Chapter XXI: Sunday the First of November

For over a thousand years the Catholic Church has kept, on the 2nd or 3rd of November, the solemn festival of “All Souls” in remembrance of the dead and as an admonition to the living to send up prayers to the throne of God for the souls suffering in purgatory. A Mass for the departed is held in the churches, and the graves in the cemeteries are adorned with wreaths and flowers.

In the parish church of Bapaume a German “All Souls” celebration was held on Sunday the 1st of November in remembrance of the fallen soldiers. Duke Adolf Friedrich and I arrived in good time for the service but found the church filled to overcrowding with four thousand soldiers. We succeeded however in getting up to the chancel, where two chairs were placed for us among a group of officers.

The old church makes a truly imposing and magnificent impression. The first thing I felt constrained to do, after taking my seat, was to cast my eye over the fane, with its lofty Gothic arches and handsome windows. On either side of the mighty nave are small side-aisles supported by massive pillars. The transept walls are adorned with large memorial tablets, which however are of doubtful artistic value. The sunlight filters in through the stained-glass windows and falls in all the hues of the rainbow upon the white pillars. One wonders why a town of little more than 3,000 inhabitants should need a church capable of holding 4,000 persons, but at the great festivals this place of worship attracts people from the whole surrounding country.

All pews are overcrowded, soldiers are standing closely packed all down the aisles, with their helmets slung over their arms. There are Catholic Sisters in their black dresses, white coifs and Red Cross armlets. Both officers and men are unarmed. No rattling of sabres is heard. No one is commanded to Divine Service. The soldiers are at liberty to spend the hour of High Mass as they please. Yet the church is crowded from end to end. These hardened warriors feel the need of approaching God and hearing His word before they go forth to face death.

A Divine Service in the field under the open sky is more impressive in its way. But I cannot imagine anything more beautiful than this High Mass in Bapaume Parish Church. Perhaps they preferred to celebrate All Souls’ Day under these lofty arches so as not to be disturbed by airmen. War is inexorable and does not hesitate to kill the children of man, even while performing their devotions. A Field Chaplain told me that on Sunday the 18th of October he was preaching on a hill-slope outside Douchy when a hostile aviator dropped a couple of bombs, intending to interrupt the service in this catastrophic manner. They exploded close to the listening troops. No one stirred, and the preacher calmly continued his sermon.

It is a strangely fascinating sight that meets my eye as it travels over the nave from the raised floor of the chancel, and I feel that my heart beats in unison with those of the four thousand South Germans. Weather-beaten and sunburnt they stand--a picture of manhood, imbued with iron will and humble trust in God. Their field-grey uniforms have assumed a tint now truly at one with the colour of the fields through constant contact with the soil in trenches and “dug-outs.” But here and there I also observed the dark-blue tunics of Bavarian Landsturm men, sturdy and steadfast like the solid rock from which the pillars of the church were hewn.

I hear that the credit of decorating the church so festively for All Souls’ Day was due to these Landsturm men. The chancel had been transformed into a solid bank of foliage, and all the pillars were hung with large green wreaths, in remembrance of the fallen. But the most remarkable thing of all was the reverence which the good Bavarians had shown to a small statue of Joan d’Arc standing on the left of the choir just within the triumphal arch. There was nothing in the least remarkable about this plaster image of the seventeen-year-old Maid of Orleans. She was just as one sees her in many other places. She stood, majestically erect, in her shining armour, holding in her hand the white standard adorned with _fleurs-de-lys_. And yet I could not keep my eyes off her. She seemed to scrutinise the German warriors in the nave, and an ironical smile seemed to hover about her lips.

But how did she get here? It is true that just twenty years ago she was declared blessed by Pope Leo XIII.--perhaps she has meanwhile been actually received into the Canon of Saints.[29] At any rate she is the object of almost divine veneration in this part of France. One could see that her image was not a regular part of the decorations of the church, because it had been placed on an upturned packing-case scantily draped with some cloth. When the war was hanging over France like a dark thunder-cloud she had been carried into the church, and the believers had fallen on their knees before her, imploring her to bestow her spirit and her victorious aid on the French. To propitiate the noble virgin, the citizens of Bapaume had offered her numerous candles which were arranged on a stand in front of the image. And now comes the strangest part, the good Bavarians had glorified her with a background of tall plants and had lit all the candles, those candles whose flames were burning prayers for victory over--the Germans!

