Calamity, like those far-off locomotives on the Rhine, has again rolled
out of Germany on her neighbors. Yet this very Calamity it is that has
given me back my faith in my own country. It was Germany at peace which
shook my faith; and I must tell you of that peaceful, beautiful Germany
in which I rejoiced for so many days, and of how I envied it. Then,
perhaps, among some other things I hope you will see, you will see that
it is Germany who is, in truth, the deepest tragedy of this war.
The Germany at peace that I saw during May and June, 1914, was, in
the first place, a constant pleasure to the eye, a constant repose to
the body and mind. Look where you might, beauty was in some form to be
seen, given its chance by the intelligence of man--not defaced, but
made the most of; and, whether in towns or in the country, a
harmonious spectacle was the rule. I thought of our landscape,
littered with rubbish and careless fences and stumps of trees, hideous
with glaring advertisements; of the rusty junk lying about our farms
and towns and wayside stations; and of the disfigured Palisades along
the Hudson River. America was ugly and shabby--made so by Americans;
Germany was swept and garnished--made so by Germans.
In Nauheim the admirable courtyard of the bathhouses was matched by
the admirable system within. The convenience and the architecture
were equally good. For every hour of the invalid's day the secret of
his well-being seemed to have been thought out. On one side of the
group and court of baths ran the chief street, shady and well-kempt,
with its hotels and its very entertaining shops; on the other side
spread a park. This was a truly gracious little region, embowered in
trees, with spaces and walks and flowers all near at hand, yet nothing
crowded. The park sloped upward to a terrace and casino, with tables
for sitting out to eat and drink and hear the band, and with a concert
hall and theater for the evening. Herein comedies and little operas
and music, both serious and light, were played.
Nothing was far from anything; the baths, the doctors, the hotels,
the music, the tennis courts, the lake, the golf links--all were
fitted into a scheme laid out with marvelous capability. Various hills
and forests, a little more distant, provided walks for those robust
enough to take them, while longer excursions in carriages or motor
cars over miles of excellent roads were all mapped out and tariffed in
a terse but comprehensive guidebook. Such was living at Nauheim.
Dying, I feel sure, was equally well arranged; it was never allowed to
obtrude itself on living.
Each day began with an early hour of routine, walking and
water-drinking before breakfast, amid surroundings equally well
planned--an arcade inclosing a large level space, with an expanse of
water, a band playing, flowers growing in the open, cut flowers for
sale in the arcade and comfortable seats where the doctor permitted
pausing, but no permanent settling down. Thus went the whole day.
Everything was well planned and everything worked. I thought of
America, where so many things look beautiful on paper and so few
things work, because nobody keeps the rules. I thought of our college
elective system, by which every boy was free to study what best fitted
him for his career, and nearly every boy did study what he could most
easily pass examinations in. There was no elective system in Nauheim.
Everybody kept the rules. There was no breakdown, no failure.
Moreover, the civility of the various ministrants to the invalid, from
the eminent professor-doctor down through hotel porters and bath
attendants to the elevator boy, was well-nigh perfect. If you asked
for something out of the routine, either it was permitted or it was
satisfactorily explained why it could not be permitted. Whether at the
bank, the bookshop, the hotel, the railway station or in the street,
your questions were not merely understood--the Germans knew the
answers to them. And every day the street was charming with fresh
flowers and fresh fruit in abundance at many corners and
booths--cherries, strawberries, plums, apricots, grapes, both cheap
and good, as here they never are. But the great luxury, the great
repose, was that each person fitted his job, did it well, took it
seriously. After our American way of taking it as a joke,
particularly when you fumble it, this German way was almost enough to
cure a sick man without further treatment.