COLOGNE AND THE OCCUPATION
During the 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 the north. 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 catholic is 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 the
_genius 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 from _La 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 fair is 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 constituted that 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 unsuccessfully ransacked 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 her shoulders 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
that were 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, but for 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 other respects, 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 at Bingen 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 annual of 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 that countries 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.
They are 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 the mark, 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 proverbially skilful 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 Italian music 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 curious
sight 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 the German
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 no _cordon 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.