August First | Page 7

God barely touch, here, the edges of the possible
perfection of the soul. Why, it is that that lifts us--that possibility of
going on and on--out of imaginable bounds, into glory after glory--until
the wisdom of the ages is foolishness and time has no meaning where,
in the reaches of eternity, the climbing soul thinks with the mind of
God.
You were going to cut yourself off from that! At the very start, you
were going to fling away your single glorious chance--you, who told
me that in less than ten of these littlenesses called "years" you might be
allowed to go out into a larger place. Remember, you can't kill your
soul. But, because you have been trusted with personality you can, if
you wish, show an unforgiveable contempt for your beginning life. But,
if you do that--if you treat your single opportunity like that--can you
believe that another will be given you?
You cannot do this thing. I say to you that there are openings in the box.
Find a fissure in the rough wall. Then, look! This isn't life--only the
smallest bit of it. The rest is outside. It is not a question of God--it is
not a question of punishment. It is this--what are you going to do with
your soul?
I wonder if you have read as far as this. I wonder if I have been at all
intelligible?
Will Robert Halarkenden see that you get this thick letter? There is
only one way by which I can know that it found you.
I know that I have been hopelessly inadequate--perhaps grotesque. To
see it and be unable to tell you--imagine the awfulness! Give me
another chance. I was not going to ask that, but I must. Can't you see
I've got to show you? I mean--about another chance--will you not
renew that promise? Will you not send a word in answer to this letter,
and promise once more not to do anything decisive until you have

heard from me again? I am
Sincerely yours, GEOFFREY McBIRNEY.
FOREST GATE, August 8th.
MY DEAR MR. McBIRNEY--
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