"Although a German, he appears a good
sort," meditated the old man, eyeing him carefully. In times of peace,
he must have been stout, but now he showed the loose and flaccid
exterior of one who has just lost much in weight. Desnoyers surmised
that the man had formerly lived in tranquil and vulgar sensuousness, in
a middle-class happiness suddenly cut short by war.
"What a life, Monsieur!" the officer rambled on. "May God punish well
those who have provoked this catastrophe!"
The Frenchman was almost affected. This man represented the Germany that
he had many times imagined, a sweet and tranquil Germany composed of
burghers, a little heavy and slow perhaps, but atoning for their natural
uncouthness by an innocent and poetic sentimentalism. This Blumhardt
whom his companions called Bataillon-Kommandeur, was undoubtedly the
good father of a large family. He fancied him walking with his wife and
children under the lindens of a provincial square, all listening with
religious unction to the melodies played by a military band. Then he
saw him in the beer gardens with his friends, discussing metaphysical
problems between business conversations. He was a man from old Germany,
a character from a romance by Goethe. Perhaps the glory of the Empire
had modified his existence, and instead of going to the beer gardens,
he was now accustomed to frequent the officers' casino, while his family
maintained a separate existence--separated from the civilians by the
superciliousness of military caste; but at heart, he was always the good
German, ready to weep copiously before an affecting family scene or a
fragment of good music.
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