is a delightful
young American diplomat of wide sympathies and progressive views. I
made his acquaintance through the kind offices of our friend in common,
Mr. William Bullitt, the courageous young American who resigned his
position as part of the American Delegation to Paris when he discovered
that the Peace Treaty violated every one of President Wilson’s Fourteen
Points.
Mr. Wilson is small and slim, with a winning smile of extreme good
nature; but he is very impatient, and properly so, with the selfish
dogmatists who do not mind if the world be destroyed if only they may
attempt to force everything and everybody within the four corners of
their particular creed. America’s diplomacy is rich in talent if it
possesses many young men as able as Mr. Hugh Wilson and his friend, Mr.
Bullitt.
* * * * *
In one of the children’s clinics in Charlottenburg I saw the saddest
sight since my visit to Vienna, crowds of little girls and boys,
stripped for the doctor one by one, pitiful pale faces, ribs sticking
through their bodies, hollow chests, fleshless arms--doomed to die from
pulmonary disease, the helpless innocent victims of the war and of the
peace. The physician received us coldly, and we could see that he
felt bitter; but his manner was correct, and he warmed a little as he
gradually realized that no impertinent curiosity but a real desire to
understand and help had brought us to his clinic. “The next generation
of Germans will be three parts diseased,” he said in a dead level
voice more terrible than passion. “Is that what your people wish?” I
assured him that our people did not know what was happening, but that
it would be our business to tell them. Since that time the British
miners alone have subscribed more than £12,000 to the fund for relief.
And it may be the miners, whose standard of living is threatened at
this time, who will be the first great body of workmen to learn, and
the first to teach the connexion between foreign politics and the daily
circumstances of their lives. The ruin of the English export trade in
coal is the direct outcome of that part of the Treaty of Versailles
which provides that Germany shall supply to France coal so much in
excess of her needs that, not only need she not import coal from this
country, but she can export it to other countries which were formerly
our customers.
* * * * *
With the artistic life of Berlin I was not able in the short time I
was there to get into close contact. Some day it will be my object
to do so. The world of politics is not the only world, nor the best.
The world that interprets the world, the world that takes you out of
the world, the world of art is the best of all worlds. And when the
passions of living men, tearing and wounding the innocent, sicken the
soul, the exploits of the dead, read by the fireside, or rendered in
song and dance and drama, offer a refuge for weary body and mind, tired
with their fruitless protest against cruelty and wrong.
One interesting artist of Germany I may call my friend, Karl
Vollmoeller, author of _The Miracle_ produced in London at Olympia
in 1911. He is sometimes spoken of as the “Voltaire of Würtemberg”
because of his physical likeness to Voltaire. He is small and pale,
with fair hair, and thin, rather pinched features. I imagine he is very
delicate in constitution. He is a scholar, a poet, a man of the world,
one of the leading German neo-romanticists. He spoke to me and another
of the time when Lord Northcliffe, whom the flighty young Radical
intellectuals of this country have dubbed, “Alfred and Omega,” ironical
of his pretended omniscience, boomed _The Miracle_, turning what
threatened to be a failure into an overwhelming success. Whimsically
he spoke also of Charles Cochran, who organized the Olympia “Miracle”
season of Max Reinhardt, and who is now supposed to be the leader of
the campaign against German plays.
Vollmoeller told many amusing stories of the rehearsals at Olympia,
of Engelbert Humperdinck, the composer, Maria Carmi, the actress who
played the Virgin, Max Pallenberg, the greatest comic actor of the
German stage, Trouhanowa, the dancer, and so on.
Some time later Vollmoeller’s _Turandot_ was produced at the
St. James’s Theatre and _The Venetian Night_ at the Palace. The
latter caused considerable friction with the Lord Chamberlain. The
performances were stopped for a day or two. Finally there was a
compromise, and the performances were resumed. These reminiscences of
the artist were full of a quaint interest. They revealed the utter
folly of war and materialism in the light of the universality and
beauty of art.
At the end of our four days we left Berlin, travelling _via_ Cologne.
There was a compulsory break of twelve hours there. It gave us an
opportunity of seeing the city under Allied occupation, and of taking
a trip up the Rhine. There were no outward and visible signs of
unhappiness in the people; but I have long since learnt that the broad
highway is not the place where respectable misery flaunts itself.
That hides itself behind closed curtains and thrusts its children out
of sight of the pitying eye of the foreigner. Still, the general
appearance of the people was better here than in Berlin. They had more
colour. They were not so thin. The middle-class crowds which came on
to the steamer at Bonn and other towns as we sailed up the beautiful
river to the cherry country of the Drachenfels were glowing with health
by comparison with the anæmic Berliners, dragging tired feet along the
hard and unsympathetic pavements. The Rhine is a glory. And the view
from the top of the Drachenfels exhibited a panorama of soft wooded
beauty which made the hot air of the city cafes a nightmare memory.
* * * * *
From Cologne to Antwerp, a ten hours’ journey through land almost
literally flowing with milk and honey! Belgium is the richest war
country in Europe. Her fields were brown with waving corn. Her fruit
trees were laden with fruit. The restaurant on the train was packed
with food, ample supplies of rich butter and milk and cream; eggs
in abundance. Coming straight from the starving cities of Germany
and Russia, the abundance of Belgium was a relief to the mind. And
there are generous hearts in Belgium (as in France) which some of her
politicians belie.
* * * * *
There is nothing so disgusting about war psychology as the willingness
with which decent men and women will listen to any story which
discredits the enemy. Whether it be true or not is no concern of
theirs. They believe it _could_ be true. So it must be true!
A rumour was set afloat in the Allied countries that Germany was
converting the money which was being raised in America for relief
purposes to political uses through the German Embassy in the United
States. What was the fact? It was simply that the money raised in
America was used by the German staff for its own expenses, and an equal
amount credited to relief accounts by the Government in Germany in
order to avoid the risks from torpedo activity of sending the money by
ship. The rumour was, of course, an attempt to prevent relief being
sent to little German children. But it failed; as it deserved to fail.
* * * * *
Thank God, there is one thing which unites the great masses of men
and women of all nations, whether in peace or in war; and that is a
tender concern for children. When Nature fails there, and children are
deliberately sacrificed to satisfy the ambitions of men, the end of the
world will come, even though all the guns be cast into the midst of
the sea, for the belief in immortality, which is implicit in the love
of men and women for children, will have given place to a calculating
materialism in which the be-all and end-all is self. And selfishness is
of the very essence of corruption.