SUNDAY THE FIRST OF NOVEMBER
For over a thousand years the Catholic Church has kept, on the 2nd or
3rd of November, the solemn festival of “All Souls” in remembrance of
the dead and as an admonition to the living to send up prayers to the
throne of God for the souls suffering in purgatory. A Mass for the
departed is held in the churches, and the graves in the cemeteries are
adorned with wreaths and flowers.
In the parish church of Bapaume a German “All Souls” celebration
was held on Sunday the 1st of November in remembrance of the fallen
soldiers. Duke Adolf Friedrich and I arrived in good time for the
service but found the church filled to overcrowding with four thousand
soldiers. We succeeded however in getting up to the chancel, where two
chairs were placed for us among a group of officers.
The old church makes a truly imposing and magnificent impression. The
first thing I felt constrained to do, after taking my seat, was to
cast my eye over the fane, with its lofty Gothic arches and handsome
windows. On either side of the mighty nave are small side-aisles
supported by massive pillars. The transept walls are adorned with large
memorial tablets, which however are of doubtful artistic value. The
sunlight filters in through the stained-glass windows and falls in all
the hues of the rainbow upon the white pillars. One wonders why a town
of little more than 3,000 inhabitants should need a church capable of
holding 4,000 persons, but at the great festivals this place of worship
attracts people from the whole surrounding country.
All pews are overcrowded, soldiers are standing closely packed all
down the aisles, with their helmets slung over their arms. There are
Catholic Sisters in their black dresses, white coifs and Red Cross
armlets. Both officers and men are unarmed. No rattling of sabres is
heard. No one is commanded to Divine Service. The soldiers are at
liberty to spend the hour of High Mass as they please. Yet the church
is crowded from end to end. These hardened warriors feel the need of
approaching God and hearing His word before they go forth to face death.
A Divine Service in the field under the open sky is more impressive in
its way. But I cannot imagine anything more beautiful than this High
Mass in Bapaume Parish Church. Perhaps they preferred to celebrate
All Souls’ Day under these lofty arches so as not to be disturbed by
airmen. War is inexorable and does not hesitate to kill the children
of man, even while performing their devotions. A Field Chaplain told
me that on Sunday the 18th of October he was preaching on a hill-slope
outside Douchy when a hostile aviator dropped a couple of bombs,
intending to interrupt the service in this catastrophic manner. They
exploded close to the listening troops. No one stirred, and the
preacher calmly continued his sermon.
It is a strangely fascinating sight that meets my eye as it travels
over the nave from the raised floor of the chancel, and I feel that my
heart beats in unison with those of the four thousand South Germans.
Weather-beaten and sunburnt they stand--a picture of manhood, imbued
with iron will and humble trust in God. Their field-grey uniforms have
assumed a tint now truly at one with the colour of the fields through
constant contact with the soil in trenches and “dug-outs.” But here and
there I also observed the dark-blue tunics of Bavarian Landsturm men,
sturdy and steadfast like the solid rock from which the pillars of the
church were hewn.
I hear that the credit of decorating the church so festively for
All Souls’ Day was due to these Landsturm men. The chancel had been
transformed into a solid bank of foliage, and all the pillars were hung
with large green wreaths, in remembrance of the fallen. But the most
remarkable thing of all was the reverence which the good Bavarians
had shown to a small statue of Joan d’Arc standing on the left of the
choir just within the triumphal arch. There was nothing in the least
remarkable about this plaster image of the seventeen-year-old Maid of
Orleans. She was just as one sees her in many other places. She stood,
majestically erect, in her shining armour, holding in her hand the
white standard adorned with _fleurs-de-lys_. And yet I could not keep
my eyes off her. She seemed to scrutinise the German warriors in the
nave, and an ironical smile seemed to hover about her lips.
But how did she get here? It is true that just twenty years ago she
was declared blessed by Pope Leo XIII.--perhaps she has meanwhile
been actually received into the Canon of Saints.[29] At any rate she
is the object of almost divine veneration in this part of France. One
could see that her image was not a regular part of the decorations of
the church, because it had been placed on an upturned packing-case
scantily draped with some cloth. When the war was hanging over France
like a dark thunder-cloud she had been carried into the church, and the
believers had fallen on their knees before her, imploring her to bestow
her spirit and her victorious aid on the French. To propitiate the
noble virgin, the citizens of Bapaume had offered her numerous candles
which were arranged on a stand in front of the image. And now comes the
strangest part, the good Bavarians had glorified her with a background
of tall plants and had lit all the candles, those candles whose flames
were burning prayers for victory over--the Germans!
