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A SOLDIER OF FRANCE TO HIS MOTHER 
 
Across the face of mother earth the great scars run — 
 The graves of soldiers, trenches, broken fields — all 
 
 scars ; 
 While God, the sad old moon, and all the myriad 
 stars 
 Look on, and watch her strive to heal what man has 
 done. 
 
 Richard J. Broyles. 
 
A SOLDIER OF FRANCE 
 TO HIS MOTHER 
 
 Letters from the 
 Trenches on the Western Front 
 
 TRANSLATED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION 
 BY 
 
 THEODORE STANTON, M.A. 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 A, C. McCLURG & CO. 
 
 1917 
 

 Copyright < 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO. 
 1917 
 
 Published June, 1917 
 
 JUL -2 1917 
 
 W. F. HALL PRINTING COMPANY, CHICAGO 
 
 ©CU4R7727 
 
 v. 
 
The Young Men of America, 
 
 who may be called to the 
 colors, I dedicate this transla- 
 tion. May they take as their 
 model this young French 
 sergeant who died bravely 
 fighting for his country 
 against our^ common foe. 
 
 T. S. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 / TpHE following letters were written by a 
 -*• young French painter who was at the front 
 until the beginning of April, 19 15, when he 
 "disappeared" in one of the combats in the 
 Argonne region of France. "Should he be 
 spoken of in the present or in the past?" asks 
 M. André Chevrillon, 1 a friend of the soldier's 
 family, in the preface to the French edition of 
 this book. "Since the day when his mother and 
 grandmother received from him his last com- 
 munication, a post card bespattered with mud 
 which announced the attack in which he fell, 
 what a tragic silence for these two women who, 
 during eight months, had lived only with these 
 
 1 M. Chevrillon, the nephew of Taine, is a writer of repute 
 in France and the author of a half-dozen able volumes, sev- 
 eral of them being on English subjects — "Sydney Smith," 
 "Etudes Anglaises," "La Pensée de Ruskin," and his very 
 recent volume, "L'Angleterre et la Guerre." He became 
 interested in these letters while they were arriving in Paris 
 from day to day and complimented their author on their 
 literary quality, as is revealed in the letter of March 17, 
 where M. Chevrillon is referred to. Much of the matter 
 used in this preface is a paraphrase of M. Chevrillon's preface 
 attached to the original edition of this book, "Lettres d'un 
 Soldat," and which was of course intended for the French 
 public and so less interesting, in parts, to our American public. 
 
 vii 
 
viii Preface 
 
 letters, which came almost daily. In his studio, 
 among the pictures in which this young man had 
 fixed his dreams and his visions of an artist, I 
 have seen, piously arranged on a table, all the 
 little square white sheets of this correspondence. 
 What a speechless presence ! I did not know 
 then what a soul was there transcribed in these 
 messages to the family hearth — a fully formed 
 soul, which, if it had lived, I feel sure would 
 have spread its fame and its influence far beyond 
 this little home circle and radiated a-wide among 
 the hearts of men." 
 
 The French publisher of the original edition 
 further informs me that one of the reasons why 
 the author's name is not given is because there 
 still rests a faint hope that he may be a prisoner 
 in Germany; and M. Chevrillon writes me in 
 a recent letter: "I am sorry that I am not at 
 liberty to give his name, but his mother still 
 hopes that he may not have been killed, and 
 allowing his name to be printed would be to her 
 like surrendering that hope." I fear, however, 
 that there is little probability of this hope being 
 realized, for experience has shown that in this 
 war the word "disappeared" after a soldier's 
 name is little more than a euphonious term for 
 "dead in an unknown grave." 
 
Preface îx 
 
 "He has the soul of the supreme artist," 
 continues M. Chevrillon in his preface, "and 
 that of a poet also, along with the timidity of 
 the young man who, at sixteen, left school for 
 the studio, and who learned all by himself to 
 express in language, which the reader will ap- 
 preciate, whatever moved him. Tenderness of 
 heart, a fervent adoration of nature, a mystic 
 comprehension of its changing moods and its 
 eternal language — all these things which the 
 Germans, the pretended inheritors of Goethe 
 and Beethoven, imagine they have the monopoly 
 of, we find here in these moving lines written 
 by a young Frenchman for himself and the 
 loved ones at home." 
 
 M. Chevrillon thinks that perhaps the most 
 touching feature of these letters is their spiritu- 
 ality, "so grave and so religious," which is, 
 he observes, noticeable in- so many letters from 
 soldiers at the front. During these long winter 
 months passed in the mud and ice of the 
 trenches, with death ever near at hand, "these 
 young men seem to regard eternal things with 
 more profound and sensitive eyes, as if each 
 one, in the fulness of his strength and youth, 
 thought to see them for the last time." But, 
 in the midst of these terrible experiences, this 
 
x Preface 
 
 young Frenchman reveals "all the stoicism of a 
 Marcus Aurelius, .... and, going far back 
 beyond stoicism, we find in his language all the 
 
 ancient and sublime thoughts of India 
 
 Indeed, the soul which manifests itself in these 
 letters presents, like that of Michelet, Amiel, 
 Tolstoy, and Shelley, profound analogies with 
 the tender and mystic genius of the Râmâyana." 
 He is in fact a religious poet "who sees in the 
 world the essence of all the ineffable moods" ; 
 a musician also who, though in the trenches, 
 lives with Beethoven, Handel, Schumann, and 
 Berlioz, "whose rhythms and ideas are a part 
 of him." 
 
 Love is one of the words which return the 
 most often in this correspondence — "love of 
 the fields and the plains, of the trees and the 
 stars, of the little animals of the meadows, in 
 a word, of all things, animate and inanimate, 
 of sky and earth"; love, too, of the living and 
 the dead, whether friend or foe. 
 
 M. Chevrillon calls attention to the interest- 
 ing fact that, though these letters are thrown 
 off very hastily day by day from trench or camp, 
 they form, nevertheless, a progressive whole 
 like the stanzas of a poem or the acts of a play. 
 The history of a life is here developed in a few 
 
Preface xi 
 
 months, a tragedy almost observing the three 
 unities. One may follow its spiritual progress 
 step by step directed by an ever-present power- 
 ful will. "It is rare to find a more moving 
 picture of the interior of a soul." Here is an 
 artist and a poet who looks at life and unfolds 
 himself in the very opposite way from a man 
 of action, and yet is forced by circumstances 
 beyond his control to become a man of action 
 par excellence. Here we see one of the evil 
 sides of universal military service. "His whole 
 system of culture and special discipline had had 
 the effect of still further refining a sensibility 
 already very keen by nature. Because of this 
 same nature and by habit, he ever seeks solitude 
 and contemplation. The law of his existence 
 had been instinctively to stand outside of the 
 mass and preserve an individuality of his own." 
 But when the war comes and he goes to the 
 front, he suddenly finds himself living in direct 
 opposition to this law of his very being. Never- 
 theless, he throws himself apparently without 
 regret, except at rare intervals, into the thickest 
 of the fight, lives day and night shoulder to 
 shoulder with the poilus, and readily bends him- 
 self to the mechanical demands of war. Before 
 the cloud burst, he would have regarded such a 
 
xii Preface 
 
 course as little less than slavery; "and the only 
 way out of it seemed to be death," which in the 
 end came indeed. Little by little he accustomed 
 himself to look upon his interior life, where 
 lived his visions and hopes of an artist, where 
 was always a chord responsive to the rhythms 
 and throbs of the universal existence, "as only 
 dreams, and dreams which finally vanished 
 never to return." 
 
 This is what he calls "adapting himself." 
 This phrase appears very often in these letters. 
 To him it means duty, and the difficulty attached 
 to the performance of this duty is measured by 
 the difference between his present and his past 
 life, between the natural tendency of his char- 
 acter and the effort which he must make to per- 
 form the duty demanded by the hour; and this 
 difficulty was greatly increased by the fact that 
 "to adapt oneself" was not thoroughly to trans- 
 form oneself by yielding completely to the 
 influences around him, but to absorb there only 
 so much as is necessary for his temporary nour- 
 ishment while he persists in his old tendency; to 
 give up everything and yet keep the essential. 
 In order to accomplish this, he has simply to 
 remain sensitive, midst the menaces and the 
 agitations of the war, to all things beautiful; 
 
Preface xiii 
 
 for in the eyes of "this religious poet" beauty is 
 the divine spirit which reveals itself more or 
 less clearly in nature. Hence the strength which 
 he receives in contemplating nature and which 
 lifts him little by little above the accidental cir- 
 cumstances of the individual; and in order to 
 derive therefrom all the possible benefit and 
 remove all disquietude from his mind, he must 
 say farewell to the past and the future, and 
 live only in the present moment. 
 
 "This emancipation of the soul is not accom- 
 plished in a day. The first of these letters are 
 very beautiful, but what they teach is what 
 almost all the letters of our soldiers tell us. 
 .... Yet even at the start, we see him trying 
 to keep control of his own individuality against 
 the influence and excitement of the outside 
 world; and he succeeds in this, guarding him- 
 self and isolating himself." Though he moves 
 among his fellow soldiers, he is happy to find 
 that, from an intellectual point of view, he 
 remains intact. But at this period of the cor- 
 respondence he is still within the barracks' 
 walls, or he jots down his letters in the railway 
 stations or in crowded cattle cars. To begin 
 to really know him, we must wait till he gets 
 to the front, where, billeted in some little vil- 
 
xiv Preface 
 
 lage or held long hours on guard in the first-line 
 trenches, he at last comes into contact with 
 mother earth, when he immediately catches the 
 spirit of the open and forthwith his native in- 
 stincts are awakened. "Brought face to face 
 with eternal things, suddenly his soul is like a 
 chord which has been struck and you remark for 
 the first time its original timbre and its infinite 
 sensibility; nor are the notes casual and discon- 
 tinuous, but gradually form an unbroken 
 melody. 
 
 "To this tender meditative nature the vio- 
 lence of war naturally causes horror, and hence 
 it is that he tries to discover the reason for 
 violence. He finds that through violence an 
 imperfect and provisional order of things is 
 broken and what till then had been congealed, 
 is put in motion, a new life begins and some- 
 thing better than before becomes possible. 
 Thus, acceptance, submission to universal rea- 
 son, confidence in what is coming to pass — this 
 is the conclusion which he always reaches." 
 Even violence and war are in the natural order 
 of things and must be accepted. 
 
 The sentiment in these letters M. Chevrillon 
 thinks gives them a place apart; "it is much 
 more organic and profound than their thought, 
 
Preface xv 
 
 . . . . this infiniteness and indefiniteness of 
 their shades of meaning, their unison with the 
 varying aspects of the landscape, in a word, 
 their poetic power which is shared by the love 
 for music, springing from the same primitive 
 and unconscious soul of his being and partici- 
 pating in all his inflexions of rhythm and song. 
 Here again comes out the Shelley in this young 
 French poet," for as M. Chevrillon points out 
 he sometimes uses one of the words frequently 
 found in the vocabulary of that poet — weak- 
 ness, défaillance. "Like the great English poet 
 whom he does not seem to have known, what he 
 seeks in things of beauty is the losing of one- 
 self in the lyric state, the inexpressible and bliss- 
 ful sensation of melting into the object contem- 
 plated. What counts for him through these 
 weary weeks, what he loves to recall afterwards, 
 what he would ever find again and never lose 
 are those supreme moments in which he felt 
 self-forgetfulness because he had felt the ineffa- 
 ble." The simplest natural objects could give 
 him such minutes. 
 
 Then comes the carnage of February, 19 15, 
 on which he touches but briefly because that side 
 of the conflict does not appeal to him ; and from 
 this point on the narrative moves more rapidly 
 
xvi Preface 
 
 towards the dénouement. The young sergeant 
 now has command of men and is brought face 
 to face with serious and precise duties. But in 
 the midst of the slaughter and the hurry of the 
 service, come sudden and singular feelings of 
 pity for it all and the strange solace of the infi- 
 nite and tragic tranquillity of the night amttng 
 the dead. "Now less is said about the land- 
 scape, the descriptions are more of a military 
 and technical nature, and often the thought 
 leaves the earth. Once only is there a return 
 to a consideration of his own private affairs, a 
 brief and profound plaint over the old lost 
 hopes, the abandoned art work, and the great- 
 ness of the sacrifice. 
 
 "Sometimes a doubt comes over his mind. 
 The ever-present association with death, bodily 
 fatigue, the weary days of rain and mud, at 
 moments check in him the manifestation of spir- 
 itual things. He is like the young plant of 
 which he speaks in one of his letters — growing, 
 aspiring, but suddenly feeling the breath of 
 coming autumn with its cold. Then for an in- 
 stant he asks himself if, after all, the universe be 
 not an empty thing and if even sacrifice be not 
 an illusion. But this despondent mood passes 
 away quickly and he soon gains again the pure 
 
Preface xvii 
 
 tranquil regions higher up, which he leaves at 
 last only in order to do his duty and participate 
 in the final combat where his physical and 
 mental struggles end forever. 
 
 "Thanks to a mercy which he never imagined 
 would be his when he left the sweet solitude of 
 an artist for the sweat, the servitude and the 
 melees of the front, he doubtless there produced 
 the best that was in him; and we may now well 
 ask whether, in the regular course of an artist's 
 existence, it would ever have been granted him 
 to express himself in the fulness and beauty 
 found in these letters. It is in this thought that 
 those who loved him find that comfort which 
 makes their loss bearable. In these pages his 
 soul is perhaps more ample and fair than they 
 ever knew it. And we should remember that 
 it was in a war that Marcus Aurelius wrote his 
 Meditations." 
 
 Since the outbreak of the present conflict, the 
 statement has often been made that there is a 
 religious revival in France. The same thing 
 was said at the time of the war of 1 870 ; but the 
 years that followed showed that there was no 
 solid foundation for the assertion. Everything 
 in France today points in the same direction. 
 It is idealism, which had never died, that suf- 
 
xviii Preface 
 
 fering has made shine forth with a brighter 
 light. The pages of this little book offer a pe- 
 culiar proof of the correctness of this affirma- 
 tion. We find here a young man who, brought 
 face to face with death and the great problems 
 of the universe, reveals gradually the lofty soul 
 of an ardent pantheist. 
 
 Still another peculiarity might be mentioned 
 which brings out pleasantly the poetry and the 
 pantheism of the author — his manner of dating 
 many of his letters. As the military authorities 
 in this war do not permit the names of places 
 being put at the head of letters from the front, 
 this young sergeant often heads his correspond- 
 ence with such phrases as these : "A cloudy Sun- 
 day disturbed by yesterday's bombardment," 
 or "The most beautiful sunny Sunday," or "A 
 splendid afternoon," or "In the morning sun- 
 shine," or "In splendid weather which has be- 
 come serene," or "A wonderful morning," etc. 
 
 Another characteristic of this correspondence 
 should be noted — the exceptionally deep filial 
 affection which pervades it; for it is very rare 
 to see in a youth such intense love for a mother 
 as is here displayed. Even if the woof and 
 warp of these letters did not proclaim it in innu- 
 merable passages, the opening address would, 
 
Préface xix 
 
 « 
 
 for there we find such phrases as these: "Dear 
 much-loved Mother," or "Dear Mother dear," 
 or "Dear dearest Mama," or "Very dear loved 
 Mother," or "My little Mama," or "Dear 
 loved Mother," or "Dearest," or "Very dear 
 well-beloved Mother," or "Very dear Mama," 
 etc. 
 
 And what a noble woman this beloved mother 
 — "the bond that holds me strongest to life" — 
 must be to have been the soul-companion of such 
 a son ! One regrets that her letters do not accom- 
 pany those with which they are so intimately 
 associated — letters which, he says, have "a per- 
 fume I cannot get on without" ; and when they 
 come, he declares: "I am now full of joy arid 
 blessed with a complete peace of mind .... 
 these letters are our life .... thy good and 
 vivifying letters .... how I love them; each 
 of thy letters feeds me with what is dearest to 
 me in life." 
 
 In order to be still more one with him, this 
 "mother of mine" reads Tolstoy because the 
 son has read him; and Spinoza, because "he is 
 a precious help to one in the trenches"; and 
 Verlaine, because "in Paris he was one of my 
 almost daily delights." In order to enter more 
 fully into his art life, she takes up drawing 
 
xx Preface 
 
 again, "for it will be a source of delight to us 
 both." She likes to sit in his deserted studio — 
 "You cannot imagine how much comfort I get 
 from knowing that you are interested so deeply 
 in my things at home .... that you read my 
 books and love to look at my dear engravings." 
 She writes to him of Gustave Moreau's pictures, 
 and he answers: "This grand genius had the 
 same intuition you have had .... whose 
 spirit, in a word, you have divined." She sends 
 him "a nice aluminum cup," which "is admired 
 by all the men" ; "dainties which are fully appre- 
 ciated"; "woolen things which are precious and 
 victorious" over the cold; periodicals, La Chan- 
 son de Roland, etc., and he writes back: "Poor 
 mamas! How they rack their brains to find 
 
 what they can do for us What terrible 
 
 anxieties the poor mamas have in this war." 
 And in turn, he sends her his sketches, his poems, 
 his prayers. 
 
 But it may be that her letters have, with her 
 son, "disappeared" forever. 
 
 Theodore Stanton 
 
 Cornell Campus, May, IQ 17 
 
A SOLDIER OF FRANCE TO HIS MOTHER 
 
A SOLDIER OF FRANCE TO HIS MOTHER 
 
 LETTERS FROM THE TRENCHES ON THE 
 WESTERN FRONT 
 
 August 6, 1Ç14. 
 
 These are my first days as a soldier, and they 
 are full of life. The fatigue is very different 
 from what I imagined it would be. I am in a 
 state of great nervous tension due to a lack of 
 sleep and exercise. I am leading the existence 
 of a bureaucrat, having been assigned for duty 
 to what is called the Dépôt, that is to say to the 
 military clerical force which attends to all the 
 services even when the troops are away, and 
 which in the end goes forward to fill up the 
 gaps which may occur on the firing-line. What 
 we miss most is not having any news of what is 
 going on outside of this little town where 
 newspapers no longer penetrate. 
 
 August 13. 
 
 Still no news, and I am told it will be so for 
 some days to come, as the censorship is being 
 
 1 
 
A Soldier of France 
 
 applied with increasing rigor. Our time passes 
 very quietly here. The weather is magnificent, 
 and calmness and confidence are in the air. We 
 are thinking of those who are fighting in the 
 heat, and this thought causes us to find our own 
 situation really too fine. The morale of these 
 reservists is excellent. 
 
 Sunday, August 16. 
 
 I took a walk today along the banks of the 
 Marne, in weather made all the more charming 
 by a shower. A moment's change of this kind 
 is very agreeable in these troubled times. We 
 are still without any news, just as you are; but 
 fortunately we are blessed with a lot of patience. 
 I have found some pleasure in feasting my eyes 
 on the landscape hereabouts, notwithstanding 
 the invasion of red trousers and blue coats. 
 What a fine impression, by the way, you get of 
 the morale of these same red trousers and blue 
 coats. We are sending many of them forward 
 and they all accept their part tranquilly. 
 
 August iq. 
 