[29] She was canonised by Pope Pius X. in May, 1909.--Translator.

The blessed virgin had yet another and greater cause to smile at human folly. In her time, more than half of France was overrun by the English and their allies. It was against them that she had fought--them that she had vanquished--and when, overpowered at last, she fell into the hands of her country’s enemies she was delivered by them into the hands of the inquisition. She was derided, locked up with rough soldiers and finally burnt at the stake--all this by those very Englishmen whom she was now invoked, by burning prayers and candles, to assist against the Germans. One may pardon the young lady for making a wry face and feeling somewhat perplexed! The Bavarians might well light the candles without misgivings--she did not heed them, and her helmet prevented her from hearing the presumptuous prayers.

The peals of the organ now rise loud and clear towards the roof, and lusty voices from four thousand young warriors’ throats sing Bernard de Clairvaux’s eight-hundred-year-old Latin hymn _Salve caput cruentatum_ in its German version composed in 1659 by Paul Gerhard:

O sacred Head, surrounded
By crown of piercing thorn!
O bleeding Head, so wounded,
Reviled and put to scorn!
Death’s pallid hue comes o’er Thee,
The glow of life decays.
Yet angel hosts adore Thee
And tremble as they gaze!

* * * * *

In mine own hour of passion,
Good Shepherd, think of me
With Thy most sweet compassion,
Unworthy though I be.

In Thy sweet arms abiding
For ever would I rest,
In Thy dear love confiding,
And with Thy presence blest!”[30]

[30] “Ancient and Modern Hymns,” version slightly modified.--Translator.

When the last note of Cleving’s sonorous voice--which, though I could not see the singer from where I sat, could easily be distinguished and rang with the fervour of devotion--had died away, Franz Xaver Münch, Divisional Chaplain of Düsseldorf, ascended the pulpit. He was a tall and powerfully built man. With authoritative dignity he stood and looked down upon his congregation of all grades and all arms, of horny-handed soldiers and Sisters of Mercy, of Protestants and Catholics. The service was a joint service for all creeds. The priest himself was a Catholic. But now, in the German nation’s greatest hour, all barriers of creed were broken; there was no longer any distinction between Protestants, Catholics or Jews--there were only _Germans_. “We have now all become as _one_ man, and we all have _one_ God.”

But the priest stood in the pulpit and delivered the following sermon:

“Dearly beloved friends and comrades!

“‘O Sacred Head surrounded!’ This is how the German master Grünewald, the placid, great mystic, saw Him when he pictured that Divine ‘Man of Sorrow,’ His pain and His wounds, and His bruised and pierced body! This is how Bach beheld Him when in his ‘Passion according to St. Matthew’ he prayed and lamented over the dying Son of God: ‘Help, ye daughters ... help me lament!’

“In this sacred hour, when we mourn our dead heroes, we realise more powerfully than ever before the passion of Our Lord. For are not we Germans ourselves undergoing our Passion, and is not our Empire itself transformed to a suffering Christ? We too have passed through our hour of trial on Mount Olivet when, with our Emperor, we prayed that ‘this cup of suffering might pass away’ from us, and obeying the unfathomable Divine Will, we began to drain it. We too felt the war weighing upon us like a cross, and we are bearing its burden, trusting in the same aid which comforted our Heavenly Master. We too have been forsaken by those to whom we had only shown what is good and right, and around us too has roared the cry, full of hatred and envy: ‘Crucify him!’ And like the Master, we too, in this our German Passion, are bearing wounds, among which the noblest and most bloody are our dear dead Germans!

“Standing by the common graves in which we have buried our dead, we lament deeply and sorrowfully. For we Germans too can weep and lament! And with our lamentations mingle the sobs and wailings of the poor German widows and orphans, whose husbands and fathers rest in foreign soil.

