by Ken Follett
They reached Covent Garden at the last minute, because of Bea's tardiness. The audience had already taken their seats. The three women hurried up the red-carpeted staircase and made their way to the box. Maud suddenly remembered what she had done to Walter in this box during Don Giovanni. She felt embarrassed: what had possessed her to take such a risk?
Bing Westhampton was already there with his wife, and he stood up and held a chair for Bea. The auditorium was silent: the show was about to begin. People-watching was one of the attractions of the opera, and many heads turned to look as the princess took her seat. Aunt Herm sat in the second row, but Bing held a front-row seat for Maud. A murmur of comment rose from the stalls: most of the crowd would have seen the photograph and read the article in the Tatler. Many of them knew Maud personally: this was London society, the aristocrats and the politicians, the judges and the bishops, the successful artists and the wealthy businessmen--and their wives. Maud stood for a moment to let them get a good look at her, and see how pleased and proud she was.
That was a mistake.
The sound from the audience changed. The murmur became louder. No words could be made out, but all the same the voices took on a note of disapproval, like the change in the buzz of a fly when it encounters a closed window. Maud was taken aback. Then she heard another noise, and it sounded dreadfully like a hiss. Confused and dismayed, she sat down.
That made no difference. Everyone was staring at her now. The hissing spread through the stalls in seconds, then began in the circle, too. "I say," said Bing in feeble protest.
Maud had never encountered such hatred, even at the height of the suffragette demonstrations. There was a pain in her stomach like a cramp. She wished the music would start, but the conductor, too, was staring at her, his baton held at his side.
She tried to stare proudly back at them all, but tears came to her eyes and blurred her vision. This nightmare would not end of its own accord. She had to do something.
She stood up, and the hissing grew louder.
Tears ran down her face. Almost blind, she turned around. Knocking her chair over, she stumbled toward the door at the back of the box. Aunt Herm got up, saying: "Oh, dear, dear, dear."
Bing leaped up and opened the door. Maud went out, with Aunt Herm close behind. Bing followed them out. Behind her, Maud heard the hissing die away amid a few ripples of laughter, then, to her horror, the audience began to clap, congratulating themselves on having got rid of her; and their jeering applause followed her along the corridor, down the stairs, and out of the theater.
{ VI }
The drive from the park gate to the Palace of Versailles was a mile long. Today it was lined with hundreds of mounted French cavalrymen in blue uniforms. The summer sun glinted off their steel helmets. They held lances with red and white pennants that rippled in the warm breeze.
Johnny Remarc had been able to get Maud an invitation to the signing of the peace treaty, despite her disgrace at the opera; but she had to travel on the back of an open lorry, packed in with all the female secretaries from the British delegation, like sheep going to market.
At one moment it had looked as if the Germans would refuse to sign. The war hero Field Marshal von Hindenburg had said he would prefer honorable defeat to a disgraceful peace. The entire German cabinet had resigned rather than agree to the treaty. So had the head of their delegation to Paris. At last the National Assembly had voted for signing everything except the notorious war guilt clause. Even that was unacceptable, the Allies had said immediately.
"What will the Allies do if the Germans refuse?" Maud had said to Walter in their auberge, where they were now discreetly living together.
"They say they will invade Germany."
Maud shook her head. "Our soldiers would not fight."
"Nor would ours."
"So it would be a stalemate."
"Except that the British navy has not lifted the blockade, so Germany still cannot get supplies. The Allies would just wait until food riots broke out in every German city, then they would walk in unopposed."
"So you have to sign."
"Sign or starve," said Walter bitterly.
Today was June 28, five years to the day since the archduke had been killed in Sarajevo.
The lorry took the secretaries into the courtyard, and they got down as gracefully as they could. Maud entered the palace and went up the grand staircase, flanked by more overdressed French soldiers, this time the Garde Republicaine in silver helmets with horsehair plumes.
Finally she entered the Hall of Mirrors. This was one of the most grandiose rooms in the world. It was the size of three tennis courts in a line. Along one side, seventeen long windows overlooked the garden; on the opposite wall, the windows were reflected by seventeen mirrored arches. More importantly, this was the room where in 1871, at the end of the Franco-Prussian War, the victorious Germans had crowned their first emperor and forced the French to sign away Alsace and Lorraine. Now the Germans were to be humiliated under the same barrel-vaulted ceiling. And no doubt some among them would be dreaming of the time in the future when they in turn would take their revenge. The degradation to which you subject others comes back, sooner or later, to haunt you, Maud thought. Would that reflection occur to men on either side at today's ceremony? Probably not.
She found her place on one of the red plush benches. There were dozens of reporters and photographers, and a film crew with huge movie cameras to record the event. The bigwigs entered in ones and twos and sat at a long table: Clemenceau relaxed and irreverent, Wilson stiffly formal, Lloyd George like an aging bantam cock. Gus Dewar appeared and spoke in Wilson's ear, then went over to the press section and spoke to a pretty young reporter with one eye. Maud remembered seeing her before. Gus was in love with her, Maud could tell.
