§ 13

he flew to france the next day, above the grey and shining stretches of water and two little anxious ships, and he sent joan a cheerful message on a picture-postcard of a shell-smashed church to tell of his safe arrival.

joan was dismayed. in war time we must not brood on death, one does not think of death if one can help it; it is the chance that wrecks all calculations; but the fear of death had fallen suddenly upon all her plans. and what was there left now of all her plans? she might write him letters.

death is more terrible to a girl in love than to any other living thing. “if he dies,” said joan, “i am killed. i shall be worse than a widow—an indian girl widow. suttee; what will be left of me but ashes?... some poor dregs of joan carrying on a bankrupt life.... no me....”

there was nothing for it but to write him letters. and joan found those letters incredibly difficult to write. all lightness had gone from her touch. after long and tiring days with her car she sat writing and tearing up and beginning again. it was so difficult now to write to him, to be easy in manner and yet insidious. she wanted still to seem his old companion, and yet to hint subtly at the new state of things. “there’s a dull feeling now you’ve gone out of england, peter,” she wrote. “i’ve never had company i cared for in all the world as i care for yours.” and, “i shall count the days to your leave, peter, as soon as i know how many to count. i didn’t guess before that you were a sort of necessity to me.” over such sentences, sentences that must have an edge and yet not be too bold, sentences full of tenderness and above all suspicion of “soppiness,” joan pondered like a poet writing a sonnet....

but letters went slowly, and life and death hustled along together very swiftly in the days of the great war....