 The monotony of military life benumbs me; 
 but I do not complain. The same characters 
 with whom I was acquainted nine years ago, 
 
A Soldier of France 
 
 when I did my military service, come back to 
 me again, more mellowed, improved and all 
 more on a common level now than then; espe- 
 cially are we all now under the influence of the 
 great events which the news from the eastern 
 frontier keeps constantly before our minds. 1 
 The ordinary comradeship of the barracks gives 
 place to a more admirable spirit of solidarity, 
 and everybody is trying to do his best to adapt 
 himself to the surroundings. One of the ad- 
 vantages of our present situation is that we can 
 play at soldier without feeling that we are wast- 
 ing our time. All these rather puerile and 
 simple occupations now present their useful and 
 immediately practical side; so you do every- 
 thing in a calm spirit and nothing gets on your 
 nerves. And what exerts a still further quieting 
 effect over all these men is a deep, vague senti- 
 ment of fraternity which turns all hearts 
 towards those who are on the firing-line. Each 
 one feels that the little discomforts which we 
 have to put up with are a very feeble contribu- 
 tion to the common welfare when compared 
 with the terrible tribute of every sort of energy 
 and devotion now exacted at the frontier. 
 
 1 The reference is to the French successes in Alsace. 
 
A Soldier of France 
 
 August 2$. 
 
 This letter precedes but little our own de- 
 parture from this place. The terrible shock 
 at the front calls for our presence with those 
 who are fighting there already. I leave you 
 both, Grandmother, and thee, my Mother, with 
 the hope of seeing you again. I feel sure that 
 you will approve my doing everything that duty 
 demands. But nothing has happened to cause 
 us to despair of success; France still sees 
 clearly the part she is called upon to play in 
 this crisis. 
 
 Please say to all those who have any love for 
 me that I am thinking of them as I make my 
 preparation for departure, but that unfortu- 
 nately I have no time to write to anybody now. 
 I am in the very best of health. After such a 
 change in the situation as that about to occur, 
 we may say that all our preceding experiences 
 belong to a dead past. Let us have recourse to 
 all our energy, dear Mama, to adapt ourselves 
 to an entirely different existence, however hard 
 it may be for both of us to do so. You may be 
 sure that I shall not go out of my way to do 
 things that will endanger our happiness; but I 
 shall so act that my own conscience and yours 
 will be satisfied. So far in this campaign I can 
 
A Soldier of France 
 
 find no fault with my conduct, and I intend to 
 continue on those lines. 
 
 August 2$. 
 
 A second letter this same day to tell you that 
 instead of our regiment going, it is Pierre's. I 
 had the joy to see him pass right by me while 
 I was on guard in town and accompanied him 
 for some one hundred yards, and then we said 
 good-bye. I somehow feel that he and I shall 
 meet again. The regiment left with flowers in 
 the barrels of their guns, and singing. We both 
 got much comfort out of thus being together 
 to the end. That was a fine action on the part 
 of André 1 to save the life of that soldier who 
 was drowning. Nobody imagines all the hero- 
 ism there is in France and in the intellectual 
 youth of Paris. 
 
 This is a grave hour for us. The country is 
 not destined to die, but its deliverance will be 
 secured only at the price of a terrible effort. As 
 regards our losses, I know we have had whole 
 divisions swept away; some regiments haven't 
 an officer left. As for how I feel about all this, 
 you will find my opinions in the first letter sent 
 you today. I would be ashamed to think for 
 
 1 Second Lieut. Cadoux killed in battle April 13, 1915. 
 
A Soldier of France 
 
 an instant of screening myself when the wel- 
 fare of our race demands my sacrifice. My 
 only purpose should be to carry with me a clear 
 conscience as far as my feet can do it. 
 
 August 26. 
 
 My dear Mama: I have been made happy 
 by reading a fine article of Maurice Barres in 
 the Echo de Paris, entitled "The Eagle Outflies 
 the Nightingale." 1 It expresses exactly my 
 sentiments. 
 
 Though these Depots may contain the poorer 
 material of our military body, much excellent 
 energy is still left there; and though I do not 
 yet dare to class myself as a part of this ele- 
 ment, I do expect in the end to go to the front 
 with it. Our regimental doctor has excused me 
 from carrying a knapsack; but I carry it all the 
 same in order to get myself into training; and 
 I feel no bad effects from so doing. 
 
 The only thing I can speak to you of with 
 
 1 From "L'Armée Française et la Guerre," p. 84, where one 
 reads: "Writers, tear up the interrupted page; poets, aban- 
 don your song, even if it be in the midst of a strophe and 
 however exactly it reflects your soul. Even say a hasty 
 good-bye to your heart of yesterday, for when you come back 
 from the Rhine, you will have mounted so high and on such 
 strong wings that you will surpass all your dreams, as the 
 eagle outflies the nightingale." 
 
A Soldier of France 
 
 perfect confidence, is my own moral and phys- 
 ical state, which is excellent. The real death 
 would be to live in a conquered land, especially 
 for me whose artistic inspirations would be 
 killed thereby. I keep isolated as much as pos- 
 sible, and from the intellectual point of view I 
 am quite intact. The fact is that the atmos- 
 phere of the barracks of today is much more 
 endurable than it is in ordinary times. The only 
 really disagreeable thing is that these constant 
 changes of place and occupation drag us about 
 from one billet to another so that our growing 
 confidence in the military situation is being con- 
 stantly checked by our thus being incessantly 
 brought face to face with these unexpected 
 material surroundings. 
 
 August 30. 
 
 My little Mama: Though it is true that we 
 didn't get off yesterday, it is now only a ques- 
 tion of hours when we start. I will not repeat 
 what I have already said to you. I am glad 
 you approve my course; I knew you would do 
 so. As the moment for the final effort ap- 
 proaches, all weaknesses disappear. During 
 yesterday's very hard march only one man fell 
 out, and he was really ill. France will get out 
 
8 A Soldier of France 
 
 of this awful scrape with flying colors — mark 
 my word. I can only repeat, as regards myself, 
 what I have already said, viz., I am ready for 
 whatever happens. But nothing can blot out 
 our twenty-seven years of happiness. I am re- 
 solved not to regard myself as a victim singled 
 out in advance for sacrifice. I still cling to the 
 belief that I shall have the joy to return safe 
 and sound ; and yet I am ready to go to the limits 
 of my strength in doing my duty, wherever it 
 may lead. You cannot imagine how ashamed I 
 would be if I felt that I could do more than I 
 am doing. In the midst of all these sad things, 
 we are still living hours of splendor where ob- 
 jects which were once so strange to us, now take 
 on an august significance. 
 
 Six a. m., September 4, in a moving train. 
 
 Here I am forty hours on a journey whose 
 picturesqueness outbalances its extreme discom- 
 forts. The great trouble is to get any sleep, 
 and the problem is not easily solved when you 
 are forty men penned up in a single cattle car. 
 At every moment the train stops to make way 
 for trains filled with the unfortunate civil popu- 
 lation who are being removed from the war 
 zone. Then come the trains carrying the 
 
A Soldier of France 
 
 wounded, a fine patriotic spectacle; then those 
 with the English army, the artillery, etc. We 
 know nothing about what is going on, as we no 
 longer have any newspapers and we cannot put 
 any dependence on the rumors which circulate 
 among the terror-stricken inhabitants of the 
 towns we pass through. Splendid weather. 
 
 Saturday, September 5, after sixty hours in a 
 cattle train, forty men to a car. 
 
 During the same day we followed the course 
 of the Seine, along the borders of Fontainebleau 
 forest, and the shores of the Loire, catching 
 glimpses of the castle of Blois and that of Am- 
 boise. Unfortunately, night coming on we 
 couldn't see anything more. Imagine the tender 
 emotions which those magnificent banks of the 
 Loire awakened in my breast! 
 
 Are you bombarded by those terrible flying 
 machines? At those moments I think of you 
 both, and especially of poor old grandmother, 
 who might have been spared such sights. But 
 let us hope for the best. 
 
 We learn from the wounded who are being 
 brought back, that during the first days of Au- 
 gust our general staff made some mistakes and 
 that these faults have been pitilessly paid for; 
 
10 A Soldier of France 
 
 and now it is for us to repair these blunders. 1 
 The English troops are pouring in; we have 
 passed numerous trains crowded with them. In 
 a word, this war isn't going to be the mere mili- 
 tary parade that many believed it would be, an 
 opinion I did not share. It will stir up all the 
 good in humanity; and I say nothing of the mag- 
 nificent spectacles which will not bear directly 
 on the war. Nothing that is good will be lost. 
 
 September 5; first stage of oar journey; caged 
 up for sixty hours and impossible to stretch 
 oneself. 
 Still in contact with the iron rails and a victim 
 of continual jolting. But after each horrible 
 night has come, three times, the glory of the 
 morning; and then all the fatigue vanishes as if 
 by enchantment. We have traversed in all di- 
 rections the territory of France, from the rather 
 barren serenity of Champagne, so full of subtil- 
 ties, to the rich and robust placidity of Britanny. 
 On the way, we followed along the Loire with 
 
 1 The French staff expected the main German attack to 
 come through the Alsatian frontier and not by way of Bel- 
 gium. The rushing of the regiment mentioned in the text 
 to Northwestern France was to meet the main German attack 
 from this unexpected quarter. The events mentioned above 
 are those leading up to the battle of the Marne. 
 
A Soldier of France 11 
 
 its sonorous and noble shores. O my beautiful 
 native land, heart of the world where reposes 
 what is divine on earth, what monster has fallen 
 upon thee? Some creature jealous of thy 
 beauty! Formerly I loved France with a sin- 
 cere love which was, however, somewhat dilet- 
 tantish. I loved her as an artist proud to live 
 in the most beautiful of lands; but, to tell the 
 truth, I loved her rather as a picture might love 
 its frame. This present horror was necessary 
 to awaken in me all that is filial and profound 
 in the bonds which bind me to my native country. 
 
 September 7. 
 
 We have embarked on the great adventure 
 without any dominant sensation unless it be a 
 rather fine acceptance of fatality — we are 
 ready for whatever comes — but our sensibility 
 is kept ever on the alert by the sight of the vic- 
 tims, especially by the fleeing civilians. Poor 
 souls, true exiles, or rather dead leaves flying 
 before the whirlwind; little bodies acting a part 
 in a great event. Whole cattle trains are loaded 
 down with them. Into these cars are crowded 
 these poor, desolated, up-rooted beings sud- 
 denly fallen to the level of dumb, driven cattle. 
 Misery has stripped them of all human char- 
 
12 A Soldier of France 
 
 acteristics. We give them water to drink and 
 food to eat and then it is that we find out what 
 they really are. The husband will drink his fill 
 quite forgetful of wife and children. The 
 mother thinks of her baby, but other women 
 take their time in enjoying their refreshments' 
 quite oblivious of the fact that others like them 
 are thirsting and in hunger. Among these waifs 
 of war an old woman touched me to the heart. 
 She was a grandmother of eighty-seven, shaken 
 and bruised by the jolts of the cars, by turns 
 put down from and put back into these rolling 
 cages; now trembling, now seemingly aban- 
 doned, and her head fairly swimming in the 
 midst of it all. 
 
 September 10. 
 
 We have arrived in a region where we hear 
 only good news. 1 We get very clearly the im- 
 pression that France is saved. From the offi- 
 cial report which succinctly and formally de- 
 clares that we have met with success, down to 
 the fantastic rumors which circulate, everything 
 corroborates this feeling that we have gained a 
 victory. 
 
 1 The battle of the Marne was underway. 
 
A Soldier of France 13 
 
 September 13. 
 
 Here we are at the war front, approaching 
 the horrors of the firing-line. We have left the 
 villages of France where peace is still slum- 
 bering. Now all is tumult and we begin to see 
 victims right from the battle — soldiers covered 
 with blood, mud, and grime. There are 
 wounded, too. Those whom we first met are 
 the least hurt — wounded in hand or arm. In 
 the case of most of them, you discover that, 
 along with their fatigue and suffering, is a real 
 feeling of relief at having escaped, relatively, 
 so cheaply. Further along, in the direction of 
 the ambulances, a burial of the dead is under 
 way — six bodies stretched on two carts. Flat- 
 tened out and half hidden under their rags, they 
 are being carried to a ditch dug at the foot of 
 a cross-road calvary. 1 Priests are present though 
 they can scarcely be said to be officiating, as 
 they too are in uniform and not in their sacer- 
 dotal robes. A thin covering of straw and some 
 holy water sprinkled over the bodies complete 
 the ceremony, such as it is, and we pass on. But 
 after all, these corpses are the fortunate ones, 
 
 1 A representation of the crucifixion consisting sometimes 
 of three crosses with figures of Christ and the thieves, often 
 life-size, set up on a hillock or by the roadside in Roman 
 Catholic countries. 
 
14 'A Soldier of France 
 
 for they have died with some care shown them, 
 which cannot be said of those lying further 
 along, who have passed into the other world, 
 dying abandoned after nights of lonely misery. 
 From the midst of this woe arises in our hearts 
 a deep feeling of pity, fraternity, and kindliness. 
 
 Wednesday, September 16. 
 
 In the zone of horrors. The waning twi- 
 light throws a pale hue over the road when 
 suddenly we perceive a ditch full of the dead 
 bodies of those who had dragged themselves 
 there from the bordering fields — to die. They 
 are just as they were when they fell and are 
 already an offense to the nostrils. The increas- 
 ing night makes it the harder to distinguish 
 their nationality. But an all-embracing pity 
 envelopes the whole mass, and for each we have 
 this same exclamation: "Poor boy!" Such 
 ignominies are always associated with night; 
 then comes the morning. The day breaks on a 
 heap of swollen bodies of horses. At the corner 
 of a wood many men have fallen in a carnage 
 which has now quieted down. There they lie 
 showing evidences of the agonies they have suf- 
 fered. Decay has already discolored them. 
 They have all been robbed, too. Their knap- 
 
A Soldier of France 15 
 
 sacks have been opened and their haversacks 
 turned inside out; none of their belongings has 
 been left. Among them are civilians whose 
 presence there is explained by the German cus- 
 tom which forces French hostages to precede 
 the soldiers. Such a fact should stir in honor- 
 able hearts a horror for the callous crime of 
 those responsible for this war, in which there 
 will never be enough glory to conceal all this 
 blood and beastliness. 
 
 September 21. 
 
 Rain in war time is a torment beyond imagi- 
 nation. Here we have had three days and 
 nights of it, during which all we could do was to 
 shiver and complain; and notwithstanding the 
 downpour, the various services had to be car- 
 ried on. There is nothing in Dante which equals 
 having to sleep in a ditch full of water; and 
 what is to be said of the awakening, when you 
 are forced to attend the moment to kill or be 
 killed? Overhead the screaming of the shells 
 drowns the whistling of the wind, while the rat- 
 tle of rifle fire intermingles its music from time 
 to time. Then you simply curl up in the mud 
 and let despair take possession of you. When 
 these torments come to an end, I have sometimes 
 
16 A Soldier of France 
 
 had such a nervous reaction that I have simply 
 sat down and cried without knowing why. This 
 is what is called filling the outposts after a 
 combat. 
 
 September 25. 
 
 This is hell in the calmest and most sylvan of 
 spots; an autumnal land which the cannon are 
 tearing to pieces and pitting with great shell 
 craters. 
 
 September 27. 
 
 If, outside of the magnificent lesson taught 
 by this war, there are any immediate advan- 
 tages, that which affects me the most is the con- 
 templation of the sky at night. Never before 
 has the majesty of night brought me so much 
 consolation as in the midst of these trials. Spar- 
 kling Venus is my friend, and now I am quite 
 familiar with the constellations. There are 
 those which trace great curves in the heavens as 
 if they would encircle the throne of God. What 
 glory, and how it brings to memory the Chal- 
 dean shepherds, astrological figures, and the 
 first alphabet! 1 
 
 1 The ancient Chaldeans were famous astrologers and the 
 inventors, with the Babylonians, of cuneiform characters. 
 
A Soldier of France \7\ 
 
 October I. 
 
 I may tell thee, Mama, that from the intel- 
 lectual standpoint I have been living some ad- 
 mirable days during which all idle preoccupa- 
 tions were driven out of me by a new spirit 
 which came in. 
 
 If you ever have a weak moment, and if a 
 single one of these letters reaches you, I hope 
 it will make clear to you how edifying and how 
 precious these trials have been to me. Our 
 suffering should be considered in every instance 
 a most wonderful source of emotions and for- 
 mation of conscience. I know not whither 
 destiny leads me, but it is not — this I am sure 
 of — towards the haughty and artificial regions 
 of pure speculations, but rather in the way of 
 all the smaller duties of each day; and into this 
 work I must carry a spirit awake to every 
 sensation. 
 
 I can now see how an upright nature may 
 easily get on without having recourse to artifice 
 in expression in order to act and exercise a 
 salutary influence. This is precious knowledge 
 which will enable me, if I ever get back 
 alive, to suffer less in case I am wounded 
 in such a way as never to be able to paint 
 again. 
 
18 A Soldier of France 
 
 October Q. 
 
 It appears that we are about to be ordered to 
 make an attack. So I don't wish to take this big 
 risk without sending thee, Mother, my thoughts 
 in these few moments of tranquillity which we 
 now enjoy. Every thing here tends to peace of 
 heart — the beauty of the wood in which we are 
 living and the absence of all intellectual compli- 
 cations. It is paradoxical, as you have so truly 
 said, but the finest moments of my moral life 
 have just been passed. Yes, there will always be 
 beauty on earth. Man will never be so bad as to 
 destroy it all. I have amassed a stock of beauty 
 sufficient to furnish my whole life. May the days 
 to come cause to fructify all that I have at present 
 collected. There is one thing that nobody can 
 take from us — the soul-treasure that we have. 
 
 October 12. 
 
 So far thy love and Providence have not 
 abandoned me. We are still in these magnifi- 
 cent but devastated woods, enjoying most beau- 
 tiful autumn weather. Nature offers us many 
 joys with which to dominate these horrors. 
 Whatever may be the suffering reserved for us, 
 I have a profound and powerful trust that all 
 will end well. 
 
A Soldier of France 19 
 
 October 14. 
 
 Dear Mother: Of course, there are sacrifices 
 which cost a great effort, but you know we both 
 possess the strength of soul necessary to enable 
 us to live through these trying present moments 
 without becoming too impatient for the return 
 home which we both so long for. The essential 
 thing now is to appreciate fully the present mo- 
 ment and to get out of it all the good and beauti- 
 ful and edifying that are in it. Anyway, we can- 
 not tell what the future has in store for us, and 
 it would be a useless and vain torture for us to 
 live always asking what is coming. Do you not 
 find that life has showered on us many pleasures 
 and that one of the latest and greatest is our 
 being able at last to communicate with one an- 
 other and feel how united we are? There are 
 many poor fellows here who do not know where 
 are their wives and children and who have been 
 thus isolated for the whole past month. You 
 see we are still among the privileged ones. 
 
 Dear Mother, less than ever should we des- 
 pair, for never before have we been so con- 
 vinced that all these agitations and human de- 
 liriums are as nothing in comparison with the 
 eternal spark which each of us bears in his 
 breast, and that all these monstrosities will end 
 
20 A Soldier of France 
 
 in a better future. This war is a form of cata- 
 clysm which succeeds to the ancient upheavals 
 of our globe. But have you not remarked that 
 in the midst of all this destruction not a particle 
 of the soul is lost and the belief in the existence 
 of a superior law has never been lessened an 
 iota? 
 