At three o'clock someone called for silence, and a reverent hush fell. Clemenceau said something, a door opened, and the two German signatories came in. Maud knew from Walter that no one in Berlin had wanted to put his name to the treaty, and in the end they had sent the foreign minister and the postal minister. The two men looked pale and ashamed.
Clemenceau made a short speech, then beckoned the Germans forward. Both men took fountain pens from their pockets and signed the paper on the table. A moment later, at a hidden signal, guns boomed outside, telling the world that the peace treaty had been signed.
The other delegates came up to sign, not just from the major powers but from all the countries who were party to the treaty. It took a long time, and conversation broke out among the spectators. The Germans sat stiffly frozen until at last it was over and they were escorted out.
Maud was sick with disgust. We preached a sermon of peace, she thought, but all the time we were plotting revenge. She left the palace. Outside, Wilson and Lloyd George were being mobbed by rejoicing spectators. She skirted the crowd, made her way into the town, and went to the Germans' hotel.
She hoped Walter was not too cast down: it had been a dreadful day for him.
She found him packing. "We're going home tonight," he said. "The whole delegation."
"So soon!" She had hardly thought about what would happen after the signing. It was an event of such huge dramatic significance that she had been unable to look beyond it.
By contrast, Walter had thought about it, and he had a plan. "Come with me," he said simply.
"I can't get permission to go to Germany."
"Whose permission do you need? I've got you a German passport in the name of Frau Maud von Ulrich."
She felt bewildered. "How did you manage that?" she said, though that was hardly the most important question in her mind.
"It was not difficult. You are the wife of a German citizen. You are entitled to a passport. I used my special influence only to shorten the process to a matter of hours."
She stared at him. It was so sudden.
"Will you come?" he said.
She saw in his eyes a terrible fear. He thought she might back out at the last mi
nute. His terror of losing her made her want to cry. She felt very fortunate to be loved so passionately. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I will come. Of course I will come."
He was not convinced. "Are you sure this is what you want?"
She nodded. "Do you remember the story of Ruth, in the Bible?"
"Of course. Why . . . ?"
Maud had read it several times in the last few weeks, and now she quoted the words that had so moved her. "Whither thou goest I will go, and where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God; where thou diest . . . " She stopped, unable to speak for the constriction in her throat; then, after a moment, she swallowed hard and resumed. "Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried."
He smiled, but there were tears in his eyes. "Thank you," he said.
"I love you," she said. "What time is the train?"
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
August to October 1919
Gus and Rosa returned to Washington at the same time as the president. In August they contrived to get simultaneous leave and went home to Buffalo. The day after they arrived, Gus brought Rosa to meet his parents.
He was nervous. He desperately wanted his mother to like Rosa. But Mother had an inflated opinion of how attractive her son was to women. She had found fault with every girl he had ever mentioned. No one was good enough, especially socially. If he wanted to marry the daughter of the king of England, she would probably say: "Can't you find a nice well-bred American girl?"
"The first thing you'll notice about her, Mother, is that she's very pretty," Gus said at breakfast that morning. "Second, you'll see that she has only one eye. After a few minutes, you'll realize that she's very smart. And when you get to know her well, you'll understand that she's the most wonderful young woman in the world."
"I'm sure I shall," said his mother with her accustomed breathtaking insincerity. "Who are her parents?"
Rosa arrived at midafternoon, when Mother was taking her nap and Father was still downtown. Gus showed her around the house and grounds. She said nervously: "You do know that I come from a more modest background?"
"You'll get used to it soon enough," he said. "Anyway, you and I won't be living in this kind of splendor. But we might buy an elegant small house in Washington."
They played tennis. It was an uneven match: Gus with his long arms and legs was too good for her, and her judgment of distance was erratic. But she fought back determinedly, going for every ball, and won a few games. And in a white tennis dress with the fashionable midcalf hemline she looked so sexy that Gus had to make a major effort of will to concentrate on his shots.
They went in for tea in a glow of perspiration. "Summon up your reserves of tolerance and goodwill," Gus said outside the drawing room. "Mother can be an awful snob."
But Mother was on her best behavior. She kissed Rosa on both cheeks and said: "How wonderfully healthy you both look, all flushed with exercise. Miss Hellman, I'm so glad to meet you, and I hope we're going to become friends."
"You're very kind," said Rosa. "It would be a privilege to be your friend."
Mother was pleased by the compliment. She knew she was a grand dame of Buffalo society, and she felt it was appropriate that young women should show her deference. Rosa had divined that in an instant. Clever girl, Gus thought. And generous, too, given that in her heart she hated all authority.
"I know Fritz Hellman, your brother," Mother said. Fritz played violin in the Buffalo Symphony Orchestra. Mother was on the board. "He has a wonderful talent."
"Thank you. We are very proud of him."
Mother made small talk, and Rosa let her take the lead. Gus could not help remembering that once before he had brought home a girl he planned to marry: Olga Vyalov. Mother's reaction then had been different: she had been courteous and welcoming, but Gus had known her heart was not in it. Today she seemed genuine.
