Robert Halarkenden saw that I got it. You don't know who Robert
Halarkenden is, do you? He's interesting, and likely you never will
know about him--but it doesn't matter. Your letter left me with a
curious feeling, a feeling which I think I used to have as a child when
I was just waking from one of the strong dreams of childhood which
"trail clouds of glory." It was a feeling that I had been swept off my
feet and made to use my wings--only I haven't much in the line of
wings. But it was as if you had lifted me into an atmosphere where I
gasped--and used wings. It was grand, but startling and difficult, and
I can't fly. I flopped down promptly and began crawling about on the
ground busily. Yet the "cloud of glory" has trailed a bit, through the
gray days since. I don't mind telling you that I locked the letter in
the drawer with a shiny little pistol I have had for some time, so that
I can't get to the pistol without seeing the letter. I'm playing this
game with you very fairly, you see--which sounds conceited and as if
the game meant anything to you, a stranger. But because you are good,
and saving souls is your job, and because you think my soul might get
wrecked, for those reasons it does mean a little I think.
About your letter. Some of it is wonderful. I never thought about it
that way. In a conventional, indifferent fashion I've believed that if
I'm good I'll go to a place called heaven when I die. It hasn't
interested me very much--what I've heard has sounded rather dull--the
people supposed to be on the express trains there have, many of them,
been people I didn't want to play with. I've cared to be straight and
broad-minded and all that because I naturally object to sneaks and
catty people--not for much other reason. But this is a wonderful idea
of yours, that my only life--as I've regarded it--is just about five
minutes anyhow, of a day that goes on from strength to strength.
You've somehow put an atmosphere into it, and a reality. I believe you
believe it. Excuse me--I'm not being flippant; I'm only being deadly
real. I may shoot myself tonight; tomorrow morning I may be dead,
whatever that means. Anyhow, I haven't a desire to talk etiquettically
about things like this. And I won't, whatever you may think of me.
Your letter didn't convince me. It inspired me; it made me feel that
maybe--just maybe--it might be worth while to wiggle painfully, or more
painfully lie still in your "box" and that I'd come out--all of us poor
things would come out--into gloriousness some time. I would hate to
have queered myself, you know, by going off at half-cock. But would it
queer me? What do you know about it? How can you tell? I might be
put back a few laps--I'm not being flippant, I simply don't know how to
say it--and then, anyhow, I'd be outside the "box," wouldn't I? And in
the freedom--and I could catch up, maybe. Yet, it might be the other
way; I might have shown an "unforgiveable contempt" for my life.
Unforgiveable--by whom? You say God forgives forever--well, I know He
must, if He's a God worth worshipping. So I don't know what you mean
by "unforgiveable." And you don't know if it's my "single, glorious
chance" at life. How can you know? On the other hand, I don't know
but that it is--that's the risk, I suppose--and it is a hideous risk.
I suppose likely you mean that. You see, when it gets down below
Sunday-school lessons and tradition, I don't know much what I do
believe. I'd rather believe in God because everything seems to fly to
pieces in an uncomfortable way if one doesn't. But is that any belief?
As to "faith," that sounds rather nonsense to me. What on earth is
faith if it isn't shutting your eyes and playing you believe what you
really don't believe? Likely I'm an idiot--I suspect that--but I'd
gladly have it proved. And here I am away off from the point and
arguing about huge things that I can't even see across, much less
handle. I beg your pardon; I beg your pardon for all the time I'm
taking and the bother I'm making. Still, I'm going on living till I
get your next letter--I promise, as you ask. I'm glad to promise
because of the first letter, and of the glimpse down a vista, and the
breath of strange, fresh air it seemed to bring. I have an idea that I
stumbled on rather a wonderful person that day I missed the rector. Or
is it possibly just the real belief in a wonderful thing that shines
through you? But then, you're clever besides; I'm clever enough to
know that. Only, don't digress so; don't write a lot of lovely English
about clocks and getting up early. That's not to the point. That
irritates me. I suppose it's because you see things covered with
sunlight and wonder, and you just have to tell about it as you go
along. All right, if you must. But if you digress too much, I'll go
and shoot, and that will finish the correspondence.
Indeed I know that this is a most extraordinary and unconventional
letter to send a man whom I have seen once. But you are not human to
me; you are a spirit of the thunder-storm of August first. I cannot
even remember how you look. Your voice--I'd recognize that. It has a
quality of--what is it? Atmosphere, vibration, purity, roundness--no,
I can't get it. You see I may be unconventional, I may be impertinent,
I may be personal, because I am not a person, only
Yours gratefully,
AUGUST FIRST.
FOREST GATE, August 10th.