 Our sufferings all come from the fact that 
 our little stock of human patience is framed 
 in accordance with our appetites, which is open 
 to objection even if these appetites be of the 
 noblest. But the moment this patience seeks to 
 discover the harmony in things, then it meets 
 with perfect repose of soul. It may be that this 
 present disorder is really leading the world to- 
 wards a more definite, universal well-being. 
 
 Dear Mama, clinging firmly to every human 
 hope, I send to thee and to dear grandmother 
 my profoundest love. I send, too, my whole 
 heart to our friends who are in trouble. Help 
 them to bear their burdens; two crosses are 
 more easily borne than one. Have confidence 
 in the eternal joy which awaits us. 
 
 Seven a. m., October 75. 
 
 I have received your card of October first. It 
 fills me with joy to find ourselves once again 
 
A Soldier of France 21 
 
 so united, though, to tell the truth, in thought 
 we have never been separated. I note what you 
 say of the misfortune of Martha, and I am glad 
 you can be of some aid to her. Dear Mother, 
 that is what we both have to do — be useful at 
 the present moment without thought of the mo- 
 ment which follows. Yes, it is true that I feel 
 very much as you do, that I have a mission in 
 life. But we must act at each instant as though 
 this mission were on the point of immediate 
 accomplishment. Don't let us keep some little 
 corner in our hearts in which to hide our trivial 
 hopes. We must absolutely attain the point 
 where no catastrophe can render our life a 
 broken one, interrupted, and inharmonious. 
 That is a fine work and it is the work of the 
 moment. As for the rest, that future into which 
 we must not try to penetrate, you will see, dear- 
 est Mother, what beauty, what good, and what 
 justice it has in store for us. None of our facul- 
 ties should strive to no purpose, and every vain 
 inquietude is a harmful dispensing of these fac- 
 ulties. You must find some comfort in this 
 superb assurance that so far I have been able 
 to raise my soul to a height, and keep it 
 there, where passing events have not been able 
 to get possession of it and where I promise 
 
22 A Soldier of France 
 
 you I will make every effort to render it impreg- 
 nable. 
 
 Please say to Martha that if fate strikes 
 down the best, there is nothing unjust in this, for 
 the bad that survive are made better by it. She 
 must accept the sacrifice, feeling that it has a 
 useful end. You do not know the lesson taught 
 by him who falls. I do. For him who knows 
 how to read life, these present events have torn 
 to shreds our old habits of thought and have 
 revealed more clearly than ever before eternal 
 beauty and order. We must recover from the 
 surprise caused by this tearing to pieces of ven- 
 erable ideas, and adapt ourselves as quickly as 
 possible to this new variety of things which 
 renders us as privileged as was Socrates, the 
 Christian martyrs, and the victims of the 
 French revolution. Then we will disdain 
 what in life is only temporary and turn with 
 a fresh longing for what this existence offers 
 us so rarely — a thorough appreciation of what 
 is eternal. 
 
 October 16. 
 
 We are having a few days of relative calm. 
 Between two tempests my company has earned 
 a merited repose, and I am enjoying hugely this 
 
A Soldier of France 23 
 
 October weather. Your nice letter of the second 
 has come, and I am now full of joy and blessed 
 with a complete peace of mind. Let us go on 
 arming ourselves with courage. Do not let us 
 even speak of having patience. Let us speak 
 only of the present moment with all the treas- 
 ures that it brings us. That is all we have to 
 do; there alone is concentrated all the beauty 
 to be found in this world. Beauty exists, dear 
 Mother, quite outside of the circle where we are 
 in the habit of looking for it. Have recourse 
 to your own strength of character and your 
 love for me to discover it and to help others 
 to discover it. This new beauty has nothing in 
 common with the conception expressed by 
 health, or family, or country. You find it when 
 you distinguish in everything what is eternal. 
 But let us at the same time cherish that delight- 
 ful intuition that we are going to meet again; 
 that will not in any way prevent us from per- 
 forming our allotted task. 
 
 Please tell Martha that I often think of her. 
 Alas ! her case is not unique. This war has 
 destroyed many hopes; so, dear Mother, let us 
 place our hope where no war can touch it — 
 down in the very bottom of our hearts, or above 
 in the lofty heights of our soul. 
 
24 A Soldier of France 
 
 Three p. m., October iy. 
 
 My writing thee and knowing that my letters 
 reach thee are a daily paradise to me. I fairly 
 long for the hour when I am free to write to 
 thee. Yes, loved Mother, you must, indeed, feel 
 that thy courage and thy desire to live have 
 taken on a new life. But one must never con- 
 sider as a fair reason for wishing to live the 
 enjoyment of a single affection, however worthy 
 it may be. No accident should make it possible 
 for us to forget the reason for our living. Of 
 course, we might prefer this or that mission 
 in life, but we should accept the one which pre- 
 sents itself, however surprising or short it may 
 be. I share thy feeling that happiness is in 
 store for us. But do not let us think about 
 that; let us rather think about what we have 
 to do today and all the sacrifices which it 
 demands. 
 
 October 22. 
 
 I accept cheerfully whatever destiny has in 
 store for me, but at the same time I pluck from 
 it all the happiness which it hides in the fold of 
 each moment. Ah ! if men only knew how much 
 peace of mind they waste, how much is some- 
 times embraced in one minute of time, they 
 
A Soldier of France 25 
 
 would suffer less from the violence around 
 them. Doubtless, there may be extreme tor- 
 ments of which I am ignorant and which, per- 
 haps, try the soul in a way I do not suspect; but 
 however that may be, I exert every effort of 
 soul and body to accept resignedly whatever 
 the passing moment may bring. What you 
 must accustom yourself to is to recognize love 
 and beauty triumphant over every kind of vio- 
 lence. It is not a few brief seasons of hatred 
 and fraud which can suppress eternal beauty 
 and of that beauty we all have an imperishable 
 supply. 
 
 October 23. 
 
 Very dear Mama: I have re-read the Barrés 
 article, "The Eagle Outflies the Nightingale." 1 
 It is still as beautiful a bit of writing as ever, but 
 is now out of tune with the spirit of the moment. 
 Now, nothing exists outside of the absolute pres- 
 ent; the rest is like the ornaments one puts aside 
 for festive occasions which are a long way off 
 and may never come. But one guards these 
 ornaments preciously in one's chest of drawers. 
 This is what I am doing with the treasures of 
 the affections, and with all my legitimate ambi- 
 
 1 See page 6. 
 
26 A Soldier of France 
 
 tions and praiseworthy aspirations. I have 
 thrown a covering over them all and I live only 
 in the passing moment. 
 
 The beautiful sky of this morning brought 
 back to me what I was playing yesterday — 
 music which filled me to overflowing with hap- 
 piness. Forgive me if I do not live in a con- 
 tinually nervous state over the thought of my 
 return and our meeting. I think you will ap- 
 prove my course in placing this dear hope of 
 ours in other hands than our own. 
 
 October 27. 
 
 If, as I most ardently hope, I am to have the 
 joy of seeing thee again, you will learn of the 
 miraculous way I have been watched over by 
 Providence. I have simply bowed before a 
 force and goodness which have surpassed all my 
 pride could have conceived. I may say that 
 God has been in me as I have been in Him, and 
 I have made a determined vow to try and 
 always feel such communion. You see, the 
 question is to use life not as one may under- 
 stand it, even in the matter of our noblest affec- 
 tions, but by saying to one's self: Let us eat and 
 drink to all that is eternal, for tomorrow we 
 may be dead to all that is human. In this way 
 
A Soldier of France 27 
 
 you find your love increase in proportion as you 
 abandon all disturbing and petty hopes. 
 
 October 28. 
 
 Here we are near the end of the third month 
 of a terrible contest whose lessons will be broad 
 and salutary, not only for him who will heed 
 them but for the world in general, which is per- 
 haps the only consoling fact that springs from 
 this awful catastrophe. Let us trust that it may 
 bring comfort to those whose hopes are linked 
 with the hopes of the combatants. This solace 
 will be found in the decidedly superhuman feel- 
 ing that all the divine and immortal energy 
 which agitates our kind, far from being weak- 
 ened, is, on the contrary, exalted and increased 
 in value after such a storm as this. Happy he 
 who can hear the note of peace, as in a pastoral 
 symphony, but thrice happy he who has a pre- 
 sentiment of it while still in the midst of the 
 tumult. And what difference does it make if 
 this magnificent premonition comes to pass in 
 the absence of the prophet? He who divined 
 it gleaned from it much joy on earth, and one 
 greater than we decides whether in this instance 
 our mission has been accomplished. 
 
28 A Soldier of France 
 
 October 28. Second letter, written almost the 
 
 same hour. 
 
 Dear Mother dear: Another nice moment 
 to pass with thee. Of course, we can only go 
 on saying the same thing. But the thought is 
 so fine that we can always find new forms in 
 which to present it. But, dearest one, I dare 
 express no wish about the future. I must not. 
 I do not think we should even consider whether 
 there may be a partial quieting down of things 
 here at the front. Anyway, I can assure thee 
 that the effort required to endure the hardships 
 here is not so painful as the moral difficulties 
 which you and I have had to pass through since 
 the war broke out. We can, however, go on 
 trying to keep up a sort of continual resistance 
 against the bad in us, and leave every door open 
 for the good which may come from without. 
 
 I am glad you are reading Tolstoy. He, too, 
 has seen war, has judged it, and has accepted 
 the lessons which it teaches. If you can get a 
 glance at that admirable book, War and Peace, 
 you will find in it situations which will remind 
 you of our present state. He will show you how 
 well situated the soldier is to indulge in contem- 
 plation, if he desires it. As regards the con- 
 straint to which the soul might be subjected 
 
A Soldier of France 29 
 
 through lack of material comforts — don't be- 
 lieve in any of that; it is all false. Though it is 
 true that our life is like that of the rabbit when 
 the shooting season opens, yet we can enrich 
 the soul in the most magnificent fashion. To- 
 day overhead we have the sky filled with cold 
 flying clouds such as the Dutch landscapists 
 like to paint. 
 
 October 30. 
 
 I am writing thee in the midst of a magnifi- 
 cent landscape, a gray autumnal day lashed by 
 the wind. But to me the wind is never sad, as it 
 wafts to me the spirit of the regions which lie 
 behind the hills. 
 
 This horrible war cannot separate us from 
 our intellectual possessions. In spite of the 
 moments of awful tumult we return to ourselves 
 again at about the same point where we were 
 before. I would even say that the ordinary 
 course of our present existence has developed 
 our sensibilities to a degree where we are sus- 
 ceptible to the most delicate impressions. It is 
 possible that we may go from one extreme to 
 the other, and that the thick-skinned people 
 who will follow us may be mere brutes; but 
 however that may be, this present crisis, through 
 
30 A Soldier of France 
 
 which the soul is now passing, can only be profit- 
 able to us. 
 
 Yesterday we were in a pretty village of the 
 Meuse region whose grace was increased by the 
 contrast with the surrounding ruins. I was able 
 to get a shirt washed there, and while it was 
 drying, I chatted with the worthy old woman 
 who risks her life every day in order to protect 
 her hearth. She has three sons and they are all 
 in the army; but she has no recent news of them, 
 though one of them passed recently within a 
 few miles of her. She knew it, but couldn't see 
 him. Another one of these typical French peas- 
 ant women is guarding her son-in-law's house 
 where are six children. 
 
 The duty lies in accepting whatever comes 
 and having, at the same time, perfect confidence 
 in eternal justice. Don't stop to consider the 
 personality of those who remain or those who 
 go. If you do, you are simply weighing with 
 human scales. Now we must ever distinguish 
 in us the enormous quantity of what is better 
 than human. Dear Mother, have absolute con- 
 fidence. In what? We both feel it instinctively. 
 
 Ten a, m. t October 31. 
 
 Up to the present, the spirit of renunciation 
 
A Soldier of France 31 
 
 has had full possession of me. But now I must 
 go still further in the ways of wisdom and be 
 quite ready to accept whatever happens in the 
 days to come. I must get myself into a state 
 of mind where I shall feel that it will make no 
 difference if the runner's feet get caught in the 
 trap, when, of course, he cannot reach the goal. 
 But is he more worthy who grovels lest other- 
 wise he might fall into it? 
 
 Eight a. m. } November I. All Saints' Day. 
 
 Last night I got thy card of the twenty-fourth 
 and twenty-fifth ultimo. While you were look- 
 ing at that moon hidden from us, you felt — and 
 here you were wrong — discouraged, whereas, 
 there was the best of ground for your having 
 hope, for at that very same moment I was being 
 protected by Providence in a way that simply 
 humbles all one's pride. 
 
 The next day we had a most beautiful sun- 
 rise, which mingled its rays with the purple of 
 the autumnal wood, in this very region where 
 I made sketches three years ago. But we are 
 now at the point in this country where the land- 
 scape becomes more striking, broadens out and 
 even takes on something that is pathetic in its 
 majesty. It is impossible to give thee an idea 
 
32 A Soldier of France 
 
 of the horizon. It appears that we are to stay 
 for some time in this magnificent district, and 
 here All Saints' Day finds us. At this moment 
 I am writing thee in the midst of the silvery rays 
 of a sun rising through the mists of the valleys. 
 This whole area seems to be slumbering for 
 twenty-five miles round about and the battle 
 scarcely troubles the religious calmness of the 
 scene. 
 
 I am glad you like my proposed picture, 
 which binds me still closer to my destiny. If I 
 have the good fortune to return alive, the form 
 may undergo some changes, but the essence of it 
 is contained in the sketch which I have sent thee. 
 
 Noon. — A splendid All Saints' Day pro- 
 faned by violence. But glory be to the day! 
 
 November 2. All Souls' Day. 
 
 A splendid festival of sun and joy in the 
 glorious nature of a Meuse landscape. Hope 
 is pressed back into the heart, not daring to dis- 
 turb the grief of those to whom this day is the 
 first stage in their mourning. Dear much-loved 
 Mama, twenty-eight years ago you were in 
 mourning and in hope; today, mingled with 
 your anxiety, is much hope. These new trials 
 do not find thee at the same age as then ; a whole 
 
A Soldier of France 33 
 
 life of resignation has prepared thee to bear 
 up bravely for this supreme effort of wisdom. 
 
 What voluptuousness there is in this constant 
 vibration in the breast of nature ! For instance, 
 this same horizon which I saw awaken this 
 morning, was bathed last evening in a pink light, 
 while a full moon rose in a soft sky against 
 which were outlined, in coral and saffron, the 
 notched tops of the trees. Dearest, have you 
 today this beautiful sun which we have? How 
 noble the country looks and how good nature 
 is. She tells all those who will hear her that 
 nothing will be lost. 
 
 Dearest one, this terrible martyrology of the 
 élite of the French youth cannot go on growing 
 indefinitely. It is impossible that what is best 
 in a whole race should disappear. To bring out 
 the genius of a nation there is something better 
 than war. I seem to feel that a nobler day 
 awaits us. Hope, ever hope ! 
 
 I have received dear grandmother's letter. 
 
 November 4. 
 
 I live only by thy thought and in the benedic- 
 tion of nature. This morning our chiefs threat- 
 ened us with a long march of twelve miles, and 
 this threat was carried out in the form of a 
 
34 A Soldier of France 
 
 charming tramp through a country which I love 
 so much. We saw an exquisitely thin mist, due 
 to the temperate heat of the sun, rise hour after 
 hour from the surface of the earth. At a dis- 
 tance we distinguished lofty plateaus, from 
 which the view must have been extensive, all 
 of whose outlines came out clearly or were 
 easily divined in the haze. We remarked hills, 
 covered with trees, which presented charming 
 contours. It all made me think of the primitives 
 and their landscapes so full of feeling and so 
 conscientious. What fastidious majesty, whose 
 grandeur seizes you at the first glance and whose 
 details make a profound impression on you. 
 You perceive, dear Mother, how God dispenses 
 graces which are far above the reach of the 
 miseries of the hour. 
 
 The question of patience is, in our eyes, a 
 buried one, since we no longer measure time; 
 how long such or such a thing is to last does not 
 concern us. So what an ocean of emotions 
 rushes in on the minute which is ours. Such is 
 our life — that is, thine and mine — about which 
 I have been writing thee, that nothing which 
 may happen can render it a thing which has not 
 been completed, which has been interrupted in 
 the making; and I am determined to hold on to 
 
A Soldier of France 35 
 
 this wisdom. But at the same time I would ally 
 it with another sort of wisdom which has to do 
 with the future, even though this future be a 
 region into which we may not put foot. So, 
 while we accept the whole present — and how 
 many treasures it brings us — let us prepare for 
 the future. 
 
 Eight a. m., November 5. 
 
 Dear Mother: Please don't hide from me 
 any of your troubles and occupations in Paris. 
 Whatever you decide is for the best. My hap- 
 piness lies in that peace of mind which springs 
 from my knowing that your own soul is calm in 
 the midst of all this turmoil. 
 
 The weather continues to be fine and very 
 mild. Today, without leaving the beautiful 
 region where we have been since September 
 20, we have returned to the woods. I like it 
 less than the free stretch of country, but there 
 are fine little spots here, and the sky, now 
 that the leaves have fallen, looks down upon 
 us so tenderly and beautifully, even in the 
 woods. 
 
 I am expecting a letter from thee. You can- 
 not imagine how much longer a day is without 
 home news. It is true that I have the old let- 
 
36 A Soldier of France 
 
 ters, but the new one has a perfume that I can 
 no longer get on without. 
 
 November 6. 
 
 Yesterday, without knowing why, I felt a 
 little low spirited. The soldiers call it having 
 the blues. 1 It was due, probably, because last 
 evening I mislaid a notebook which I had in- 
 tended sending you in an express package. 
 Though there was nothing of a warlike nature 
 in day before yesterday's events, still they so 
 upset me that I didn't attend to that express 
 package as I had intended to do. So now I am 
 anxious about it for two reasons. In the first 
 place, lest the package never reaches you, and 
 so these notes, which describe my life from 
 the first to the twentieth of October, get lost; 2 
 and in the second place, I am worried lest 
 the package arrive before the letter explain- 
 ing it. 
 
 Today we are blest with a Corot landscape 
 with its delicate and intimate touch. From the 
 barn where we have established our outposts I 
 see, in the foreground, the highroad dotted with 
 
 1 Avoir le cafard. 
 
 2 Such was not the case, however, as extracts from this note- 
 book have been given in the preceding pages of this volume. 
 
A Soldier of France 37 
 
 puddles of water left by the recent rain; then a 
 lot of tree stumps, and next, beyond a meadow, 
 a line of willows along the banks of a charming 
 babbling brook. In the background are some 
 houses, half veiled in a light mist, which give 
 the dainty dark dash to the picture, those 
 sombre hues which our dear landscapist felt and 
 depicted in such a noble manner. And this is 
 the peacefulness of our morning. But who 
 would believe that you have simply to turn your 
 head in another direction to see only burnings 
 and ruins ! 
 
 Eight a. m., November 7. 
 
 I have just received thy card of the thirtieth, 
 announcing the sending of a package. How 
 nice of you. How you all think of us. All 
 these dainties which you send are fully appre- 
 ciated. 
 
