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