TheCompleteMemoirsOfGeorgeSherston

unimpulsive, none the less in what, for the sake of
exposition I will call my soul (Grand Soul Theatre;
performances nightly), protagonistic performances
were keeping the drama alive. (I might almost say
•that there was a bit of "ham55 acting going on at
times.)

For my soul had rebelled against the War, and not
even Rivers could cure it of that. To feel in some sort
of way heroic—that was the only means I could de-
vise for "carrying on". Hence, when I arrived at
Clitherland, my tragedian soul was all ready to start
back for the trenches with a sublime gesture of self-
sacrifice. But it was an angry soul, with no inclination
to be nice to anyone except its fellow-soldiers. It
wanted to see itself dominating the audience (mainly
civilians) and dying defiantly in some lime-lit shell-
hole; "martyred because he could not save mankind,"
as his platoon-sergeant remarked afterwards, in a
burst of blank-verse eloquence of which he had
hitherto believed himself incapable.

The Orderly Room, however, was unconscious of all
this. After spending three idle days at the camp, I was
instructed to proceed—not to "some corner of a for-
eign field"—but wherever I wanted to go during ten
days' leave. I was unofficially told I could make it
twelve if I liked.

My memories of that bit of leave are distinctly
hazy. It goes without saying that the object of going
on leave was to enjoy oneself. This I determined to
do. I also made up my mind to be as brainless as I
could, which may account for my not being able to
rernember much of it now, since it is only natural