 Yesterday was a delicious November day, but 
 this morning there is too much fog to be able to 
 enjoy the pleasures of nature. But what an 
 afternoon that of yesterday was ! The atmos- 
 phere was delicate and refined, and every object 
 was outlined in a misty veil. The little wood 
 near our guardhouse has been taken possession 
 of by a flock of green birds with white-bordered 
 
38 A Soldier of France 
 
 wings, the males having black heads with a white 
 spot. What a whiz they made in the surround- 
 ing tranquility. Here we have another example 
 of gentleness in the midst of these warring folk. 
 There can be only a certain amount of wicked- 
 ness in the world, and as at the present moment 
 all this wickedness is reserved by men for their 
 own kind, the lower animals are taking advan- 
 tage of the situation — at least the birds are, 
 who, under normal conditions, are our victims. 
 You see this in the feeling of security which 
 has taken possession of the little forest animals 
 — the mice and ground rats, for instance. The 
 other day, hidden among the branches, I 
 watched the goings and comings of these tiny 
 rodents, who were as pretty as a Japanese pic- 
 ture, with the inside of their ears as pink as a 
 shell. And, too, we have seen the cranes start- 
 ing for a warmer clime. There is something 
 very moving in their cry in the twilight. 
 
 I am so glad you have taken up drawing 
 again, for it will be a source of delight to us 
 both. You cannot imagine my longing to be 
 in a position where I can paint all we feel. 
 In reading my more recent letters, you must 
 have felt what are my privations as well as 
 my joys. 
 
A Soldier of France 39 
 
 Seven a. m. y November Q. 
 
 We are back in an open country again, which 
 is what I like so much. But unfortunately we 
 get glimpses of it only through the loopholes of 
 our trenches. But then we must be thankful for 
 favors, small though they be. During the past 
 few days I have been enjoying the charm of the 
 country reposing in the calmness of autumn. 
 But this peacefulness was interrupted yesterday 
 by the poignant sensation of a burning village, 
 and though this was not the first one we have 
 seen go up in flames, it was the first for some 
 time. We were all at our lookouts when, in the 
 middle of the night, it occurred. From the 
 heights where we are stationed, we could see the 
 big glare, and when daylight came, this charm- 
 ing village, which was sheltered in a little valley, 
 was simply a smoking mass in the silver cloud of 
 a glorious morning. From our rat hole we saw 
 in the distance the highway with its graceful 
 bends, the brook lined with willows, the cross- 
 road calvary — all this harmony ending in the 
 horror of destruction. We learned later that 
 the Germans had set fire to this village when 
 they found they had to give it up after a furious 
 fight which lasted two nights. This action 
 would seem to indicate that they are about to 
 
40 A Soldier of France 
 
 retire at this point. This way of proceeding, 
 so generally disliked by our soldiers, is, I sup- 
 pose, justifiable on the ground of strategic ne- 
 cessity, for when a village is thus blotted out, 
 our services in the rear are considerably ham- 
 pered thereby. So during the whole day we 
 watched the havoc going on, while, over our 
 heads, the little ground rats were engaged in 
 making the most of the straw in which we are 
 going to sleep later. 
 
 The existence of us infantry soldiers is much 
 like that of rabbits during the shooting season. 
 It has become a second nature with us, or, at 
 least, with the more timid of us, to be always 
 on the lookout for a hole to hide in, and as soon 
 as we get into one, we are advised to stay there 
 quietly. But this good advice is not always fol- 
 lowed with discernment by those in authority. 
 Thus, yesterday, four of us were in an advanced 
 trench which was splendidly situated and quite 
 hidden under branches. So here was an oppor- 
 tunity to enjoy in safety the beautiful view if it 
 had not been for our well-intentioned corporal 
 who was evidently worried lest we should have 
 a nice little time all there alone by ourselves. 
 Happily, the artillery and machine guns came 
 up to where we were, made a terrible racket, 
 
A Soldier of France 41 
 
 and showed us what superfluous precautions 
 amounted to. So, with this example before us, 
 we stayed where we were and how we were, and 
 I was able to feast my eyes at will on the land- 
 scape, which, alas ! was so tragic and smoky yes- 
 terday. But, dear Mother, you must not con- 
 clude from all this that I am imprudent, though 
 the truth is that war makes you feel that all 
 depends upon good luck, Providence, and des- 
 tiny. I am always praying for the boon of a 
 safe return, but if you except little lapses now 
 and then into quite human impatience, I can 
 say that the main object I always have in view 
 is getting as much as possible out of the present 
 moment. 
 
 Eleven a. m., November 10. 
 
 Very dear Mama: And what shall I write 
 about today, so monotonous in its fog? I have 
 been busy at trivial little occupations rendered 
 all the more so by my working with those in 
 whom I take no real interest. At such moments 
 I simply crawl right into my own little shell and 
 stay there. 
 
 Yesterday I wrote thee a long letter in which 
 I said, among other things, how dear thy let- 
 ters are to me. I am sometimes bored a little 
 
42 A Soldier of France 
 
 on taking up paper and pen again, but when I 
 finally find myself with thee, then I am happy 
 once more and all the pleasant happenings of 
 the day come pouring back to me for thee. 
 
 This morning our lieutenant sent me to get 
 some wire at headquarters in a ruined village 
 which we have had in our possession for the 
 past six weeks. I went down there through 
 plum orchards where the ground was covered 
 with recently fallen fruit. Some of my more 
 devil-may-care men began picking it up and put- 
 ting it in baskets — all this forming a pastoral 
 and bucolic picture in spite of the red trousers, 
 rather faded after three months of campaign. 
 
 The little preferment which I have been 
 given keeps me on the go from sunset until 
 nine p.m., and ends with my sleeping in one of 
 the dugouts or a barn instead of going back to 
 the trenches for the night. So I don't enjoy 
 pleasant evenings for reading, though some- 
 times in the trenches, when friend S. and I sleep 
 side by side, we build up all sorts of castles 
 together and furnish them with recollections 
 of the past. The sciences and odd intellectual 
 incidents carry us off into things legendary, and 
 what pleasure I then get from discovering the 
 wonderful possibilities which might spring from 
 
A Soldier of France 43 
 
 this metal or that acid and suddenly finding 
 myself back in my Arabian Nights days; and 
 when we wake up, we may be greeted by a sun- 
 rise which surpasses all our fancies of the night 
 before. 
 
 So here you have the life I have been leading 
 since the thirteenth or the fourteenth of Octo- 
 ber. I don't ask for any thing better, and am 
 contented, for in such a war as is this, we 
 are enjoying, relatively, a rather easy-going 
 existence. 
 
 You cannot imagine how much comfort I get 
 from knowing that you are interested so deeply 
 in my things at home — that you read my books 
 and love to look at my dear engravings. 
 
 Three p. m. } November 12. 
 
 Today we went on a march for exercise, and 
 it was as agreeable as the first one. The 
 weather was most beautiful. We could see the 
 distant ridge of hills around Metz bathed in a 
 blue and pink light, the immense stretch of coun- 
 try besprinkled with villages, some of which 
 were wrapped in the full light of morning, 
 while others we guessed the presence of rather 
 than saw. 
 
 Here, in brief, is the way we now pass our 
 
44 yf Soldier of France 
 
 time: During three days we are kept near the 
 enemy, living in well-constructed shelters which 
 we improve each time we come back to them; 
 then we have three days a little back of the 
 front, and finally three days lodged in a near-by 
 village, generally the same one. So we are lead- 
 ing a sort of hum-drum existence, at least, for 
 the moment, and are getting somewhat ac- 
 quainted with the civil population, which has 
 had a pretty hard time of it. These people are 
 good souls, especially the dear old dame in 
 whose house I am writing you. She was my 
 hostess the other time we stopped in this village, 
 and she is doing everything in her power to try 
 and make me feel at home. But, dear Mama, 
 what brings home back to me is what I have in 
 my heart. It is not eating on plates or sitting 
 on a chair which counts; it is the love which I 
 feel is near me — that's home to me. 
 
 Those woolen things are precious and are 
 victorious ! 
 
 November 14. 
 
 Since the twelfth, at eight thirty in the eve- 
 ning, we have been living in the probability of 
 our taking part in a violent forward movement. 
 We started out in the dark. Once in the calm 
 
A Soldier of France 45 
 
 of nature, my thoughts clarified themselves a 
 little after the two days of cantonment when 
 the mind gets running a little too much on mate- 
 rial things. We were moving blindly forward 
 as reinforcements. We waited for things to be 
 got ready for us to sleep in a barn, where we 
 lay on the board floor from eleven o'clock in 
 the evening until four in the morning. Then we 
 were marched through the woods and fields, 
 which the early daylight, breaking through the 
 gray, red, and violet clouds, lit up little by lit- 
 tle — the whole situation being romantic and 
 affecting. When the morning, which was a fine 
 one, was fully upon us, we learned that the 
 troops which were ahead of us had caused the 
 enemy great loss and had even got forward a 
 bit. So we thereupon marched back to our old 
 quarters and here I am again enjoying the splen- 
 dor of our French country, so soul-stirring in 
 this gray, windy, and impetuous November 
 weather, where the sunlight is thrown in spots 
 over a plain spreading off to the distant horizon. 
 Dear Mama, how fine this region really is — 
 so vast and so worthy of admiration, where 
 everything has a noble bearing and is so well 
 proportioned; where there are no end of sub- 
 jects which invite the artist's brush — roads bor- 
 
46 A Soldier of France 
 
 dered with trees and running towards the fron- 
 tier; rising hills behind which lie mists which 
 probably hide the German Vosges mountains. 
 Such is the scenery spread out before me. 
 
 But I have been enjoying something even bet- 
 ter than it, perhaps. I refer to a melody of 
 Beethoven and a piece by Liszt entitled "God's 
 Benediction on Solitude." It is true that we 
 haven't solitude here, but if you will glance over 
 the poetry of Albert Samain, 1 you will find an 
 epigraph from Villiers de l'lsle-Adam, 2 which 
 runs: "One should remember that there will 
 always be solitude on the earth for those who 
 are worthy of it." This is the solitude of the 
 soul which can turn a deaf ear to every thing 
 which does not vibrate in accord with it. 
 
 I have received your two letters of the sixth 
 and the seventh. Perhaps I may have another 
 this evening. Yes, don't let us consider that 
 there is any thing especially courageous on our 
 part in going on with our various duties, even if 
 our letters do not arrive promptly, though I am 
 
 1 A well known contemporary French poet (1858-1900). 
 The epigraph mentioned in the text is attached to the poem 
 "L'Allée Solitaire" in the collection, "Au Jardin de l'Infante." 
 
 2 French symbolistic poet (1840-89). The original text of 
 the epigraph runs: "Sache qu'il y aura toujours de la solitude 
 sur terre pour ceux qui en sont dignes." 
 
A Soldier of France 47 
 
 quite ready to admit that these letters are our 
 life. It is through them that we communicate 
 to one another our joys, our good fortunes, and 
 the pleasures which we derive from knowing 
 what is going on in the world at large. If your 
 eyes trouble you, that is a sufficient cause for 
 writing less. But, unless it be reasons of health, 
 do not deprive me of thy heart which thy letters 
 bring to me. 
 
 November 14. Second letter. 
 
 Dear Mother whom I love: Here we are 
 back in our customary cantonment, and my 
 heart is overflowing with thoughts which tend 
 towards thee. I cannot tell thee everything I 
 think each moment, though I do desire to share 
 with thee the many joys scattered through our 
 monotonous existence, as when a broken thread 
 lets fall the beads on the sand. I would like to 
 be able to turn to thee and say, "How beauti- 
 ful that cloud is"; or, "How that broad land- 
 scape commands our respect," and then listen to 
 the poetry of the wind from across the hills as 
 we used to listen to it during our walks together 
 about Boulogne. And then, while I am here, 
 so many prosaic occupations prevent me from 
 speaking to thee as I really feel. This is why I 
 
48 A Soldier of France 
 
 sent that express package containing my note- 
 book extending from August eighteenth to Oc- 
 tober twentieth. These notes were made when 
 our knapsacks weren't so heavy and the bearer 
 felt more like writing, and when, in the serenity 
 of soul of those days in the trenches, where dan- 
 ger cut short idle talk, my whole being vibrated 
 spontaneously. Since then I have discovered a 
 joy much more intense, and large and full — 
 writing to thee. This new period has become a 
 sort of paradise to me. But I do not like can- 
 tonment life because the comforts and the feel- 
 ing of security put the men in good spirits and 
 create a turmoil which is unpleasant to me. You 
 know how I always liked to be by myself and 
 how I enjoyed solitude. But from this I don't 
 want you to imagine that I haven't good friends 
 here. The officers are very kind to me. But 
 by exercising a little patience, and a few instants 
 with my thoughts turning towards thee, I am 
 quite happy again. 
 
 How kind this first half of November has 
 been to me. I haven't suffered once from cold. 
 And what beauties on every hand ! This last 
 All Saints' Day was one long song from begin- 
 ning to end. The pure moonlight falling on 
 the dark amber of the autumnal trees, until day 
 
A Soldier of France 49 
 
 broke with its tender sounds of life, while the 
 immense pink dream which was this plain, veiled 
 in mist and leaning, as it were, on the near-by- 
 hills — what a hymn it all was. And many of 
 the days since then have declared the glory of 
 God. Cœli enarrant. 1 Here is one of those 
 pleasures coming down from those ancient 
 times — those beautiful Psalms. 
 
 Seven a. m., November 75. 
 
 Yesterday the weather was changeable. But 
 I like such weather when you enjoy the shelter 
 of cantonment, though on this occasion it 
 made me a little nervous about our leaving to- 
 night. But when I woke up this morning my 
 mind was put at rest on this point, for we had 
 the clearest sky imaginable, all glittering with 
 stars. Nobody could have wished for anything 
 better, and I was thankful beyond expression. 
 What soldiers on the march dislike most of all 
 is rain. It wets you through and through ; you 
 have no fire to dry yourself before, and nothing 
 to shelter you from the downpour. Cold is 
 nothing in comparison with rain; we can arm 
 ourselves against cold. 
 
 How I appreciated the view of this enormous 
 
 1 The heavens declare the glory of God. Psalm 19, 1. 
 
50 A Soldier of France 
 
 plain to which we marched down in a cutting 
 wind. The low horizon gave a greater breadth 
 to the broad sky which rose above it, where rare 
 moments of pale sunshine recalled the azure 
 glow which had disappeared. Then there was 
 a dark tragic calvary at the roadside, and rows 
 of trees looking like skeletons. What a fine 
 scene. Such sights bring to mind thee and 
 my dear music. Today I am in the right 
 atmosphere. 
 
 Let me go a little into details concerning my 
 views of a better future to be brought about by 
 this war. These events are preparing the bud- 
 ding of a new life — the United States of Eu- 
 rope. When this conflict is ended, those who 
 have performed all their filial duties towards 
 their country will find themselves brought face 
 to face with still greater responsibilities, which 
 cannot be realized at the present moment. But 
 here is the paramount duty — to try now to 
 make the future secure. They must stretch 
 every muscle to do away with all the causes of 
 trouble between nations. The French Revolu- 
 tion, notwithstanding its shortcomings, certain 
 backward steps in practical things, some weak- 
 ness in its constructive measures, nevertheless 
 impressed on humanity what was meant by na- 
 
A Soldier of France 51 
 
 tional unity. Now the horrors of this war must 
 do the same thing for European unity, for race 
 unity. This new condition can be brought about 
 only through suffering, spoliation, contests for 
 years to come; but there can be no question that 
 the door has opened on a new horizon. 
 
 November 16. 
 
 TO MADAME C. 
 
 Very dear Madame and excellent Friend: I 
 cannot tell you how much pleasure and comfort 
 your letter has brought me and how your warm 
 friendship helps me to keep up my courage. 
 What you tell me about my mother is the bond 
 that holds me strongest to life. Many thanks 
 for your constant and deep affection. 
 
 What can I tell you of my daily existence 
 here? In the midst of fatigues and various 
 vicissitudes, I am sustained by the contempla- 
 tion of the beauties of nature around me, which 
 for the past two months have enriched me with 
 emotions and the pathetic things of this season 
 of the year so rich in appeal to our religious 
 sentiments. One of the spots where we stay 
 the most is on the heights which overlook the 
 immense Woëvre plain. Oh, how beautiful it 
 
52 A Soldier of France 
 
 is. And what a benediction it is to be able to 
 follow the changes in the view which each hour 
 of the day and night brings and the modification 
 in the foliage which each autumnal day pro- 
 duces. This fearful human turbulence has not 
 succeeded in disturbing the majestic serenity of 
 nature. It is true that at times man seems to 
 surpass all imaginable restraints, but a pene- 
 trating soul distinguishes rapidly the harmony 
 which dominates and conciliates all this discord. 
 Please don't imagine that I rest insensible to 
 the heart-rending spectacle in which we are 
 plunged — villages, destroyed by savage artil- 
 lery, smoking during the day and glaring at 
 night; the misery of the poor inhabitants fleeing 
 before the pursuing shells, etc. Every moment 
 the heart receives a terrible shock; and it is for 
 this very reason that I seek refuge in a loftier 
 consolation, for, suffering also, I would not be 
 able, otherwise, to bear up under the strain. 
 
 November iy. Morning. 
 
 Dear Mother: Filled with the joy of morn- 
 ing breaking on my dear village, I write thee. 
 A rainy night has brought us pure, glorious 
 weather. I see again my far-away horizon, 
 my clear-cut hills, and the valleys with their 
 
A Soldier of France 53 
 
 ^t ■ . »... i ■ ■ ... . . . i . .. -. ■■ i . ■ , i - 
 
 harmonious lines. Who would imagine, when 
 viewed from the height where I am, that this 
 rustic and peaceful village is really simply a 
 mass of ruins, that not a house has escaped, that 
 for the past two months nobody could stay there 
 on account of the terrible artillery fire? While 
 I write thee, the sun's rays are striking the 
 church steeple which is framed by a tree still in 
 somber shadow not far from me, while wide 
 away above the last rises and the bluffs, the 
 plain begins to disclose its delicate details 
 bathed in a pinkish gold. 
 
 Eleven a. m., November IJ '. 
 
 How much consolation I get from this splen- 
 did weather. But I live much like an invalid 
 sent to a fine country and whose treatment con- 
 strains him to perform some thankless and fa- 
 tiguing task. As regards the situation at Leysin 
 village, where the enemy lies, and our trench 
 here, everything is as uncertain as can well be 
 imagined. In fact nothing has happened to our 
 company worth relating since October thirteen. 
 
 The way this war is being carried on is odd. 
 It is like neighbors who are not on good terms. 
 Just think of it — some of these trenches are 
 scarcely more than a hundred yards apart, so 
 
54 A Soldier of France 
 
 near in fact that the combatants can throw hand 
 grenades at one another. Of course this means 
 that these neighbors sometimes resort to very 
 violent measures to show their dislike for one 
 another. 
 
 As for myself, I am leading my own life only 
 when I am with thee or when feasting my eyes 
 on the natural splendors around me. Even in 
 the midst of the talk going on about me, I man- 
 age to obtain a state of solitude in which to 
 indulge in thought which is so necessary to me. 
 
 November 18. 
 