[29] She was canonised by Pope Pius X. in May, 1909.--Translator.
The blessed virgin had yet another and greater cause to smile at human
folly. In her time, more than half of France was overrun by the English
and their allies. It was against them that she had fought--them that
she had vanquished--and when, overpowered at last, she fell into the
hands of her country’s enemies she was delivered by them into the hands
of the inquisition. She was derided, locked up with rough soldiers and
finally burnt at the stake--all this by those very Englishmen whom she
was now invoked, by burning prayers and candles, to assist against
the Germans. One may pardon the young lady for making a wry face and
feeling somewhat perplexed! The Bavarians might well light the candles
without misgivings--she did not heed them, and her helmet prevented her
from hearing the presumptuous prayers.
The peals of the organ now rise loud and clear towards the roof, and
lusty voices from four thousand young warriors’ throats sing Bernard de
Clairvaux’s eight-hundred-year-old Latin hymn _Salve caput cruentatum_
in its German version composed in 1659 by Paul Gerhard:
O sacred Head, surrounded
By crown of piercing thorn!
O bleeding Head, so wounded,
Reviled and put to scorn!
Death’s pallid hue comes o’er Thee,
The glow of life decays.
Yet angel hosts adore Thee
And tremble as they gaze!
* * * * *
In mine own hour of passion,
Good Shepherd, think of me
With Thy most sweet compassion,
Unworthy though I be.
In Thy sweet arms abiding
For ever would I rest,
In Thy dear love confiding,
And with Thy presence blest!”[30]
[30] “Ancient and Modern Hymns,” version slightly modified.--Translator.
When the last note of Cleving’s sonorous voice--which, though I could
not see the singer from where I sat, could easily be distinguished
and rang with the fervour of devotion--had died away, Franz Xaver
Münch, Divisional Chaplain of Düsseldorf, ascended the pulpit. He was
a tall and powerfully built man. With authoritative dignity he stood
and looked down upon his congregation of all grades and all arms,
of horny-handed soldiers and Sisters of Mercy, of Protestants and
Catholics. The service was a joint service for all creeds. The priest
himself was a Catholic. But now, in the German nation’s greatest hour,
all barriers of creed were broken; there was no longer any distinction
between Protestants, Catholics or Jews--there were only _Germans_. “We
have now all become as _one_ man, and we all have _one_ God.”
But the priest stood in the pulpit and delivered the following sermon:
“Dearly beloved friends and comrades!
“‘O Sacred Head surrounded!’ This is how the German master Grünewald,
the placid, great mystic, saw Him when he pictured that Divine ‘Man of
Sorrow,’ His pain and His wounds, and His bruised and pierced body!
This is how Bach beheld Him when in his ‘Passion according to St.
Matthew’ he prayed and lamented over the dying Son of God: ‘Help, ye
daughters ... help me lament!’
“In this sacred hour, when we mourn our dead heroes, we realise more
powerfully than ever before the passion of Our Lord. For are not we
Germans ourselves undergoing our Passion, and is not our Empire itself
transformed to a suffering Christ? We too have passed through our hour
of trial on Mount Olivet when, with our Emperor, we prayed that ‘this
cup of suffering might pass away’ from us, and obeying the unfathomable
Divine Will, we began to drain it. We too felt the war weighing upon us
like a cross, and we are bearing its burden, trusting in the same aid
which comforted our Heavenly Master. We too have been forsaken by those
to whom we had only shown what is good and right, and around us too has
roared the cry, full of hatred and envy: ‘Crucify him!’ And like the
Master, we too, in this our German Passion, are bearing wounds, among
which the noblest and most bloody are our dear dead Germans!
“Standing by the common graves in which we have buried our dead, we
lament deeply and sorrowfully. For we Germans too can weep and lament!
And with our lamentations mingle the sobs and wailings of the poor
German widows and orphans, whose husbands and fathers rest in foreign
soil.
