physical state, which is excellent. The true death would be to live in a
conquered country, above all for me, whose art would perish.
I isolate myself as much as I can, and I am really unaffected, from the
intellectual point of view. Besides, the atmosphere of the mess is well
above that of normal times: the trouble is that the constant moving and
changing drags us about from place to place, and growing confidence
falters before the perpetually recurring unknown.
_August 30._
. . . My little mother, it is certain that though we did not leave
yesterday, it is yet only a question of hours. I won't say to you
anything that I have already said, content only that I have from you the
approval of which I was certain.
. . . In the very hard march yesterday only one man fell out, really ill.
France will come out of this bad pass.
I can only repeat to you how well I am prepared for all eventualities,
and that nothing can undo our twenty-seven years of happiness. I am
resolved not to consider myself foredoomed, and I fancy the joy of
returning, but I am ready to go to the end of my strength. If you knew
the shame I should endure to think that I might have done something
more!
In the midst of all this sadness we live through magnificent hours, when
the things that used to be most strange take on an august significance.
_September 4, 6 o'clock_
(_on the way, in the train_).
We have had forty hours of a journey in which the picturesque outdoes
even the extreme discomfort. The great problem is sleep, and the
solution is not easy when there are forty in a cattle-truck.
The train stops every instant, and we encounter the unhappy refugees.
Then the wounded: fine spectacle of patriotism. The English army. The
artillery.
We no longer know anything, having no more papers, and we can't trust
the rumours which fly among the distraught population.
Splendid weather.
_Saturday, September 5_ (_at the end
of 60 hours in a cattle-truck:
40 men to a truck_).
On the same day we skirted the Seine opposite the forest of
Fontainebleau and the banks of the Loire. Saw the château de Blois and
the château d'Amboise. Unhappily the darkness prevented us from seeing
more. How can I tell you what tender emotions I felt by these
magnificent banks of the Loire!
Are you bombarded by the frightful aeroplanes? I think of you in such
conditions and above all of poor Grandmother, who indeed had little need
to see all this! However, we must hope.
We learn from wounded refugees that in the first days of August mistakes
were made in the high command which had terrible consequences. It falls
to us now to repair those mistakes.
Masses of English troops arrive. We have crossed numbers of crowded
trains.
Well, this war will not have been the mere march-past which many
thought, but which I never thought, it would be; but it will have
stirred the good in all humanity. I do not speak of the magnificent
things which have no immediate connection with the war,--but nothing
will be lost.
_September 5, 1914_ (_1st halting-place,
66 hours in the cage without being
able to stretch_).
Still the same jolting and vibration, but three times after the horrible
night there has come the glory of the morning, and all fatigue has
disappeared.
We have crossed the French country in several directions, from the
rather harsh serenity, full of suggestiveness, of Champagne, to the rich
robust placidity of Brittany. On the way we followed the full and noble
banks of the Loire, and now . . .
O my beautiful country, the heart of the world, where lies all that is
divine upon earth, what monster sets upon you--a country whose offence
is her beauty!
I used to love France with sincere love, which was more than a little
_dilettante_; I loved her as an artist, proud to live in the most
beautiful of lands; in fact, I loved her rather as a picture might love
its frame. It needed this horror to make me know how filial and profound
are the ties which bind me to my country. . . .
_September 7_
(from a note-book).
. . . We are embarked on the adventure, without any dominant feeling
except perhaps a sufficiently calm acceptance of this fatality. But
sensibility is kept awake by the sight of the victims, particularly the
refugees. Poor people, truly uprooted, or rather, dead leaves in the
storm, little souls in great circumstances.
Whole trains of cattle-trucks, which can hardly be said to have changed
their use! Trains in which is heaped up the desolation of these people
torn from their homes, and how quickly become as beasts! Misery has
stripped them of all their human attributes. We take them food and
drink, and that is how they become exposed: the man drinks without
remembering his wife and children. The woman thinks of her child. But
other women take their time, unable to share in the general haste. Among
these waifs there is one who assails my heart,--a grandmother of
eighty-seven, shaken, tossed about by all these blows, being by turns
hoisted into and let down from the rolling cages. So trembling and
disabled, so lost. . . .