 When we awoke this morning, we found the 
 ground covered with a hoar frost, a whiteness 
 spread alike over hill and forest. My little 
 village looks chilled to the core. I spent most 
 of the night in a warmed shelter and I could 
 have staid there the whole night, thanks to the 
 kindness of the officers. But I am a fool and 
 timid, and so I came back here and joined my 
 companions from one to four-thirty this morn- 
 ing. It is a curious fact, but the cold doesn't 
 seem to bother us much, largely perhaps on ac- 
 count of an admirable sort of a garment which 
 nearly all of us have — a kind of flour bag 
 which can be used as a cape or a sack to put 
 
A Soldier of France 55 
 
 your feet in. In either case it keeps you very 
 warm. 
 
 Eleven o'clock. — A lovely, touching air of 
 Handel is, for the moment, running through my 
 head; also an allegro of our organ music for 
 four hands — a gay, brilliant piece which is full 
 of action. Dear Handel. He often consoles 
 me. Beethoven comes to my mind rarely, but 
 when his music wakes up in me, it always makes 
 such a deep impression on me that it is as though 
 an unseen hand drew back the curtains and re- 
 vealed Creation to me. Dear, grand old mas- 
 ters ! Will it be thrown up in your faces that 
 you are Germans ? How can Schumann be asso- 
 ciated with barbarians? 
 
 The aspect of the country hereabouts called 
 to my mind yesterday what you played for me 
 ten years ago from Wagner's "Rhinegold" — 
 "On Radiant Heights," etc. 1 But what our 
 French opera has that is superior to the music 
 of that composer is its substance, its limpidity, 
 and its conscience. Yes, there is nothing turbid 
 in the range of our French music. However 
 beautiful Wagner's music may be, however in- 
 contestable and seductive his genius may be, still 
 
 1 Auf wonnigen Hôh'n, in seligen Weben wiegt ihr euch. — 
 "Das Rheingold." Dritte Scene. 
 
56 A Soldier of France 
 
 I think that being deprived of hearing his music 
 would not be so great a loss to French genius 
 as if this happened to the grand classics of his 
 fellow countrymen. 
 
 I can tell thee honestly that when the thought 
 of possibly returning home safe and sound gets 
 possession of me, never do I think of the trivial 
 side — the many little comforts and pleasures 
 that would then be mine again. This hope is 
 based on something higher and nobler. May 
 I even say it is something else than the great joy 
 of our meeting again? It is rather the expec- 
 tation of our taking up again our common effort, 
 our united labor for the development of our 
 soul, making it more useful than ever on this 
 earth of ours. 
 
 November iq. Morning. 
 
 Very dear Mama: Today I was waked up 
 at sunrise by a violent cannonading not common 
 at this hour of the morning. At the same mo- 
 ment some of our soldiers came back chilled 
 to the marrow by a night in the trenches. I 
 got up to go and find some wood for them, when 
 the firing began to be pretty strong on the oppo- 
 site side of the valley. I went up as high as I 
 could go until I saw in the very clear sky the 
 
A Soldier of France 57. 
 
 first signs of the break of day. Suddenly, from 
 the hill in front of me, the one I like so much, 
 came a great noise and shouts of "Forward!" 
 "Forward!" It was a bayonet charge, the first 
 I had seen, though in this instance I must con- 
 fess I couldn't see much of it because the light 
 was so bad and also probably because of the 
 unfavorable lay of the ground. But what I 
 heard sufficed to show that an attack was under- 
 way. Up to the present I have been able to 
 figure to myself only a sort of anonymous war- 
 fare, which calls for a kind of courage very 
 different from the valor which civilians gener- 
 ally associate with war. This morning's uproar 
 also suggested another reflection. While I 
 stood there in the calm of nature, young men 
 without any personal motive of hate could and 
 must throw themselves on other young men who 
 stood waiting to kill them. In the meanwhile 
 the sun had risen and lighted up the valley, and 
 from my lofty position I could distinguish two 
 villages, two ruins, one of which went up in 
 flames recently, burning through three nights. 
 Near me I also noticed two crosses in plain 
 wood, marking the spot where French blood 
 has been spilt. 
 
58 A Soldier of France 
 
 November 20. 
 
 At this moment, from the window where I 
 am writing thee, I see the sun coming up. It 
 is piercing the frost on the beautiful earth, which 
 tolerates such horrors as those now going on 
 here. I learn that many were the victims of 
 that bayonet charge which I heard rather than 
 saw yesterday. Among others, we have no 
 news of two sections of the regiment which 
 forms with ours this brigade. Thus, while 
 others were accomplishing their destiny, I was 
 safe at the top of the most beautiful hill here- 
 abouts, which I may add, however, is in ordi- 
 nary moments very much exposed to the enemy's 
 gunfire. I saw the sun rise, was filled with emo- 
 tion at the sight of the peace of nature, and 
 then felt as perhaps never before the great dif- 
 ference between the baseness of human violence 
 and the majesty of the surrounding hills. 
 
 That painful period for thee which extended 
 from September ninth to October thirteenth, 
 corresponds exactly with the first phase of the 
 war for me. On September ninth I arrived at 
 the front, getting out of the train when the ter- 
 rible battle of the Marne was underway some 
 twenty miles from where we were. On the 
 twelfth, I joined the One Hundred and Sixth 
 
A Soldier of France 59 
 
 infantry and since then I have been with the 
 fighters. As I wrote you on October thirteenth, 
 we left the magnificent woods where the enemy's 
 artillery and infantry did us much damage, espe- 
 cially on the third. Our little circle lost that 
 day a heart of gold, a splendid fellow who had 
 become too good to live. On the fourth, an 
 excellent companion, a student of the school of 
 architecture, was badly wounded in the arm. 
 But he has since sent us good news of himself. 
 So up to the thirteenth, that terrible day, we had 
 some hard moments to pass through, which 
 were made all the harder by a feeling of being 
 smothered and not knowing what we were 
 doing, shut up as we were in this wood, an ad- 
 mirable place to be in at any other time. 
 
 The most important conclusion to draw from 
 all this is that we should keep ever in view the 
 gravity of each passing moment. The problem 
 is of a very peculiar kind. On the one hand is 
 my providential good luck in not having been 
 hurt so far; and yet it must not be forgotten 
 that in the future I run all the risk that I have 
 been running in the past. Hence it is that our 
 desire to do the right thing should be especially 
 confined to the present passing moment, which 
 may be the last. No looking into the future 
 
60 A Soldier of France 
 
 can bring us any real satisfaction, whereas I 
 think every effort to improve the present counts. 
 It is a heroic struggle that must be kept up and 
 we can depend only on ourselves. We might 
 also remember that there is another power much 
 stronger than is any of our poor human strength. 
 
 November 21. 
 
 At present our daily life is so comfortable 
 that it is almost too much so. The cold has kept 
 us in the house of an excellent woman who takes 
 care of us every time we come to this village, 
 where we are cantoned three days out of every 
 nine. I shall say nothing of the fine view from 
 the window where I am writing to you, but I 
 should say something of the inside of this house 
 where a certain portion of our existence is 
 passed. During the day we live in two rooms 
 separated by a glass partition, so that from one 
 room to the other we can admire the blazing 
 fire and the big fireplace, or the magnificent 
 wardrobe and the ancient brass bedsteads pe- 
 culiar to the Meuse region. The ordinarily 
 quiet life of two old ladies — a mother who is 
 eighty-seven and her daughter — is rendered 
 topsy-turvy by the rough and rude, but good- 
 hearted and generous ways of our soldiers. 
 
A Soldier of France 61 
 
 The two old ladies make no complaint, how- 
 ever, but on the contrary are really devoted 
 to us. 
 
 As regards Spinoza, the essence of whose doc- 
 trine you have grasped, I think you can skip 
 the rest to the last theorems. I feel sure that 
 you will comprehend intuitively what he says 
 about repose of soul. Yes, this repose of soul 
 comes too rarely to us who are feeble; but it 
 suffices for us to distinguish in ourselves, too 
 often wholly absorbed with the knocks and the 
 jolts of our poor humanity, a certain tendency 
 towards permanent and final things, and then 
 we recognize the admirable patrimony of the 
 divine which is in us all. 
 
 Dear Mother, what a fine day I have passed 
 with thee. We were three — we two and the 
 grand view from my window. Winter, seen 
 from here, presents a rather heavy and dead- 
 ened image of things. Two clouds, or rather 
 it is mist, envelop my neighboring hill and soften 
 down the lines of the shrubs at the top. There 
 is a dash of green in the sky. Everything is 
 a little weakened in color and seems to sleep. 
 And this is the very moment for the night at- 
 tacks, the shouts of the charge, the vigils in the 
 trenches. How we long each instant for the 
 
62 A Soldier of France 
 
 end of all this. How we all wish we could have 
 repose, full gratification of all our desires, and 
 some compensation for all suffering, labor and 
 separation from home and friends. 
 
 Nine-thirty a. m. t Sunday, November 22. 
 
 From my favorite spot I write thee this morn- 
 ing, though nothing has happened since last 
 evening which calls for remark, unless it be 
 perhaps the thousand little changes in the land- 
 scape. I rose with the sun whose silvery light 
 now fills the sky. The weather is still rather 
 cold, but the supply of blankets gets the better 
 of that when you pass the night in a canton- 
 ment. That is about all I have to say on what 
 has happened; now a few words about what 
 may happen or has just happened. 
 
 Tomorrow we go back to our second line 
 trenches in the woods, which are now like skele- 
 tons and are rather monotonous. Of the three 
 spots in which we stay that is perhaps the one 
 I like the least, for the branches of the high 
 trees cut off considerably the view of the sky. 
 Also the landscape is flat, and the whole place 
 is somewhat depressing on account of the course 
 of life there. 
 
 Hostilities seem to be getting a little more 
 
A Soldier of France 63 
 
 active in our region. For instance, this morn- 
 ing we heard a violent musketry firing, which 
 is very uncommon in the present war, made up 
 principally of night attacks, the day being almost 
 wholly reserved for artillery bombardments. 
 
 Dear Mother, let us place our hope in the 
 strength of soul which the hour, each minute, 
 demand of us. Yes, it gives me pleasure to 
 speak to thee of my daily life here, which in 
 more ways than one is not so bad. Often at 
 evening when I find myself alone out on the 
 road where my trivial duties take me, I am so 
 happy at being able to hold communion with 
 noble nature, with the heavens and their har- 
 monious starry patterns, with the ample and 
 graceful curves of the hills; and, although even 
 at such moments danger lurks around us, I feel 
 that not only thy courage, thy belief in the eter- 
 nal, but also thy love for me will approve of 
 my not thinking always of what might happen. 
 
 Thus my present existence gives rise to some 
 rather lofty sensations whose influence over me 
 does not depend on their duration or persis- 
 tency, as, for instance, beautiful foliage, a sun- 
 rise, a delicate landscape, a wonderful moon, 
 in a word, everything in which ephemeralness 
 and perennity, at one and the same time, isolate 
 
64 A Soldier of France 
 
 the human heart and turn it from all those pre- 
 occupations which in this crisis are apt to lead 
 us either to a despairing disquietude or to an 
 abject materialism, or again to an optimism 
 which I would replace by a high-held hope which 
 we both feel and which does not find its foun- 
 dation in things human. 
 
 To dear grandmother I send my most tender 
 and constant love, and trust that you both will 
 be of good cheer, preserve your serenity, and 
 be ready to accept whatever comes, and yet not 
 give up all hope. 
 
 November 23. 
 
 Dear Mother: Here we are in our shelters 
 in the second line of trenches. We are lodged 
 in what I may call earth cabins, where the fire 
 smokes us as much as it warms us. The 
 weather, which was overcast during the night, 
 offered us a fine pink and blue morning. But 
 unfortunately these woods do not mean so much 
 to me as the splendid, wide stretches of country 
 which spread out in front of our first line. But 
 everything in nature is beautiful in this region. 
 
 My day yesterday was made up of the pleas- 
 ure of writing thee. At one moment I entered 
 the village Catholic church, but I was not led 
 
A Soldier of France 65 
 
 there by any sentimental feelings or desire for 
 outside comfort. My conception of divine har- 
 mony doesn't need to be bolstered up by any 
 formalism or popular symbolism. Then I had 
 the grand satisfaction of going with a wagon 
 out into the adjoining country on a little mili- 
 tary errand. Oh ! what a wonderful landscape 
 there met my eyes — a savory color, the usual 
 pink and blue attenuated by the mist, and all 
 this luminous and sumptuous delicacy strength- 
 ened by the strong spots made by human figures 
 scattered here and there over the scene. My 
 favorite landscape, generally primitive in its 
 precision, now took on a subtility of shades and 
 a varied richness which rendered it essentially 
 modern. For a moment it brought back to me 
 the more intellectual suburbs of Paris with their 
 infinite notation and their definite registers, if 
 I may employ a musical simile. But here there 
 is more candor and more frankness in the scen- 
 ery; everything was simply pink and blue on a 
 fine gray ground. My driver, having some dif- 
 ficulty in managing the horse, handed me the 
 switch that I might stir him up from time to 
 time. I must have looked like some of those 
 mechanical playthings, so stiffly did I perform 
 my part. We passed several of those calvaries 
 
66 A Soldier of France 
 
 which guard the villages of this region, pecu- 
 liar because of the trees which encircle the 
 cross. 
 
 Three-thirty p. m. } November 24. Back from 
 a march. 
 
 I have just received thy letter dated the six- 
 teenth and the post card, and also thy dear letter 
 of the eighteenth. The two last tell of the safe 
 arrival of my package. How glad I am. For 
 a moment I hesitated as to whether I ought to 
 send thee those impressions. But between us 
 life has ever been and can never be other than 
 a perpetual investigation into the regions of 
 eternal truths, a fervent study of them as pre- 
 sented by each terrestrial spectacle. So on the 
 whole I do not regret having sent thee those 
 little notes. 
 
 The first stay I made here was during those 
 rainy days of September. None of us has for- 
 gotten them. We used to sleep all together in 
 a heap, face against face, hands crossed, and 
 buried in a deluge of rain and mud. You can 
 not imagine our state of despair; and on top 
 of it all came the announcement that the enemy 
 was training machine-guns on us and we must 
 prepare to attack him. In the meanwhile others 
 
A Soldier of France 67 
 
 took our place and the joy over our deliverance 
 was great indeed. 
 
 In regard to my little uncompleted poem, 
 "Sun so Pale," it refers to the eleventh, twelfth, 
 and thirteenth of October, and in a general way 
 to the period of the battle in the woods which 
 lasted for our regiment from September twenty- 
 second to October thirteenth. Some of the sun- 
 rises which broke on the victims of those strug- 
 gles made a deep impression on me, as the poem 
 shows. Since then I have written nothing except 
 a prayer which I sent thee five or six days ago. 
 I wrote it on this road which we have just 
 marched over. 
 
 N ovember 2 5. Morning. 
 
 Yesterday during our march, I lived in a pic- 
 ture of my beloved primitives. Coming out of 
 a wood and while we were going down a road, 
 we were near a big castle in the midst of a farm, 
 adorned with a grove of bare trees and a frozen 
 pond. In the fore-shortened perspective, which 
 my dear painters used so cleverly and naively, 
 a road, unrolling its sinuosities, its risings and 
 its descents, linked copses and isolated trees — 
 all this clear, fine, as if engraved, and yet at 
 the same time tender. A little bridge crossed 
 
68 A Soldier of France 
 
 a brook; a trooper who passed over this little 
 bridge was clearly outlined; then came a small 
 wagon — all delicately balanced as regards dis- 
 creet and well-sustained values, and the whole 
 backed with a horizon of noble woods. A gray 
 atmosphere, which drove from my mind the 
 quite modern fairyland of shades of last Sun- 
 day, took me back to that incisive conscience 
 which moves you in a Breughel 1 and the other 
 masters whose names escape me. Such also was 
 the orderly and limpid profusion of the back- 
 grounds of Albert Durer. 2 
 
 November 26. 
 
 Dearest Mother: I didn't succeed in finish- 
 ing this letter yesterday, as we had so much to 
 do. Today it is still night as I write thee. From 
 my cave — we have just come to the first line — 
 I send thee deepest love and the expression of 
 my supreme happiness. I feel my life work 
 taking possession of me. What matter if Provi- 
 dence does not permit me to give it the light of 
 day? I have a firm hope and a real confidence 
 in eternal justice, whatever may be the surprise 
 that this eternal justice sometimes causes in us 
 
 *Jan Breughel (1567-1625), Flemish painter. 
 2 German painter (1471-1528). 
 
A Soldier of France 69 
 
 because of our preconceived human idea of 
 what it should be. 
 
 November 28. 
 
 The place we now occupy is only some fifty 
 yards from the enemy. The works of approach 
 present a curious appearance, which is almost 
 picturesque in its roughness, and looks all the 
 more so in this gray weather. When, having 
 baffled, largely thanks to the night, the vigilance 
 of the enemy, our troops, coming up from the 
 valley, get half-way up the hillside whose slopes 
 protect us from infantry fire, they find shelters 
 dug into the face of the hill, burrows where 
 those not on duty can get rested and warmed 
 by an improvised fireplace; and further on, at 
 the point where the landscape becomes mag- 
 nificent because of its broad extent and the full 
 play of light, commences the twisting ditch or 
 boyau, the communicating trench, in which you 
 can move along out of sight until you reach the 
 regular third line trench. The whole scene 
 forms quite a warlike picture, severe and not 
 without its grandeur, since this deep passageway 
 has as its roof the gray sky, and its sides of 
 earth are spread over with new-fallen snow. 
 Here are infantry reserves, generally feeble in 
 
70 A Soldier of France 
 
 numbers. At this point the enemy is only little 
 over a hundred yards away. As this ditch ad- 
 vances it becomes more and more sinuous and 
 deeper. When I go down into it, I always catch 
 the odor of newly turned up earth, a fresh sap 
 seeming to speak to me of the energies of this 
 much-lacerated ground so like what happens in 
 life. In these passages two or three sappers are 
 constantly at work lengthening and deepening 
 the ditch, closely watched by the Germans who 
 are here and there able to strike at points which 
 they find insufficiently protected. At the extrem- 
 ity of this ditch, some forty yards or more away, 
 is stationed our last infantry soldier, in the first- 
 line trench. 
 
 You can imagine the contrast between the 
 consequences of these military activities and the 
 peace accustomed to reign in this spot. Think 
 how I am astonished when I recall that on a 
 level with my eyes, as I stand in these trenches, 
 the farmer used to guide his plough, and the 
 same sun, which I long for as does a prisoner 
 for his freedom, was shed on this farmer in 
 abundance on these same heights. So when eve- 
 ning comes and I get back to the open surface 
 of the ground, you can guess what my joy must 
 be. But I should not speak to thee of these 
 
A Soldier of France 71 
 
 things, for I still wish to say nothing of my 
 pleasures; they must not be talked about. 
 They are birds of silence. Let us speak only 
 of the joys — this is the essential thing — that 
 do not alarm us, as, for instance, the joy of 
 knowing that we are prepared for whatever 
 happens. 
 
 November 2Q. Morning, in cantonment. 
 
