is right and leaves father and mother and home,
as though it were for the Kingdom of Heaven's sake. Perhaps it is. If
one didn't pin his faith to that "perhaps"--. One can't explain.

A merry Christmas to you.
Yours very sincerely,
CONINGSBY DAWSON.

XXXV

December 20th, 1916.

Dear Mr. A.D.:

I've just come in from an argument with Fritz when your chocolate formed
my meal. You were very kind to think of me and to send it, and you were
extraordinarily understanding in the letter that you sent me. One's life
out here is like a pollarded tree--all the lower branches are gone--one
gazes on great nobilities, on the fascinating horror of Eternity
sometimes--I said horror, but it's often fine in its spaciousness--one
gazes on many inverted splendours of Titans, but it's giddy work being
so high and rarefied, and all the gentle past seems gone. That's why it
is pleasant in this grimy anonymity of death and courage to get
reminders, such as your letter, that one was once localised and had a
familiar history. If I come back, I shall be like Rip Van Winkle, or a
Robinson Crusoe--like any and all of the creatures of legend and history
to whom abnormality has grown to seem normal. If you can imagine
yourself living in a world in which every day is a demonstration of a
Puritan's conception of what happens when the last trump sounds, then
you have some idea of my queer situation. One has come to a point when
death seems very inconsiderable and only failure to do one's duty is an
utter loss. Love and the future, and all the sweet and tender dreams of
by-gone days are like a house in which the blinds are lowered and from
which the sight has gone. Landscapes have lost their beauty, everything
God-made and man-made is destroyed except man's power to endure with a
smile the things he once most dreaded, because he believes that only so
may he be righteous in his own eyes. How one has longed for that sure
confidence in the petty failings of little living--the confidence to
believe that he can stand up and suffer for principle! God has given all
men who are out here that opportunity--the supremest that can be hoped
for--so, in spite of exile, Christmas for most of us will be a happy
day. Does one see more truly life's worth on a battlefield? I often ask
myself that question. Is the contempt that is hourly shown for life the
real standard of life's worth? I shrug my shoulders at my own
unanswerable