_September 10_ (from a note-book).
We arrive in a new part of the country on the track of good news: the
strong impression is that France's future is henceforth assured.
Everything corroborates this feeling, from the official report which
formally announces a complete success down to the most fantastic
rumours.
_September 13_ (from a note-book).
This is war; here are we approaching the place of horror. We have left
behind the French villages where peace was still sleeping. Now there is
nothing but tumult. And here are direct victims of the war.
The soldiers: blood, mud and dirt. The wounded. Those whom we pass at
first are the least suffering--wounds in arms, in hands. In most of them
can clearly be seen, in the midst of their fatigue and distress, great
relief at having been let off comparatively easily.
Farther on, towards the ambulances, the burying of the dead: there are
six, stretched on two waggons. Smoothed out, and covered with rags, they
are taken to an open pit at the foot of a Calvary. Some priests conduct,
rather than celebrate, the service, military as they have become. A
little straw and some holy water over all, and so we pass on. After all,
these dead are happy: they are cared-for dead. What can be said of those
who lie farther on and who have passed away after nights of the throes
of death and abandonment.
. . . From this agony there will remain to us an immense yearning for pity
and brotherhood and goodness.
_Wednesday, September 16, 1914._
In the horror-zone.
The rainy twilight shadows the road, and suddenly, in a ditch--the dead!
They have dragged themselves here from the battlefield--they are all
corrupt now. The coming of darkness makes it difficult to distinguish
their nationality, but the same great pity envelops them all. Only one
word for them: poor boy! The night for these ignominies--and then again
the morning. The day rises upon the swollen bodies of dead horses. In
the corner of a wood, carnage, long cold.
One sees only open sacks, ripped nose-bags. Nothing that looks like life
remains.
Among them some civilians, whose presence is due to the German
proceeding of making French hostages march under our fire.
If these notes should reach any one, may they give rise in an honest
heart to horror of the foul crime of those responsible for this war.
There will never be enough glory to cover all the blood and all the
mud.
_September 21, 1914._
War in rain.
It is suffering beyond what can be imagined. Three days and three nights
without being able to do anything but tremble and moan, and yet, in
spite of all, perfect service must be rendered.
To sleep in a ditch full of water has no equivalent in Dante, but what
can be said of the awakening, when one must watch for the moment to kill
or to be killed!
Above, the roar of the shells drowns the whistling of the wind. Every
instant, firing. Then one crouches in the mud, and despair takes
possession of one's soul.
When this torment came to an end I had such a nervous collapse that I
wept without knowing why--late, useless tears.
_September 25._
Hell in so calm and pastoral a place. The autumnal country pitted and
torn by cannon!
_September 27._
If, apart from the greater lessons of the war, there are small immediate
benefits to be had, the one that means most to me is the contemplation
of the night sky. Never has the majesty of the night brought me so much
consolation as during this accumulation of trials. Venus, sparkling, is
a friend to me. . . .
I am now familiar with the constellations. Some of them make great
curves in the sky as if to encircle the throne of God. What glory! And
how one evokes the Chaldean shepherds!
O constellations! first alphabet!. . .
_October 1._
I can say that, as far as the mind goes, I have lived through great days
when all vain preoccupations were swept away by a new spirit.
If there should ever be any lapse so that only one of my letters reaches
you, may it be one that says how beneficial, how precious have these
torments been!
_October 1_ (from a note-book).
It follows from this that our suffering, every moment of it, should be
considered as the most marvellous source of feeling and of progress for
the conscience.
I now know into what domain my destiny leads me. No longer towards the
proud and illusory region of pure speculation, but in the way of all
little daily things--it is there that I must carry the service of an
ever-vigilant sensibility.
I see how easily an upright nature may dispense with the arts of
expression in order to be helpful in act and in influence. Precious
lesson, which will enable me, should I return, to suffer less if fate no
longer allows me to paint.
