he 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 Woevre 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 occupat