XXX
In March, peace between Germany and Bolshevik Russia was signed at Brest Litovsk.
Maud said the Russians were traitors. She said she would be ashamed to be a Russian.
I thought:
‘Some Russians will live, now, who would have died . . . that is some good in a world gone wrong. . . .’
But then the great offensive began in France. The tension and anxiety grew acuter, day by day. More news of the German advance, more Americans arriving in France, and we wondered which would come the fastest. Even in the streets, when one went out, one could feel the general anxiety, and see it in the people’s faces as they passed.
In April, came the famous Army Order of Lord Haig, when he said:
‘Our back is to the wall.’
Walter came in with the Sunday Evening Telegram, and threw it on the table, and a sense of dread and insecurity came with him into the room.
He said:
‘This is the end of everything!’
And I thought of Guy and Hugo, out there in France, with the Germans pressing them back, step by step. There seemed so many Germans, and so few with them.
I said:
‘There is still a chance.’
And Walter answered wearily:
‘I suppose there is!’
So the spring wore on. Every week I wrote to Hugo, and every week he wrote to me, and from those letters I drew strength and courage and happiness.
Walter said that he could not understand it; now, when the news was at its worst, I seemed so cheerful and serene, he said. I could only smile and admit that it was true.
It seemed to me that I was bound by my compact with Hugo. I had pledged myself to carry on with my job; I would make a success of my marriage with Walter, for Hugo’s sake, and the determination to do so gave a new purpose to life.
I did not look far ahead, I did not make plans for the future, the present was enough in itself, with Hugo’s letters as points of light to look for, and mine to him, as the expression of a week’s fighting.
I could give much more to Walter now, and I gave it, and I felt him turn more and more to me for strength.
When I was in bed at night, I could see Hugo so clearly sometimes, that I could hardly believe it was not true. It was as if the war was between us, noise and confusion, and horror . . . and I could get through that, and somewhere behind it, I found Hugo . . . and there were shell holes, and barbed wire, and all that sort of thing about, but it didn’t matter . . . Hugo was there, and it was all happy, and wonderful, and I knew that he was alive.
My son was born on the 15th of July, the same day that the German advance was held. In the strange serenity and confidence of these last months, I had felt sure that it would be a son this time. He was called John, after Walter’s father, but I counted it partly for Cousin John as well.
It seemed to me that this son was a symbol of victory . . . not of Foch over Ludendorf, nor the Entente over Germany; these things were again remote to me, and unreal, but of peace over war, strength over weakness, light over darkness. I was filled with a sense of fulfilment and triumph, and of peace.
I thought:
‘This is what they mean by the “Peace of God.” ’ And I wrote all I felt to Hugo, and I told him about my son.