The section within this volume called Letters explains itself, though I do not pretend to say that it justifies its own existence.  It claims nothing in its defence except the right of speech which I believe belongs to everybody outside a Trappist monastery.  The part I have ventured, for shortness’ sake, to call Life, may perhaps justify itself by the emotional sincerity of the feelings to which the various papers included under that head owe their origin.  And as they relate to events of which everyone has a date, they are in the nature of sign-posts pointing out the direction my thoughts were compelled to take at the various cross-roads.  If anybody detects any sort of consistency in the choice, this will be only proof positive that wisdom had nothing to do with it.  Whether right or wrong, instinct alone is invariable; a fact which only adds a deeper shade to its inherent mystery.  The appearance of intellectuality these pieces may present at first sight is merely the result of the arrangement of words.  The logic that may be found there is only the logic of the language.  But I need not labour the point.  There will be plenty of people sagacious enough to perceive the absence of all wisdom from these pages.  But I believe sufficiently in human sympathies to imagine that very few will question their sincerity.  Whatever delusions I may have suffered from I have had no delusions as to the nature of the facts commented on here.  I may have misjudged their import:  but that is the sort of error for which one may expect a certain amount of toleration.

The only paper of this collection which has never been published before is the Note on the Polish Problem.  It was written at the request of a friend to be shown privately, and its “Protectorate” idea, sprung from a strong sense of the critical nature of the situation, was shaped by the actual circumstances of the time.  The time was about a month before the entrance of Roumania into the war, and though, honestly, I had seen already the shadow of coming events I could not permit my misgivings to enter into and destroy the structure of my plan.  I still believe that there was some sense in it.  It may certainly be charged with the appearance of lack of faith and it lays itself open to the throwing of many stones; but my object was practical and I had to consider warily the preconceived notions of the people to whom it was implicitly addressed, and also their unjustifiable hopes.  They were unjustifiable, but who was to tell them that?  I mean who was wise enough and convincing enough to show them the inanity of their mental attitude?  The whole atmosphere was poisoned with visions that were not so much false as simply impossible.  They were also the result of vague and unconfessed fears, and that made their strength.  For myself, with a very definite dread in my heart, I was careful not to allude to their character because I did not want the Note to be thrown away unread.  And then I had to remember that the impossible has sometimes the trick of coming to pass to the confusion of minds and often to the crushing of hearts.