landscape. Hope confines itself in the heart, not daring to insult the
grief of those for whom this day is perhaps the first day of
bereavement.
Dear beloved mother, twenty-eight years ago you were in a state of
mourning and hope to-day, the agony is as full of hope as then. It is at
a different age that these new trials occur, but a whole life of
submission prepares the way to supreme wisdom.
What joy is this perpetual thrill in the heart of Nature! That same
horizon of which I had watched the awakening, I saw last night bathe
itself in rosy light; then the full moon went up into a tender sky,
fretted by coral and saffron trees.
Dear, the frightful record of martyrdom of the best French youth cannot
go on indefinitely. It is impossible that the flower of a whole race can
disappear.
There must be some nobler task than war for the nation's genius! I have
a secret conviction of a better near future. May our courage and our
union lead us to this better thing. Hope, hope always! I received
grandmother's dear letter and M.R.'s kind and affectionate card.
Dear, have you this beautiful sun to-day? How noble is the country and
how good is Nature! To him who listens she says that nothing will ever
be lost.
_November 4, 10 o'clock._
I live only through your thoughts and in the blessings of Nature. This
morning our chiefs menaced us with a march of twenty kilometres, and
this threat fulfilled itself in the form of a charming walk in the
landscape that I love so much.
Exquisite vapours, which we see lifting hour by hour at the call of a
temperate sun; and, yonder, those high plateaux which command a vast
panorama, where everything is finely drawn, or rather is just felt in
the mist. . . .
There are hills furnished with bare trees holding up their charming
profiles. I think of the primitives, of their sensitive and
conscientious landscapes. What scrupulous majesty, of which the first
sight awes with its grandeur, and the detail is profoundly moving!
You see, dear mother, how God dispenses blessings that are far greater
than griefs. It is not even a question of patience, since time has no
longer any meaning for us, for it is not a matter of any calculable
duration. But then, what richness of emotion in each present minute!
This then is our life, of which I wrote to you that not one event must
make of it something unachieved, interrupted; and I hope to preserve
this wisdom. But at the same time I want to ally it with another wisdom
which looks to the future, even if the future is forbidden to us. Yes,
let us take all from the hands of the present (and the present brings us
so many treasures!), but let us also prepare for the future.
_November 5, 8 o'clock._
DEAR MOTHER,--Do not hide from me anything of what happens in Paris, of
your cares, or your occupations. All that you will decide is for the
best. My own happiness, in the midst of all this, lies just in that
security I have in thinking of your spirit.
The weather is still exquisite and very soft. To-day, without leaving
the beautiful region to which we came on September 20th, we have
returned to the woods. I like that less than the wide open view, but
there is prettiness here too. And then the sky, now that the leaves have
fallen, is so beautiful and so tender.
I have written to C----. I will write to Mme. C----. I hope for a letter
from you. If you knew how much the longer is a day without news! It is
true I have your old letters, but the new letter has a fragrance which I
now can't do without.
_November 6._
Yesterday, without knowing why, I was a little sad: what soldiers call
_avoir le cafard_. My sadness arose from my having parted the day before
with a book of notes which I had decided to send to you in a package.
The events of the day before yesterday, albeit pacific, had so hustled
me that I was not able to attend to this unfortunate parcel as I should
have liked. Also, I was divided between two anxieties: the first, lest
the package should not reach you, and lest these notes, which have been
my life from the 1st to the 20th of October, should be lost. The second,
on the contrary, was lest it should reach you before the arrival of
explaining letters, which might seem strange to you, the sending-off
having probably been done in another name, and the cover of my copybook
bearing my directions that the notes should be forwarded to you if
necessary.
* * * * *
. . . To-day we are living in the most intimate and delicate Corot
landscape.
From the barn where we have established our outpost, I see, first, the
road with puddles left by the rain; then some tree-stumps; then, beyond
a meadow, a line of willows beside a charming running stream. In the
background, a few houses are veiled in a light mist, keeping the
delicate darks which our dear landscape-painter felt so nobly.
Such is the peace of this morning. Who would believe that one has but to
turn one's head, and there is nothing but conflagration and ruin!. . .