 Very dear Mama: Yesterday, in threaten- 
 ing weather, I left the first line, and during the 
 night, after I got back here, it began to rain. 
 From my favorite window I saw it coming on, 
 first in the form of fog. If you like, I shall tell 
 you of my fine views of yesterday. From the 
 spot described in my yesterday's letter, one can 
 see, as I have often written thee, the most won- 
 derful horizon. Yesterday a terrific wind tore 
 to pieces a veil of clouds which were hanging 
 low and they got caught on the top of the hills. 
 Perhaps the background of my H. picture may 
 give you a feeble idea of what I saw. But how 
 much more majestic and full of life was the 
 emotion I felt when I saw the reality. These 
 hills and valleys pass by turns from shadow to 
 light, sometimes coming out very clearly and 
 then again appearing somewhat veiled, depend- 
 
72 A Soldier of France 
 
 ing on how much or how little the mist uncovers 
 them. High up in the sky are big, blue holes 
 fringed with light. 
 
 Such were some of the beauties of yesterday. 
 What can I tell thee of the preceding evenings 
 when the moon reflected on the roads the em- 
 broidery made by the bare branches of the trees, 
 the pathetic outlines of the calvaries, and the 
 shadows of houses which we know to be only 
 heaps of ruins but which the obscurity of the 
 night presents as if peace had built them up 
 again? 
 
 I am glad you like Verlaine. Read the beau- 
 tiful preface which Coppée has written for Ver- 
 laine's Select Works. You will find the book 
 in my library. The fervor of it is very spon- 
 taneous. I might say it possesses an animality 
 which always rather disconcerts me, largely be- 
 cause it is like that Catholic fervor whose figura- 
 tive side always leaves me cold. But what a 
 poet Verlaine is. In Paris he was one of my 
 almost daily delights, and so it is here where 
 often comes back to me the music of his 
 Paysages Tristes, which sometimes move me to 
 the very depths. Verlaine's life is as touching as 
 that of some favorite diseased domestic animal, 
 and you wonder that such unworthiness on his 
 
A Soldier of France 73 
 
 part did not blast the exquisite flowers of his 
 poetry. His conversion to Catholicism, the act 
 rather of an artist than a thinker, was due to 
 the upsetting of his whole existence because of 
 some gross mistakes which landed him in prison. 
 In Le Lys Rouge, under the name of Choulette, 
 Anatole France has traced a living portrait of 
 Verlaine. We may have the book at the house. 
 What is admirable and edifying in the volume 
 of poems, Sagesse, is the impulse, the strength 
 of purpose and the touch of regret which run 
 through it. The cry of the "Nuit de Mai" 
 seems to echo there. In fact, our two greatest 
 poetic temperaments of the last century, Musset 
 and Verlaine, were two unfortunate souls who 
 had no moral guardian to brace them up, but 
 who blossomed forth with a magnificence which 
 intoxicates us. 
 
 Perhaps I may tire thee in speaking of these 
 uninteresting things — uninteresting at least 
 under the circumstances. But meanderings of 
 this sort take me back a little into my old 
 life. Since I have had the happiness to receive 
 thy letters, I have thought of little else. So 
 don't think that these side matters make me 
 forget what is nearest our heart and what our 
 hope is. But at the same time I hold that all 
 
74 A Soldier of France 
 
 that which is the ornament of life for both of 
 us is the very thing which makes life worth 
 living. 
 
 I have been expecting letters from thee ever 
 since that of the twenty-second, and I feel sure 
 that I shall get one between now and when we 
 get back to the cantonment. Thanks for the 
 package whose coming you announce. Poor 
 mamas ! How they do rack their brains to find 
 what they can do for us. 
 
 December I. Morning. At the cantonment. 
 I recall how glad I was when I was exempted 
 from military service. It would have seemed 
 to me then that, if at twenty-seven I was forced 
 to return to the regiment, my life and career 
 would be blasted. Yet here I am at twenty- 
 eight plunged back again into military activity, 
 far from my favorite occupations, and in spite 
 of it all never has existence brought me such 
 an abundance of noble emotions, never, perhaps, 
 have I had such a keen sensibility for register- 
 ing them, never such a strong conscience. So 
 here we see benefits springing from what my 
 apparently sensible human foresight regarded 
 as a disaster, but which was in fact a blessing 
 in disguise, and Providence, working in hi* own 
 
A Soldier of France 75 
 
 good ways, frustrating all our timid short- 
 sighted little plans. 
 
 The last two sunrises, that of yesterday and 
 that of today, were admirable. By the way, I 
 am half inclined to send thee a little sketch of 
 the view from my window, though much of it is 
 drawn from memory, for of course it varies 
 from day to day. I want thee to see it as a 
 whole. You must call on your imagination a 
 little and see purples in most astonishing stripes, 
 and limitless stretches of sky and earth to the 
 left and right. This is what I have seen several 
 times of late. But for the moment, a soft sky is 
 in harmony with the orchards where we are at 
 work on trenches. The little post which I am fill- 
 ing exempts me from handling the pickaxe, at 
 least for the time being. Such are the pleasures 
 which at a distance appear to be calamities. 
 
 December I. Second letter. 
 
 I have just received thy letters of the twenty- 
 fifth, twenty-sixth, and twenty-seventh, as also 
 a dear letter from grandmother, who is so 
 brave, so full of heart, and so clear in thought. 
 Her letter has given me much pleasure and re- 
 vives in me a loved hope which she believes will 
 be fulfilled. I accept the happy augury with 
 
76 A Soldier of France 
 
 joy. Each of thy letters, too, feeds me with 
 what is dearest to me in life. My first letter 
 today replies to what you say about accepting 
 trials and destroying idols. You see I think 
 just as you do on this point, and I hope that at 
 present I haven't any very big idols encumbering 
 my heart. I agree with thee that the last prayer 
 which I sent thee is written in very simple lan- 
 guage. I intended it to be so. The inspiration 
 of the surroundings which produced it would 
 not permit of any over-charged dress. God 
 was everywhere and his creations were all har- 
 monious. Thus, there was that night road 
 which I often speak to thee of, the heavens full 
 of stars, the valley whispering through its mur- 
 muring brook, the trees, the calvaries and the 
 near-by and far-away hills. In such an atmos- 
 phere rhetoric has no place. It is useless for 
 me to try and not be an artist and an honest 
 one, and to serve truly my art, I must be con- 
 scientious about it. Hence the naturalness of 
 this prayer; it simply reflects the environment 
 where it was produced. 
 
 December 5. Morning. 
 
 We have come out of our burrows and, after 
 three days of confinement, we see the sky again, 
 
A Soldier of France 77 
 
 with the wide country before us. But Oh, how 
 this poor region is slashed and cut up ! 
 
 Your nice aluminum cup is admired by all 
 the men. Is Andre's wound a bad one? What 
 terrible anxieties the poor mamas have in this 
 war. But be of good courage and nothing will 
 be lost thereby. As for me, I am all right and 
 in as good spirits as could be expected under 
 the circumstances. 
 
 Today there is a high wind on, and fine big 
 clouds are chasing one another across the sky. 
 The air is full of life and even the branches of 
 the trees feel it. During the past few nights 
 we have had a splendid moon which was all the 
 more appreciated because we had been shut up 
 during the day. But, dearest, I am not writing 
 well this morning because I am somewhat flur- 
 ried by all this daylight after those long hours 
 of darkness. But my heart ever turns to thee 
 and I lean on thee for support. Let us be brave 
 in everything. Let us have faith in God always 
 and in spite of everything. I feel just as you 
 do that we can adore him only in spirit, and 
 like thee I think we should avoid showing any 
 pride in our way of looking at this lest our man- 
 ner might reflect on the beliefs which others 
 hold. Let our love unite us to the Universal 
 
78 A Soldier of France 
 
 Providence. Let us place our destiny in his 
 hands in a spirit of constant prayer. Let us 
 admit to him humbly that we cling to our human 
 hope and try to associate with it, each instant, 
 eternal wisdom. This is a hard task even in 
 the course of ordinary life, and is made doubly 
 so under present circumstances. 
 
 Sunday, December 6. 
 
 I am glad to see thee so firmly planted on 
 the solid ground of courage. We need it, or 
 rather we need something that is difficult to 
 obtain — a thing which is neither patience nor 
 over-confidence, but rather faith in the fixed 
 order of things, the power to say with each 
 new trial as it comes, "Well, it is good that it is 
 so." Our natural instinct tends to push us 
 towards trying to escape present obligations 
 when they are too hard to bear or are too often 
 thrust upon us. But I am so happy to learn 
 that you have fully grasped what Spinoza meant 
 by human liberty — an inaccessible ideal which 
 one must strive to attain, nevertheless. Dear 
 Mother, the trials we must undergo are long, but 
 it cannot be said that they are monotonous, 
 since, in spite of their sameness, they demand a 
 courage which must be continually renewed. 
 
A Soldier of France 79 
 
 Therefore, let us unite our efforts and pray God 
 to grant us the strength and the means to enable 
 us to accept whatever may happen. You know 
 what I call religion. It is that which links man 
 with all his conceptions of the universal and 
 the eternal — those two forms of God. Relig- 
 ion, in the ordinary sense of the word, is only 
 the link which unites certain moral and discipli- 
 nary formulas which are associated with an 
 admirably poetic figuration, that is, the external 
 form and shape which are given to the vigorous 
 philosophy of the Bible and Christianity. But 
 don't let us wound anybody's feelings while we 
 hold to our own beliefs, for when carefully ex- 
 amined, these religious formulas, however for- 
 eign they may be to my own intellectual assump- 
 tions, seem to me praiseworthy and deserving 
 of our sympathy for what they contain of aspi- 
 rations toward beauty and esthetic form. Dear 
 Mother whom I love, hope ever. The trials 
 may be many but everything that is beautiful 
 rests. Let us pray that we may contemplate, 
 for a long time still, all that is noble around us. 
 
 Monday, December f. 
 
 Very dear beloved Mother: I write thee in 
 the dark, and though it be only six A. M., military 
 
80 A Soldier of France 
 
 life is in full swing. My candle is stuck in a 
 bayonet, and from time to time I receive on 
 the end of my nose a drop of water, while my 
 poor companions are trying to put some flame 
 into a rebellious fire. The stay in the trenches 
 converts us into a mass of mud. But it is won- 
 derful what good spirits prevail here. How- 
 ever eager all these men are to get home, they 
 nevertheless accept very heroically the vicissi- 
 tudes of our present calling. Though their 
 courage may have much less of the literary 
 flavor than mine, it is all the more practical for 
 this very reason and far better adapted to all 
 that comes. Every bird has his own cry, but I 
 fear there is very little of the war cry in this 
 one. I am happy, however, to find that I have 
 been able to meet every shock in the right spirit, 
 and I base much of my hope on the thought 
 that these shocks have forged a soul in me. So 
 I have confidence in what God reserves for me. 
 I think I see the work laid out for me, but 
 I do not wish to indulge in any predictions based 
 on this presentment, for every artist carries in 
 him conceptions which never see light. Mozart, 
 when he thought he was about to make a new 
 flight, died, and Beethoven had planned a tenth 
 symphony without knowing his end was so near. 
 
A Soldier of France 81 
 
 It is the artist's duty to bud regardless of the 
 frost which may be close at hand. It is possible 
 that God will permit some of my efforts to fruc- 
 tuate in the future. Though there is a marked 
 homogeneity about my work, still my sketches 
 and attempts at art have a youthful touch about 
 them; there is a stammering in their execution 
 which jars with the real loftiness of the inten- 
 tion. I feel that the art which is in me will not 
 blow until I reach maturity. May God permit 
 me to wait so long. This is my prayer. 
 
 As regards thy heart, I have such confidence 
 in thy courage that it is a great source of com- 
 fort to me. I know this mother of mine has at- 
 tained the freedom of soul which makes it pos- 
 sible for one to contemplate the universal 
 drama. From my own experience, I am aware 
 how intermittent is this wisdom. But one has 
 God in him when you have a suspicion that you 
 have. Thy soul and thy love give me that peace 
 of mind which makes it possible for me to look 
 into the future whatever form it assumes. 
 
 December Q. 
 
 Dear Mother: P. L. tells me in his charming 
 letter that he would willingly exchange his phi- 
 losophy for a gun. But he is all wrong in this. 
 
82 A Soldier of France 
 
 In the first place, Spinoza, who bores him, is a 
 precious help to one in the trenches; again, it is 
 necessary that those who are in a position to 
 profit by every kind of culture and intellectual 
 development, help in preserving French genius 
 for the end of the war. They have a very great 
 part to play where so much more initiative can 
 be exercised than here at the front, where, 
 though it is true we are freed from a certain 
 kind of restraint, our existence, I should say, is 
 much like that of the early monks — a rude, 
 regular discipline but without any external 
 obligations. 
 
 December 10. A wonderful morning. 
 
 This third day in cantonment brings with it 
 the pleasure of better weather. The exasperat- 
 ing downpour of our last sojourn in the first 
 line is holding up a bit and now the sun is be- 
 ginning to come out timidly. 
 
 The rather quiet existence which we have been 
 leading for the past two months must of course 
 come to an end sometime. This trench war- 
 fare seems to threaten an endless contest, and 
 it looks as if there was nothing left but for one 
 side or the other to begin an offensive that will 
 precipitate events. I think something of this 
 
A Soldier of France 83 
 
 sort is under consideration at grand headquar- 
 ters, and as far as I am concerned, I can assure 
 thee that I would welcome any change that 
 would bring with it fresh occasions for new ex- 
 periences. One-third of our present existence 
 Js, if one tells the truth, little else than common- 
 place humdrum, and the other two-thirds offers 
 about as much danger as would be incurred at 
 a chemical manufactory. If things go on this 
 way, it will end by numbing whatever sensibility 
 we have left. Of course we'll not like the idea 
 of a change when the moment comes to make it, 
 because we have got used to an easy-going life 
 which, however, can't last. Perhaps, by the 
 way, there is going to be a little change, too, in 
 my own situation. It is probable that I may not 
 be able to take that trip I wrote you about, as 
 there is some talk of making me a corporal, 
 which, if done, would keep me pretty continu- 
 ously employed in the first-line trenches. I trust 
 God will be with me in these new duties as he 
 has been in the past. I feel that we have noth- 
 ing else to ask for. If there is in us something 
 eternal which we have still to make manifest 
 on this earth, we may feel sure that God will 
 leave us here until that is done. 
 
84 A Soldier of France 
 
 December 10. Second letter. 
 
 Happily for us, there is a common ground on 
 which we stand united; and we haven't to put it 
 in writing every time. 
 
 The weather is getting cloudy again and we 
 may have a wet time during our next stay in the 
 first and second lines. As I write, night is 
 coming on and a deep melancholy is spreading 
 over everything. It is a sad hour for those far 
 away, for all the soldier hearts which are think- 
 ing of home and who see night spreading over 
 the earth. At such moments, I turn towards 
 thee and forthwith my heart grows warmer, 
 for I feel descending upon me thy attentive 
 tenderness and the same wisdom which inspires 
 thy courage. Sometimes I hesitate to go on re- 
 peating to thee the same old things, but how can 
 I find new words in which to express my poor 
 love, tossed about as I am in this never changing 
 hurly-burly? As we are going to leave these 
 quarters, we shall abandon many pleasant mem- 
 ories which have become very dear to us. But 
 then the soul should not get too strongly at- 
 tached to mere fetiches. The heart may some- 
 times find comfort in material things, but our 
 love — thine and mine — can live on without 
 amulets. 
 
A Soldier of France 85 
 
 Ten a. m., December 12. 
 
 Fine day, though raining. All goes well in 
 our melancholy woods. In this neighborhood 
 a terrible cannonading is being indulged in by 
 both sides. Thy letters of the fourth and the 
 sixth received. They've made me happy. 
 They're the real joy of my life. I'm glad you 
 had a nice visit at G. I hope soon to write thee 
 more at length. I could do it now as far as 
 leisure goes, but I don't feel quite up to it. I'm 
 in a mood where beautiful things do not appeal 
 to me as usual. But I am ever longing for true 
 wisdom. 
 
 Seven p. m., December 12. 
 
 Today, notwithstanding the changing beauty 
 of sun and rain, these natural sights did not 
 make the usual impression on me, and yet never 
 was there so much grace and goodness in the 
 sky. The landscape, with the little bridge and 
 embankment, about which I have often written 
 thee, was softened down under the splendor of 
 the clouds. But I did not enjoy this kindness 
 of God in the way I generally do, as when a 
 fine tree suddenly touches me to the heart. 
 Then it would mean to me an ever-smiling 
 beauty. The green of the ivy, the red tinge of 
 
86 A Soldier of France 
 
 autumn, the decided touch of winter in the 
 branches — an instant of such a scene is gen- 
 erally a whole life to me, even the price of ex- 
 istence, in comparison with which every human 
 expectation is as a poor, empty dream. 
 
 Sunday, December 13. 
 
 Today, after a refreshing night, I took a 
 walk in the woods where three months ago the 
 dead covered the ground. Declining autumn 
 displayed its riches, and the beauty of the moss- 
 covered trunks spoke to me this morning as 
 yesterday of eternal serenity. Doubtless a great 
 effort is necessary in order to perceive how little 
 the general harmony of nature is troubled by 
 the sights which are now distracting our emo- 
 tions. We are made to feel that any disturb- 
 ance of nature's laws is really of little conse- 
 quence, and that what is truly a part of us are the 
 aspirations of the heart. 
 
 December 14. Splendid weather with a return 
 to calm days. 
 Here we are still in the first-line area of oper- 
 ations, but in a spot where you can lift up your 
 head and drink in the charm of my Meuse hills, 
 which this gentle weather has rendered serene 
 
A Soldier of France 87 
 
 once more. I perceive above the village and 
 orchards the rows of birches and firs, the leaf- 
 less branches of the first tinged with a trans- 
 parent violet and streaked with white, while 
 the second, with their dark shades of green, 
 give a stronger color to the horizon. 
 
 During a recent march, the courage that is 
 in me was greatly strengthened by a grand lesson 
 taught me by a fine tree. Ah! dear Mother, 
 the whole of us may disappear and yet nature 
 will go right on just the same and be as splendid 
 as ever; and the gift of herself which now and 
 then she makes me for an instant suffices to 
 justify my whole existence. That tree was like 
 a soldier! 
 
 You cannot imagine how the forests have suf- 
 fered in this region, due, however, not so much 
 to machine-guns as to the terrible cutting down 
 of trees for the making of our shelters and for 
 warming purposes. But even this destruction 
 shows me that there is beauty here in tree and 
 man alike; that is to say, man at this moment 
 teaches a fine lesson, too, though it may not be 
 so easily perceived, perhaps — the magnificent 
 vitality of this youth of France whose expansive 
 energies will not be checked by this holocaust, 
 I feel sure. 
 
88 A Soldier of France 
 
 December 15. Morning. 
 
 Dear beloved Mother: I have received thy 
 dear letter of the ninth, in which you speak of 
 our inner feelings. I am so happy when I real- 
 ize how fine is the force in us which holds us to 
 life. You may separate us, you may shatter 
 our dearest hopes, but this determination to live 
 on remains fixed in our breasts as firmly as ever. 
 It makes me happy, too, to know that my letters 
 find an echo in thy heart. Sometimes I fear I 
 am boring thee with my descriptions of our daily 
 existence here, which, though admirable in many 
 respects, is very primitive and doesn't present 
 many striking sides. If I could only set myself 
 to painting, I would find right here at hand the 
 finest materials for the canvas and inexhaustible 
 sources of artistic inspiration that can be imag- 
 ined. But when I try to write about the sky, 
 trees, hills, and the horizon, I quickly find that 
 I can't handle words as I would my brush; and 
 so the endless variety of things which I see are 
 apt to become mere repetitions when I strive to 
 set them down in writing. 
 
