February 6th, 1917.
MY VERY DEAR M.:
I read in to-day's paper that U. S. A. threatens to come over and
help us. I wish she would. The very thought of the possibility fills
me with joy. I've been lightheaded all day. It would be so ripping
to live among people, when the war is ended, of whom you need not be
ashamed. Somewhere deep down in my heart I've felt a sadness ever
since I've been out here, at America's lack of gallantry--it's so easy
to find excuses for not climbing to Calvary; sacrifice was always
too noble to be sensible. I would like to see the country of our
adoption become splendidly irrational even at this eleventh hour in
the game; it would redeem her in the world's eyes. She doesn't know
what she's losing. From these carcase-strewn fields of khaki there's
a cleansing wind blowing for the nations that have died. Though there
was only one Englishman left to carry on the race when this war is
victoriously ended, I would give more for the future of England than
for the future of America with her ninety millions whose sluggish
blood was not stirred by the call of duty. It's bigness of soul that
makes nations great and not population. Money, comfort, limousines and
ragtime are not the requisites of men when heroes are dying. I hate
the thought of Fifth Avenue, with its pretty faces, its fashions, its
smiling frivolity. America as a great nation will die, as all coward
civilizations have died, unless she accepts the stigmata of sacrifice,
which a divine opportunity again offers her.
If it were but possible to show those ninety millions one battlefield
with its sprawling dead, its pity, its marvellous forgetfulness of
self, I think then--no, they wouldn't be afraid. Fear isn't the emotion
one feels--they would experience the shame of living when so many have
shed their youth freely. This war is a prolonged moment of exultation
for most of us--we are redeeming ourselves in our own eyes. To lay
down one's life for one's friend once seemed impossible. All that is
altered. We lay down our lives that the future generations may be good
and kind, and so we can contemplate oblivion with quiet eyes. Nothing
that is noblest that the Greeks taught is unpractised by the simplest
men out here to-day. They may die childless, but their example will
father the imagination of all the coming ages. These men, in the noble
indignation of a great ideal, face a worse hell than the most ingenious
of fanatics ever planned or plotted. Men die scorched like moths in a
furnace, blown to atoms, gassed, tortured. And again other men step
forward to take their places well knowing what will be their fate.
Bodies may die, but the spirit of England grows greater as each new
soul speeds upon its way. The battened souls of America will die and be
buried. I believe the decision of the next few days will prove to be
the crisis in America's nationhood. If she refuses the pain which will
save her, the cancer of self-despising will rob her of her life.
This feeling is strong with us. It's past midnight, but I could write
of nothing else to-night.
God bless you.
Yours ever,
CON.