“And yet we do not sorrow like the heathen who have nothing to hope
for. Even the dead live, and urge us on to the task incumbent on the
living. I fancy I can hear, from those trench graves, the imploring,
earnestly beseeching cry: ‘_See to it that our sufferings may not have
been in vain!_’ The task which the dead lay upon us is, untiringly,
and with the utmost exertion of all our powers of mind and body, to
accomplish the work of liberation of our threatened empire. From
the earliest times it has been a prominent characteristic of German
effort in every domain to go about the task in hand thoroughly and
perseveringly and to accomplish it accurately in every detail. This
purely German talent we shall also employ, with all the energy
mercifully bestowed on us, in this fateful hour. Just as in times of
peace we were a nation who created new resources, beneficent even to
others, so we will not now rest till we have forced upon our enemies a
peace which shall not only bring a new spring of prosperity to our land
but shall also be a guarantee for the tranquillity and security of all
Europe.
“Yet another cry I seem to hear from those trench graves: ‘_Do not
forget our sufferings and our wounds!_’ My dear comrades! Those among
our people who still retain their moral earnestness will never forget
the wounds and the sufferings which this war has brought with it. The
price of our liberation and of our victories is the most precious and
most noble that a people can pay--the blood of our young manhood!
Come and see how we are burying the young! We cannot even give them
a plain coffin! We cannot, as the ancient Teutons did, raise them on
our shields and carry them over hill and dale to their German home.
But, dear brethren, I know of a sarcophagus which is more precious
than a coffin--fashioned by the hand of a greater Master--I mean the
sarcophagus of the German heart. Deeply enshrined there, let us lay
our dear dead to rest and carry them home with us, some day, to the
German native land. And if, some day--which God our Protector in our
German fight forbid--a time should come when a generation of young men
and young women does not know what the peace and the new prosperity of
the empire has cost us, when people in laxity and luxury only live to
enjoy the fruits, when people abandon themselves to the strange gods of
demoralising and pernicious habits--then, my dear brethren, the time
will have come for us, who have been standing to-day in sorrow around
these tombs, to open the sarcophagus of our hearts and exhibit to a
slothful generation our dead, their wounds and their dying moments!
Then the spirits of the fallen shall fight another and a harder fight
against those of our own people who no longer preserve the memory of
the gaping wounds of war in the innermost recesses of their soul!
“Thus this day on which we commemorate our dead is in reality a day
of surging life, of new hopes and of urgent tasks. These graves are
a gigantic reproach to our enemies, but to us they will be a sacred
memorial in the time to come. Those who have sown the storms shall reap
the whirlwind! And this whirlwind is now raging over their land! Led
astray by petty motives and by small groups of selfish partisans, ‘they
have sown in the flesh and they shall reap destruction.’ We venture to
swear before God that we have sown in the spirit of righteousness and
peace. To us the war is a momentously spiritual matter, which touches
the innermost heart of a nation which has risen in unity, which has
been hurt in its most sacred sentiments, and has been forced to defend
itself. And through the Spirit of Righteousness and Peace our people
shall reap eternal life. Amen.”
“O God, who by Thy holy Apostles hast commanded us to love the Ruler
Thou hast given us, pour the richest blessings on our Emperor and all
his house! And above all we pray Thee, in these the great days of
fateful warlike complications, to bestow Thy grace on our Imperial
Lord! In holy trust and deep humility he has committed his people to
Thy protection! For the sake of all of us, preserve his health and
strength! Enlighten him in his counsels! Comfort him, while with a
father’s heart he grieves over the wounds of his empire! Reward him
with victory for his army, and with an honourable peace! This grant
him, God, the Righteous, for the sake of the atoning death of our
Divine Lord and Saviour! Amen.”
“O Lord of Hosts! Uphold our brave German Army! Thou knowest what a
righteous cause it is fighting for, and how it is pressed by enemies on
every hand! Grant its leaders wisdom and skill,--grant its soldiers the
spirit of constant self-sacrificing courage and ready obedience! Let
them all find shelter under the wings of Thy mercy, Thy divinity and
Thy grace! Grant us this through Thy son our Heavenly Lord and Saviour!
Amen.”
“O Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, who Thyself didst live, with Thy
holy parents, a holy family life, have mercy on our families at home!
Protect our fair and fertile land, our villages and towns, our fields
and vineyards, our trade and handicraft! Protect above all our German
youth--Thou the divine friend of children! Let the young be deeply
imbued with the import of the times and with love of their native land,
in this fateful hour! But especially comfort each wife whose husband
is resting in foreign soil, for Thy Father is the God of the widows
and the fatherless! Thou Thyself hadst a mother whose heart bled with
pain and grief! Console the mothers, give comfort to the children! Have
mercy on brothers, sisters and betrothed who are mourning their beloved
dead--Thou who livest and reignest from eternity to eternity! Amen.”
