An exhalation arose, drawn up by the moon, from an old battlefield
after the passing of years. It came out of very old craters and
gathered from trenches, smoked up from No Man’s Land, and the ruins of
farms; it rose from the rottenness of dead brigades, and lay for half
the night over two armies; but at midnight the moon drew it up all
into one phantom and it rose and trailed away eastwards.
It passed over men in grey that were weary of war; it passed over a
land once prosperous, happy and mighty, in which were a people that
were gradually starving; it passed by ancient belfries in which there
were no bells now; it passed over fear and misery and weeping, and so
came to the palace at Potsdam. It was the dead of the night between
midnight and dawn, and the palace was very still that the Emperor
might sleep, and sentries guarded it who made no noise and relieved
others in silence. Yet it was not so easy to sleep. Picture to
yourself a murderer who had killed a man. Would you sleep? Picture
yourself the man that planned this war! Yes, you sleep, but nightmares
come.
The phantom entered the chamber. “Come,” it said.
The Kaiser leaped up at once as obediently as when he came to
attention on parade, years ago, as a subaltern in the Prussian Guard,
a man whom no woman or child as yet had ever cursed; he leaped up and
followed. They passed the silent sentries; none challenged and none
saluted; they were moving swiftly over the town as the felon Gothas
go; they came to a cottage in the country. They drifted over a little
garden gate, and there in a neat little garden the phantom halted like
a wind that has suddenly ceased. “Look,” it said.
Should he look? Yet he must look. The Kaiser looked; and saw a window
shining and a neat room in the cottage: there was nothing dreadful
there; thank the good German God for that; it was all right, after
all. The Kaiser had had a fright, but it was all right; there was only
a woman with a baby sitting before the fire, and two small children
and a man. And it was quite a jolly room. And the man was a young
soldier; and, why, he was a Prussian Guardsman,--there was his
helmet hanging on the wall,--so everything was all right. They were
jolly German children; that was well. How nice and homely the room
was. There shone before him, and showed far off in the night, the
visible reward of German thrift and industry. It was all so tidy and
neat, and yet they were quite poor people. The man had done his work
for the Fatherland, and yet beyond all that had been able to afford
all those little knickknacks that make a home so pleasant and that in
their humble little way were luxury. And while the Kaiser looked the
two young children laughed as they played on the floor, not seeing
that face at the window.
Why! Look at the helmet. That was lucky. A bullet hole right through
the front of it. That must have gone very close to the man’s head. How
ever did it get through? It must have glanced upwards as bullets
sometimes do. The hole was quite low in the helmet. It would be
dreadful to have bullets coming by close like that. The firelight
flickered, and the lamp shone on, and the children played on the
floor, and the man was smoking out of a china pipe; he was strong and
able and young, one of the wealth-winners of Germany.
“Have you seen?” said the phantom.
“Yes,” said the Kaiser. It was well, he thought, that a Kaiser
should see how his people lived.
At once the fire went out and the lamp faded away, the room fell
sombrely into neglect and squalor, and the soldier and the children
faded away with the room; all disappeared phantasmally, and nothing
remained but the helmet in a kind of glow on the wall, and the woman
sitting all by herself in the darkness.
“It has all gone,” said the Kaiser.
“It has never been,” said the phantom.
The Kaiser looked again. Yes, there was nothing there, it was just a
vision. There were the grey walls all damp and uncared for, and that
helmet standing out solid and round, like the only real thing among
fancies. No, it had never been. It was just a vision.
“It might have been,” said the phantom.
Might have been? How might it have been?
“Come,” said the phantom.
They drifted away down a little lane that in summer would have had
roses, and came to an Uhlan’s house; in times of peace a small farmer.
Farm buildings in good repair showed even in the night, and the black
shapes of haystacks; again a well-kept garden lay by the house. The
phantom and the Kaiser stood in the garden; before them a window
glowed in a lamplit room.
“Look,” said the phantom.
The Kaiser looked again and saw a young couple; the woman played with
a baby, and all was prosperous in the merry room. Again the hard-won
wealth of Germany shone out for all to see, the cosy comfortable
furniture spoke of acres well cared for, spoke of victory in the
struggle with the seasons on which wealth of nations depends.
“It might have been,” said the phantom. Again the fire died out and
the merry scene faded away, leaving a melancholy, ill-kept room, with
poverty and mourning haunting dusty corners and the woman sitting
alone.
“Why do you show me this?” said the Kaiser. “Why do you show me
these visions?”
“Come,” said the phantom.
“What is it?” said the Kaiser. “Where are you bringing me?”
“Come,” said the phantom.
They went from window to window, from land to land. You had seen, had
you been out that night in Germany, and able to see visions, an
imperious figure passing from place to place, looking on many scenes.
He looked on them, and families withered away, and happy scenes faded,
and the phantom said to him “Come.” He expostulated but obeyed; and
so they went from window to window of hundreds of farms in Prussia,
till they came to the Prussian border and went on into Saxony; and
always you would have heard, could you hear spirits speak, “It might
have been,” “It might have been,” repeated from window to window.
They went down through Saxony, heading for Austria. And for long the
Kaiser kept that callous, imperious look. But at last he, even he, at
last he nearly wept. And the phantom turned then and swept him back
over Saxony, and into Prussia again and over the sentries’ heads, back
to his comfortable bed where it was so hard to sleep.
And though they had seen thousands of merry homes, homes that can
never be merry now, shrines of perpetual mourning; though they had
seen thousands of smiling German children, who will never be born now,
but were only the visions of hopes blasted by him; for all the leagues
over which he had been so ruthlessly hurried, dawn was yet barely
breaking.
He had looked on the first few thousand homes of which he had robbed
all time, and which he must see with his eyes before he may go hence.
The first night of the Kaiser’s punishment was accomplished.