"STATE OF WAR"
Stewart, following his porter, was engulfed in the human tide which had
been beating clamorously against the gates, and which surged forward
across the platform as soon as they were opened. There were tourists of
all nations, alarmed by the threat of war, and there were also many
people who, to Stewart at least, appeared to be Germans; and all of them
were running toward the train, looking neither to the right nor left,
dragging along as much luggage as they could carry.
As he stepped aside for a moment out of the way of this torrent, Stewart
found himself beside the bearded stranger who had waxed eloquent in
defense of Germany. He was watching the crowd with a look at once
mocking and sardonic, as a spider might watch a fly struggling vainly to
escape from the web. He glanced at Stewart, then turned away without any
sign of recognition.
"Where do you go, sir?" the porter asked, when they were safely through
the gates.
"To the Kölner Hof."
"It is but a step," said the porter, and he unhooked his belt, passed it
through the handles of the suit-cases, hooked it together again and
lifted it to his shoulder. "This way, sir, if you please."
The Kölner Hof proved to be a modest inn just around the corner, where
Stewart was received most cordially by the plump, high-colored landlady.
Lunch would be ready in a few minutes; meanwhile, if the gentleman would
follow the waiter, he would be shown to a room where he could remove the
traces of his journey. But first would the gentleman fill in the blank
required by the police?
So Stewart filled in the blank, which demanded his name, his
nationality, his age, his business, his home address, the place from
which he had come to Aix-la-Chapelle and the place to which he would go
on leaving it, handed it back to the smiling landlady, and followed an
ugly, hang-dog waiter up the stair.
The room into which he was shown was a very pleasant one, scrupulously
clean, and as he made his toilet, Stewart reflected how much more of
comfort and how much warmer welcome was often to be had at the small
inns than at the big ones, and mentally thanked the officer of police
who had recommended this one. He found he had further reason for
gratitude when he sat down to lunch, served on a little table set in one
corner of a shady court--the best lunch he had eaten for a long time, as
he told the landlady when she came out presently, knitting in hand, and
sat down near him. She could speak a little English, it appeared, and a
little French, and these, with Stewart's little German, afforded a
medium of communication limping, it is true, but sufficient.
She received the compliments of her guest with the dignity of one who
knew them to be deserved.
"I do what I can to please my patrons," she said; "and indeed I have had
no cause to complain, for the season has been very good. But this
war--it will ruin us innkeepers--there will be no more travelers.
Already, I hear, Spa, Ostend, Carlsbad, Baden--such places as those--are
deserted just when the season should be at its best. What do you think
of it--this war?"
"Most probably it is just another scare," said Stewart. "War seems
scarcely possible in these days--it is too cruel, too absurd. An
agreement will be reached."
"I am sure I hope so, sir; but it looks very bad. For three days now our
troops have been passing through Aachen toward the frontier."
"How far away is the frontier?"
"About ten miles. The customhouse is at Herbesthal."
"Ten miles!" echoed Stewart in surprise. "The frontier of France?"
"Oh, no--the frontier of Belgium."
"But why should they concentrate along the Belgian frontier?" Stewart
demanded.
"Perhaps they fear an attack from that direction. Or perhaps," she
added, calmly, "they are preparing to seize Belgium. I have often heard
it said that Belgium should belong to Germany."
"But look here," protested Stewart, hotly, "Germany can't seize a
country just because it happens to be smaller and weaker than she is!"
"Can't she?" inquired the landlady, seemingly astonished at his
indignation. "Why is that?"
Her eyes were shining strangely as she lowered them to her knitting; and
there was a moment's silence, broken only by the rapid clicking of her
needles. For Stewart found himself unable to answer her question. Ever
since history began, big countries had been seizing smaller ones, and
great powers crushing weaker ones. If Austria might seize Bosnia and
Italy Tripoli, why might not Germany seize Belgium? And he suddenly
realized that, in spite of protests and denials and hypocrisies, between
nation and nation the law of the jungle was, even yet, often the only
law!
"At any rate," pursued the landlady, at last, "I have heard that great
intrenchments are being built all along there, and that supplies for a
million men have been assembled. There has been talk of war many times
before, and nothing has come of it; but there have never been such
preparations as these."
"Let us hope it is only the Kaiser rattling his sword again--a little
louder than usual. I confess," he added more soberly, "that as an
American I haven't much sympathy with Prussian militarism. I have
sometimes thought that a war which would put an end to it once for all
would be a good thing."
