In the midst of a long explanation of the Russian plight, the voluble
subaltern suddenly stopped short. I heard a car halt in front of the
house, and a minute or two later the door of the office opened and
Germany's giant idol entered. I rose and bowed. The officer and the two
sergeants clicked their heels audibly, and replied to the stentorian
"_Morgen, meine Herren_," with a brisk "_Morgen, Excellence_."
Hindenburg looked questions at me, but I thought I would let my young
friend do the talking and act as master of ceremonies. He handed
Hindenburg my letter, and introduced me as "Herr 'von' Beaufort, who
has just arrived from Rome." (I had left Rome nearly three months
before!) The General read his nephew's letter and then shook hands with
me, assuring me of the pleasure it gave him to meet me. Of course, I
was glad that he was glad, and expressed reciprocity of sentiments.
I looked at him--well, for lack of a better word, I will say, with
affection; you know the kind of childlike, simple admiration which
expresses so much. I tried to look at him as a certain little girl
would have done, who wrote: "You are like my governess: she, too, knows
everything." I felt sure that that attitude was a better one than
to pretend that I was overawed. That sort of homage he must receive
every day. Besides, as soon as I realized that he knew nothing of the
telephone message from and to Allenstein, my old self-assurance had
returned.
* * * * *
Now for my impressions of Germany's--and, as some people try to make us
believe, the world's--greatest military genius. They might be summed
up in two words: "Strength and cruelty." Hindenburg stands over six
feet high. His whole personality radiates strength, brute, animal
strength. He was, when I met him, sixty-nine years of age, but looked
very much younger. His hair and moustache were still pepper and salt
color. His face and forehead are deeply furrowed, which adds to his
forbidding appearance. His nose and chin are prominent, but the most
striking feature of the man's whole appearance are his eyes. They are
steel-blue and very small, much too small for his head, which, in turn,
is much too small compared with his large body. But what the eyes
lacked in size they fully made up for in intensity and penetrating
powers. Until I met Hindenburg I always thought that the eyes of the
Mexican rebel Villa were the worst and most cruel I had ever seen.
They are mild compared with those of Hindenburg. _Never in all my life
have I seen such hard, cruel, nay, such utterly brutal eyes as those
of Hindenburg._ The moment I looked at him I believed every story of
refined (and unrefined) cruelty I had ever heard about him.
He has the disagreeable habit of looking at you as if he did not
believe a word you said. Frequently in conversation he closes his
eyes, but even then it seemed as if their steel-like sharpness pierced
his eyelids. Instead of deep circles, such as, for instance, I have
noticed on the Kaiser, he has big fat cushions of flesh under his
eyes, which accentuate their smallness. When he closes his eyes, these
cushions almost touch his bushy eyebrows and give his face a somewhat
prehistoric appearance. His hair, about an inch long I should judge,
was brushed straight up--what the French call _en brosse_. The general
contour of his head seemed that of a square, rounded off at the corners.
* * * * *
Speaking about the stories of cruelty, one or two of them may bear
re-telling.
When during the heavy fighting, early in 1915, General Rennenkampf
was forced to evacuate Insterburg somewhat hastily, he was unable
to find transport for about fifty thousand loaves of bread. Not
feeling inclined to make a present of them to the Germans, he ordered
paraffin to be poured over them. When the Germans found that bread
and discovered its condition, Hindenburg is reported to have been
frantic with rage. The next day, after he had calmed down, he said
to one of his aides: "Well, it seems to be a matter of taste. If the
Russians like their bread that way, very well. _Give it to the Russian
prisoners._"
You may feel certain that his orders were scrupulously carried out.
Another incident which they are very fond of relating in Germany is
more amusing, though it also plays on their idol's cruelty.
It is a fact that both officers and men are deadly afraid of him. It is
said that the great General has a special predilection for bringing the
tip of his riding boots into contact with certain parts of the human
anatomy. A private would far rather face day and night the Russian guns
than be orderly to Hindenburg.
But one day a man came up and offered himself for the job.
"And what are you in private life?" the General snorted at him.
"At your orders, sir, I am a wild animal trainer."