shed
illusion, to expose the truth to a proud memory, that, I will confess,
is always a task before which a sensitive man will hesitate. Yet it is
also part of the test of a writer's courage; by his hesitation a
soldier-author may know that he is in danger of failing in his duty. Yet
the opinion of the public, which intimidates us, is no mere bugbear. It
is very serious. People do not enjoy the destruction of their cherished
illusions. They do not crown the defamers of their idols. What is it that
balks a soldier's judgment when he begins to write about the War? He is
astonished by the reflection that if he were to reproduce with enjoyment
the talk of the heroes which was usual in France, then many excellent
ladies might denounce it indignantly as unmanly. Unmanly! But he is
right. They not only might, but they would. How often have I listened to
the cool and haughty contralto of ladies of education and refinement who
were clearly unaware that what they were encouraging, what to them
afforded so much pride, what deepened their conviction of righteous
sacrifice, was but an obscene outrage on the souls and bodies of young
men. How is one to convey that to ladies? All that a timid writer may do
is to regret the awful need to challenge the pious assurance of
Christians which is sure to be turned to anger by the realities.

I have read in very few books anything that was as good as the gossip one
could hear by chance in France. The intimate yarn of the observant
soldier home on leave, who could trust his listener, is superior to much
one sees in print. In that way I heard the best story of the War. If it
could be put down as it was given to me it would be a masterpiece. But it
cannot be reproduced. It came as I heard it because, remembering his
incredible experience, the narrator found himself in secure and familiar
circumstances again, was confident of his audience, and was thinking only
of his story. His mind was released, he was comfortable, and he was
looking backward in a grim humour which did not quite disguise his
sadness. His smile was comical, but it could move no answering smile.
These intelligent soldiers, who tell us the stories we never see in
print, are not thinking about their style, or of the way the other men
have told such tales, but only of what happened to themselves. They are
as artless as the child who at breakfast so tells its dream of the night
before that one wants to listen, and Tolstoy says that is