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I can never in this world thank you enough for you letter, or for giving poor Claude4 so much
feeling and sympathy. You say you find just what I tried so hard to make; a
narrative that is always Claude, and not me writing about either France5 or doughboys.No, I wasn't in France during the war. I went afterward6, after most of the F French part was written, to see whether, when I read it there, it would
seem 'descriptive' or impressionistic or knowing. After all, it's hard to write
about a country without description; and I didn't always keep to the narrow way; the
Beaufort7
part8 is still too fussy, too
'picturesque'. But there, you know all the difficulties as well as I do. I am sure
you find it better than it is. Someday I want to tell you how I got the material for
the last part- - - not easily. A great deal of living went into it. But for that
matter, there wasn't any other life for at least two of those three years. There was
only one question, ever; "How is Claude this morning? For nothing can be ill if he
be well." And that'ss just what one gets out of it;
that's the disease and the cure. But how it drains one- - - afterward, you don't
notice it at the time, thank God, you somehow always have enough to feed him till
he's done. But now, life does seem a casual affair. The new
one?9 Oh, it's an external affair. It's not Claude.
When the proofs come, I'll write you again; and thank you, thank you, thank you. It's now, when I can do nothing more on him, that I need to feel that he matters to someone else, that he can come into the room and make you care about him.
You'll never know how glad, how relieved, I am that you feel it's
solid work, under so much excitement. I've hammere
hammered away whole chapters, and there are still some that ought to go, like that
one10 about the shell bursting under
Claude.