Читать книгу The Girl from Alsace - Burton Egbert Stevenson - Страница 8

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Stewart, following his porter, was engulfed in the human tide which had been beating clamorously against the gates, and which surged forward across the platform as soon as they were opened. There were tourists of all nations, alarmed by the threat of war, and there were also many people who, to Stewart at least, appeared to be Germans; and all of them were running toward the train, looking neither to the right nor left, dragging along as much luggage as they could carry.

As he stepped aside for a moment out of the way of this torrent, Stewart found himself beside the bearded stranger who had waxed eloquent in defense of Germany. He was watching the crowd with a look at once mocking and sardonic, as a spider might watch a fly struggling vainly to escape from the web. He glanced at Stewart, then turned away without any sign of recognition.

"Where do you go, sir?" the porter asked, when they were safely through the gates.

"To the Kölner Hof."

"It is but a step," said the porter, and he unhooked his belt, passed it through the handles of the suit-cases, hooked it together again and lifted it to his shoulder. "This way, sir, if you please."

The Kölner Hof proved to be a modest inn just around the corner, where Stewart was received most cordially by the plump, high-colored landlady. Lunch would be ready in a few minutes; meanwhile, if the gentleman would follow the waiter, he would be shown to a room where he could remove the traces of his journey. But first would the gentleman fill in the blank required by the police?

So Stewart filled in the blank, which demanded his name, his nationality, his age, his business, his home address, the place from which he had come to Aix-la-Chapelle and the place to which he would go on leaving it, handed it back to the smiling landlady, and followed an ugly, hang-dog waiter up the stair.

The room into which he was shown was a very pleasant one, scrupulously clean, and as he made his toilet, Stewart reflected how much more of comfort and how much warmer welcome was often to be had at the small inns than at the big ones, and mentally thanked the officer of police who had recommended this one. He found he had further reason for gratitude when he sat down to lunch, served on a little table set in one corner of a shady court—the best lunch he had eaten for a long time, as he told the landlady when she came out presently, knitting in hand, and sat down near him. She could speak a little English, it appeared, and a little French, and these, with Stewart's little German, afforded a medium of communication limping, it is true, but sufficient.

She received the compliments of her guest with the dignity of one who knew them to be deserved.

"I do what I can to please my patrons," she said; "and indeed I have had no cause to complain, for the season has been very good. But this war—it will ruin us innkeepers—there will be no more travelers. Already, I hear, Spa, Ostend, Carlsbad, Baden—such places as those—are deserted just when the season should be at its best. What do you think of it—this war?"

"Most probably it is just another scare," said Stewart. "War seems scarcely possible in these days—it is too cruel, too absurd. An agreement will be reached."

"I am sure I hope so, sir; but it looks very bad. For three days now our troops have been passing through Aachen toward the frontier."

"How far away is the frontier?"

"About ten miles. The customhouse is at Herbesthal."

"Ten miles!" echoed Stewart in surprise. "The frontier of France?"

"Oh, no—the frontier of Belgium."

"But why should they concentrate along the Belgian frontier?" Stewart demanded.

"Perhaps they fear an attack from that direction. Or perhaps," she added, calmly, "they are preparing to seize Belgium. I have often heard it said that Belgium should belong to Germany."

"But look here," protested Stewart, hotly, "Germany can't seize a country just because it happens to be smaller and weaker than she is!"

"Can't she?" inquired the landlady, seemingly astonished at his indignation. "Why is that?"

Her eyes were shining strangely as she lowered them to her knitting; and there was a moment's silence, broken only by the rapid clicking of her needles. For Stewart found himself unable to answer her question. Ever since history began, big countries had been seizing smaller ones, and great powers crushing weaker ones. If Austria might seize Bosnia and Italy Tripoli, why might not Germany seize Belgium? And he suddenly realized that, in spite of protests and denials and hypocrisies, between nation and nation the law of the jungle was, even yet, often the only law!

"At any rate," pursued the landlady, at last, "I have heard that great intrenchments are being built all along there, and that supplies for a million men have been assembled. There has been talk of war many times before, and nothing has come of it; but there have never been such preparations as these."

"Let us hope it is only the Kaiser rattling his sword again—a little louder than usual. I confess," he added more soberly, "that as an American I haven't much sympathy with Prussian militarism. I have sometimes thought that a war which would put an end to it once for all would be a good thing."