“And yet we do not sorrow like the heathen who have nothing to hope for. Even the dead live, and urge us on to the task incumbent on the living. I fancy I can hear, from those trench graves, the imploring, earnestly beseeching cry: ‘_See to it that our sufferings may not have been in vain!_’ The task which the dead lay upon us is, untiringly, and with the utmost exertion of all our powers of mind and body, to accomplish the work of liberation of our threatened empire. From the earliest times it has been a prominent characteristic of German effort in every domain to go about the task in hand thoroughly and perseveringly and to accomplish it accurately in every detail. This purely German talent we shall also employ, with all the energy mercifully bestowed on us, in this fateful hour. Just as in times of peace we were a nation who created new resources, beneficent even to others, so we will not now rest till we have forced upon our enemies a peace which shall not only bring a new spring of prosperity to our land but shall also be a guarantee for the tranquillity and security of all Europe.

“Yet another cry I seem to hear from those trench graves: ‘_Do not forget our sufferings and our wounds!_’ My dear comrades! Those among our people who still retain their moral earnestness will never forget the wounds and the sufferings which this war has brought with it. The price of our liberation and of our victories is the most precious and most noble that a people can pay--the blood of our young manhood! Come and see how we are burying the young! We cannot even give them a plain coffin! We cannot, as the ancient Teutons did, raise them on our shields and carry them over hill and dale to their German home. But, dear brethren, I know of a sarcophagus which is more precious than a coffin--fashioned by the hand of a greater Master--I mean the sarcophagus of the German heart. Deeply enshrined there, let us lay our dear dead to rest and carry them home with us, some day, to the German native land. And if, some day--which God our Protector in our German fight forbid--a time should come when a generation of young men and young women does not know what the peace and the new prosperity of the empire has cost us, when people in laxity and luxury only live to enjoy the fruits, when people abandon themselves to the strange gods of demoralising and pernicious habits--then, my dear brethren, the time will have come for us, who have been standing to-day in sorrow around these tombs, to open the sarcophagus of our hearts and exhibit to a slothful generation our dead, their wounds and their dying moments! Then the spirits of the fallen shall fight another and a harder fight against those of our own people who no longer preserve the memory of the gaping wounds of war in the innermost recesses of their soul!

“Thus this day on which we commemorate our dead is in reality a day of surging life, of new hopes and of urgent tasks. These graves are a gigantic reproach to our enemies, but to us they will be a sacred memorial in the time to come. Those who have sown the storms shall reap the whirlwind! And this whirlwind is now raging over their land! Led astray by petty motives and by small groups of selfish partisans, ‘they have sown in the flesh and they shall reap destruction.’ We venture to swear before God that we have sown in the spirit of righteousness and peace. To us the war is a momentously spiritual matter, which touches the innermost heart of a nation which has risen in unity, which has been hurt in its most sacred sentiments, and has been forced to defend itself. And through the Spirit of Righteousness and Peace our people shall reap eternal life. Amen.”

“O God, who by Thy holy Apostles hast commanded us to love the Ruler Thou hast given us, pour the richest blessings on our Emperor and all his house! And above all we pray Thee, in these the great days of fateful warlike complications, to bestow Thy grace on our Imperial Lord! In holy trust and deep humility he has committed his people to Thy protection! For the sake of all of us, preserve his health and strength! Enlighten him in his counsels! Comfort him, while with a father’s heart he grieves over the wounds of his empire! Reward him with victory for his army, and with an honourable peace! This grant him, God, the Righteous, for the sake of the atoning death of our Divine Lord and Saviour! Amen.”

“O Lord of Hosts! Uphold our brave German Army! Thou knowest what a righteous cause it is fighting for, and how it is pressed by enemies on every hand! Grant its leaders wisdom and skill,--grant its soldiers the spirit of constant self-sacrificing courage and ready obedience! Let them all find shelter under the wings of Thy mercy, Thy divinity and Thy grace! Grant us this through Thy son our Heavenly Lord and Saviour! Amen.”

“O Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, who Thyself didst live, with Thy holy parents, a holy family life, have mercy on our families at home! Protect our fair and fertile land, our villages and towns, our fields and vineyards, our trade and handicraft! Protect above all our German youth--Thou the divine friend of children! Let the young be deeply imbued with the import of the times and with love of their native land, in this fateful hour! But especially comfort each wife whose husband is resting in foreign soil, for Thy Father is the God of the widows and the fatherless! Thou Thyself hadst a mother whose heart bled with pain and grief! Console the mothers, give comfort to the children! Have mercy on brothers, sisters and betrothed who are mourning their beloved dead--Thou who livest and reignest from eternity to eternity! Amen.”

