Cologne—A City Of Centuries.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 18938, 7 December 1929, Page 19 (Supplement)

Cologne—A City Of Centuries.

An Impressionist Abroad.

(Written for the "Star” by

BERNICE SHACKLETON.)

WITH a peculiar feeling, having in it something of the quality that belongs to a pilgrimage desired long ago then half forgotten, a sense also of following in the wake of another’s memories, I stood in the bow of the river steamer that had brought us down the Rhine to Cologne. My thoughts were occupied with the closing months of 1918. Strange to think that now our boat should be flying both the Union Jack and the German flag, for the German Deputy Minister for Foreign Af-

(airs had come as far as Bonn with us. The river looked very old that evening. Two thousand years ago a Roman Emperor had tasted its fresh waters. They must have run then as clear as any mountain stream; but now the strings of barges pass ceaselessly up and down behind the little chugging tugs, and under the bridges that span the grey river. The sun was setting, a great red ball in an empty sky—no cloud, nothing but the red disc. It dropped over the low flat lands that lie about Cologne, and while we saw it halved, then lost, the lights came out one by one in the city. As the chains clanked by the pier in the dimming light, our eyes strained to catch the details of the many-pinnacled cathedral, and I heard a German voice beside me telling me about the mediaeval building by the quai. I fear I did not pay much attention to the speaker, for there seemed a faint echo in my ears of a refrain eleven years away, and I thought I heard men marching—our own troops—marching into Germany. Now, as I write I fancy I hear marching again, for the thing that we were talking about that evening as we approached the city, the withdrawal of the army of occupation, is becoming an accomplished fact. :: «

In the late afternoon of the next day a recital was very graciously given specially for us by the organist of the Cologne Cathedral When the last grand notes had died away in the heights of those Gothic arches of such exquisite purity, and to the lifted spirit the dark cloud of- the tragic years seemed dispersed before the golden light of promise, I threaded the Cathedral aisles, where the sunlight touched them to breath-taking beauty, and found near iilllllllllillll||||||il!lllll!lllllllilllll!l!!l|lllllllllllllllIIII!llll!lilllllllllllllll!Illllil'lUI

the base of a column a poignant memorial of the w ? ar. It was simple and touching.

Below a fine wood-carving of an angel treading the devil of war, were the names of fallen soldiers, and underneath was placed a bronze medallion of a bell. Round the medallion there was a German inscription which, translated, ran, “Me also they destroyed.” It was a reminder of the fact that during the war even the old church bells had been taken to melt down for guns. There are other little touches round Cologne that throw a light on the spirit of the folk of this country. I tell them for those who delight in the simple ex pressions of the common folk thought; for, though one might fill a book with descriptions of the imposing things in Cologne: her many churches—Gothic, Roman, Baroque and sometimes all three styles in one building: the Rathaus or Town Hall, of which part dates back to 1350 (it has a clock that plays folk tunes); the Gurzenich (1445); the Staplehaus (1560) on the Rhine front; the Tempelhaus, a rich sample of thirteenth century Roman dwelling house; that hideous thing, the highest skyscraper in Europe, the Hochhaus of seventeen stories; and other sights, I leave the task to the writers of guide books.. That is not my mood to-day. Do you remember the story of the dwarfs that used to come at night to do the work of the common people while they slept? They sewed the tailor’s cloth; they baked the baker’s bread; they sawed and hammered and fitted together the carpenter’s wood better than he could have done it; they tended the brewers' vats and made the housewife’s cheese, and then, one night, the curious tailor’s wife came prying with a large lantern and frightened l(lll!lllllllllllll!illll!lllllllllllll!:illllll!lt(llll!IIIIIIIIIIIII|||||!|||||||I|||||||||||||||||||||f|

them all away so that they never returned.

The people of Cologne have never forgotten it, and I doubt if they ever will forget, for they have erected a monument to—well, I cannot tell if it is to the tailor’s wife, or if it is to the dwarfs; but there it stands, the wicked woman, holding her lantern aloft at the top of a double flight of steps, while along the parapet little gnomelike figures crouch in fearful flight, and all the story of the good works they used to do is told in bas relief along the wall below.

The whole is just the stonework for a street fountain, and a garden is planted there. It is as pretty a picture as one is likely to find in a day’s journey, a bit of folk lore in the heart of the city. In wanderings near the market square, if you keep your eyes high enough, you may find a building with two horses’ heads carved in stone looking out from a fourth story window. This is the story. Once upon a time, the wife of the man who owned the house took ill and died. The husband buried her and settled comfortably to the renewed enjoyment of his remaining years. But his wife was not to leave him yet; for it transpired that she was not really dead. After a few days she returned to her former home, knocked at the door, and demanded entrance. But the unwilling husband refused to admit the identity of his wife, and we are told that his vehement denial of her was couched in these terms: “ I will as soon believe that you are my wife as that my horses will clijnb to the fourth story.” And if you, too, should be sceptical of the truth of all this, why, there are the two horses grinning down at the street from the fourth story window. I have seen them and I have noted their sardonic leer.