_November 7, 8 A.M._
I have just had your card of the 30th announcing the sending-off of a
packet. How kind this is! how much thought is given to us! All this
sweetness is appreciated to the full.
Yesterday, a delicious November day. This morning, too much fog for the
enjoyment of nature. But yesterday afternoon!
Delicate, refined weather, in which everything is etched as it were on a
misty mirror. The bare shrubs, near our post, have been visited by a
flock of green birds, with white-bordered wings; the cocks have black
heads with a white spot. How can I tell you what it was to hear the
solitary sound of their flight in this stillness!--That is one good
thing about war: there can be only a certain amount of evil in the
world; now, all of this being used by man against man, beasts at any
rate are so much the better off--at least the beasts of the wood, our
customary victims.
If you could only see the confidence of the little forest animals, such
as the field-mice! The other day, from our leafy shelter I watched the
movements of these little beasts. They were as pretty as a Japanese
print, with the inside of their ears rosy like a shell. And then another
time we watched the migration of the cranes: it is a moving thing to
hear them cry in the dusk.
* * * * *
. . . What a happiness to see that you are drawing. Yes, do this for us
both. If you knew how I itch to express in paint all our emotions! If
you have read my letters of all this time you will know my privation,
but also my happiness.
_Monday, November 9, 7 o'clock._
. . . We have returned to the wide open view that I love so much.
Unfortunately we can only catch a glimpse of it through mouse-holes.
Well, it is always so!. . .
. . . All these days I have been feeling the charm of a country lying in
autumn sweetness. This peace was troubled yesterday by the poignant
sight of a burning village. It is not the first we have seen, and yet we
have not grown used to it.
We had taken up our observation-posts; it was still dark. From our
height we saw the tremendous flare and, at daybreak, the charming
village, sheltering in the valley, was nothing but smoke. This, in the
silvery nimbus of a glorious morning.
From our mouse-trap we had looked to the distance with its prettily
winding road, its willow-bordered stream, its Calvary: all this harmony
to end in the horror of destruction.
The Germans had set fire to it by hand in the night; they had been
dislodged from it after two nights of fierce fighting: their action may
be interpreted as an intention to retreat at this point. This
proceeding, generally detested by our soldiers, is, I think, forced by
strategic necessity. When a village is destroyed it is very difficult
for us in the rear to make any kind of use of it. All day we have been
witnessing this devastation, while above our heads the little field-mice
are taking advantage of the straw in which we are to sleep.
Our existence, as infantry, is a little like that of rabbits in the
shooting season. The more knowing of us, at any rate, are perpetually on
the look-out for a hole. As soon as we are buried in it, we are ordered
not to move again. These wise orders are unfortunately not always given
with discrimination; thus, yesterday there were four of us in an
advance-trench situated in a magnificent spot and perfectly hidden
beneath leaves. We should have been able to delight in the landscape but
for the good corporal, who was afraid to allow us even a little
enjoyment of life. Later the artillery came up with a tremendous din and
showed us the use of these superlative precautions.
None the less, I have been able to enjoy the landscape--alas! a scene of
smoke and tragedy yesterday. Be sure, beloved mother, that I do not wish
to commit a single imprudence, but certainly this war is the triumph of
Fate, of Providence and Destiny.
I pray ardently to deserve the grace of return, but apart from a few
moments of only human impatience, I can say that the greater part of my
being is given up to resignation.
_November 10, 11 o'clock._
MY VERY DEAR MOTHER,--What shall I say to you to-day--a day monotonous
with fog. Occupations that are stupefying, not in themselves, but
because of the insipid companionship. I fall back on myself. Yesterday I
wrote you a long letter, telling you among other things how dear your
letters are to me. When I began to write on this sheet I was a little
weary and troubled, but now that I am with you I become happy, and I
immediately remember whatever good fortune this day has brought me.
This morning the lieutenant sent me to get some wire from headquarters,
in a devastated village which we have surrounded for six weeks. I went
down through the orchards full of the last fallen plums. A few careless
soldiers were gathering them up into baskets. A charming scene, purely
pastoral and bucolic, in spite of the red trousers--very faded after
three months' campaign. . . .