The bands play a hymn whose magnificently solemn notes re-echo through the church. A quartette strikes up the _Ave verum corpus natum_ and finally the congregation sings the doxology:

“Mighty God, we worship Thee,
Lord, we praise Thy glorious name!
Heaven and earth bow down to Thee
And Thy wondrous works proclaim!
As from all eternity,
Thou for evermore shalt be!”

The High Mass was over and the soldiers filed out, past the little maid who, thanks to Schiller’s magnificent romantic tragedy, was no stranger to them. The candles might well be lit in front of her--had she not vanquished the English? The French Maid, as she stands there, brings to our minds those proud words which the German bard put into her mouth when, a prisoner in the hands of the English, he makes her boldly exclaim to the ferocious and insolent Queen Isabeau:

“France never shall the Briton’s fetters bear,
No, never! For, ere that, it shall become
One vast engulphing tomb for all your hosts!
The flower of your army’s gone--betimes
Think of a safe retreat--already now,
Your glory’s faded and your might is broken!”

Perhaps there were also some in Bapaume Church who thought of those grand words, in which Schiller makes her predict the ultimate triumph over truth:

“Without the Will of God no single hair
Falls from man’s head!--See yonder sun
Descending to the horizon--Yea, as surely
As in the morn he’ll rise anew in splendour,
As surely comes the day when truth prevails!”--

Then the lights were quickly extinguished and the Maid of Orleans remained alone, pensive and still.

Pastor Münch remarked to me how profoundly impressive it was to witness the soldiers’ and officers’ spiritual cravings during the war. At divine service the churches were always crowded, and hundreds of soldiers were attending the weekday Vespers. The sermons were printed in tens and hundreds of thousands of copies for distribution in the trenches. War was carried on, not only with rifles, bayonets and artillery, but also with the weapons of the fear of God and prayer!

For his own part he thought that Catholics and Protestants, however strictly they each adhered to their own particular tenets, yet well understood each other. The German Catholics had most fervently taken to heart the situation of their common fatherland in the face of the war, and their sentiments were as genuine, sincere and true as those of the Protestants. Perhaps one of the results of the war would be that the two creeds would have learnt to esteem each other and to abstain in future from dwelling on those points in which they were most strongly at variance. Already it had been realised in German evangelical circles that, although the Roman Catholic Church comprises all nations, yet the German Catholics were fighting with unshakable consistency and conviction for German national interests.

A sanguinary reminiscence of the Franco-German war is connected with Bapaume. On January 3rd, 1871, impelled by the precarious situation of Paris, General Faidherbe attacked, with the French Northern Army,--the 22nd and 23rd Army Corps--General Goeben’s forces, collected in and about Bapaume, whose nucleus was the 15th Division of the 8th Army Corps. The Germans held their main position though outnumbered by more than two to one, but at the end of the day were totally exhausted, and moreover short of ammunition. General Faidherbe, on the other hand, saw his best troops badly spent and the _Gardes Mobiles_ demoralised by the fatigues undergone. He would not venture another blow, and fell back on Arras and Douai. The deficient military training and discipline of the French militia rendered it impossible for the General to take advantage of the otherwise favourable situation.

Forty-four years have now passed since then, and Bapaume is once more in German hands. The French have erected, in the centre of the market-place, a statue of Faidherbe--a worthy memorial to a brilliant career. Time after time this brave man had been entrusted with the solution of important tasks at home, in Guadeloupe, in Algiers, Senegal and Kabylia, until in the end he was appointed by Gambetta, in November, 1870, to the command of the Northern Army. He was by no means lacking in courage, confidence, initiative, patriotism and fervent zeal, but with his militia troops he was like a general without an army, in the face of the thoroughly and carefully trained Germans.

Faidherbe survived his failure for a good many years. He died in Paris in 1889 after eighteen years’ grief at his generalship being wasted uselessly in consequence of the blindness and ignorance of those who represented the nation and who brought that nation to the deepest abyss of national misfortune ever witnessed in our times.

