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 splendors 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 localized 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 bygone 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
questions--all I know is that I move daily with men who have
everything to live for who, nevertheless, are urged by an unconscious
magnanimity to die. I don't think any of our dead pity themselves--but
they would have done so if they had faltered in their choice. One lives
only from sunrise to sunrise, but there's a more real happiness in this
brief living than I ever knew before, because it is so exactingly worth
while.
Thank you again for your kindness.
Very sincerely yours,
C. D.