The woman shot him a glance surprisingly quick and piercing.

"That is also the opinion of many here in Germany," she said in a low voice; "but it is an opinion which cannot be uttered." She checked herself quickly as the ugly waiter approached. "How long will the gentleman remain in Aachen?" she asked, in another tone.

"I am going on to Brussels this evening. There is a train at six o'clock, is there not?"

"At six o'clock, yes, sir. It will be well for the gentleman to have a light dinner before his departure. The train may be delayed—and the journey to Brussels is of seven hours."

"Very well," agreed Stewart, rising. "I will be back about five. How does one get to the cathedral?"

"Turn to your right, sir, as you leave the hotel. The first street is the Franzstrasse. It will lead you straight to the church."

Stewart thanked her and set off. The Franzstrasse proved to be a wide thoroughfare, bordered by handsome shops, but many of them were closed and the street itself was almost deserted. It opened upon a narrower street, at the end of which Stewart could see the lofty choir of the minster.

Presently he became aware of a chorus of high-pitched voices, which grew more and more distinct as he advanced. It sounded like a lot of women in violent altercation, and then in a moment he saw what it was, for he came out upon an open square covered with market-stalls, and so crowded that one could scarcely get across it. Plainly the frugal wives of Aachen were laying in supplies against the time when all food would grow scarce and dear, and from the din of high-pitched bargaining it was evident that the crafty market-people had already begun to advance their prices.

Stewart paused for a while to contemplate this scene, far more violent and war-like than any he had yet witnessed; then, edging around the crowd, he arrived at the cathedral, the most irregular and eccentric that he had ever seen—a towering Gothic choir attached to an octagonal Byzantine nave. But that nave is very impressive, as Stewart found when he stepped inside it; and then, on a block of stone in its pavement, he saw the words, "Carlo Magno," and knew that he was at the tomb of the great Emperor.

It is perhaps not really the tomb, but for emotional purposes it answers very well, and there can be no question about the marble throne and other relics which Stewart presently inspected, under the guidance of a black-clad verger. Then, as there was a service in progress in the choir, he sat down, at the verger's suggestion, to wait till it was over.

In a small chapel at his right, a group of candles glowed before an altar dedicated to the Virgin, and here, on the low benches, many women knelt in prayer. More and more slipped in quietly—young women, old women, some shabby, some well-clad—until the benches were full; and after that the newcomers knelt on the stone pavement and besought the Mother of Christ to guard their sons and husbands and sweethearts, summoned to fight the battles of the Emperor. Looking at them—at their bowed heads, their drawn faces, their shrinking figures—Stewart realized for the first time how terrible is the burden which war lays on women. To bear sons, to rear them—only to see them march away when the dreadful summons came; to bid good-by to husband or to lover, crushing back the tears, masking the stricken heart; and then to wait, day after dreary day, in agony at every rumor, at every knock, at every passing footstep, with no refuge save in prayer——

But such thoughts were too painful. To distract them, he got out his Baedeker and turned its pages absently until he came to Aachen. First the railway stations—there were four, it seemed; then the hotels—the Grand Monarque, the Nuellens, the Hôtel de l'Empereur, the du Nord—strange that so many of them should be French, in name at least!—the Monopol, the Imperial Crown—but where was the Kölner Hof? He ran through the list again more carefully—no, it was not there. And yet that police-officer at Cologne had asserted not only that it was in Baedeker, but that it was honored with a star! Perhaps in the German edition——

A touch on the arm apprised him that the verger was ready to take him through the choir, where the service was ended, and Stewart slipped his book back into his pocket and followed him. It is a lovely choir, soaring toward the heavens in airy beauty, but Stewart had no eyes for it. He found suddenly that he wanted to get away. He was vaguely uneasy. The memory of those kneeling women weighed him down. For the first time he really believed that war might come.

So he tipped the verger and left the church and came out into the streets again, to find them emptier than ever. Nearly all the shops were closed; there was no vehicle of any kind; there were scarcely any people. And then, as he turned the corner into the wide square in front of the town-hall, he saw where at least some of the people were, for a great crowd had gathered there—a crowd of women and children and old men—while from the steps before the entrance an official in gold-laced uniform and cocked hat was delivering a harangue.