There he stands, in bronze, on his white pedestal--one of the victims of his nation’s baneful mistake. And around him stand sons of the people who vanquished him, now following victoriously in the footsteps of their fathers. There he stands, defiant and resolute, with crossed arms, his right hand clasping the hilt of his sword. His whole bearing seems to evince an unflinching resolution not to recede one step but only to push forward! His greatcoat seems to flutter in the wind, and his cap is jauntily cocked to one side. He bears his head high and proudly, his eyes are turned towards the German troops--now as in the days of the past. For now, as then, he has closely serried ranks of German soldiers before him. Many of those who had attended the church service have now assembled in the market-place. The German military band forms a semicircle in front of Faidherbe’s statue. Baton in hand, the bandmaster steps forth, and now the “Watch on the Rhine” rings out. Grand, sonorous and stirring, its notes swirl round the hero up there on the pedestal. He seems more defiant than ever, with his bared sword, and an air of deep tragedy seems to hover about his features!

But the German musicians and their comrades stand calm and undismayed; a sentiment of confident expectation of victory pervades all these warriors. Cleving begins to sing and others join in, until a mighty wave of song sweeps over the market-place:[31]

“The tocsin rings like thunder peal,
Like roar of waves and clash of steel:--
To th’ Rhine--the Rhine,--the German Rhine!
Who will keep guard upon the Rhine?

_Chorus_:

Be undismayed, dear country mine:
Firm stands and true the watch,--the watch on th’ Rhine!

(_Rep._)

Through hundred thousands thrills the call
And boldly flash the eyes of all:
The German, loyal, staunch and true,
Protects that sacred landmark blue!

(_Chorus._)

He gazes upwards to the sky,
Where valiant fathers dwell on high,
And proudly vows: For evermore
Shall German stay the Rhine’s fair shore!

(_Chorus._)

While yet a drop of blood we hoard,
Have yet an arm to wield the sword--
To pull the trigger yet one hand--
No foeman’s foot shall tread this land!

(_Chorus._)

The vow rings o’er the wave-swept vale--
Proud banners flutter in the gale--
On th’ Rhine,--the Rhine, the German Rhine--
We’ll all keep guard upon the Rhine!”

(_Chorus._)

[31] “Die Wacht am Rhein.” Having failed, in this and in other instances in this book, to discover an “authorised” version, the translator has been compelled to make literal translations himself.

Before we left the market square we looked in at the Base Commander’s office, to see the old Bavarian Colonel who had been so ungracious on my arrival in Bapaume. But now, as I have mentioned, we were firm friends.

The brilliant assembly of guests round the Duke’s hospitable board included on this occasion the Chief of the Staff, Count von der Schulenburg, a lively and pleasant gentleman, who evoked great merriment by his happy wit.

When the guests had departed, we mounted the Duke’s car and drove to Hamelincourt, whither we had been invited for tea by Rittmeister von Hollen. When we passed through the village before, night had fallen; now we inspected more closely the slightly damaged church and a few wrecked houses. Even this little place was swarming with troops and officers; we also met a stout and jovial Catholic priest who had been out that day to the foremost fighting line to preach. He had passed through the most remarkable adventures with his lively little grey cob, and he recounted some of them while we were seated at von Hollen’s hospitable table.

On the notice board of the Townhall we had seen the announcement: “This afternoon at 5 p.m. a short service will be held in Bapaume Cemetery in commemoration of our fallen comrades.” When we left Hamelincourt, we therefore made straight for the cemetery. Crowds of officers and men were filtering along the paths between a forest of crosses and tombstones. There was here a common grave, in which Frenchmen and Germans have been resting side by side since 1871, also some fresh graves dating from the present war. A surgeon lay buried here, whose fox-terrier, for three days and nights, could not be induced to leave his master’s grave.

