"Your friend had better call to-morrow then, for I leave to-morrow
evening for the Somme front; will you tell him?"
I replied that I would, and left the telephone well satisfied, but
cursing the fates that made it advisable to keep clear of No. 10,
Kafelle Strasse for thirty-six hours. Needless to say next day I rang
up again in order to tell the Colonel that Lieutenant Schenk had
apparently been detained, as he was not yet back in Bruges, and how I
felt sure that he would be sorry at missing the Colonel, etc., etc.,
but all this camouflage was unnecessary, as she herself came to the
'phone. I could have kissed the instrument when I told her of my
stratagem and heard her silvery laughter in my ear.
"It is arranged that to-morrow, starting at 10.30, we motor for the day
to the Forest of Meten, taking our lunch and tea with us--pray Heaven
the weather holds."
To-night in the Mess it is generally considered that U.B.40 has been
lost; she is ten days overdue and was operating off Havre, she has made
no signal for a fortnight. Such is the price of victory and the cost of
war--death, perhaps, in some terrible form, but bah! away with such
thoughts, to-morrow there is love and life and Zoe!
* * * * *
Once more it is night, still the guns rumble on the same old dismal
tones, and as it is raining now it must be getting bad up at the front.
Except for the rain it might have been last night, but much has
happened to me in the meanwhile.
To-day in the forest by Ruysslede I found that I loved Zoe, loved her
as I have never yet loved woman, loved her with my soul and all that is
me.
The day was gloriously fine when we started, and an hour's run took us
to the forest. We left the car at an inn and wandered down one of the
glades.
I carried the basket and we strolled on and on until we found a
suitable place deep in the heart of the forest.
I have the sailor's love for woods, for their depths, their shadows,
their mysteries, which are so vivid a contrast to the monotony of the
sea, with the everlasting circle of the horizon and the half-bowl of
the heavens above.
In the forest to-day, though the leaves had turned to gold and red and
brown, the beeches were still well covered, and overhead we were tented
with a russet canopy.
I say, at last we found a spot, or rather Zoe, who, with girlish
pleasure in the adventure, had run ahead, called to me, and as I write
I seem to hear the echoes of "Karl! Karl!" which rang through the wood.
When I came up to her she proudly pointed to the place she had found.
It was ideal. An outcrop of rock formed a miniature Matterhorn in the
forest, and beneath its shelter with the old trees as silent witnesses
we sat and joked and laughed, and made twenty attempts to light a fire.
After lunch, a little incident happened which had an enormous effect on
me; Zoe asked me whether I would mind if she smoked.
How many women in these days would think of doing that? And yet, had
she but known it, I am still sufficiently old-fashioned to appreciate
the implied respect for any possible prejudices which was contained in
her request.
After lunch, I asked her a question to which I dreaded the answer.
I asked her whether, now that the old Colonel had gone to the Somme,
whether that meant that she would be leaving Bruges.
She laughed and teasingly said: "Quien sabe, señor," but seeing my real
anxiety on this point, she assured me that she was not leaving for the
present. The Colonel, she said, had a strange belief that once a man
had served on the Flanders Front, and especially on the Ypres salient,
he always came back to die there.
It appears that the Colonel has done fourteen months' service on the
salient alone, and is firmly convinced he will end his career on that
great burial ground. As we were talking about the Colonel I longed to
ask her how she had met him, and perhaps find out why she lives with
him, for I cannot believe she loves him, but I did not dare.
Strangely enough I found that a curious shyness had taken hold of me
with regard to Zoe.
I said to myself, "Fool! you are alone with her, you long to kiss her;
you have kissed her, first at the dinner-party, secondly when you said
good-bye at her flat," and yet to-day it was different.
Then I was kissing a pretty woman, I was on the eve of a dangerous
life, and I was simply extracting the animal pleasures whilst I lived.
To-day it was a case of Zoe, the personality I loved; I still longed to
kiss her, but I wanted to have the unquestioned right to kiss her, as
much as I wanted the kisses.
I wanted to have her for my own, away from the contaminating ownership
of the old Colonel, and I determined to get her.
I think she noticed the changed attitude on my part, and perhaps she
felt herself that a subtle change in our relationship had taken place,
and whilst I meditated on these things she fell into a doze at my side.
I was sitting slightly above her, smoking to keep the midges away, and
as I looked down on her childish figure a great tenderness for her
filled my mind. She is very beautiful and to me desirable above all
women; I can see her as she lay there trustfully at my feet. I will
describe her, and then, when I get her photograph, I will read this
when I am far away on a trip.
She is of average height, for I am just over six feet and she reaches
to just above my shoulder. Her hair is gloriously thick and of a deep
black colour, and lies low on her forehead. Her complexion is of the
purest whiteness beyond compare, which but accentuates the red warmth
of the lips which encircle her little mouth. Her figure is slight and
her ankles are my delight, but her crowning glories, which I have
purposely left till last, are her eyes.