The woman shot him a glance surprisingly quick and piercing.
"That is also the opinion of many here in Germany," she said in a low
voice; "but it is an opinion which cannot be uttered." She checked
herself quickly as the ugly waiter approached. "How long will the
gentleman remain in Aachen?" she asked, in another tone.
"I am going on to Brussels this evening. There is a train at six
o'clock, is there not?"
"At six o'clock, yes, sir. It will be well for the gentleman to have a
light dinner before his departure. The train may be delayed--and the
journey to Brussels is of seven hours."
"Very well," agreed Stewart, rising. "I will be back about five. How
does one get to the cathedral?"
"Turn to your right, sir, as you leave the hotel. The first street is
the Franzstrasse. It will lead you straight to the church."
Stewart thanked her and set off. The Franzstrasse proved to be a wide
thoroughfare, bordered by handsome shops, but many of them were closed
and the street itself was almost deserted. It opened upon a narrower
street, at the end of which Stewart could see the lofty choir of the
minster.
Presently he became aware of a chorus of high-pitched voices, which grew
more and more distinct as he advanced. It sounded like a lot of women in
violent altercation, and then in a moment he saw what it was, for he
came out upon an open square covered with market-stalls, and so crowded
that one could scarcely get across it. Plainly the frugal wives of
Aachen were laying in supplies against the time when all food would grow
scarce and dear, and from the din of high-pitched bargaining it was
evident that the crafty market-people had already begun to advance their
prices.
Stewart paused for a while to contemplate this scene, far more violent
and war-like than any he had yet witnessed; then, edging around the
crowd, he arrived at the cathedral, the most irregular and eccentric
that he had ever seen--a towering Gothic choir attached to an octagonal
Byzantine nave. But that nave is very impressive, as Stewart found when
he stepped inside it; and then, on a block of stone in its pavement, he
saw the words, "Carlo Magno," and knew that he was at the tomb of the
great Emperor.
It is perhaps not really the tomb, but for emotional purposes it answers
very well, and there can be no question about the marble throne and
other relics which Stewart presently inspected, under the guidance of a
black-clad verger. Then, as there was a service in progress in the
choir, he sat down, at the verger's suggestion, to wait till it was
over.
In a small chapel at his right, a group of candles glowed before an
altar dedicated to the Virgin, and here, on the low benches, many women
knelt in prayer. More and more slipped in quietly--young women, old
women, some shabby, some well-clad--until the benches were full; and
after that the newcomers knelt on the stone pavement and besought the
Mother of Christ to guard their sons and husbands and sweethearts,
summoned to fight the battles of the Emperor. Looking at them--at their
bowed heads, their drawn faces, their shrinking figures--Stewart
realized for the first time how terrible is the burden which war lays on
women. To bear sons, to rear them--only to see them march away when the
dreadful summons came; to bid good-by to husband or to lover, crushing
back the tears, masking the stricken heart; and then to wait, day after
dreary day, in agony at every rumor, at every knock, at every passing
footstep, with no refuge save in prayer----
But such thoughts were too painful. To distract them, he got out his
Baedeker and turned its pages absently until he came to Aachen. First
the railway stations--there were four, it seemed; then the hotels--the
Grand Monarque, the Nuellens, the Hôtel de l'Empereur, the du
Nord--strange that so many of them should be French, in name at
least!--the Monopol, the Imperial Crown--but where was the Kölner Hof?
He ran through the list again more carefully--no, it was not there. And
yet that police-officer at Cologne had asserted not only that it was in
Baedeker, but that it was honored with a star! Perhaps in the German
edition----
A touch on the arm apprised him that the verger was ready to take him
through the choir, where the service was ended, and Stewart slipped his
book back into his pocket and followed him. It is a lovely choir,
soaring toward the heavens in airy beauty, but Stewart had no eyes for
it. He found suddenly that he wanted to get away. He was vaguely uneasy.
The memory of those kneeling women weighed him down. For the first time
he really believed that war might come.
So he tipped the verger and left the church and came out into the
streets again, to find them emptier than ever. Nearly all the shops were
closed; there was no vehicle of any kind; there were scarcely any
people. And then, as he turned the corner into the wide square in front
of the town-hall, he saw where at least some of the people were, for a
great crowd had gathered there--a crowd of women and children and old
men--while from the steps before the entrance an official in gold-laced
uniform and cocked hat was delivering a harangue.
