which I think I used to have as a child whenI 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 myfeet and made to use my wings--only I haven't much in the line ofwings. But it was as if you had lifted me into an atmosphere where Igasped--and used wings. It was grand, but startling and difficult, andI can't fly. I flopped down promptly and began crawling about on theground busily. Yet the "cloud of glory" has trailed a bit, through thegray days since. I don't mind telling you that I locked the letter inthe drawer with a shiny little pistol I have had for some time, so thatI can't get to the pistol without seeing the letter. I'm playing thisgame with you very fairly, you see--which sounds conceited and as ifthe 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 getwrecked, for those reasons it does mean a little I think.
About your letter. Some of it is wonderful. I never thought about itthat way. In a conventional, indifferent fashion I've believed that ifI'm good I'll go to a place called heaven when I die. It hasn'tinterested me very much--what I've heard has sounded rather dull--thepeople 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 andbroad-minded and all that because I naturally object to sneaks andcatty people--not for much other reason. But this is a wonderful ideaof yours, that my only life--as I've regarded it--is just about fiveminutes anyhow, of a day that goes on from strength to strength.You've somehow put an atmosphere into it, and a reality. I believe youbelieve it. Excuse me--I'm not being flippant; I'm only being deadlyreal. I may shoot myself tonight; tomorrow morning I may be dead,whatever that means. Anyhow, I haven't a desire to talk etiquetticallyabout 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 thatmaybe--just maybe--it might be worth while to wiggle painfully, or morepainfully lie still in your "box" and that I'd come out--all of us poorthings would come out--into gloriousness some time. I would hate tohave queered myself, you know, by going off at half-cock. But would itqueer me? What do you know about it? How can you tell? I might beput back a few laps--I'm not being flippant, I simply don't know how tosay it--and then, anyhow, I'd be outside the "box," wouldn't I? And inthe freedom--and I could catch up, maybe. Yet, it might be the otherway; I might have shown an "unforgiveable contempt" for my life.Unforgiveable--by whom? You say God forgives forever--well, I know Hemust, if He's a God worth worshipping. So I don't know what you meanby "unforgiveable." And you don't know if it's my "single, gloriouschance" at life. How can you know? On the other hand, I don't knowbut 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 belowSunday-school lessons and tradition, I don't know much what I dobelieve. I'd rather believe in God because everything seems to fly topieces 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 isfaith if it isn't shutting your eyes and playing you believe what youreally don't believe? Likely I'm an idiot--I suspect that--but I'dgladly have it proved. And here I am away off from the point andarguing about huge things that I can't even see across, much lesshandle. I beg your pardon; I beg your pardon for all the time I'mtaking and the bother I'm making. Still, I'm going on living till Iget your next letter--I promise, as you ask. I'm glad to promisebecause of the first letter, and of the glimpse down a vista, and thebreath of strange, fresh air it seemed to bring. I have an idea that Istumbled on rather a wonderful person that day I missed the rector. Oris it possibly just the real belief in a wonderful thing that shinesthrough you? But then, you're clever besides; I'm clever enough toknow that. Only, don't digress so; don't write a lot of lovely Englishabout clocks and getting up early. That's not to the point. Thatirritates me. I suppose it's because you see things covered withsunlight and wonder, and you just have to tell about it as you goalong. All right, if you must. But if you digress too much, I'll goand shoot, and that will finish the correspondence.
Indeed I know that this is a most extraordinary and unconventionalletter to send a man whom I have seen once. But you are not human tome; you are a spirit of the thunder-storm of August first. I cannoteven remember how you look. Your voice--I'd recognize that. It has aquality 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.
MY DEAR MR. MCBIRNEY--
This is just a word to tell you that you must answer rather quickly, orI might not keep my promise. Last night I was frightened; I had ahideous evening. Alec was here--the man I'm to marry if nothing savesme--and it was bad. He won't release me, and I won't break my wordunless he does. And after he was gone I went through a queer time; Ithink a novel would call it an obsession. Almost without my will,almost as if I were another person, I tried to get the pistol. Andyour letter guarded it. My first personality _couldn't_ lift yourletter off to get the pistol. Did you hypnotize me? It's like thequeer things one reads in psychological books. I _couldn't_ get pastthat letter. Of course, I'm in some strained, abnormal condition, andthat's all, but send me another letter, for if one is a barricade twoshould be a fortress. And I nearly broke down the barricade; NumberTwo did, that is.
Is it hot in Warchester? It is so heavenly here this morning that Iwish I could send you a slice of it--coolness and birds singing andtrees rustling. I think of you going up and down tenement stairs inthe heat--and I know you hate heat--I took that in. This house standsin big grounds and the lake, seventy-five miles long, you know, roarsup on the beach below it. I wish I could send you a slice. Write me,please--and you so busy! I am a selfish person.
AUGUST FIRST.
WARCHESTER, St. Andrew's Parish House, August 12th.
Yesterday it rained. And then the telephone rang, and some incoherentperson mumbled an address out in the furthest suburb. It was NorthBaxter Court. You never saw that--a row of yellow houses with thedoor-sills level to the mud and ashes of the alley, and swarms ofchildren who stare and whisper, "Here's the 'Father.'" Number 7 1/2was marked with a membraneous croup sign--the usual lie to avoid strictquarantine and still get anti-toxin at the free dispensary; the roomwas unspeakable--shut windows and a crowd of people. A woman, young,sat rocking back and forth, half smothering a baby in her arms. Nobodyspoke. It took time to get the windows open and persuade the woman tolay the child on the bed in the corner. There wasn't anything else touse, so I fanned the baby with my straw hat--until, finally, it gotaway from North Baxter Court forever. Which was as it should be. Thentumult. Probably you are not in a position to know that few spectaclesare more hideous than the unrestrained grief of the poor. The thingsthey said and did--it was unhuman, indecent. I can't describe it. AsI was leaving, after a pretty bad half hour, I met the doctor at thedoor--one of these half-drunken quacks who live on the ignorant. Thatchild died of diphtheria. I knew it, and he admitted it. The funeralwas this breathless morning, with details that may not be written down.
LATER.
Somebody interrupted. And now it's long past midnight. I must try tosend you some answer to your letter. I have been thinking--thecombination may strike you as odd--of North Baxter Court and you. Notthat the happenings of yesterday were unusual. That is just it--theycome almost every day, things like that. And you, with your birds andrustling trees and your lake--you keep a shiny pistol in the drawer ofyour dressing-table, and write me the sort of letter that came from youthis morning. When all these people need _you_--these blind, dumbanimals, stumbling through the sordid, hopeless years--need you,because, in spite of everything, you are still so much further alongthan they, because you are capable of seeing where their eyes are shut,because you and your kind can help them, and put the germ of li
fe intothe deadness of their days, because of all that makes you what you are,and gives you the chance to become infinitely more--you, in the face ofall that, can sit down in the fragrance of a garden-scented breeze andwrite as you have done about God and the things that matter.
You said that it was not flippancy. Your whole point of view is wrong.Do not ask me how I "know"--some conclusions do not need to beanalyzed. I wonder if you realize, for instance, what you said aboutfaith? I haven't the charity to call it even childish. Have you evergot below the surface of anything at all? Do you want to know
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