I feel I could lose my soul; I have lost it, if I have one, in the
violet depths of those eyes, which were veiled as she slept by the long
black eyelashes which curled up delicately as they rested on her
cheeks. I have re-read this description, and it is oh, so unsatisfying;
would I had the pen of a Goethe or a Shakespeare, yet for want of more
skill the description shall stand.
How I long for her to be mine, and yet, unfortunate that I am, I cannot
for certain declare that she loves me.
A thousand doubts arise. I torment myself with recollections of her
behaviour at the dinner-party, when within two hours of our first
meeting she gave me her lips.
Yet did I not first roughly kiss her as we danced?
I find consolation in the fact that, though she has said nothing, yet
her conduct to-day was different. She was so quiet after tea as we
wandered back through the forests with the setting sun striking golden
beams aslant the tree trunks.
Before we left I sang to her Tchaikowsky's beautiful song, "To the
Forest," and I think she was pleased, for I may say with justice that
my voice is of high quality for an amateur, and the song goes well
without an accompaniment, whilst the atmosphere and surroundings were
ideal.
There was only one jarring note in a perfect day; when we returned to
the car the chauffeur permitted himself a sardonic grin. Zoe
unfortunately saw it and blushed scarlet.
I could have struck him on his impudent mouth, but for her sake I
judged it advisable to notice nothing.
I feel I could go on writing about her all night, but it is nearly 2
a.m. I must get some sleep.
The guns rumble steadily in the south-west, and the sky is lit by their
flashes; may the fighting on the Somme be bloody these coming days.
[_Probably about ten days later.--Etienne._]
We leave to-night, having had a longer spell than usual. I am in a
distracted state of mind. Since our glorious day in the forest I have
seen her nearly every afternoon, though twice that swine Alten has kept
me in the boat in connection with some replacements of the battery.
I have found out that, like me, she is intensely musical. She plays
beautifully on the piano, and we had long hours together playing Chopin
and Beethoven; we also played some of Moussorgsky's duets, but I love
her best when she plays Chopin, the composer pre-eminent of love and
passion.
She has masses of music, as the Colonel gives her what she likes. We
also played a lot of Debussy. At first I demurred at playing a living
French composer's works, but she pouted and looked so adorable that all
my scruples vanished in an instant, so we closed all the doors and she
played it for hours very softly whilst I forgot the war and all its
horrors and remembered only that I was with the well-beloved girl.
The Colonel writes from Thiepval, where the British are pouring out
their blood like water. He writes very interesting letters, and has had
many narrow escapes, but unfortunately he seems to bear a charmed life.
His letters are full of details, and I wonder he gets them past the
Field Censorship, but I suppose he censors his own.
She laughs at them and calls them her Colonel's dispatches; she says he
is so accustomed to writing official reports that the poor old man
can't write an ordinary letter.
I told her that I thought the way he mentioned regiments and
dispositions rather indiscreet, and she agrees, but she says he has
asked her to keep them, with a view to forming a collection of letters
written from the front whilst the incidents he describes are vivid in
his mind. I suppose the old ass knows his own business, and one day the
collection may be completed by a telegram "Regretting to announce, etc.
etc." The sooner the better.
So the days passed pleasantly enough, and never by a gesture or word of
mouth did she show that I was more to her than any other pleasant young
man.
I kissed her when I arrived, I kissed her when I left, each day was the
same. She would put her arms round my neck and look long and deeply
into my eyes, then she would gently kiss my lips. Not an atom of
emotion! not a spark from the fires which I feel must be raging beneath
that diabolically [1] extraordinary [1] amazingly calm exterior.
[Footnote 1: These words are crossed out.--ETIENNE.]
On ordinary subjects she would chatter vivaciously enough and she can
talk in a fascinating manner on every subject I care to bring up, but
as soon as I drew the conversation round to a personal line she
gradually became more silent and a far-away and distant look came into
those wonderful eyes.
I have found out nothing about her beyond the fact that she has
travelled all over Europe. I don't even know how old she is, but I
should guess twenty-six.
I tried to find out a few details by means of discreet remarks at the
Club and elsewhere.
She simply arrived here about a year ago--as a singer, and met the
Colonel--beyond that, all is mystery. Everything about her attracts me
powerfully, and this mystery adds subtleties to her charms.
This afternoon I went to say good-bye; I told her we were leaving
"shortly," and she gently reproved me for disobeying the order which
forbids discussion of movements, but I could see she was not greatly
displeased.
After tea she played to me, music of the modern Russian
school--Arensky, Sibelius and Pilsuki; a storm was brewing and we both
felt sad.
She played for an hour or so, and then came and sat by me on a low
divan by the fire. We were silent for a long while in the gathering
gloom, whilst a thousand thoughts chased each other swiftly through my
brain, as I endeavoured to summon up courage to say what I had
determined I must say before I left her, perhaps for ever.
