The antipodean mails have caught up with Olaf Stapledon, leaving him to respond to two very different letters from his beloved, Agnes Miller. First the personal, then the political:
. . . In one you talked about our inevitable drifting apart in all this absence; and all that you said was wise and comforting, and rests on the solid base rock of our now-long-standing love. It will all come right when we meet. Meanwhile let us always be frank and say just what we feel, so that we may know where we are, nicht war? Naturally I also have ups and downs of feeling. Life would be unendurable if one were always at the excruciating zenith of feeling. In the absence of summer the little beasts hibernate, to save themselves for keener living when the sun returns. With us also there must needs be much hibernating of the keen spirit of “being in love.” Be sure it will wake again in full vigour when the time comes…
In one letter you talked about the FAU and my relations with it… As to the whole question of my being in the F.A.U. here is a summary of the matter: I joined largely because I was in a hurry to get out & do something, partly because I was nearing pacifism. (I was practically promised a commission before joining the FAU. There was not much question of pacifism at first.) My pacifism strengthened itself in the Unit, till now it is pretty firm. It is of course a compromising sort of idea in my case—simply “I’ll do all that the state commands save whatever seems utterly wrong.” If everyone were ready to do this work & no more there would be no war. That seems to me the reasonable and—what shall I say?–the gentlest course. And I do hold that reasonableness and gentleness are the qualities most needed today. Of courage and masterfulness the world has already shown itself to have a glorious sufficiency. Anyhow here I am in the middle course, the compromise, by no means contented with it, but aware that if I were to take either of the other two courses it would be less from a sense of duty than from the longing to be out of an uncomfortable position. . . .
Haste now. Love me. I cannot change from loving you, in spite of all hibernating.
And in London, the weight of the war comes home again. Duff Cooper‘s diary records his shrinking circle’s latest loss:
I dined at the Ritz in Lionel [Tennyson]’s sitting room. It was a bachelor party. I arrived first, then Michael. We had to wait some time for William Rawle who was the fourth. He came at last and said ‘I’m sorry I’m late. Patrick Shaw-Stewart has been killed.’ I felt stunned. This is the last blow. Lionel, Michael and William were all sad but none of them could have felt what I did. I courted forgetfulness in champagne but didn’t get much comfort.