I am happy in the affection of Ch---- R----. His is a nature according
in all its elements with my own. I am sure that he will not be cross
with me for not writing, especially if you give a kind message from me
to his wife.
The little task confided to me meant walking from nightfall until nine
o'clock, but I occasionally lay down in a shelter or in a barn instead
of getting back to the trenches for the night.
I do not have good nights of reading now, but sometimes when S---- and I
are lying side by side in the trench, you would not believe what a
mirage we evoke and what joy we have in stirred-up memories. Ah, how
science and intellectual phenomena lead us into a very heaven of
legends, and what pleasure I get from the marvellous history of this
metal, or that acid! For me the thousand and one nights are renewing
themselves. And then at waking, sometimes, the blessing of a dawn. That
is the life I have led since the 13th or 14th of October. I ask for
nothing, I am content that in such a war we should have relatively a
great deal of calm.
You cannot imagine what a consolation it is to know that you give your
heart to what concerns me. What pleasure I have in imagining you
interested in my books, looking at my engravings!. . .
_November 12, 3 o'clock._
. . . To-day we have had a march as pleasant as the first one, in weather
of great beauty. We saw, in the blue and rosy distance, the far-off peak
of the Metz hills, and the immense panorama scattered over with
villages, some of which gathered up the morning light, while others were
merely suggested.
This is the broad outline of our existence: for three days we stay close
to the enemy, living in well-constructed shelters which are improved
each time; then we spend three days a little way back; and then three
days in billets in a neighbouring village, generally the same. We even
gradually form habits--very passing ones, but still, we have a certain
amount of contact with the civil population which has been so sorely
tried. The woollen things are very effectual and precious.
. . . We have good people to deal with. The dear woman from whose dwelling
I write to you, and with whom I stayed before, wears herself to death
to give us a little of what reminds us of home.
But, dear mother, what reminds me of home is here in my heart. It is not
eating on plates or sitting on a chair that counts. It is your love,
which I feel so near. . . .
_November 14._
Since half-past eight on the evening of the 12th we have been dragged
about from place to place in the prospect of our taking part in a
violent movement. We left at night, and in the calm of nature my
thoughts cleared themselves a little, after the two days in billets
during which one becomes a little too material. Our reinforcement went
up by stealth. We awaited our orders in a barn, where we slept on the
floor. Then we filed into the woods and fields, which the day, breaking
through grey, red, and purple clouds, slowly lit up, in surroundings the
most romantic and pathetic that could be imagined. In the full daylight
of a charming morning we learnt that the troops ahead of us had
inflicted enormous losses on the enemy, and had even made a very slight
advance. We then returned to our usual posts, and here I am again,
beholding once more the splendour of the French country, so touching in
this grey, windy, and impassioned November, with sunshine thrown in
patches upon infinite horizons.
Dear mother, how beautiful it is, this region of spacious dignity, where
all is noble and proportioned, where outlines are so beautifully
defined!--the road bordered with trees diminishing towards the frontier,
hills, and beyond them misty heights which one guesses to be the German
Vosges. There is the scenery, and here is something better than the
scenery. There is a Beethoven melody and a piece by Liszt called
'Bénédiction de Dieu dans la solitude.' Certainly we have no solitude,
but if you turn the pages of Albert Samain's poems you will find an
aphorism by Villiers de l'Isle-Adam: 'Know that there will always be
solitude on earth for those who are worthy of it.' This solitude of a
soul that can ignore all that is not in tune with it. . . .
I have had two letters from you, of the 6th and 7th. Perhaps this
evening I shall have another. Do not let us allow our courage to be
concerned only with the waiting for letters from each other. But the
letters are our life, they are what bring us our joys, our happiness, it
is through them that we take delight in the sights of this world and of
this time.
If your eyes are not strong, that is a reason for not writing, but apart
from your health do not by depriving me of letters hold back your heart
from me.
_November 14_ (2nd letter).