 December 15. Later. 
 
 One has to adapt oneself to this special ex- 
 istence in which I move. It may be poor in 
 
A Soldier of France 89 
 
 intellectual activities but it is wonderfully rich 
 in those things which awaken the emotions. I 
 can now understand why in the old, troubled 
 times, centuries ago, men weary of the dainties 
 of life sought in the peace of the cloister that 
 opportunity to contemplate things eternal, a con- 
 templation often interrupted by threatening 
 hordes, it may be, but a refuge all the same. It 
 seems to me that our life here in the trenches 
 resembles in many ways that of those ancient 
 monks whose existence had much that was mili- 
 tary about it and who were often more fitted 
 to fight than I am. Among them, too, were 
 sensitive natures who tasted the joys that I also 
 experience. 
 
 It is impossible to say more than we have 
 said concerning the attitude we should assume 
 under present circumstances. What we now 
 have to do is to put into practice the conclusions 
 we have arrived at. But this is more easily said 
 than done, as I have discovered during these 
 last few days, though, let me add, no new 
 temptation has arisen to check my efforts in 
 the ways of wisdom. In fact, when now and 
 then I worry a little on this score, I ask myself 
 if it may not be due to my being over-conscien- 
 tious. 
 
90 A Soldier of France 
 
 The weather is changeable, but for that very 
 reason it stirs one's emotional nature. 
 
 December 16. 
 
 When in our shelter yesterday, I took out of 
 my pocket your little sketch book now so worn, 
 alas ! and tried to make a little picture of the 
 landscape. But the weather was too cold and 
 I shut up the book in disgust, when the thought 
 occurred to me to ask one of the men to pose. 
 I can't tell thee what joy my success gave me. 
 I don't think the crayon was too bad. It has 
 been sent off in a letter to some girl friend or 
 other of the soldier who posed. I can't tell 
 thee what real pleasure I got out of the fact that 
 I saw I had not lost all my art. 
 
 December iy. In a new cantonment. 
 
 We have been torn from our customary sur- 
 roundings. Last night when we left the first- 
 line trenches after three days of complete calm, 
 we were ordered to the same cantonment where 
 we spent October sixth and seventh. I feel in 
 the air that a change is coming. But today's 
 serene weather augurs well for whatever may 
 happen. During the past few days there have 
 been fine views which I appreciate more than I 
 
A Soldier of France 91 
 
 did during those few days of weakness, due to 
 my having allowed myself to worry my soul over 
 wretched little human interests. I write thee 
 from a window whence I watch the sun going 
 down. You see, we are always treated with 
 kindness. 
 
 Three p. m. — I continue this letter in the 
 twilight of an exceptional winter. The day is 
 going to sleep as placidly as it awoke. I am 
 watching the washerwomen on the bank under 
 a row of trees busy over their linen in the river. 
 Peace reigns everywhere, even in our hearts, I 
 think. Night is falling. 
 
 December IQ. In cantonment. 
 
 A quiet day ending around the table — draw- 
 ing, music. I am reflecting in calmness on the 
 length of the days to come, recalling how rap- 
 idly have passed those which have gone. We 
 have now crossed the half-way mark of this 
 month and the Christmas holidays are near, for 
 they come even at the front. My only thought 
 now is to adapt myself fully to our present state 
 of existence, and then attain, thanks to our spir- 
 itual union, that condition of resignation and 
 submission which is of a higher order than 
 human courage. 
 
92 A Soldier of France 
 
 December 21. Morning. 
 
 Very dear Mother: I speak freely in my 
 letters of my joys ; but the rock on which earthly 
 happiness is generally wrecked is this one — 
 our poor humanity is always in fear lest we lose 
 our happiness, quite forgetful of the fact, which 
 experience is ever teaching us, however, that 
 the eternal law always gives us a new joy for 
 the one we have lost. As for myself, I haven't 
 to look for a new one. My task seems to be 
 that of always trying to conciliate the two sorts 
 of wisdom — the human one which urges me to 
 cultivate my good fortune, and the other which 
 teaches me that this human happiness is but a 
 fleeting show. We might conclude, therefore, 
 that the best line to follow would be to make the 
 most of those human pleasures which a strict 
 conscience had chosen, and at the same time not 
 forget the ephemeral nature of them all. 
 
 Yes, you are right in saying that the scrip- 
 tures contain the most beautiful and poetical 
 philosophy. I think they owe it to their affilia- 
 tion with the old philosophies. Many things in 
 the writings of Edouard Schuré 1 are open to 
 
 1 Edouard Schuré, born in 1842, French miscellaneous 
 writer, author of "Les Grands Initiés," a rather rationalistic 
 history of the various religions — the book referred to in the 
 text, 
 
A Soldier of France 93 
 
 question, but what we should hold fast to is the 
 divination which carries him back, through the 
 intricacies of every doctrine, to the far-distant 
 source of all human wisdom. I suppose you 
 know that those very tender myths of the Good 
 Shepherd and the Virgin Mary, which are so 
 cleverly utilized by our Christian Church, are 
 ancient creations of the human fondness for 
 symbols. The Greeks received them from their 
 spiritual ancestors and called the Good Shep- 
 herd, Hermes, the conductor of souls to Hades, 
 the psychopomp. In the same way, the mater- 
 nity of our Madonna is the Greek divinity, the 
 grand Demeter, the mother, who is represented 
 holding an infant in her arms. You get the im- 
 pression that all religions, as they succeed one 
 another, hand down the same stock of symbols, 
 to which our ever young and poetic humanity 
 gives new life each time. 
 
 December 23. In the dark. 
 
 What irony! I began this letter yesterday 
 but was interrupted. Then the weather was 
 splendid and in fact has changed very little 
 since. But we are back in the first-line zone, 
 this time in the village itself — the nice Corot 
 which I described two months ago. But our 
 
94 A Soldier of France 
 
 advanced post is now in a house every aperture 
 of which we have to keep closed so as not to be 
 discovered by the enemy. We are in a room 
 where, though it is now nine in the morning, it 
 is so dark that you might think it was Christmas 
 eve. 
 
 Thy recent letter has made me very happy. 
 It is true, as you say, that Grace and Inspira- 
 tion are two terms for the same thing. If you 
 go to the gallery of Gustave Moreau, 1 you will 
 see a panel called "The Life of Humanity," 
 which is divided into nine compartments form- 
 ing three series of paintings called "The Golden 
 Age, "The Silver Age," and "The Iron Age." 
 Above them is a pediment where Christ is rep- 
 resented presiding over this human scene. This 
 grand genius, Moreau, had the same intuition 
 which you have had — to each of these three 
 series is given the name of a hero : Adam, 
 Orpheus, and Cain, and to each of them is as- 
 signed three Hours. The Hours of the Golden 
 Age are Ecstasy, Prayer, and Sleep; those of 
 the Silver Age, Inspiration, Song, and Tears. 
 Ecstasy is also Pardon, for the painter repre- 
 sents Adam and Eve in the purity of their soul, 
 
 1 French painter (1826-98), whose remarkable collection 
 is in the Rue de La Rochefoucauld, Paris. 
 
A Soldier of France 95 
 
 in the midst of a beautiful vegetation and enjoy- 
 ing divine contemplation. A harmonious nature 
 surrounds them and aids them in their reaching 
 after God. Inspiration in its Silver Age is also 
 Pardon, which, however, is already beginning 
 to get entangled in human guile. The poet 
 Orpheus always sees God, associates with the 
 Muse, and the symbol of human art is born, 
 while the human manifestation of God, Song, is 
 followed by tears and suffering. Continuing 
 the cycle and attaining human pollution, Gus- 
 tave Moreau depicts the Iron Age — Cain con- 
 demned to labor and crime. This pictorial 
 work means that we may seize the divine in- 
 stant, that is to say, man can be associated with 
 God; but the moment is fugitive, and this cannot 
 be our ordinary existence. It excuses our weak- 
 nesses. Some will say that the conception of 
 this painting is too literary, not spiritual enough. 
 But it touches the soul of those who strive to 
 pierce the cold which chills all human expres- 
 sion. 
 
 It may be true that Rembrandt was the poet 
 of genius par excellence and at the same time a 
 pure painter. But let us admit that our epoch 
 presents less richness and less universality of 
 temperament; and let us recognize the beauty 
 
96 A Soldier of France 
 
 of Gustave Moreau's poem whose spirit, in a 
 word, you have divined. 
 
 Thy Son. 
 
 December 24. Morning. 
 
 Our first day in the outposts was one of bu- 
 colic calmness, with a feeling of snow in the 
 atmosphere ; and sure enough it came during the 
 night. From the back garden of this house, 
 hidden from the view of the Germans, I could 
 take a good look at the snow, which rounds off 
 every little thing under it and throws a pure 
 white blanket over all. When I was satisfied 
 with the scene, I came back to our candle-lighted 
 abode, where I am now writing thee on one 
 corner of a table, on another corner of which 
 a soldier is grating chocolate. This is the way 
 things go at the front. Military life, indeed, 
 sometimes reveals rather amusing surprises. 
 For instance, we are back here in the first line 
 again simply because two of our officers could 
 here find a tub in which they can take a bath. 
 But in these matters I am satisfied with the 
 empty shell of a "seventy-five," which serves me 
 as a water-pitcher. 
 
 I say nothing to thee in this letter about pa- 
 tience, because it may be that a very large stock 
 
A Soldier of France 97 
 
 of it is unnecessary when we do not know 
 what is coming next. And again, the days pass 
 so rapidly; they are in fact like those of chil- 
 dren — gone before one knows it. In truth, 
 we are but children when compared with the 
 events of which we form a part. Indeed, 
 one of the benefits of this war will be to put 
 a young heart into those of us who get back 
 alive. 
 
 Dear Mother, our village has again received 
 the visit of two shells, and we are asking our- 
 selves whether they will be followed by others. 
 May God take us under his protection. The 
 other day the Germans sent us one hundred and 
 fifteen of these shells and all they did was to 
 wound one man in the wrist. By the way, a 
 house in which a part of our company is in- 
 stalled is now on fire; but I don't see anybody 
 stirring. I do hope all is going well with our 
 fellows over there. 
 
 I am so glad to have had the experiences of 
 these past few months, which have shown me 
 what one can do with one's life however it may 
 present itself. My companions offer fine speci- 
 mens of French character. They like to fool 
 a little, but their fooling is only the surface of 
 a deep, underlying courage. My chief fault, 
 
98 A Soldier of France 
 
 due mainly to my artistic tastes, is trying to 
 dress up the soul of our race in a fine robe 
 painted in the colors I like. So when these fel- 
 lows bother me, I think they are dirtying this 
 robe which I have put on them. Of course this 
 robe would decidedly hamper them when called 
 upon to do their duty in the splendid way they 
 have. 
 
 Christmas Morning. 
 
 What a unique, never to be forgotten night 
 we have just passed, where beauty triumphed 
 and where humanity, in spite of its present 
 bloody infatuation, showed that it really has a 
 conscience. Think of it, that in the midst of 
 intermittent fusillades, there was singing all 
 along the whole line. On our front, a fine tenor 
 voice sang the enemy's Christmas hymn, while 
 much further along, behind the intrenchments 
 where our lines begin again, you could hear the 
 words of the "Marseillaise," as an answer. 
 The night was rich in stars and meteors, and 
 hymns after hymns were heard everywhere. It 
 was the eternal aspiration after harmony, an 
 indomitable demand for the beauty and con- 
 cord of order. I found a pleasure of my own 
 in calling to mind the suavities of Berlioz's The 
 
A Soldier of France 99 
 
 Childhood of Christ. 1 The freshness and juve- 
 nile spirit of this French music appealed to me. 
 I recalled the celebrated Pilgrims' Sleep and 
 The Shepherds' Chorus. A verse which the 
 Virgin sings — "The Lord, for my son's sake, 
 has blessed this asylum" — made every nerve 
 in me vibrate, and the melody has kept ringing 
 in my ears all the time I have been sitting in 
 this little house where I am now writing thee, 
 whose neighbor, by the way, is all in flames, as 
 I have told thee, and whose own fate is quite 
 as uncertain. But these dangers did not kill the 
 music that is in me; and then I thought of all 
 the joys accorded me, and fancied that perhaps 
 at this very same hour you were praying for a 
 benediction on my retreat; and the beauty of 
 the sky seemed a favorable omen; and finally 
 welled up in me the desire to be blessed each 
 instant with such wisdom that however human 
 this wisdom might be, it would shield me from 
 any and every surprise. Such were some of the 
 thoughts and aspirations of that memorable 
 night. 
 
 Now a superb sun is inundating the whole 
 
 1 Berlioz's "L'Enfance du Christ," sacred oratorio in three 
 parts. "Le Sommeil des Pèlerins" and "Le Chœur des Ber- 
 gers" are parts of this oratorio. 
 
100 A Soldier of France 
 
 country hereabouts, while I am writing thee by 
 candle light; and every now and then I go into 
 the back garden to look at it. Everywhere is a 
 brightness which seems to spread over the de- 
 serted region a divine calm from above. I have 
 just come back to my room, where in the dim 
 glimmer flickers the brass of the fine Meuse 
 bedsteads — I have written thee more than once 
 about these things — and the highly polished 
 carved wood of the equally fine wardrobes, all 
 of which, I may say in passing, are suffering 
 from the rough treatment of the soldiers. But 
 how much comfort we get out of them ! And 
 in addition we have found knives and forks and 
 kitchen utensils, etc., so that for two days we 
 have been serving our chocolate in a soup tureen. 
 What style! 
 
 Oh! dear Mother, if God grants me the joy 
 of returning to thee, how young this extraor- 
 dinary experience will have made me. As I 
 wrote my friend P., I am living like a child in 
 the midst of such plain people; and yet my own 
 existence, though everything about it is really 
 very rudimentary, appears complicated in the 
 eyes of those around me. 
 
 Dearest Mother, the length of this war is an 
 excellent exercise for the passive faculties of 
 
A Soldier of Prance 101, 
 
 our will. But I feel that all is coming around 
 in the way I seem to have been permitted to 
 foresee it. I think these long intervals of inac- 
 tivity are giving our intellectual machinery a 
 good rest. If I have the good luck to be called 
 upon to use it again, some little time may be re- 
 quired to get it started once more; but what 
 fresh strength it will have attained. My last 
 art work before the war was pure thought, 
 wholly intellectual; and my chief ambition, per- 
 fectly natural under the circumstances, was 
 simply to give plastic form to this thought as 
 it developed. But there is something more than 
 that in me now. 
 
 Nine a. m., Sunday, December 2*J. Fifth day 
 in the first line. 
 
 It appears that the terrible position held 
 Uravely by us on October fourteenth, and lost 
 immediately afterwards by our successors, has 
 been retaken along a distance of more than two 
 hundred yards, but at the cost of one hundred 
 men hors de combat. 
 
 Dear Mother, the lack of sleep makes me 
 stupid. Though one doesn't need to have much 
 intelligence for our every-day kind of existence, 
 when I come to thee, I always wish to be inter- 
 
102 A Soldier of France 
 
 esting. I find much consolation in the thought 
 that our mutual affection is so strong that we 
 haven't to dwell on it in order to keep it alive. 
 But there is really little news to send thee. 
 Spending yesterday all in the dark got terribly 
 on my nerves. I am still all worn out by it; 
 and yet from my post I could see a tree against 
 the sky. But of course one tree doesn't make 
 a landscape any more than one swallow makes 
 a spring. But as if by way of compensation for 
 yesterday's dreariness, this morning broke 
 charmingly. I was especially struck by an ex- 
 ceedingly bright star. I went out to get some 
 coal and water, and on my way back I noticed 
 that, though the daylight was much stronger 
 than when I started, this star was still shining 
 in an extraordinary manner. My corporal, who 
 was with me, said to me as we slunk from one 
 clump of trees to another, so as not to get struck 
 by a stray German bullet, on our way back to 
 the house : "Do you know what that star means ? 
 Well, I do. It is simply the rallying sign of the 
 enemy's patrol, and is no star at all!" This 
 was quite true, and at first I was provoked at 
 this profanation of the heavens; but on second 
 thought, I said to myself that this is not merely 
 a very clever trick, for it tells the poor fellows 
 
A Soldier of France 103 
 
 on the other side in what direction their safety 
 lies. So then I didn't think so hard of them or 
 of it, and as it had given me so much joy, I 
 decided to remember it only in that connec- 
 tion. 
 
 December 30. 
 
 I received this evening thy Christmas letter, 
 and probably now, while I am writing thee, 
 mine of the same day is in thy hands. Then, 
 notwithstanding the risk, I was enjoying the 
 beauty around me; but today I must confess all 
 is embittered for me by the bad news which has 
 come to us concerning the latest butchery. 
 During the whole of the twenty-sixth, we were 
 kept in our fighting positions, which under ordi- 
 nary circumstances are occupied only during the 
 night. We stood there on the defensive and 
 were very lucky even though exposed to artil- 
 lery fire, for on our right a regiment of our divi- 
 sion holding one of the positions of October 
 fourteenth, was given a fearful task to perform 
 and, though the result was negative, it cost sev- 
 eral hundred lives. So our big village, where 
 our good hostess, like ourselves, knew the vic- 
 tims, is plunged into sadness. 
 
104 A Soldier of France 
 
 December 30. Second letter. 
 
 The soul is placed above and beyond all 
 attack. Of course, one's anguish may be very 
 great, and this may be especially the case with 
 one's anxiety. But the soul stands firm against 
 all these. Things that may, perhaps, happen in 
 the future fade before what is really going on at 
 the present moment. It is a sort of version of 
 the old saying that a bird in the hand is worth 
 two in the bush. Then, look at the more mate- 
 rial side of the problem. The weather is kindly 
 and nature is indifferent to all that we are doing. 
 The dead will not stop the coming of spring. 
 Again, when the shock of the momentary hor- 
 ror is passed, and memory of the killed takes 
 the place of their living presence, you find your- 
 self getting a certain kind of comfort in think- 
 ing of what really exists instead of thinking of 
 what is gone forever. It is in these very lugu- 
 brious woods about me here that one perceives 
 the emptiness of the sepulcher and of funeral 
 rites. The soul of these poor brave fellows 
 doesn't need these things. 
 
 Four o'clock. — I have just finished the 
 fourth portrait, that of a lieutenant of my com- 
 pany, and I am pleased with it. But the shades 
 of night are falling. I send thee my love, and 
 
A Soldier of France 105 
 
 my love is a brave love. Hope and wisdom be 
 ours. 
 
 January 3, IQ15. 
 
 Yesterday, when I had finished my tasks of 
 the manual-labor sort and felt my usual satis- 
 faction at having done so, I then fell to contem- 
 plating the little bits of tape on my coat sleeve. 1 
 At first I felt rather humiliated at the sight, for, 
 until I got them, I was a simple nobody doing 
 my little part without playing any military rôle. 
 But now I have been given a rank down at the 
 very bottom of a hierarchy. Before, I was 
 anonymous, but now I am an inferior some- 
 body. Now, every time I look at this tape, I 
 am reminded that I have certain duties which 
 the social body expects me to perform; I, who 
 am so often lost in my own individuality. I used 
 to be free to cultivate my soul in my own little 
 way and my whole duty consisted in asking this 
 soul to make me worthy of my efforts. But I 
 am free no longer. 
 
