BERLIN--ITS MILITARY ATMOSPHERE.
Two men sit on their horses like statues in front of the Brandenburg
Gate of Berlin. They wear spiked helmets. The numerous buttons on their
tight-fitting coats gleam in the sun. Their weapons are swords. When
you ask to what crack regiment they belong, you are told that they are
policemen. You find hundreds more of the same grave, martial persons,
mostly on foot, in the Berlin streets. You soon come to distinguish
them from the regular troops whom they so much resemble. But it is hard
to tell where the policeman ends and the soldier begins. If the moral
effect of this grim constabulary is as great on the citizens of Berlin
as on the stranger within her gates, then there are few breaches of
the peace committed here. At the railway-stations you see other men
who are soldierly in their dress and bearing. They wear the well-known
fatigue-caps with broad colored bands and a little circle embroidered
just above the visor. Their breasts are decorated with metal badges, of
which the crown emblem is a part. You naturally suppose them to belong
to the army, and to be ornamented with some kind of “order,” until you
go near enough to read the word “Portier,” with which they are labeled.
Thus it is that a strong military air is imparted to Berlin, over and
above that which comes from the corps in garrison here. This corps
comprises all arms of the service. The various uniforms--sometimes
simply neat, but often very showy--exhibited in Unter den Linden during
the evening promenade, form one of the chief attractions of that
most beautiful of Berlin streets. Such, at least, is the verdict of
visitors--especially Americans with whom army accoutrements are happily
things of the past.
It must be confessed that the most peaceful-minded person may catch
the military fever here. The people of Berlin, like all other Germans,
protest to you that they hate war and desire peace above all things.
No men can look more pacific as they smoke their pipes and drink
their beer, and listen to the best music in the “Gartens.” Still,
it is the truth that they impress the impartial tourist as the most
warlike race in Europe. No capital that I have seen compares with
Berlin in the predominance of military ideas and suggestions. The
officers and privates everywhere on view are but a small part of
this total. The aged and heroic Emperor, the Crown Prince, Bismarck,
Moltke, Roon, and other heroes of the Franco-German War, are served up
in every possible way in the shop-windows of every street. Statues,
busts, oil-paintings, photographs of these distinguished men in full
“regimentals,” are as thick in Berlin as crucifixes and other religious
symbols in the most devout city of Southern Italy. It is a patriotism
which runs to idolatry. In the Königsplatz stands a splendid monument,
designed to commemorate the victorious issues of the recent wars
with Denmark, Austria, and France. On each of the four sides of the
pedestal are bronze reliefs of the Kaiser and all the rest of the
gallant company. If one is not tired of these repetitions of figures
and faces, he may climb an interior staircase of the column and come
out on a balcony, where he can regale himself with the sight of a
noble work in mosaic, in which the identical celebrities reappear in
new combinations and with still more brilliant effects. Visiting the
modern picture-galleries about town, he can not enter a nook or recess
so obscure that it does not hold at least one first-rate picture,
or marble or bronze bust of the Emperor or his heir, or his great
Chancellor, or his incomparable Field-Marshal and strategist.
It is but natural that the Germans should love to honor the illustrious
sovereign, the statesman, and the general who have made their country
united and powerful. They know perfectly well that what they have won
by the sword can be kept only by the sword in that terrible struggle
for national supremacy, and even for existence, of which Europe is the
theatre. As long as the profession of the soldier is thus exalted above
every other by force of circumstances, what wonder that the Germans
should indulge their passion for hero-worship to an extent unknown in
all modern history?
The American who passes through France and Germany finds this question
a very interesting one: How long will it be before these two countries
will be fighting again? He takes it for granted that they will fight
some time. All the signs point to that conclusion. He sees troops
incessantly drilling in all parts of Germany and France. If he can read
the native papers, he finds in almost every column some allusion more
or less covert, but unmistakably unfriendly in tone. If he inspects the
rows of yellow-covered pamphlets at the railway book-stalls, he will
be sure to see “Avant la Bataille,” or “Pas Encore,” or the spirited
replies in German, of which those and other sensational volumes have
been the occasion. Works like these are multiplying on both sides
of the frontier. They seem to be pilot balloons sent up to try the
winds. It is true that the authors are unofficial persons. They do not
speak for nations. But they do, nevertheless, succeed in straining the
relations between countries which require for the preservation of peace
the observance of mutual forbearance, if hearty good-will can not be
expected of them.