The bands play a hymn whose magnificently solemn notes re-echo through
the church. A quartette strikes up the _Ave verum corpus natum_ and
finally the congregation sings the doxology:
“Mighty God, we worship Thee,
Lord, we praise Thy glorious name!
Heaven and earth bow down to Thee
And Thy wondrous works proclaim!
As from all eternity,
Thou for evermore shalt be!”
The High Mass was over and the soldiers filed out, past the little maid
who, thanks to Schiller’s magnificent romantic tragedy, was no stranger
to them. The candles might well be lit in front of her--had she not
vanquished the English? The French Maid, as she stands there, brings to
our minds those proud words which the German bard put into her mouth
when, a prisoner in the hands of the English, he makes her boldly
exclaim to the ferocious and insolent Queen Isabeau:
“France never shall the Briton’s fetters bear,
No, never! For, ere that, it shall become
One vast engulphing tomb for all your hosts!
The flower of your army’s gone--betimes
Think of a safe retreat--already now,
Your glory’s faded and your might is broken!”
Perhaps there were also some in Bapaume Church who thought of those
grand words, in which Schiller makes her predict the ultimate triumph
over truth:
“Without the Will of God no single hair
Falls from man’s head!--See yonder sun
Descending to the horizon--Yea, as surely
As in the morn he’ll rise anew in splendour,
As surely comes the day when truth prevails!”--
Then the lights were quickly extinguished and the Maid of Orleans
remained alone, pensive and still.
Pastor Münch remarked to me how profoundly impressive it was to
witness the soldiers’ and officers’ spiritual cravings during the war.
At divine service the churches were always crowded, and hundreds of
soldiers were attending the weekday Vespers. The sermons were printed
in tens and hundreds of thousands of copies for distribution in the
trenches. War was carried on, not only with rifles, bayonets and
artillery, but also with the weapons of the fear of God and prayer!
For his own part he thought that Catholics and Protestants, however
strictly they each adhered to their own particular tenets, yet well
understood each other. The German Catholics had most fervently taken to
heart the situation of their common fatherland in the face of the war,
and their sentiments were as genuine, sincere and true as those of the
Protestants. Perhaps one of the results of the war would be that the
two creeds would have learnt to esteem each other and to abstain in
future from dwelling on those points in which they were most strongly
at variance. Already it had been realised in German evangelical circles
that, although the Roman Catholic Church comprises all nations, yet
the German Catholics were fighting with unshakable consistency and
conviction for German national interests.
A sanguinary reminiscence of the Franco-German war is connected with
Bapaume. On January 3rd, 1871, impelled by the precarious situation of
Paris, General Faidherbe attacked, with the French Northern Army,--the
22nd and 23rd Army Corps--General Goeben’s forces, collected in and
about Bapaume, whose nucleus was the 15th Division of the 8th Army
Corps. The Germans held their main position though outnumbered by more
than two to one, but at the end of the day were totally exhausted, and
moreover short of ammunition. General Faidherbe, on the other hand, saw
his best troops badly spent and the _Gardes Mobiles_ demoralised by the
fatigues undergone. He would not venture another blow, and fell back on
Arras and Douai. The deficient military training and discipline of the
French militia rendered it impossible for the General to take advantage
of the otherwise favourable situation.
Forty-four years have now passed since then, and Bapaume is once
more in German hands. The French have erected, in the centre of the
market-place, a statue of Faidherbe--a worthy memorial to a brilliant
career. Time after time this brave man had been entrusted with the
solution of important tasks at home, in Guadeloupe, in Algiers,
Senegal and Kabylia, until in the end he was appointed by Gambetta, in
November, 1870, to the command of the Northern Army. He was by no means
lacking in courage, confidence, initiative, patriotism and fervent
zeal, but with his militia troops he was like a general without an
army, in the face of the thoroughly and carefully trained Germans.
[Illustration: BAND PLAYING BESIDE FAIDHERBE’S STATUE]
[Illustration: GERMAN SOLDIERS BESIDE THE FRENCH GENERAL’S MEMORIAL]
Faidherbe survived his failure for a good many years. He died in Paris
in 1889 after eighteen years’ grief at his generalship being wasted
uselessly in consequence of the blindness and ignorance of those who
represented the nation and who brought that nation to the deepest abyss
of national misfortune ever witnessed in our times.
