critical illness at 40, Nature's
object being to make him go to bed for several months. Sometimes
Nature overdoes it: Schiller and Mozart died. Goethe survived, though
he very nearly followed Schiller into the shades. I did the thing
myself quite handsomely by spending eighteen months on crutches,
having two surgical operations, and breaking my arm. I distinctly
noticed that instead of my recuperation beginning when my breakdown
ended, it began before that. The ascending curve cut through the tail
of the descending one; and I was consummating my collapse and rising
for my next flight simultaneously.

It is perfectly useless for you to try to differ with me about the
war. NOBODY can differ with me about the war: you might as well
differ from the Almighty about the orbit of the sun. I have got the
war right; and to that complexion, you too must come at last, your
nature not being a fundamentally erroneous one.

At the same time, it is a great pity you were not born in Ireland.
You would have had the advantage of hearing the burning patriotism of
your native land expressing itself by saying exactly the same things
about England that English patriotism now says about Prussia, and of
recognizing that though they were entirely true, they were also a
very great nuisance, as they prevented people from building the
future by conscientious thought. Also, Cecil would have seen what the
Catholic Church is really like when the apostolic succession falls to
the farmer's son who is cleverer with school books than with
agricultural implements. In fact you would have learned a devil of a
lot of things for lack of which you often drive me to exclaim
"Gilbert, Gilbert, why persecutest thou me."

As to the evil will, of course there is an evil will in Prussia.
Prussia isn't Paradise. I have been fighting that evil will, in
myself and others, all my life. It is the will of the brave Barabbas,
and of the militant Nationalists who admired him and crucified the
pro-Gentile. But the Prussians must save their own souls. They also
have their Shaws and Chestertons and a divine spark in them for these
to work on. . . . What we have to do is to make ridiculous the cry of
"Vengeance is mine, saith Podsnap," and, whenever anyone tells an
Englishman a lie, to explain to the poor devil that it is a lie, and
that he must stop cheering it as a sp