A great many Frenchmen have made no concealment of their burning desire
for revenge ever since the war of 1870-’71. But in my previous visits
to Europe I have never found the Germans so outspoken on this ticklish
subject as at present. Every one with whom I have conversed believes
that the renewal of the struggle is not far off. No reason is given
for this belief. It is one of faith, resting on portents in the skies.
There does not seem to be, in Germany, the least doubt of the sequel,
if France, single-handed, should attempt to recover what she has lost.
But there is some anxiety to know whether she would have Russia as an
ally. In that event the Germans are counting on the support of Austria
and Italy. These, however, are questions of the future, and there we
will leave them, with the single remark that the physical and mental
health of Bismarck and Moltke, as trusted counselors of the indomitable
Kaiser, constitutes the best present security against any surprise in
diplomacy or war at the expense of Germany.
I never saw in any one place in France as many French cannon as are
packed in the great court-yard of the arsenal of Berlin. They line the
sides of the quadrangle, and point to the center. Each of these pieces
bears some terrible name--“Le Vengeur,” “La Terreur,” “Le Destructeur,”
“Le Volcan,” “Le Borreau,” and the like--which now read strangely by
the light of history. Some show ugly scars, like bull-dogs gashed in
fighting. A frequent mark is the tearing away of a lip of the muzzle,
the effect of German shot. Others have deep scores in the sides,
where the balls struck them and glanced off. They are mostly bronze
of slender, graceful shapes, and profusely ornamented with arabesque
raised patterns. They have a certain Gallic look of trimness and taste,
and, if they failed to frighten off the German invader, they still
survive as works of art in the German capital, and fulfill the peaceful
mission of amusing the Berlinese. I roved among these trophies, and
patted them on the back, stopping occasionally to decipher the date of
their making. The year is cast in bold figures near the mouth of the
gun, and is often accompanied by the name of the sovereign in whose
reign it was born. There are specimens dating as far back as Louis XIV;
others are marked “Napoleon,” “Louis XVIII,” “Louis Philippe,” and the
larger number “Napoleon III.” As I saunter among these grim souvenirs
of the wreck of the Second Empire and the terrible humiliation of
France, I wonder how a French soldier would feel if he were present
among this throng of exulting Germans, with whom the exhibition is a
treat inexhaustibly popular. But then, of course, no Frenchman visiting
Berlin could bear the idea of witnessing these proofs of his country’s
disaster.
As this thought passed through my mind, I looked up from a long,
handsome gun--“Le Tourbillon”--which I had been inspecting, and noticed
a martial face near me. It had piercing black eyes, a clipped, white
mustache, a prominent chin, and instantly reminded me of the portrait
of Marshal Pelissier, Duc de Malakoff. The lips were grimly set, and
there was no mistaking the frown in those corrugated lines of the
brow which the civilian’s hat did not conceal. Caught unawares, this
remarkable face showed shame, rage, hate, and revenge, or I am no
judge of the human countenance. But the moment the stranger’s eyes met
mine, this expression of the passions vanished. He smiled forcedly,
and whispered, “Pardon, monsieur,” then moved hastily away, as if to
avoid conversation or observation. The incident impressed me deeply.
He was certainly a Frenchman, perhaps an officer of high rank, who,
while visiting Berlin and out of his uniform, could not resist the
temptation to see what use the victors were making of all the spoils of
Sedan, Strasburg, and Metz, and of those venerable trophies of Waterloo
which fell into Blucher’s hands. He was too young for old Pelissier;
and, besides, that hero of the Crimea had been dead about two years.