_October 9._
It seems that we have the order to attack. I do not want to risk this
great event without directing my thoughts to you in the few moments of
quiet that are left. . . . Everything here combines to maintain peace in
the heart: the beauty of the woods in which we live, the absence of
intellectual complications. . . . It is paradoxical, as you say, but the
finest moments of my moral life are those that have just gone by. . . .
* * * * *
Know that there will always be beauty on earth, and that man will never
have enough wickedness to suppress it. I have gathered enough of it to
store my life. May our destiny allow me time later to bring to fruit all
that I have gathered now. It is something that no one can snatch from
us, it is treasure of the soul which we have amassed.
_October 12._
Up till now your love and Providence do not forsake me. . . . We are
still in the magnificent devastated woods, in the midst of the finest
autumn. Nature brings many joys which dominate these horrors. Profound
and powerful hope, whatever suffering still awaits us.
_October 14._
It is true, dear mother, that some renunciation costs a great deal of
effort, but be sure that we both possess the necessary strength of soul
to live through these difficult hours without catching our breath in
painful longing at the idea of the return we both crave for.
The great thing is to know the value of the present moment and to make
it yield all that it has of good and beauty and edification. For the
rest, no one can guarantee the future, and it would be vain and futile
torment to live wondering what might happen to us. Don't you think that
life has dispensed us many blessings, and that one of the last, and the
greatest, is that we have been able to communicate with each other and
to feel our union? There are many unfortunate people here who do not
know where their wives and children are, who have been for three months
isolated from all. You see that we are still among the lucky ones.
Dear mother, less than ever ought we to despair, for never shall we be
more truly convinced that all this agitation and delirium of mankind's
are nothing in view of the share of eternity which each one carries
within himself, and that all these monstrosities will end in a better
future. This war is a kind of cataclysm which succeeds to the old
physical upheavals of our globe; but have you not noticed that, in the
midst of all this, a little of our soul is gone from us, and that we
have lost something of our conviction of a Higher Order? Our sufferings
come from our small human patience taking the same direction as our
desires, noble though they may be. But as soon as we set ourselves to
question things in order to discover their true harmony, we find rest
unto our souls. How do we know that this violence and disorder are not
leading the universal destinies towards a final good?
Dear mother, still cherishing the firmest and most human hope, I send my
deepest love to you and to my beloved grandmother.
Send also all my love to our friends who are in trouble. Help them to
bear everything: two crosses are less heavy to carry than one. And
confidence in our eternal joy.
_October 15, 7 o'clock._
I have received your card of the 1st. What joy it gives me that we
should be at last in touch with each other. Certainly, our thoughts have
never been apart. You tell me of Marthe's misfortune, and I am happy
that you can be useful to her. Dear mother, that is the task that
belongs to us both: to be useful at the present moment without reference
to the moment that is to follow.
Yes, indeed, I feel deeply with you that I have a mission in life. But
one must act in each instant as though that mission was having immediate
fulfilment. Do not let us keep back one single small corner of our
hearts for our small hopes. We must attain to this--that no catastrophe
whatsoever shall have power to cripple our lives, to interrupt them, to
set them out of tune. That is the finest work, and it is the work of
this moment. The rest, that future which we must not question--you will
see, mother dear, what it holds of beauty and goodness and truth. Not
one of our faculties must be used in vain, and all useless anxiety is a
harmful expense.
Be happy in this great assurance that I give you--that up till now I
have raised my soul to a height where events have had no empire over it,
and I promise you that my effort will be still to make ready my soul as
much as I can.
Tell M---- that if fate strikes down the best, there is no injustice:
those who survive will be the better men. Let her accept the sacrifice,
knowing that it is not in vain. You do not know the things that are
taught by him who falls. I do know.
To him who can read life, present events have broken all habit of
thought, but they allow him more glimpses than ever before of eternal
beauty and order.
Let us recover from the surprise of this laceration, and adapt ourselves
without loss of time to the new state of things which turns us into
people as privileged as Socrates and the Christian martyrs and the men
of the Revolution. We are learning to despise all in life that is merely
temporary, and to delight in that which life so seldom yields: the love
of those things that are eternal.