At first, Stewart could catch only a word here and there, but as he
edged closer, he found that the speech was a eulogy of the Kaiser--of
his high wisdom, his supreme greatness, his passionate love for his
people. The Kaiser had not sought war, he had strained every nerve for
peace; but the jealous enemies who ringed Germany round, who looked with
envy upon her greatness and dreamed only of destroying her, would not
give her peace. So, with firm heart and abiding trust in God, the
Emperor had donned his shining armor and unsheathed his sword, confident
that Germany would emerge from the struggle greater and stronger than
ever.
Then the speaker read the Emperor's address, and reminded his hearers
that all they possessed, even to their lives and the lives of their
loved ones, belonged to their Fatherland, to be yielded ungrudgingly
when need arose. He cautioned them that the military power was now
supreme, not to be questioned. It would brook no resistance nor
interference. Disobedience would be severely dealt with. It was for each
of them to go quietly about his affairs, trusting in the Emperor's
wisdom, and to pray for victory.
There were some scattered cheers, but the crowd for the most part stood
in dazed silence and watched two men put up beside the entrance to the
rathaus the proclamation which declared Germany in a state of war. Down
the furrowed cheeks of many of the older people the hot tears poured in
streams, perhaps at remembrance of the horrors and suffering of
Germany's last war with France, and some partial realization that far
greater horrors and suffering were to come. Then by twos and threes they
drifted away to their homes, talking in bated undertone, or shuffling
silently along, staring straight before them. In every face were fear
and grief and a sullen questioning of fate.
Why had this horror been decreed for them? What had they done that this
terrible burden should be laid upon them? What could war bring any one
of them but sorrow and privation? Was there no way of escape? Had they
no voice in their own destiny? These were the questions which surged
through Stewart's mind as he slowly crossed the square and made his way
along the silent streets back toward his hotel. At almost every corner a
red poster stared at him--a poster bearing the Prussian eagle and the
Kaiser's name. "The sword has been thrust into our hands," the Kaiser
wrote. "We must defend our Fatherland and our homes against the assaults
of our enemies. Forward with God, who will be with us, as He was with
our fathers!"
Sad as he had never been before, Stewart walked on. Something was
desperately wrong somewhere; this people did not want war--most probably
even the Kaiser did not want war. Yet war had come; the fate of Europe
was trembling in the balance; millions of men were being driven to a
detested task. Caught up in mighty armies by a force there, was no
resisting, they were marching blindly to kill and be killed----
A sudden outbreak of angry voices in the street ahead startled Stewart
from his thoughts. A section of soldiers was halted before a house at
whose door a violent controversy was in progress between their sergeant
and a wrinkled old woman.
"I tell you we must have him," the sergeant shouted, as though for the
twentieth time.
"And I tell you his wife is dying," shrieked the woman. "He has
permission from his captain."
"I know nothing about that. My orders are to gather in all stragglers."
"It is only a question of a few hours."
"He must come now," repeated the sergeant, doggedly. "Those are the
orders. If he disobeys them--if I am compelled to use force--he will be
treated as a deserter. Will you tell him, or must I send my men in to
get him?"
The sunken eyes flamed with rage, the wrinkled face was contorted with
hate--but only for an instant. The flame died; old age, despair, the
habit of obedience, reasserted themselves. A tear trickled down the
cheek--a tear of helplessness and resignation.
"I will tell him, sir," she said, and disappeared indoors.
The sergeant turned back to his men, cursing horribly to himself.
Suddenly he spat upon the pavement in disgust.
"A devil's job!" he muttered, and took a short turn up and down, without
looking at his men. In a moment the old woman reappeared in the door.
"Well, mother?" he demanded, gruffly.
"I have told him. He will be here at once."
As she spoke, a fair-haired youth of perhaps twenty appeared on the
threshold and saluted. His eyes were red with weeping, but he held
himself proudly erect.
"Hermann Gronau?" asked the sergeant.
"Yes."
"Fall in!"
With a shriek of anguish, the woman threw her arms about him and
strained him close.
"My boy!" she moaned. "My youngest one--my baby--they are taking you
also!"
"I shall be back, mother, never fear," he said, and loosened her arms
gently. "You will write me when--when it is over."
"Yes," she promised, and he took his place in the ranks.
"March!" cried the sergeant, and the section tramped away with Gronau in
its midst. At the corner, he turned and waved his hand in farewell to
the old woman. For a moment longer she stood clutching at the door and
staring at the place where he had vanished, then turned slowly back into
the house.