After glancing at the immense display of other cannon, home-made and
captured, old and new, the apparatus for mining and sapping, the
elaborate miniature plans of fortresses and (most curious of all)
the topographical models of historic battlefields, with tin troops
in position on both sides, just as they were drawn up at some crisis
of the conflict--all these on the vast lower floor of the arsenal--I
climbed an easy flight of stairs, and found myself in another hall
of trophies. The objects here exhibited were French muskets and
French standards. There were enough _chassepots_ to equip a division
of troops. A Frenchman himself, if he could dismiss his patriotic
sensibilities, must admire the highly artistic way in which the Germans
have grouped these shining weapons. Thousands of them are set in racks,
and look like organ-pipes, recalling Longfellow’s lines on “The Arsenal
at Springfield”; others are displayed against the walls as spokes of
a wheel, as triangles, as pentagons, and other geometrical forms,
beautiful in their perfect regularity. A committee of French artists
could not have treated the material more effectively.
Above and all around droop the flags of conquered France. Some are old
and rent by bullets. I read among their folds such names as “Jena,”
“Austerlitz,” “Borodino,” “Alma,” “Inkermann,” “Solferino.” Others
are new and untorn and unstained. Their fresh, tricolored hues make
the long gallery gay as I look down its perspective. What would the
French officer say (to himself) if he could gaze upon these flags of
his country which now serve only to decorate the enemy’s arsenal?
There he is again by my side. His face is pale. His lips pinch each
other. His eyes shoot fire. He is staring intently at a poor old flag
in tatters--a mere rag--on which I spell out the word “Marengo.” No
wonder his patriotic soul is cruelly disturbed by the spectacle! How
can he endure it? As I ask this question, the object of it is suddenly
aware that I am looking at him. His eyes again meet mine, his face
mechanically becomes smooth if not pleasant, and his lips move as if
murmuring, “Pardon, monsieur!” in apology for not more successfully
commanding his emotions. Then he disappears among the crowd--there is
always a crowd at the arsenal--as before, and that is my last sight of
this mysterious personage.
During one of our rides in the outskirts of Berlin we came upon a
regimental drill. It was taking place in a large, perfectly flat and
dry field or parade-ground. We sat comfortably in our carriage close
by, and watched the operations. An entire regiment was present, with
all its officers in command, and fine-looking men they were, from the
colonel down to the sous-lieutenant. It may be largely a question of
clothes. Perhaps the long frock-coat, with two rows of buttons on the
breast, and the spiked helmet, should be credited with part of the
effect. The bobtail, white coats of Austria, and the short, blue tunics
and red breeches of France, somehow detract from the impressiveness
which should adhere to the followers of Mars. And the _Pickelhaube_ of
the Germans is unquestionably more warlike than the French _kepi_, or
the cloth cap of the Austrians awkwardly set on the back of the head,
or the plumed, top-heavy, round hat of the Italian _bersaglieri_. The
German officers, for one reason or another, are more soldierly of
aspect than any of their European brethren in arms. The studious and
impartial observer must also give the German privates the palm over all
others of the rank and file, the English troops always excepted. They
look healthier, larger, stronger, with more staying power, than the
common soldiers of Austria, France, or Italy.
These officers and these men are machines with souls. We are looking
at some wonderful automatic exhibition. Every arm and every leg of
every soldier responds to the orders as if pulled by invisible wires.
When they march in company columns, the line along the waist-buckles
of the men is perfectly straight. When they ground their muskets, a
thousand strike the earth with one thud. To me the most remarkable part
of the show is the goose-step parade, never seen outside of Germany.
It is a survival of the great Frederick’s iron system. The men throw
out one leg after another from the hip-joint, without a bend at the
knee. There is absolute uniformity in this strange combined movement.
A line of puppets operated by steam could not perform it better. A
Prussian officer would take that as the highest compliment, his purpose
being to impart to these thinking bodies before him all the formalism
of a machine complete in every part, thoroughly oiled and working
faultlessly. The goose-step parade is the pride of his heart. The
fierce colonel, who sits on his coal-black horse at a little distance,
and watches his regiment with merciless eyes, beams his silent approval
as they all stride toward him, with their thousands of stiff legs
rising and falling together as one.