_October 16._
We are living for some days in comparative calm; between two storms my
company is deserving of special rest. Also I am thoroughly enjoying this
month of October. Your fine letter of October 2 reaches me, and I am now
full of happiness, and there is profound peace.
Let us continue to arm ourselves with courage, do not let us even speak
of patience. Nothing but to accept the present moment with all the
treasures which it brings us. That is all there is to do, and it is
precisely in this that all the beauty of the world is concentrated.
There is something, dear mother, something outside all that we have
habitually felt. Apply your courage and your love of me to uncovering
this, and laying it bare for others.
This new beauty has no reference to the ideas expressed in the words
health, family, country. One perceives it when one distinguishes the
share of the eternal which is in everything. But let us cherish this
splendid presentiment of ours--that we shall meet again: it will not in
any way impede our task. Tell M---- how much I think of her. Alas! her
case is not unique. This war has broken many a hope; so, dear mother,
let us put our hope there where the war cannot attain to it, in the deep
places of our heart, and in the high places of our soul.
_October 17, 3 o'clock._
To write to you and to know that my letters reach you is a daily
paradise to me. I watch for the hour when it is possible to write.
Yes, beloved mother, you must feel a revival of courage and desire to
live; never must a single affection, however good, be counted as a
pretext for life. No accident should make us forget the reason we are
alive. Of course, we can prefer this or that mission in life, but let us
accept the one which presents itself, however surprising or passing it
may be. You feel as I do, that happiness is in store for us, but let us
not think of it. Let us think of the actions of to-day, of all the
sacrifices they imply.
_October 22._
I accept all from the hands of fate, and I have captured every delight
that lurks under cover of every moment.
Ah! if men only knew how much peace they squander, and how much may be
contained in one minute, how far less would they suffer from this
seeming violence. No doubt there are extreme torments that I do not yet
know, and which perhaps test the soul in a way I do not suspect, but I
exert all the strength of my soul to accept each moment and each test.
What is necessary is to recognise love and beauty triumphant over
violence. No few seasons of hate and grief will have the power to
overthrow eternal beauty, and of this beauty we all have an imperishable
store.
_October 23._
MY VERY DEAR MOTHER,--I have re-read Barrés's article, 'l'Aigle et le
Rossignol.' It is still as beautiful, but it no longer seems in complete
harmony. Now nothing exists outside the absolute present; everything
else is like ornaments put to one side until the holiday, the far-off,
uncertain holiday. But what does it matter!--the ornaments are treasured
up in safety. Thus do I cherish the treasures of affection, of
legitimate ambition, of praiseworthy aspiration. All of these I have
covered over, and I live but in the present moment.
This morning, under the fine sky, I remembered the music of yesterday: I
was full of happiness. Forgive me for not living in an anguish of
longing to return. I believe that you approve of my giving back our
dearest hopes into other hands than ours.
_October 27._
If, as I hope intensely, I have the joy of seeing you again, you will
know the miraculous way in which I have been led by Providence. I have
only had to bow before a power and a beneficence which surpassed all my
proud conceptions.
I can say that God has been within me as I am within God, and I make
firm resolves always to feel such a communion.
You see, the thing is to put life to good account, not as we understand
it, even in our noblest affections, but in saying to ourselves: Let us
eat and drink to all that is eternal, for to-morrow we die to all that
is of earth. We acquire an increase of love in that moment when we
renounce our mean and anxious hopes.
_October 28._
This is nearly the end of the third month of a terrible trial, from
which the lessons will be wide and salutary not only to him who will
know how to listen, but to all the world, and therein lies the great
consolation for those who are involved in this torment. Let it also be
the consolation of those whose hopes are with the combatants.
This consolation consists especially in the supernaturally certain
conviction that all divine and immortal energy, working through mankind,
far from being enfeebled, will, on the contrary, be exalted and more
intensely effectual at the end of these storms.
