Nothing new to report, except that I am going to the opera Sunday night. Faust with Mme. Bellamy, her sister and the b-in-l. Also, if I can find someone agreeable I’m going to the Theatre Palais Royal to see a good comedy. It is an “intamate,” meaning small, theatre, and they say the show is good. It is called “Le Filon.”
One thing this war has shown (I daresay these “one things” add up) is that the modest violet is usually handed a nice large stone ’neath which to hide. The sunflower type usually wears the gold leaf on his shoulder. It is despicable, and profitable, to be a “mitt-glommer.” – army slang for a hand-shaker. It is also wise to talk big, because they and you get to believe it after a while. If it ever gets to the point where they call you on the big talk, you’re lost anyhow, and in no worse a fix.
Sounds hard, doesn’t it and disillusioned, as if I was losing faith in my fellow men. I am, a little. I used to have the sublime credulity (I’m too hardened now even to admit it was faith) of a youthful idealist.
The army is at once a queer and a good place in which to dream. So is Billy’s Y.M.C.A. Just at present there are five people here besides me, all talking and laughing, and Bill is picking awful oily sardines out of a can, with a large pair of pliers. So taken all and all it isn’t such a good time for writing.
Next post January 10.
Letters from Sidney Friend During The Great War 