At first, Stewart could catch only a word here and there, but as he edged closer, he found that the speech was a eulogy of the Kaiser—of his high wisdom, his supreme greatness, his passionate love for his people. The Kaiser had not sought war, he had strained every nerve for peace; but the jealous enemies who ringed Germany round, who looked with envy upon her greatness and dreamed only of destroying her, would not give her peace. So, with firm heart and abiding trust in God, the Emperor had donned his shining armor and unsheathed his sword, confident that Germany would emerge from the struggle greater and stronger than ever.

Then the speaker read the Emperor's address, and reminded his hearers that all they possessed, even to their lives and the lives of their loved ones, belonged to their Fatherland, to be yielded ungrudgingly when need arose. He cautioned them that the military power was now supreme, not to be questioned. It would brook no resistance nor interference. Disobedience would be severely dealt with. It was for each of them to go quietly about his affairs, trusting in the Emperor's wisdom, and to pray for victory.

There were some scattered cheers, but the crowd for the most part stood in dazed silence and watched two men put up beside the entrance to the rathaus the proclamation which declared Germany in a state of war. Down the furrowed cheeks of many of the older people the hot tears poured in streams, perhaps at remembrance of the horrors and suffering of Germany's last war with France, and some partial realization that far greater horrors and suffering were to come. Then by twos and threes they drifted away to their homes, talking in bated undertone, or shuffling silently along, staring straight before them. In every face were fear and grief and a sullen questioning of fate.

Why had this horror been decreed for them? What had they done that this terrible burden should be laid upon them? What could war bring any one of them but sorrow and privation? Was there no way of escape? Had they no voice in their own destiny? These were the questions which surged through Stewart's mind as he slowly crossed the square and made his way along the silent streets back toward his hotel. At almost every corner a red poster stared at him—a poster bearing the Prussian eagle and the Kaiser's name. "The sword has been thrust into our hands," the Kaiser wrote. "We must defend our Fatherland and our homes against the assaults of our enemies. Forward with God, who will be with us, as He was with our fathers!"

Sad as he had never been before, Stewart walked on. Something was desperately wrong somewhere; this people did not want war—most probably even the Kaiser did not want war. Yet war had come; the fate of Europe was trembling in the balance; millions of men were being driven to a detested task. Caught up in mighty armies by a force there, was no resisting, they were marching blindly to kill and be killed——

A sudden outbreak of angry voices in the street ahead startled Stewart from his thoughts. A section of soldiers was halted before a house at whose door a violent controversy was in progress between their sergeant and a wrinkled old woman.

"I tell you we must have him," the sergeant shouted, as though for the twentieth time.

"And I tell you his wife is dying," shrieked the woman. "He has permission from his captain."

"I know nothing about that. My orders are to gather in all stragglers."

"It is only a question of a few hours."

"He must come now," repeated the sergeant, doggedly. "Those are the orders. If he disobeys them—if I am compelled to use force—he will be treated as a deserter. Will you tell him, or must I send my men in to get him?"

The sunken eyes flamed with rage, the wrinkled face was contorted with hate—but only for an instant. The flame died; old age, despair, the habit of obedience, reasserted themselves. A tear trickled down the cheek—a tear of helplessness and resignation.

"I will tell him, sir," she said, and disappeared indoors.

The sergeant turned back to his men, cursing horribly to himself. Suddenly he spat upon the pavement in disgust.

"A devil's job!" he muttered, and took a short turn up and down, without looking at his men. In a moment the old woman reappeared in the door. "Well, mother?" he demanded, gruffly.

"I have told him. He will be here at once."

As she spoke, a fair-haired youth of perhaps twenty appeared on the threshold and saluted. His eyes were red with weeping, but he held himself proudly erect.

"Hermann Gronau?" asked the sergeant.

"Yes."

"Fall in!"

With a shriek of anguish, the woman threw her arms about him and strained him close.

"My boy!" she moaned. "My youngest one—my baby—they are taking you also!"

"I shall be back, mother, never fear," he said, and loosened her arms gently. "You will write me when—when it is over."

"Yes," she promised, and he took his place in the ranks.

"March!" cried the sergeant, and the section tramped away with Gronau in its midst. At the corner, he turned and waved his hand in farewell to the old woman. For a moment longer she stood clutching at the door and staring at the place where he had vanished, then turned slowly back into the house.