There he stands, in bronze, on his white pedestal--one of the victims
of his nation’s baneful mistake. And around him stand sons of the
people who vanquished him, now following victoriously in the footsteps
of their fathers. There he stands, defiant and resolute, with crossed
arms, his right hand clasping the hilt of his sword. His whole bearing
seems to evince an unflinching resolution not to recede one step but
only to push forward! His greatcoat seems to flutter in the wind, and
his cap is jauntily cocked to one side. He bears his head high and
proudly, his eyes are turned towards the German troops--now as in the
days of the past. For now, as then, he has closely serried ranks of
German soldiers before him. Many of those who had attended the church
service have now assembled in the market-place. The German military
band forms a semicircle in front of Faidherbe’s statue. Baton in hand,
the bandmaster steps forth, and now the “Watch on the Rhine” rings out.
Grand, sonorous and stirring, its notes swirl round the hero up there
on the pedestal. He seems more defiant than ever, with his bared sword,
and an air of deep tragedy seems to hover about his features!
But the German musicians and their comrades stand calm and undismayed;
a sentiment of confident expectation of victory pervades all these
warriors. Cleving begins to sing and others join in, until a mighty
wave of song sweeps over the market-place:[31]
“The tocsin rings like thunder peal,
Like roar of waves and clash of steel:--
To th’ Rhine--the Rhine,--the German Rhine!
Who will keep guard upon the Rhine?
_Chorus_:
Be undismayed, dear country mine:
Firm stands and true the watch,--the watch on th’ Rhine!
(_Rep._)
Through hundred thousands thrills the call
And boldly flash the eyes of all:
The German, loyal, staunch and true,
Protects that sacred landmark blue!
(_Chorus._)
He gazes upwards to the sky,
Where valiant fathers dwell on high,
And proudly vows: For evermore
Shall German stay the Rhine’s fair shore!
(_Chorus._)
While yet a drop of blood we hoard,
Have yet an arm to wield the sword--
To pull the trigger yet one hand--
No foeman’s foot shall tread this land!
(_Chorus._)
The vow rings o’er the wave-swept vale--
Proud banners flutter in the gale--
On th’ Rhine,--the Rhine, the German Rhine--
We’ll all keep guard upon the Rhine!”
(_Chorus._)
[31] “Die Wacht am Rhein.” Having failed, in this and in other
instances in this book, to discover an “authorised” version, the
translator has been compelled to make literal translations himself.
Before we left the market square we looked in at the Base Commander’s
office, to see the old Bavarian Colonel who had been so ungracious
on my arrival in Bapaume. But now, as I have mentioned, we were firm
friends.
The brilliant assembly of guests round the Duke’s hospitable board
included on this occasion the Chief of the Staff, Count von der
Schulenburg, a lively and pleasant gentleman, who evoked great
merriment by his happy wit.
When the guests had departed, we mounted the Duke’s car and drove to
Hamelincourt, whither we had been invited for tea by Rittmeister von
Hollen. When we passed through the village before, night had fallen;
now we inspected more closely the slightly damaged church and a few
wrecked houses. Even this little place was swarming with troops and
officers; we also met a stout and jovial Catholic priest who had been
out that day to the foremost fighting line to preach. He had passed
through the most remarkable adventures with his lively little grey cob,
and he recounted some of them while we were seated at von Hollen’s
hospitable table.
On the notice board of the Townhall we had seen the announcement: “This
afternoon at 5 p.m. a short service will be held in Bapaume Cemetery
in commemoration of our fallen comrades.” When we left Hamelincourt,
we therefore made straight for the cemetery. Crowds of officers and
men were filtering along the paths between a forest of crosses and
tombstones. There was here a common grave, in which Frenchmen and
Germans have been resting side by side since 1871, also some fresh
graves dating from the present war. A surgeon lay buried here, whose
fox-terrier, for three days and nights, could not be induced to leave
his master’s grave.
A group of nursing sisters come bearing large wreaths wherewith to
adorn the graves of the dead soldiers. The band strikes up a slow and
solemn funeral march; a preacher delivers an address in remembrance
of the dead, and a choir of Bavarian Landsturm men ascend a little
mound and pay homage to their fallen comrades in beautiful song.