At last, when only her profile was visible against the glow of the
logs, I spoke.
I told her quietly, calmly and almost dispassionately that I had grown
to love her and that to me she was life itself. I told her that I had
tried not to speak until I could endure no longer.
She sat very still as I spoke, and when I had finished there was a long
silence and I gently stretched out my hand and stroked her lovely black
hair. At last she rose and with averted face walked across the room,
and stood looking at the storm through the big bow windows. I watched
her, but did not dare follow.
At length she returned to me, and I saw what I had instinctively known
the whole time--that she had been crying. I could not think why.
She put her arms round my neck, kissed me on the forehead and murmured,
"Poor Karl."
I felt crushed; I dared not move for fear of breaking the magic of the
moment, yet I longed to know more; I felt overwhelmed by some colossal
mystery that seemed to be enveloping me in its folds. Why did she pity
me? Why did she weep? Why didn't she answer my avowal? Why didn't she
tell me something? Such were some of the problems that perplexed me.
It was thus when the clock chimed seven. I told her that my leave was
up at seven o'clock, and that at 7.15 I had to be back on board the
boat. She remembered this, and in an instant the past quarter of an
hour might never have existed. She was all agitation and nervousness
lest I should be late on board--though at the moment I would have
cheerfully missed the boat to hear her say she loved me.
I tried to protest, but in vain. With feminine quickness she utilized
the incident to avoid a situation she evidently found full of
difficulty, and at 7.10, with the memory of a light kiss on my lips and
her God-speed in my ears I was in a taxi driving to the docks in a
blinding rain-storm--and we sail to-night.
For five, six, seven, perhaps ten days at the least, and at the most
for ever, I am doomed to be away from her and without news of her. And
I don't even know whether she loves me!
I think I can say she cares for me up to a certain point, but I want
more.
"Oh Zoe! of the violet eyes,
And hair of blackest night
Thy lips are brightest crimson,
Thy skin is dazzling white.
"Oh! lay your head upon my breast,
And lift your lips to mine;
Then murmur in soft breathings,
Drink deep from what is thine.
"Then let the war rage onward,
Let kingdoms rise and fall;
To each shall be the other,
Their life, their hope, their all."
[Footnote: I am indebted to Commander C. C. for the above rough
translation of Karl's effusion.--ETIENNE.]
_At sea._
We are bound for the same old spot as last time.
Alten must have been drinking like a fish lately; his breath smells
like a distillery; he is apparently partial to schnapps, which he gets
easily in Bruges.
I can't help admiring the man, as he is a rigid teetotaller at sea,
though he must find the strain well nigh intolerable, judging from the
condition he was in when he came on board last night. He was really
totally unfit to take charge of the boat, and I virtually took her down
the canal, though with sottish obstinacy he insisted on remaining on
the bridge.
This morning, though his complexion was a hideous yellow colour, he
seems quite all right. I shall play a little trick on him at dinner
to-night.
I have begun to get to know some of the crew by now; they are a fine
lot of youngsters with a seasoning of half a dozen older men. The
coxswain, Schmitt by name, is a splendid old petty officer who has been
in the U-boat service since 1911.
His favourite enjoyment is to spin yarns to the younger members of the
crew, who know of his weakness and play up to it.
He has a favourite expression which runs thus:
"His Majesty the Kaiser said Germany's future lies on the sea; I say
Germany's future lies under the sea."
He is inordinately fond of this statement, and the youngsters
continually say: "What made you take to U-boat work, Schmitt?" and the
invariable reply is as above. When he has been asked the question about
half a dozen times in the course of a day, he is liable to become
suspicious, and if his questioner is within range Schmitt stares at him
for a few seconds in an absent-minded way, then an arm like that of a
gorilla shoots out, and the quizzer (_Untersucher_) receives a
resounding box on the ears to the huge delight of his companions. The
old man then permits his iron-lipped mouth to relax into a caustic
smile, after which he is left in peace for some time.
At the wheel he is an artist, for he seems to divine what the next
order is going to be, or if he is steering her on a course he predicts
the direction of the next wave even as a skilful chess player works out
the moves ahead.
* * * * *
I am rather weary and ought to go to bed, but before I lose the savour
I must record the splendid fun I had with Alten at dinner.
We were dining alone, as the navigator was on the bridge, and the
engineer was busy with a slight leak in the cooking water service. I
have said that, though a heavy drinker by nature, Alten is a strict
abstainer at sea. Accordingly I produced a small flask of rum, half-way
through dinner, and helped myself to a liberal tot, placing the liquor
between us on the table. As the sight met his eyes and the aroma
greeted his nostrils, a gleam of joy flashed across his face, to be
succeeded by a frown.
With an amiable smile I proffered the flask to him, remarking at the
same time: "You don't drink at sea, do you?"