A group of nursing sisters come bearing large wreaths wherewith to adorn the graves of the dead soldiers. The band strikes up a slow and solemn funeral march; a preacher delivers an address in remembrance of the dead, and a choir of Bavarian Landsturm men ascend a little mound and pay homage to their fallen comrades in beautiful song. They are good-natured fellows, these powerful and strong Bavarians, but in war they are awkward customers to tackle. Then they no longer think of “_Eine ganz frische Blume_”[32] and can even dispense with their beloved _Hofbräu_ beer. Their younger comrades in the trenches are notorious for their eagerness to fight and for their undaunted courage. They never give way. If the word is given to charge with the bayonet, nothing can hold them back. A Bavarian “Hurrah” is something terrifying. But when the enemy throws up his hands and yields himself up as prisoner, these warriors become their old gentle selves. If the situation permits it may happen, however, that they rummage in their opponents’ pockets and knapsacks for cigarettes. When, in the former war, the Germans reproached the French with having pressed half-savage and heathen races into their ranks, they are said to have replied: “_Eh bien, vous avez vos Bavarois!_”

[32] Title of one of their songs.

On the extreme fringe of the audience stood sixty Landsturm men, who had been ordered to the cemetery to open fire in case a hostile airman should show himself. Aviators are mostly out between five and six, and the air was calm and clear this evening. Just imagine what havoc might be wrought if a bomb or two were dropped among these closely packed crowds! While the priest is speaking, the warning whir is heard overhead. But not a muscle moves on the faces of his audience; the preacher’s voice never falters nor does he lose the thread of his discourse for an instant. One little sister alone raises her blue eyes to the sky, but seems quite unconcerned. “It is a German airman,” the Duke whispers into my ear, and he told me afterwards that one soon learnt to distinguish French from German aeroplanes--by their sound. The German machines have a duller note.

On returning home I called in as usual to see M. Cossart and Mdlles. Lengagne, and sat and chatted with them for half an hour. They had been greatly upset on hearing that large numbers of the male population of Bapaume had been carried away into captivity in Germany, but on enquiring into the matter I was able to assure them that at most only a hundred were in question, who were considered of military age and had therefore been taken away to be interned; they would return after the war in unimpaired health and strength. Then I told them about the incidents of the day, the High Mass and the music in the market-place. They themselves had not been out of doors; they _would not_ go out--they _would not_ hear the Prussian music in Bapaume! What could I say to console them? How can one console people who see their countryside occupied by hostile armies? It could not cheer them to hear the latest news from the theatres of war--about Hindenburg’s fresh advances in Poland, and the doings of the Turkish fleet in the Black Sea! And if I did say anything of the kind they simply would not believe it. I felt very sorry for them--just as I did for Faidherbe, out there in the market-place!

But it was now nearly seven o’clock, so I crossed the street to call for the Duke. We were to drive to Douai, where we were invited to take supper at 8 p.m. with the Chief of the 6th Army, Colonel-General Rupprecht, Crown Prince of Bavaria. The distance is nearly thirty-four kilometres and can easily be covered in three-quarters of an hour, but the numerous posts stationed on the road took up much of our time. It was five minutes to eight when we arrived. An adjutant conducted us to a drawing-room, and we had not waited half a minute when the Crown Prince entered.

He is one of those rare men whom all love and admire--all except the English, for I think that even the French cannot help paying him a meed of respect. In the German army he is looked upon as a very eminent general--a born strategist and a thoroughly schooled soldier. As regards appearance, manner and speech, he is fascinating and congenial in the highest degree, neither regal nor humble, but without artifice and modest like an ordinary mortal. When one _knows_ that he has recently experienced the greatest private sorrow which could befall him, one fancies, perhaps, that one detects a trace thereof in his features--an air of sadness--but otherwise he does not betray, by a look or a sigh, how deeply he grieves over the death of the little prince of thirteen, the darling of all Bavaria. When the country and the empire are in danger, all private sorrows must be put aside! The Crown Prince has no time to grieve or to think of the void and bereavement which he will feel on his victorious return to Munich. He lives for and with his army, and is like a father to each and all of his soldiers. He devotes all his power of mind, all his physical strength, all his time, to the one great object which dominates all else in the minds of the whole German army.

Crown Prince Rupprecht walks in with brisk and easy stride, stretches out his hands towards us and gives us a truly cordial welcome. And then he adds half-humorously: “I expect some other distinguished guests at my table to-night.”

“Who can that be?” asks the Duke.

“The Emperor!” replies the Crown Prince, and claps his hands together.

“The Emperor?” we cry, for we had no idea that His Majesty was in this part of the country.

“Yes, the Emperor has visited several units in this neighbourhood to-day, and has promised.... Hush, I hear his car!” and with that the Crown Prince hurried out.