DEAR MOTHER WHOM I LOVE,--Here we are again in our usual billet, and my
heart is full of thoughts all tending towards you. I cannot tell you all
that I feel in every moment, yet how much I should like to share with
you the many pleasures that come one by one even in this monotonous life
of ours, as a broken thread drops its pearls.
I should like to be able to admire with you this lovely cloud, this
stretch of country which so fills us with reverence, to listen with you
to the poetry of the wind from beyond the mountain, as when we walked
together at Boulogne. But here a great many prosaic occupations prevent
me from speaking to you as I feel.
I sent you with my baggage my note-book from August 18 to October 20.[2]
These notes were made when we could easily get at our light bags, in the
calm of our trench-days, when our danger stopped our chattering, and I
could let my heart speak. I found a happiness more intense, wider and
fuller, to write to you about. That was a time of paradise for me. But I
don't like the billets, because the comfort and the security, relaxing
our minds, bring about a great deal of uproar which I don't like. You
know how much I have always needed quiet and solitude. Still, I have
excellent friends, and the officers are very kind.
But with a little patience and a few thoughts about you I can be happy.
How kind this first half of November has been! I have not suffered once
from cold. And how lovely it was! That All Saints' Day was nothing but a
long hymn--from the night, with its pure moonlight on the dark amber of
the autumn trees, to the tender twilight. The immense rosy dream of
this misty plain, stretching out towards the near hills. . . . What a
song of praise! and many days since then have sung the glory of God.
Coeli ennarrant. . . .
That is what those days brought to me.
[Footnote 2: Part of this note-book has already been given.]
_November 15, 7 o'clock._
Yesterday the wild weather, fine to see from the shelter of our billet,
brought me apprehensions for to-night's departure, but when I woke the
sky was the purest and starriest that one could dream of! How grateful I
felt!
What we fear most is the rain, which penetrates through everything when
we are without fire or shelter. The cold is nothing--we are armed
against it beforehand.
. . . In spite of all, how much I appreciated the sight of this vast plain
upon which we descended, lashed by the great wind. Above the low horizon
was the wide grey sky in which, here and there, pale rents recalled the
vanished blue.--A black, tragic Calvary in silhouette--then some
skeleton trees! What a place! This is where I can think of you, and of
my beloved music. To-day I have the atmosphere that I want.
. . . I should like to define the form of my conviction of better things
in the near future, resulting from this war. These events prepare the
way to a new life: that of the United States of Europe.
After the conflict, those who will have completely and filially
fulfilled their obligation to their country will find themselves
confronted by duties yet more grave, and the realisation of things that
are now impossible. Then will be the time for them to throw their
efforts into the future. They must use their energies to wipe out the
trace of the shattering contact of nations. The French Revolution,
notwithstanding its mistakes, notwithstanding some backsliding in
practice, some failure in construction, did none the less establish in
man's soul this fine theory of national unity. Well! the horrors of the
1914 war lead to the unity of Europe, to the unity of the race. This new
state will not be established without blows and spoliation and strife
for an indefinite time, but without doubt the door is now open towards
the new horizon.
To Madame C----.
_November 16._
MY DEAR FRIEND,--How much pleasure and comfort your letter gives me, and
how your warm friendship sustains my courage!
What you say to me about my mother binds me closer to existence. Thank
you for your splendid and constant affection.
. . . What shall I tell you of my life? Through the weariness and the
vicissitudes I am upheld by the contemplation of Nature which for two
months has been accumulating the emotion and the pathos of this
impassioned season. One of my habitual stations is on the heights which
overlook the immense Woëvre plain. How beautiful it is! and what a
blessing to follow, each hour of the day and evening, the kindling
colours of the autumn leaves! This frightful human uproar cannot succeed
in troubling the majestic serenity of Nature! There are moments when man
seems to go beyond anything that could be imagined; but a soul that is
prepared can soon perceive the harmony which overlooks and reconciles
all this dissonance. Do not think that I remain insensible to the agony
of scenes that we behold all too often: villages wiped out by the
artillery that is hurled upon them; smoke by day, light by night; the
misery of a flying population under shell-fire. Each instant brings some
shock straight to one's heart. That is why I take refuge in this high
consolation, because without some discipline of the heart I could not
suffer thus and not be undone.
