I saw the daybreak; I was full of emotion in beholding the peace
of Nature, and I realised the contrast between the pettiness of human
violence and the majesty of the surroundings.

That time of pain for you, from September 9th to October 13th,
corresponds exactly with my first phase of war. On September 9th I
arrived, and detrained almost within reach of the terrible battle of the
Marne, which was in progress 35 kilometres away. On the 12th I rejoined
the 106th, and thenceforward led the life of a combatant. On October
13th, as I told you, we left the lovely woods, where the enemy artillery
and infantry had done a lot of mischief among us, especially on the 3rd.
Our little community lost on that day a heart of gold, a wonderful boy,
grown too good to live. On the 4th, an excellent comrade, an
architectural student, was wounded fairly severely in the arm, but the
news which he has since sent of himself is good. Then until the 13th,
terrible day, we lived through some hard times, especially as the
danger, real enough, was exaggerated by the feeling of suffocation and
of the unknown which hemmed us round in those woods, so fine at any
other time.

The important thing is to bear in mind the significance of every moment.
The problem is of perpetual urgency. On one side the providential
blessing, up till the present, of complete immunity. On the other, the
hazards of the future. That is how our wish to do good should be applied
to the present moment. There is no satisfaction to be had in questioning
the future, but I believe that every effort made now will avail us then.
It is a heroic struggle to sustain, but let us count not only on
ourselves but on another force so much more powerful than our human
means.

_November 21._

To-day we lead a _bourgeoise_ life, almost too comfortable. The cold
keeps us with the extraordinary woman who lodges us whenever we visit
the village where we are billeted three days out of nine.

I will not tell you about the pretty view from the window where I write,
but I will speak of the interior which shelters many of our days. By day
we live in two rooms divided by a glass partition, and, looking through
from one room to another, we can admire either the fine fire in the
great chimney-place or the magnificent wardrobe and the Meuse beds made
of fine old brass. All the delicate life of these two old women (the
mother, 87 years old, and the daughter) is completely disorganised by
the rough