Little Comrade (Munsey's Magazine)/Chapter 3
CHAPTER III
The Landlady of the Kölner Hof
Following his porter, Stewart 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.
Stepping 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. 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. He handed the document back to the smiling landlady and followed a hangdog waiter up the stairs.
The room into which he was shown was a very pleasant one, and scrupulously clean. As he made his toilet Stewart reflected how much more of comfort, and how much warmer a welcome, might often be found 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 evident pleasure.
“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, 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.”
'IT am sure I hope so, sir, but it looks very bad. For nearly a week now our troops have been passing through Aachen toward the frontier.”
“How far away is the frontier?”
“About ten miles. The custom-house is at Herbesthal. I have heard that great entrenchments are being built all along there. There has been talk of war many times before, but there have never been such preparations as these. How long will the gentleman remain in Aachen?”
“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. 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 might grow scarce and dear; and from the din of high-pitched bargaining it seemed evident that the crafty market-people had already begun to advance their prices.
Stewart paused for a while to contemplate this scene, more violent and warlike 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 soon, 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 Kaiser's battles.
Looking at them—at their bowed heads, their sad faces, their shrinking figures—Stewart realized more fully than ever before how terrible is the burden that war lays on women. Fortunate the ones who can find comfort in prayer!
A touch on the arm roused him from his sad contemplation. It was the verger, ready to take him through the choir, where the service was ended. It is a beautiful choir, but Stewart had no eyes for it. The memory of those kneeling women weighed him down. For the first time he really believed that war might come.
As he came out into the streets again it seemed to him that they were 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 great square in front of the town hall, he saw where 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 harangue 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, confident that Germany would emerge from the struggle not only victorious, but greater and stronger than ever.
Then the speaker read the Kaiser'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 the need arose. He cautioned them that the military power was now supreme, was not to be questioned, and would brook no resistance or interference. It was for each of them to go quietly about his affairs, to obey his emperor, and to pray for victory.
There were some scattered cheers, but for the most part the crowd stood in a sort of dazed silence and watched two men put up beside the entrance to the Rathhaus the red posters 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 of the far greater horrors and suffering 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.
Stewart made his way across the square and through the deserted streets back toward his hotel. He felt within himself a mighty peace; his soul, shaken to its depths, stood firm again. It was impossible that wrong should triumph, that humanity should be thrust backward toward serfdom. No—men's faces had been set too long toward freedom!