They are good-natured fellows, these powerful and strong Bavarians,
but in war they are awkward customers to tackle. Then they no longer
think of “_Eine ganz frische Blume_”[32] and can even dispense with
their beloved _Hofbräu_ beer. Their younger comrades in the trenches
are notorious for their eagerness to fight and for their undaunted
courage. They never give way. If the word is given to charge with the
bayonet, nothing can hold them back. A Bavarian “Hurrah” is something
terrifying. But when the enemy throws up his hands and yields himself
up as prisoner, these warriors become their old gentle selves. If the
situation permits it may happen, however, that they rummage in their
opponents’ pockets and knapsacks for cigarettes. When, in the former
war, the Germans reproached the French with having pressed half-savage
and heathen races into their ranks, they are said to have replied: “_Eh
bien, vous avez vos Bavarois!_”
[32] Title of one of their songs.
On the extreme fringe of the audience stood sixty Landsturm men, who
had been ordered to the cemetery to open fire in case a hostile airman
should show himself. Aviators are mostly out between five and six,
and the air was calm and clear this evening. Just imagine what havoc
might be wrought if a bomb or two were dropped among these closely
packed crowds! While the priest is speaking, the warning whir is heard
overhead. But not a muscle moves on the faces of his audience; the
preacher’s voice never falters nor does he lose the thread of his
discourse for an instant. One little sister alone raises her blue eyes
to the sky, but seems quite unconcerned. “It is a German airman,” the
Duke whispers into my ear, and he told me afterwards that one soon
learnt to distinguish French from German aeroplanes--by their sound.
The German machines have a duller note.
On returning home I called in as usual to see M. Cossart and Mdlles.
Lengagne, and sat and chatted with them for half an hour. They had been
greatly upset on hearing that large numbers of the male population
of Bapaume had been carried away into captivity in Germany, but on
enquiring into the matter I was able to assure them that at most
only a hundred were in question, who were considered of military age
and had therefore been taken away to be interned; they would return
after the war in unimpaired health and strength. Then I told them
about the incidents of the day, the High Mass and the music in the
market-place. They themselves had not been out of doors; they _would
not_ go out--they _would not_ hear the Prussian music in Bapaume!
What could I say to console them? How can one console people who see
their countryside occupied by hostile armies? It could not cheer them
to hear the latest news from the theatres of war--about Hindenburg’s
fresh advances in Poland, and the doings of the Turkish fleet in the
Black Sea! And if I did say anything of the kind they simply would not
believe it. I felt very sorry for them--just as I did for Faidherbe,
out there in the market-place!
But it was now nearly seven o’clock, so I crossed the street to call
for the Duke. We were to drive to Douai, where we were invited to
take supper at 8 p.m. with the Chief of the 6th Army, Colonel-General
Rupprecht, Crown Prince of Bavaria. The distance is nearly thirty-four
kilometres and can easily be covered in three-quarters of an hour, but
the numerous posts stationed on the road took up much of our time. It
was five minutes to eight when we arrived. An adjutant conducted us
to a drawing-room, and we had not waited half a minute when the Crown
Prince entered.
He is one of those rare men whom all love and admire--all except the
English, for I think that even the French cannot help paying him a meed
of respect. In the German army he is looked upon as a very eminent
general--a born strategist and a thoroughly schooled soldier. As
regards appearance, manner and speech, he is fascinating and congenial
in the highest degree, neither regal nor humble, but without artifice
and modest like an ordinary mortal. When one _knows_ that he has
recently experienced the greatest private sorrow which could befall
him, one fancies, perhaps, that one detects a trace thereof in his
features--an air of sadness--but otherwise he does not betray, by a
look or a sigh, how deeply he grieves over the death of the little
prince of thirteen, the darling of all Bavaria. When the country and
the empire are in danger, all private sorrows must be put aside!
The Crown Prince has no time to grieve or to think of the void and
bereavement which he will feel on his victorious return to Munich.
He lives for and with his army, and is like a father to each and all
of his soldiers. He devotes all his power of mind, all his physical
strength, all his time, to the one great object which dominates all
else in the minds of the whole German army.
Crown Prince Rupprecht walks in with brisk and easy stride, stretches
out his hands towards us and gives us a truly cordial welcome. And then
he adds half-humorously: “I expect some other distinguished guests at
my table to-night.”
“Who can that be?” asks the Duke.
“The Emperor!” replies the Crown Prince, and claps his hands together.
“The Emperor?” we cry, for we had no idea that His Majesty was in this
part of the country.