Happy the man who will hear the song of peace as in the 'Pastoral
Symphony,' but happy already he who has foreknowledge of it amid the
tumult! And what does it matter in the end that this magnificent
prophecy is fulfilled in the absence of the prophet! He who has guessed
this has gleaned great joy upon earth. We can leave it to a higher being
to pronounce if the mission is accomplished.
_October 28_ (2nd letter, almost
at the same hour).
MY DEAR, DEAR MOTHER,--Another welcome moment to spend with you. We can
never say any but the same thing, but it is so fine a thing that it can
always be said in new ways.
To-day we are living under a sky of great clouds as swift and cold as
those of the Dutch landscape painters.
* * * * *
Dear, I dare not wish for anything--it must not be. I must not even
consider a partial relaxation. I assure you that the effort for
endurance is less painful than certain times of intensive preparation
that we have passed through. Only we can each moment brace ourselves in
a kind of resistance against what is evil in us, and leave every door
open to the good which comes from without.
. . . I am glad that you have read Tolstoi: he also took part in war. He
judged it; he accepted its teaching. If you can glance at the admirable
_War and Peace_, you will find pictures that our situation recalls. It
will make you understand the liberty for meditation that is possible to
a soldier who desires it.
As to the disability which the soul might be supposed to suffer through
the lack of all material well-being, do not believe in it. We lead the
life of rabbits on the first day of the season's shooting, and,
notwithstanding that, we can enrich our souls in a magnificent way.
_October 30._
I write to you in a marvellous landscape of grey autumn lashed by the
wind. But for me the wind has always been without sadness, because it
brings to me the spirit of the country beyond the hill. . . .
The horrible war does not succeed in tearing us from our intellectual
habitation. In spite of moments of overwhelming noise, one more or less
recovers oneself. The ordinary course of our present existence gives us
a sensibility like that of a raw wound, aware of the least breath.
Perhaps after this spoliation of our moral skin a new surface will be
formed, and those who return will be for the time brutally insensitive.
Never mind: this condition of crisis for the soul cannot remain without
profit.
Yesterday we were in a pretty Meuse village, all the more charming in
contrast with the surrounding ruins.
I was able to have a shirt washed, and while it dried I talked to the
excellent woman who braves death every day to maintain her hearth. She
has three sons, all three soldiers, and the news she has of them is
already old. One of them passed within a few kilometres of her: his
mother knew it and was not able to see him. Another of these Frenchwomen
keeps the house of her son-in-law who has six children. . . .
For you, duty lies in acceptance of all and, at the same time, in the
most perfect confidence in eternal justice.
Do not dwell upon the personality of those who pass away and of those
who are left; such things are weighed only with the scales of men. We
must gauge in ourselves the enormous value of what is better and greater
than humanity.
Dear mother, absolute confidence. In what? We both already know.
_October 30, 10 o'clock._
Up till now I have possessed the wisdom that renounces all, but now I
hope for a wisdom that accepts all, turning towards what may be to come.
What matter if the trap opens beneath the steps of the runner. True, he
does not attain his end, but is he wiser who remains motionless under
the pretext that he might fall?
_November 1, All Saints', 8 o'clock._
Last night I received your card of 24-25th. While you were looking at
that moon, clouded from us, you were very wrong to feel yourself so
helpless; how much reason had you to hope! At that very moment I was
being protected by Providence in a way that rebukes all pride.
The next day we had the most lovely dawn over the deeply coloured autumn
woods in this country where I made my sketches of three years ago; but
just here the landscape becomes accentuated and enlarged and acquires a
pathetic majesty. How can I tell you the grandeur of the horizon! We are
remaining in this magnificent place, and this is All Saints' Day!
At the moment, I write to you in the silvery light of a sun rising over
the valley mists; we are conscious of the sleeping country for forty
kilometres around, and battle hardly disturbs the religious gravity of
the scene.
Do love my proposed picture! It makes a bond with my true career. If it
is vouchsafed to me to return, the form of the picture may change, but
its essence is contained in the sketch.
_Mid-day._--Splendid All Saints' Day profaned by violence.
Glory of the day. . . .
_November 2, All Souls'._