At Munich, on the way to Berlin, I had seen Bavarian soldiers taking
their gymnastic exercise out-of-doors. The same severe physical
discipline is enforced upon all the conscripts throughout the
empire; but it is not often that the tourist catches them in the
act of training every muscle in succession for the exigencies of a
campaign. By looking over a fence which separated me from the Munich
drill-ground, I could watch the performances at close quarters.
There, within a rod of me, were tough young fellow’s playing all
sorts of games. They were climbing ropes and letting themselves down
head-foremost. They were jumping over bars four or five feet high
without touching. They were scaling barricades fifteen or twenty feet
high by mounting on the shoulders of comrades. They were crossing
imaginary streams on narrow planks. Some of them, with wire masks
and iron breastplates, were fiercely lunging at one another with
bayonets on the ends of muskets. The sharp point was covered with a
wad of stuffed leather. Hundreds of men not thus engaged were marching
incessantly up and down the grounds and going through the manual of
arms, under the severest of tutors. When I had looked upon these men
and these games about half an hour, I understood better than before why
the Germans are formidable in war.
The Emperor and Empress were at Ems in mid-July, the time of my visit.
Parliament was not in session. The opera-houses were closed. The month
was in no sense part of “the season.” And yet the hotels and _pensions_
were full and prices “way up.” It is worth while to know the special
reason of this. Berlin was holding a great exhibition of pictures. It
purported to take in “the world,” but I can not admit this claim, for
America was not at all represented in the long galleries through which
I paced in the vain hope of finding some scrap from the brush of a
fellow-countryman. None of the official persons whom I consulted knew
or cared anything about it. One or two of them had a vague impression
that some American artist had sent in something after the catalogue had
been printed, but could not “spot” it for me. So I patriotically hunted
for myself, and after much searching gave it up. Whether our artists
did not care to send coals to Newcastle, or whether the managers of
this immense picture-show had forgotten to invite, or had declined
to accept, offerings from the United States, I can not say. Perhaps
the jealousy and feeling of resentment which the American art tariff
has provoked in Germany may explain the phenomenon. Excepting for the
regrettable absence of contributions from America, the Ausstellung
of 1886 wanted for nothing. No better collection of modern European
paintings has ever been made. It was this that packed Berlin in
mid-July. There is a lesson just here which should be taken home by
every city in which ambition and enterprise are not yet extinct. Great
galleries of fine pictures are unfailing attractions.
Perhaps, when New York has doubled her supply of Croton, she will
provide a fountain worthy of the name. Nothing seems to captivate a
crowd quite as effectually as a big jet of water. It must be fired
into the air straight and high. It makes little difference whether
the stream is thick or thin at the nozzle. At the Interlaken Casino
there is a slender fountain of this kind. Its topmost drops tremble
some hundreds of feet above the ground. No one dreams of quitting the
scene till the water ceases to play, and I believe the spectators would
stay there all night if it were not turned off. At Dresden, behind
the Zwinger, there is a jet of far less pretensions. But, while it is
playing, everybody from far and near flocks around to see it. Visiting
the park of Sans Souci, not far from Berlin, I found the great fountain
just as irresistible as all of its kind have proved everywhere else.
The by-standers never tired of watching the sparkling column as it
shot aloft. They would hardly move out of the way, even when its spray
drenched them as the wind swayed the flashing summit to and fro. Nature
and art have combined to make the old pleasure-ground of Potsdam
lovely. But there is nothing in it as beautiful as its fountain.
The linden-trees in the great street upon which I look as I write, have
shed almost all their blossoms. The wind brings with it the faintest
trace of a perfume which is delicious when not too strong. The renowned
Unter den Linden must be the paradise of thoroughfares when its long
double lines of trees are in their full flower. Its noble palaces,
museums, universities, and other public buildings make it attractive at
all times. But its wealth of lindens is its unique charm in the summer.
Only I am a little disappointed not to find among the leafy rows a
single specimen of the tree as high as that which is so common in
Southern Germany. But, in years, perhaps, they will grow to be as lofty
as their predecessors in the same street which were cut down in their
old age and decrepitude.