Meanwhile the Officers of the General Staff of the Army came to greet us, and presently the Emperor’s suite, among whom I knew several, also entered. Before I had time to wonder where the supreme War-Lord himself had gone, we were asked to step into the dining-room. The Emperor was already seated at the table. We all stepped up to our chairs, but no one seated himself. The Emperor sat with bowed head, looking very grave. But suddenly his blue eyes flashed up, and he nodded kindly in all directions. When he caught sight of me, he extended his hand across the table and cried gaily: “_Guten Tag, mein lieber Sven Hedin; es scheint Ihnen gut zu gefallen in meiner Armee_,”[33] a sentiment which I confirmed with the greatest alacrity.

[33] “How do you do, my dear Sven Hedin; you seem rather to like being with my Army.”

Perhaps it might amuse the reader to hear who were the ten people seated round Crown Prince Rupprecht’s table. Duke Adolf Friedrich of Mecklenburg sat at the Emperor’s right, and Prince Löwenstein at his left. Right opposite the Emperor sat the Crown Prince--the host--with Colonel-General von Plessen, Adjutant-General, at his right and myself at his left. Next to me on the other side was Lieut.-General von Marschall, with Colonel Tappen, of the Crown Prince’s staff, on his left. To the left of Prince Löwenstein sat General Falkenhayn, Minister of War, and between him and General von Plessen the chief of the Crown Prince’s staff, General Krafft von Dellmensingen. At another table of about the same size, covers had been laid for the other gentlemen of the Emperor’s and Crown Prince’s staff and suite.

The Emperor was in brilliant spirits. I really do not know whether he _can_ be otherwise, for whenever I have had the honour to meet him, he has always been merry, amiable and witty. He can certainly express at times in words of thunder his displeasure at some contemptible act on the part of the enemy, but he is soon sunshine again and bursts into irresistible laughter at some whimsical idea. He has a wonderful gift of instilling life into a party and keeping the conversation at high pitch--as he did here for over two and a half hours. He told us a great deal of most interesting news, things which had happened in different parts of the field during the last few days and which, at least to me and to the Duke, were news indeed. If one asks the Emperor any question about the conditions in more or less remote countries, as to which sparse or contradictory information has come to one’s ears, he will, off-hand, and with a masterly marshalling of facts, deliver a veritable lecture on its internal and external policy, its public sentiments, its resources, and its military strength. I think I have never met a man who can rival Emperor William in this respect.

He also possesses the faculty of grasping with lightning quickness and judging the opinions expressed by others. He listened with the liveliest interest to Crown Prince Rupprecht as the latter gave him various details about his army, and to me when I described the bombardment of Ostend.

It was past half-past ten when the Emperor laid down his cigar and rose to say good-bye with that vigorous handshake which leaves its mark on one’s knuckles. The Crown Prince alone accompanied him out into the hall, which immediately adjoined the dining-room and from which a few steps led out into the road. A soldier stood ready holding the Emperor’s light greyish-blue cloak, with dark fur collar; another handed him the plain Prussian officer’s field-cap. After the host and his guest had exchanged a few more words they went out to the car, which drove off rapidly into the night, whereupon the Crown Prince rejoined us.

We then arranged plans for the morrow--another trip northward. Captain Lübke was ordered to accompany us. He was to watch for us when we returned to Douai about ten o’clock.

So we said good-bye to the Crown Prince of Bavaria, Chief of the 6th Army, and left his quarters where we had spent a memorable evening. Our return journey was most tediously delayed by the zeal of the guards posted along the road. Every moment we were stopped, and if we gave the slightest sign of disregarding the challenge, the sentries at once prepared to fire. Any attempt at running away might have cost us our lives. We therefore stopped discreetly. The commander of the picket came forward and turned his lantern upon us. The Duke asked why the guarding of the road was so much stricter now than it was three hours ago. “Well, we have received information that a couple of spies in German uniform accompanied by a woman, are out driving in a car somewhere in this neighbourhood. We have orders to let no one pass, no matter whom, without the closest scrutiny.”

“Well, that is right; watch well, lads! Good night!” the Duke exclaims as we drive on--until the next lantern once more compels us to stop.