_November 17, in the morning._
DEAR MOTHER,-- . . . I write to you in the happiness of the dawn over my
dear village. The night, which began with rain, has brought us again a
pure and glorious sky. I see once more my distant horizons, my peaked
hills, the harmonious lines of my valleys. From this height where I
stand who would guess that agricultural and peaceful village to be in
reality nothing but a heap of ruins, in which not a house is spared, and
in which no human being can survive the hell of artillery!
As I write, the sun falls upon the belfry which I see framed in the
still sombre tree close beside me, while far away, beneath the last
hills, the last swelling of the ground, the plain begins to reveal its
precious detail in the rosy and golden atmosphere.
_November 17, 11 o'clock._
The splendid weather is my great consolation. I live rather like an
invalid sent to some magnificent country, whom the treatment compels to
unpleasant and fatiguing occupations. Between Leysin and the trench
where I am at present there has been only uncertainty. Nothing new has
happened to our company since October 13.
This is a strange kind of war. It is like that between neighbours on bad
terms. Consider that some of the trenches are separated from the enemy
by hardly 100 metres, and that the combatants fling projectiles across
with their hands: you see that these neighbours make use of violent
methods.
As for me, I really live only when I am with you, and when I feel the
splendour of the surroundings.
Even in the middle of conversations, I am able to preserve the
sensation of solitude of thought which is necessary to me.
_November 18._
This morning, daylight showed us a country covered with hoar-frost, a
universal whiteness over hills and forest. My little village looks
thoroughly chilled.
I had spent the greater part of the night in a warm shelter, and I could
have stayed there, thanks to the kindness of my superiors, but I am
foolish and timid, and I rejoined my comrades from 1 o'clock till
half-past 4.
Curiously enough, we can easily bear the cold: an admirable article of
clothing, which nearly all of us possess, is a flour-sack which can be
worn, according to the occasion, as a little shoulder-cape, or as a bag
for the feet. In either case it is an excellent preserver of heat.
_11 o'clock._
For the moment there runs in my mind a pretty and touching air by
Handel. Also, an allegro from our organ duets: joyful and brilliant
music, overflowing with life. Dear Handel! Often he consoles me.
Beethoven comes back only rarely to my mind, but when his music does
awake in me, it touches something so vital that it is always as though a
hand were drawing aside a curtain from the mystery of the Creation.
Poor dear Great Masters! Shall it be counted a crime against them that
they were Germans? How is it possible to think of Schumann as a
barbarian?
Yesterday this country recalled to my mind what you played to me ten
years ago, the Rheingold: 'Libre étendu sur la hauteur.' But the outlook
of our French art had this superiority over the beautiful music of that
wretched man--it had composure and clarity and reason. Yes, our French
art was never turbid.
As for Wagner, however beautiful his music, and however irresistible and
attractive his genius, I believe it would be a less substantial loss to
French taste to be deprived of him than of his great classical
compatriots.
* * * * *
I can say with truth that in those moments when the idea of a possible
return comes to me, it is never the thought of the comfort or the
well-being that preoccupies me. It is something higher and nobler which
turns my thoughts towards this form of hope. Can I say that it is even
something different from the immense joy of our meeting again? It is
rather the hope of taking up again our common effort, our association,
of which the aim is the development of our souls, and the best use we
can make of them upon earth.
_November 19, in the morning._
MY VERY DEAR MOTHER,--To-day I was wakened at dawn by a violent
cannonade, unusual at that hour. Just then some of the men came back
frozen by a night in the trenches. I got up to fetch them some wood, and
then, on the opposite slope of the valley, the fusillade burst out
fully. I mounted as high as I could, and I saw the promise of the sun in
the pure sky.
Suddenly, from the opposite hill (one of those hills I love so much), I
heard an uproar, and shouting: 'Forward! Forward!' It was a bayonet
charge. This was my first experience of one--not that I saw anything;
the still-dark hour, and, probably, the disposition of the ground,
prevented me. But what I heard was enough to give me the feeling of the
attack.