There is little more to add, only two letters,—one from Bernoline and one from Anne, without whom I would not be here to-day. They came to me, worn and postmarked, a week before we went into the final struggles of July, and through those final months of hurricane and tireless slaughter I carried them over my heart—together.
David:
I write this last letter to you. Would that I had never crossed your path, to bring the unhappiness that I have brought into your life. I write this to you as the final and supreme proof of my love, of all that I would have given you every hour of the year, had God willed it. It is of Anne that I write.
I went to her at B——, where she is stationed, and told her all, though much she had guessed. David, she is no longer the girl, untried and undisciplined. She is a woman that you will be proud of as your wife, when the time comes, and the ache and pain have passed. There is a bigness in her soul, something deep and honest—and she loves you. She has always loved you and, what is wonderful in a woman’s heart—she understands. There will never be anything petty or unworthy of a great nature. She loves you, David; how much, how beautifully; with what a maternal affection you can never guess. And you need this protecting love. If you could have been present, have seen the look in her eyes, her simplicity and her dignity, when I asked her to be your strength, to watch over you these months!
“I love him,” she said. “I have never really loved any one else, and I took a vow long ago that if I could not belong to him, I would never marry any other man.”
Perhaps I have no right to tell you this, but in this moment I think you should know. Do not turn from her, David. It is a treasure that awaits you.
I have thought of you ever since I left you; I think of you every moment of my hours in the little chapel that alone brings me some strength, and I have seen far ahead of the pain of the present. I would that I could take into my heart all that I cannot keep you from suffering, that you must suffer for a while for having come into my sad life. Yes, David, it will be hard—readjustment is hard—it is sometimes so much easier to go on, no matter what we have to bear. But you will come out of this period of trial. You will come out superbly. Happiness will be waiting for you; do not delay too long. For, dear friend, you are one of those who need happiness in your life. All this period of unrest and indecision which so often has depressed you and shaken your confidence will give you a bigger vision and a surer charity, when once life is stable and calm. And, David, that will come; I know it—I feel it so strangely. I do see ahead, and I think this power is given me as some consolation for what I must bear.
Don’t let your mind dwell too much on me. I have my faith, David, and I can accept anything. Sacrifice must fall on all equally in this terrible trial. I am only one of a million women,—remember that!
And now, it must be good-bye—Ah, mon bien aimé, how hard it is to write. I feel as though thy hand were in my hand and that I were clinging to it, unable to let it go. I do not ask thee to forget me. Remember me only to help thee. Be strong—be true to yourself—accept life nobly. Your country is a great country; men like you are needed. Be what you can, whether it be big or little, to give it leadership. Suffering we cannot avoid, mon ami, but unselfish achievement is alone lasting satisfaction. Davy, mon bien aimé, aim high, for your own sake—and for the peace of soul of one who night and day will keep you both in her prayers.
Bernoline.
David:
Bernoline has been here, and told me, and oh, my heart goes out to you. You will need to know that you are not alone in this world, that there is some one who shares your sorrow and holds you dear. Will you let me be all that to you—just for the present. Will you let me give you just a little of the great love that you are denied, and let me tell you that in friendship or otherwise, as it may come to you, I am always at your side. I don’t know how I find the courage to write you thus. I know you will respect it. We are not children, dear. We are man and woman, and we both know suffering. If I thought only of myself, I would never send this letter. But we live in the midst of death, when little things fade away, and at the thought of your utter loneliness, David, dear, I think of nothing else but the love you need, and I can do no less after having known Bernoline.
David, she is not of this world. I shall always love her as you love her, as a peasant kneels and adores an ideal among the shadows and the candles. She has a strength that is not my strength, a faith that I envy but cannot find. I went with her to the little chapel of St. Anne, and knelt while she prayed. If you could have seen her face! I thought it was not the sculptured calm of the Madonna enshrined in heaven but the serenity in her worn eyes that was the miracle. A little saint, David, has crossed our paths and we must be true to the memory. Let me help you, David, dear.
Anne.
VIII
A week has gone since I started these final pages. I have been amazed at the feeling of detachment that has come to me. Bernoline and Maurice have often spoken to me of that state of grace which in their faith lifts men and women above the earth to seek heaven. I have seen this same unhuman state of grace, of sanctified sacrifice, among officers and poilus during the war,—the need to live in some rarefied atmosphere. Family and friends recede before the proud isolation of the soul dedicated to a sacrificial death. It is not quite that with me. Yet there has come with the final writing a serenity that surprises me. Is it that I have suffered beyond my capacity—for each of us has in him only a certain capacity to suffer—or is it life in its strange compensations that is molding me? To-day, for the first time, I can recall Bernoline and feel a quiet happiness to have been privileged to know her. Until now I have felt only my bondage to the past. To-day—noblesse oblige—I want to live, and count in the living. The bitterness and the rebellion are gone; an inspiration remains.
* * * * *
In this new liberation, Anne, too, counts for much. I have seen her three times,—once in a week’s permission we were together every day. Twice a week her letters come to me. It is strange how Bernoline has brought us together. We both feel it. There is a great moral force in love, and against its silent, cumulative movement the meanness and littleness of life must yield. As Bernoline, in her faith, wished to see us, we shall become.
* * * * *
There is beyond the inherent nobility that is in Anne a largeness of spirit that is hard for a man to understand. She reveres the memory of Bernoline and in her great heart there is no trace of jealousy. At least, if there is, it is wonderful how she conceals it. That is a quality which I do not think would be in me. I can look ahead—we both can—and see what is coming; yet until every corner of my heart is wholly and loyally hers, I cannot offer it to her. To do so would be to offend what is the one thing to build on,—absolute honesty between us, that brings the deepest reverence.—Yet, to-day, I know the time is near.