really horrible has a ludicrous side--it's like Mark Twain's humour--a
gross exaggeration. The maddest thing of all to me is that a person so
willing to be amiable as I am should be out here killing people for
principle's sake. There's no rhyme or reason--it can't be argued. Dimly
one thinks he sees what 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