He had asked his mother about the Vyalov family yesterday. Lev Peshkov had been sent to Siberia as an army interpreter. Olga did not go to many social events, and seemed taken up with raising their child. Josef had lobbied Gus's father, the senator, for more military aid to the Whites. "He seems to think the Bolsheviks will be bad for the Vyalov family business in Petrograd," Mother had said.
"That's the best thing I've heard about the Bolsheviks," Gus had replied.
After tea they went off to change. Gus was disturbed by the thought of Rosa showering in the next room. He had never seen her naked. They had spent passionate hours together in her Paris hotel room, but they had not gone as far as sexual intercourse. "I hate to be old-fashioned," she had said apologetically, "but somehow I feel we should wait." She was not much of an anarchist really.
Her parents were coming for dinner. Gus put on a short tuxedo jacket and went downstairs. He mixed a Scotch for his father but did not have one himself. He felt he might need his wits about him.
Rosa came down in a black dress and looked stunning. Her parents appeared on the dot of six o'clock. Norman Hellman was wearing white tie and tails, not quite right for family dinner, but perhaps he did not own a tuxedo. He was an elf of a man with a charming grin, and Gus saw immediately that Rosa took after him. He drank two martinis rather quickly, the only sign that he might be tense, but then he refused any more alcohol. Rosa's mother, Hilda, was a slender beauty with lovely long-fingered hands. It was hard to imagine her as a housemaid. Gus's father took to her immediately.
As they sat down to eat, Dr. Hellman said: "What are your career plans, Gus?"
He was entitled to ask this, as the father of the woman Gus loved, but Gus did not have much of an answer. "I'll work for the president as long as he needs me," he said.
"He's got a tough job on his hands right now."
"That's true. The Senate is making trouble about approving the Versailles peace treaty." Gus tried not to sound too bitter. "After all Wilson did to persuade the Europeans to set up the League of Nations, I can hardly believe that Americans are turning up their noses at the whole idea."
"Senator Lodge is a formidable troublemaker."
Gus thought Senator Lodge was an egocentric son of a bitch. "The president decided not to take Lodge with him to Paris, and now Lodge is getting his revenge."
Gus's father, who was an old friend of the president as well as a senator, said: "Woodrow made the League of Nations part of the peace treaty, thinking we could not possibly reject the treaty, therefore we would have to accept the league." He shrugged. "Lodge told him to go to blazes."
Dr. Hellman said: "In fairness to Lodge, I think the American people are right to be concerned about article ten. If we join a league that guarantees to protect its members from aggression, we're committing American forces to unknown conflicts in the future."
Gus's reply was quick. "If the league is strong, no one will dare to defy it."
"I'm not as confident as you about that."
Gus did not want to have an argument with Rosa's father, but he felt passionately about the League of Nations. "I don't say there would never be another war," he said in a conciliatory tone. "I do think that wars would be fewer and shorter, and aggressors would gain little reward."
"And I believe you may be right. But many voters say: 'Never mind the world--I'm interested only in America. Are we in danger of becoming the world's policeman?' It's a reasonable question."
Gus struggled to hide his anger. The league was the greatest hope for peace that had ever been offered to humankind, and it was in danger of being stillborn because of this kind of narrow-minded quibble. He said: "The council of the league has to make unanimous decisions, so the United States would never find itself fighting a war against its will."
"Nevertheless, there's no point in having the league unless it is prepared to fight."
The enemies of the league were like this: first they complained that it would fight, then they complained it would not. Gus said: "These problems are minor by comparison with the deaths of millions!"
Dr. Hellman shrugge
d, too polite to press his point against such a passionate opponent. "In any case," he said, "I believe a foreign treaty requires the support of two-thirds of the Senate."
"And right now we don't even have half," said Gus gloomily.
Rosa, who was reporting on this issue, said: "I count forty in favor, including you, Senator Dewar. Forty-three have reservations, eight are implacably against, and five undecided."
Her father said to Gus: "So what will the president do?"
"He's going to reach out to the people over the heads of the politicians. He's planning a ten-thousand-mile tour of the entire country. He'll make more than fifty speeches in four weeks."
"A punishing schedule. He's sixty-two and has high blood pressure."
There was a touch of mischief in Dr. Hellman. Everything he said was challenging. Obviously he felt the need to test the mettle of a suitor for his daughter. Gus replied: "But at the end of it, the president will have explained to the people of America that the world needs the League of Nations to make sure we never fight another war like the one just ended."
"I pray you're right."
"If political complexities need to be explained to ordinary people, Wilson is the best."
Champagne was served with dessert. "Before we begin, I'd like to say something," Gus said. His parents looked startled: he never made speeches. "Dr. and Mrs. Hellman, you know that I love your daughter, who is the most wonderful girl in the world. It's old-fashioned, but I want to ask your permission"--he took from his pocket a small red leather box--"your permission to offer her this engagement ring." He opened the box. It contained a gold ring with a single one-carat diamond. It was not ostentatious, but the diamond was pure white, the most desirable color, in a round brilliant cut, and it looked fabulous.