“Yes, the Emperor has visited several units in this neighbourhood
to-day, and has promised.... Hush, I hear his car!” and with that the
Crown Prince hurried out.
Meanwhile the Officers of the General Staff of the Army came to greet
us, and presently the Emperor’s suite, among whom I knew several, also
entered. Before I had time to wonder where the supreme War-Lord himself
had gone, we were asked to step into the dining-room. The Emperor was
already seated at the table. We all stepped up to our chairs, but no
one seated himself. The Emperor sat with bowed head, looking very
grave. But suddenly his blue eyes flashed up, and he nodded kindly in
all directions. When he caught sight of me, he extended his hand across
the table and cried gaily: “_Guten Tag, mein lieber Sven Hedin; es
scheint Ihnen gut zu gefallen in meiner Armee_,”[33] a sentiment which
I confirmed with the greatest alacrity.
[33] “How do you do, my dear Sven Hedin; you seem rather to like being
with my Army.”
Perhaps it might amuse the reader to hear who were the ten people
seated round Crown Prince Rupprecht’s table. Duke Adolf Friedrich of
Mecklenburg sat at the Emperor’s right, and Prince Löwenstein at his
left. Right opposite the Emperor sat the Crown Prince--the host--with
Colonel-General von Plessen, Adjutant-General, at his right and myself
at his left. Next to me on the other side was Lieut.-General von
Marschall, with Colonel Tappen, of the Crown Prince’s staff, on his
left. To the left of Prince Löwenstein sat General Falkenhayn, Minister
of War, and between him and General von Plessen the chief of the Crown
Prince’s staff, General Krafft von Dellmensingen. At another table of
about the same size, covers had been laid for the other gentlemen of
the Emperor’s and Crown Prince’s staff and suite.
The Emperor was in brilliant spirits. I really do not know whether he
_can_ be otherwise, for whenever I have had the honour to meet him, he
has always been merry, amiable and witty. He can certainly express at
times in words of thunder his displeasure at some contemptible act on
the part of the enemy, but he is soon sunshine again and bursts into
irresistible laughter at some whimsical idea. He has a wonderful gift
of instilling life into a party and keeping the conversation at high
pitch--as he did here for over two and a half hours. He told us a great
deal of most interesting news, things which had happened in different
parts of the field during the last few days and which, at least to me
and to the Duke, were news indeed. If one asks the Emperor any question
about the conditions in more or less remote countries, as to which
sparse or contradictory information has come to one’s ears, he will,
off-hand, and with a masterly marshalling of facts, deliver a veritable
lecture on its internal and external policy, its public sentiments, its
resources, and its military strength. I think I have never met a man
who can rival Emperor William in this respect.
He also possesses the faculty of grasping with lightning quickness
and judging the opinions expressed by others. He listened with the
liveliest interest to Crown Prince Rupprecht as the latter gave
him various details about his army, and to me when I described the
bombardment of Ostend.
It was past half-past ten when the Emperor laid down his cigar and
rose to say good-bye with that vigorous handshake which leaves its
mark on one’s knuckles. The Crown Prince alone accompanied him out
into the hall, which immediately adjoined the dining-room and from
which a few steps led out into the road. A soldier stood ready holding
the Emperor’s light greyish-blue cloak, with dark fur collar; another
handed him the plain Prussian officer’s field-cap. After the host and
his guest had exchanged a few more words they went out to the car,
which drove off rapidly into the night, whereupon the Crown Prince
rejoined us.
We then arranged plans for the morrow--another trip northward. Captain
Lübke was ordered to accompany us. He was to watch for us when we
returned to Douai about ten o’clock.
So we said good-bye to the Crown Prince of Bavaria, Chief of the 6th
Army, and left his quarters where we had spent a memorable evening.
Our return journey was most tediously delayed by the zeal of the
guards posted along the road. Every moment we were stopped, and if we
gave the slightest sign of disregarding the challenge, the sentries
at once prepared to fire. Any attempt at running away might have cost
us our lives. We therefore stopped discreetly. The commander of the
picket came forward and turned his lantern upon us. The Duke asked why
the guarding of the road was so much stricter now than it was three
hours ago. “Well, we have received information that a couple of spies
in German uniform accompanied by a woman, are out driving in a car
somewhere in this neighbourhood. We have orders to let no one pass, no
matter whom, without the closest scrutiny.”
“Well, that is right; watch well, lads! Good night!” the Duke exclaims
as we drive on--until the next lantern once more compels us to stop.