 January 4. Posted January 7. In a mine-shaft. 
 I write thee at the entrance to a subterrane- 
 ous passage, a mine-shaft which is being driven 
 
 x The author had been promoted to a corporalship. 
 
106 A Soldier of France 
 
 underneath the enemy's position. The duty of 
 our little post is to see that nothing happens to 
 the sapping engineers who are digging away, 
 propping up the earth roof over their heads and 
 consolidating generally the excavation which 
 has already been driven forward more than a 
 dozen yards. To get to our station, we have 
 to wade through mud up to our thighs. But 
 during the night hours we are here, we are 
 pretty safe as we are protected by several yards' 
 thickness of earth. I have under me six pri- 
 vates, and we lead a sleepless existence, accom- 
 panied with many privations, for three days 
 at a time. This is the way I am celebrating the 
 assumption of my new military honors. But 
 I am happy, on the whole, to experience once 
 more the old trials. It may be that I will be 
 given the grade which I am now filling ad 
 interim. I will have rightly gained the distinc- 
 tion! The weather, I should add, is simply 
 atrocious, and, to make matters worse, if this is 
 possible, I burnt, by accident, a perfectly new 
 pair of boots, and now here I am — but, then, 
 I am in the same boat with the others — welter- 
 ing in the mud and wet. But I am happy to be 
 able to report that my health remains good. But, 
 dearest, I must now be off to get a little sleep. 
 
A Soldier of France 107 
 
 January 6. Evening. 
 
 Dear Mother: Here we are back in our can- 
 tonment after seventy-two hours without sleep 
 and in an awful slough of rain and slop. I have 
 had several letters from thee, dear beloved 
 Mother. The last one was dated the first of the 
 month. How I love them. But in order to 
 speak to thee of all this as I would, I must first 
 go and sleep a little. 
 
 January J. Toward noon. 
 
 This fragmentary letter is now being fin- 
 ished at the guard-house, where my section is on 
 duty. The weather continues very bad. You 
 cannot imagine how this upsets our whole exist- 
 ence. We are simply living in water, and the 
 walls are covered with mud, as are the floor 
 and ceiling, too. 
 
 January g. 
 
 Many of the things that console me have 
 been wanting these past few days on account of 
 this shockingly bad weather. The terrible mess 
 in which we live prevents one from seeing any- 
 thing; no nature distractions for me now. So 
 I close with an ardent appeal for comfort from 
 our love and with a feeling of certitude in a jus- 
 
108 A Soldier of France 
 
 tice higher than ours. Dear Mother, in the mat- 
 ter of sending me things, I really need nothing. 
 What I lack is quite a different thing from what 
 can be sent by express. But we must ever be of 
 good courage. If we were only certain that 
 this moral effort would produce its fruits ! 
 
 When you think of me, I wish you would 
 place me in that category of persons who have 
 gone away and left all behind them — friends, 
 family, and their social circle — to whose rela- 
 tives they are only a memory, and who speak 
 of them in this wise: "We have a brother who, 
 many years ago, went from home, and we don't 
 know what has become of him." Then, when 
 I feel that you, too, have abandoned, as far as 
 concerns me, all human form of attachment, I 
 shall move more freely in this life, knowing that 
 I am bound by none of the ordinary ties of 
 relationship. 
 
 I do not regret my new situation, for though 
 this corporalship carries with it many new trials 
 and experiences, it also brings with it some ame- 
 lioration of my material condition. So more 
 than ever I wish to live for the passing moment 
 alone, and that I would find easier to do if I 
 felt that you accept the idea that the life I am 
 now leading is not at all transitory. 
 
A Soldier of France 109 
 
 I cannot tell thee how much I enjoyed the 
 copies of the Revue Hebdomadaire which you 
 sent me. I was especially delighted with the 
 extracts from the speeches of Lamartine. Cir- 
 cumstances led him, the poet, to give but little 
 attention to his art. He was plunged into pub- 
 lic life and his great soul had to take up tasks 
 which were more immediate and heavier than 
 were suitable to his genius. 
 
 Twelve thirty p. m., January 12. In the new 
 cantonment. 
 
 I don't see any issues from the present situ- 
 ation. My own conscience is now my only 
 judge of what is right or wrong. We must con- 
 fide in an impersonal justice which is independ- 
 ent of all human influence, and have faith in 
 useful and harmonious destiny notwithstanding 
 the horrible form which it seems to assume at 
 the present moment. 
 
 January ij. In cantonment. 
 
 What shall I say to thee this odd January 
 afternoon where snow is followed by thunder? 
 Our present cantonment furnishes us pleasant 
 things which I fully appreciate. I am especially 
 moved by the enrapturing poetry with which 
 
110 A Soldier of France 
 
 we are now surrounded. Imagine a little lake 
 in a private park, where is a castle or, rather, a 
 spacious country house sheltered by high hills. 
 We are lodged in the servants' hall. But I 
 don't need rich canopies or modern comforts to 
 complete this undreamed-of existence, which 
 has been ours for the past three days. Last 
 evening we had the good luck to have some 
 singers to cheer us up. Of course, this was not 
 exactly the kind of music I like, but what these 
 sentimental popular songs lacked in art was 
 made up for by the ardor and earnestness which 
 the performer put into them. The workman 
 who gave us these songs, which were decent, 
 even moral — though the morality was a little 
 sophisticated, yet, nevertheless, there was a 
 morality — this workman put so much feeling 
 into his voice that he quite moved our hostesses. 
 Such is the popular ideal, an ideal, however, 
 which does not really exist, which is purely neg- 
 ative, but which months of suffering made me 
 feel indulgent for. 
 
 I have just learned that Péguy 1 was killed at 
 the beginning of the war. What a destruction 
 there will be of intellectual France! We can- 
 
 1 Charles Péguy (1873-1914), French poet and miscella- 
 neous writer, killed on the eve of the battle of the Marne. 
 
A Soldier of France 111 
 
 not understand, though I suppose ît is quite 
 natural, how civilians at home can continue 
 their normal existence while we at the front 
 are in this tempest. I saw in a copy of the Cri 
 de Paris, which I stumbled on the other day, the 
 program of concerts at Paris. What an anti- 
 thesis! But, dear Mother, the essential thing 
 is that we should know beauty in some instances 
 of grace. Nothing these days speaks of indi- 
 vidual hope but of great general certainties. 
 
 The weather is perfectly awful, though you 
 do feel spring in the air. 
 
 January ig. 
 
 Since yesterday we have been in our second- 
 line positions. We came here in a weather 
 remarkable for snow and freezing. The sky, 
 pink in color and beautiful in its fury, hung 
 phantom-like over the forest buried in snow — 
 the trees having a limpid blue tint at their base 
 and their tops like brown lace against the heav- 
 ens, while the earth below was one great sheet 
 of white snow. 
 
 I have received two packages, in one of which 
 was ha Chanson de Roland, which has given me 
 great pleasure. I especially liked the intro- 
 duction treating of this national epopee and 
 
112 A Soldier of France 
 
 speaking of the Mahabharata, which, it ap- 
 pears, tells of the combats between the spirits 
 of Good and Evil, a very timely subject at this 
 moment. 
 
 I am made very happy, too, by thy admirable 
 letters. As regards our sufferings here on earth 
 I think they are not so unbearable as you seem 
 to imagine. But what we must all admit and 
 not be ashamed to admit is that we are bour- 
 geois, that is, a common-place sort of people. 
 We have tasted the honey of civilization, per- 
 haps a poisoned honey, though I am not so sure 
 about that, for there is certainly harmony in this 
 sweetness. Nor should our ordinary existence 
 be a preparation for violence, however much 
 this violence may be salutary, and in the midst 
 of all this, we should not lose sight of the order 
 discovered in the calm. Order leads to eternal 
 repose. Violence puts movement into life. We 
 have as objectives eternal order and eternal 
 repose; but, without violence which lets free 
 the reserve of utilizable energy, we would be 
 inclined to consider that order had been attained 
 — an anticipated order which would be in fact 
 only- a lethargy retarding the coming of final 
 order. Our sufferings spring simply from the 
 deception which we experience by the delay in 
 
A Soldier of France 113 
 
 the coming of this true order; human patience 
 cannot endure the waiting necessary for its 
 coming. But, though we suffer, we prefer not 
 to be agents of violence. It is much as when 
 molten matter solidifies too quickly and so takes 
 on a bad shape and has to be put in the fire 
 again and remelted. This is just the way vio- 
 lence acts in the problems of human evolution. 
 But this useful violence should not cause us to 
 overlook what our esthetic common-placeness, 
 or bourgeoisisme, had acquired of lasting order 
 in peace and harmony. Our suffering comes 
 precisely from the fact that we do not forget it. 
 
 January 20. Morning. 
 
 Please don't imagine that I do not get enough 
 sleep, though I must admit that in this matter 
 there is not much regularity, for at one moment 
 we sleep very comfortably for three days and 
 three nights in succession, and then the next 
 moment the contrary is true. 
 
 Now nature is coming to my support again; 
 that terrible period of rain, rain, rain, has given 
 place to some fine cold days; we are having 
 good freezing weather, and are now walking on 
 solid ground once more. No mud. My modest 
 non-commissioned grade lets me have some time 
 
114 A Soldier of France 
 
 to myself, and though I don't take any longer 
 those fine night tramps, I haven't to perform 
 any more of that day drudgery; so I have time 
 to look around and enjoy things a bit. Yester- 
 day, for instance, we had a sunset that I shall 
 not soon forget. There was a sort of spumish- 
 ness about the atmosphere, with delicate tints 
 of light shot through it, while the surface of 
 the ground reflected the blue coldness of the 
 snow. Dear Mama, it was one of those eve- 
 nings that made me homesick. These old 
 familiar lines came back to me in the stillness: 
 
 Mon enfant, ma sœur, 
 
 Songe à la douceur 
 D'aller là-bas vivre ensemble! 
 
 Aimer à loisir, 
 
 Aimer et mourir 
 Au pays qui te ressemble ! x 
 
 Yes, Baudelaire's L'Invitation au Voyage was 
 floating in that exquisite sky. Ah! how far I 
 
 1 From the volume of "Les Fleurs du Mal," by Charles 
 Baudelaire (1821-67), the French poet. The verses given in 
 the text might be translated as follows: 
 
 My child, ah! my sweetheart, 
 
 Think of the blissful part 
 Of dwelling far away there together! 
 
 Leisurely loving, 
 
 Loving and dying 
 In that land which is like thee forever. 
 
A Soldier of France 115 
 
 was then from all this war! But when I got 
 back to earthly things, I was nearly too late for 
 dinner ! 
 
 January 20. Evening. 
 
 Ever resignation — adapting ourselves to life 
 which is always moving on and which cares 
 little for our petty needs. 
 
 January 21. 
 
 Here we are in our first-line positions. Snow 
 followed us here, but also a thaw. Fortunately, 
 however, our present condition is very differ- 
 ent from the terrible sojourn in the flooded 
 trenches. 
 
 Who can describe the loveliness of trees in 
 winter? Have I ever called thy attention to 
 what Anatole France says of them in his Le 
 Mannequin d'Osier? He prefers their delicate 
 skeletons and intimate beauty as revealed to the 
 view by winter. I am also enamored of this 
 wonderful example of counterpoint with the 
 thousand combinations of branches reflected 
 against the sky. 
 
 From my present billet I can see our village, 
 which suffers every day more and more from 
 
116 A Soldier of France 
 
 shell fire, until it has become gradually little 
 else than a mass of ruins crumbling into dust. 
 The church is also badly damaged, but the 
 charm of its jagged outline continues all the 
 same; and then it is so prettily ensconced be- 
 tween those two finely chiseled hills. 
 
 We had a good time during our last stay in 
 the second line. This snowy weather was really 
 beautiful and clement, too. In my yesterday's 
 letter I spoke to thee of the fine sunsets of the 
 other days, and, earlier, of our coming into 
 these wonderful woods. 
 
 January 22. 
 
 I have sent thee some verses, but I don't 
 know if they are any good. However, the 
 writing of them helped to reconcile me to our 
 present prosaic existence; and our last canton- 
 ment was really so beautiful that making verses 
 in such a spot was excusable. There were rivu- 
 lets babbling over the pebbles, big, limpid ponds 
 in the park, slumbering pools, alleys that set 
 you to dreaming; and none of these lovely 
 things has been polluted by this brutal conflict. 
 Unfortunately, I am given to understand that 
 we shall not return to that beauteous place. It 
 is evident that something is in the wind, and 
 
A Soldier of France 117 
 
 that the regularity of our winter quarters exist- 
 ence is coming to an end. 
 
 Today the sun has set the snow a-sparkling 
 and its charm is simply captivating. But we 
 have had some bad days, days when there was 
 nothing but nasty mud. 
 
 Two p. m. — The fine weather continues and 
 shows that spring is coming. Fortunately, we 
 can enjoy it, for our present positions are more 
 sheltered, so that we can look out and around 
 a bit. But I don't feel in a writing mood today 
 and can only send thee my love. This war is 
 long, and I cannot even speak of patience in 
 connection with it, much less practice patience. 
 My happiness has been in being able to tell thee 
 often during these past five and a half months 
 that everything is not ugliness. 
 
 January 23. 
 
 As for myself, I have no longer any desires. 
 When the trials are really hard, I simply accept 
 my unhappy lot and try and keep my mind a 
 blank. Then, when things grow pleasanter, I 
 begin to think again and dream, when throng 
 back to me the bonny hours of the past tinged 
 with the old touch of distant poetry, which led 
 my thoughts in those happy days into the strange 
 
118 A Soldier of France 
 
 paths of the imagination. A familiar boule- 
 vard or some spot where I have often been sud- 
 denly rises up before me, as formerly a snatch 
 of music or a bit of verse would bring to mind 
 dreamlands and the realms of legend. But now 
 neither music nor poetry is necessary to accom- 
 plish this; the intensity of our dear souvenirs, 
 mother mine, suffices. Now I cannot even 
 imagine what a new life might be; all I know 
 is that we are, indeed, leading a life, but for 
 whom and for what, is of little consequence. 
 What I do know and feel perfectly sure of is 
 that the harvest of French genius will be gath- 
 ered in and the intellectuality of our race will 
 not suffer permanently from the terrible deple- 
 tion inflicted on it by this war. Who can say 
 whether the peasant, companion in arms of the 
 fallen thinker, may not be the heir to the lat- 
 ter's thoughts? There is nothing to disprove 
 this magnificent possibility. The farmer lad 
 who has seen a young savant, a young artist, die, 
 may take up the interrupted task; he may be the 
 connecting link in an evolution which has been 
 only momentarily checked. Real sacrifice con- 
 sists in abandoning the hope of being, you your- 
 self, the torch-bearer. It is well for the child 
 at play to carry the flag, but the man must be 
 
A Soldier of France 119 
 
 satisfied with knowing that the flag will be 
 carried, whatever happens. This is the lesson 
 august nature is teaching me every moment, and 
 it reassures my sometimes doubting heart; for 
 nature makes flags of every thing, flags that are 
 finer than those to which we, with our petty 
 habits, cling — flags of science, flags of art; a 
 flake in the air often equals us. There will 
 always be eyes to see and bring together infor- 
 mation of sky and earth. 
 
 January 26. 
 
 Last night I got thy dear letter of the twen- 
 tieth. You must not blame me too severely if, 
 sometimes, as in my letter of the thirteenth inst, 
 I let it be seen that I am lacking in the very thing 
 I am always striving to acquire. But I beg thee 
 to try and imagine what must be the state of 
 mind of a young man in full productivity, at 
 the moment when his life should be one per- 
 petual flowering, to find himself suddenly torn 
 away from his congenial surroundings and 
 transported to an arid soil where all of his usual 
 food is lacking. Yet, once having taken his 
 bearings, he feels that life has not entirely aban- 
 doned him and he begins forthwith to draw 
 nourishment from the stinted resources of his 
 
120 A Soldier of France 
 
 new estate. But this is not an easy task, and 
 sometimes requires such a concentration of 
 energy that no place is left for indulging in old 
 memories or future hopes. A constant effort 
 must be made to adapt one's self to the sur- 
 rounding circumstances. I generally succeed in 
 accomplishing this except in moments of revolt, 
 which are, however, promptly repressed, when 
 there rise up, as if I had never forgotten them, 
 the thoughts and acts of my former life. It is 
 then I need all my strength to drown these 
 heart-rending souvenirs in the resignation de- 
 manded by the moment. 
 
 I was thinking, too, when I wrote that letter, 
 of the unhappy hours you also have to pass, and 
 this was one of the reasons why I urged thee to 
 take such an impersonal view of our union. I 
 know how strong you are and how well pre- 
 pared you are to accept this way of looking at 
 the situation. You are quite right, however, in 
 objecting to my anticipation of suffering and in 
 holding that it is time to cross a bridge when we 
 come to it. But my excuse is that at moments 
 one does not clearly distinguish the suffering of 
 the present hour and the suffering which may 
 come. Please note, however, that I do not 
 abandon hope, and that I count upon an over- 
 
A Soldier of France 121 
 
 ruling mercy. But, anxious above all things to 
 be an artist at all times and in every way, I am 
 ever trying to discover in the life about me as 
 much beauty as possible, and as quickly as pos- 
 sible, not knowing how much time is left me for 
 this. 
 
 January 27. Afternoon. 
 
 After two bad nights in cantonment, due to 
 our having no straw to sleep on, the third was 
 interrupted by a hasty departure for our posi- 
 tions in the second line, where I have been able 
 to get some sleep. The weather is fine; cold 
 and sunshine. Grand old nature is again begin- 
 ning to fold her friendly arms around me, and 
 her voice, which is now stronger, is comforting 
 me. 
 
 But, dearest, what a gap there is in my 
 existence. Yes, since my promotion, I have 
 passed moments which, though less terrible, 
 recall those of the beginning of September. But 
 I must not forget the many mercies that have 
 come with them. I accept this new life, but it 
 does not follow that I can see into the future. 
 
 January 28. In the morning sunshine. 
 
 The weather, which is severe but splendid, 
 is wonderful in that its pure sky tends to awaken 
 
122 A Soldier of France 
 
 all the poetry that is in one. Yes, what I tried 
 to tell thee of these fine snowy days came from 
 a heart comforted by this triumphant beauty. 
 
 In the periodicals you have sent me, I have 
 read with pleasure the articles on Molière ,on 
 the English Parliament ,on Martainville, 1 and 
 on the religious questions in 1830. 
 
 Did I tell thee that I saw by the newspapers 
 that Hillemacher 2 had been killed? This 
 charming fellow has fallen in this awful war. 
 
 February 1. 
 
 Very dear Mother: I have received thy let- 
 ters of the twenty-sixth and the twenty-seventh 
 ult., and, believe me, they have put new life 
 into me. Our first-line positions — this time 
 in the village — have, up to now, been favored 
 with a complete calm, and I have again expe- 
 rienced those hours of grace in which nature so 
 consoles me. My present official position car- 
 ries with it this special characteristic that now, 
 when I am performing camp drudgery, I feel 
 that I am acting from a sentiment of duty affect- 
 
 1 Alphonse Martainville (1776-1830), French journalist and 
 dramatist. 
 
 2 One of the competitors at the Paris School of Fine Arts 
 for the Roman Prize of 1915. 
 
A Soldier of France 123 
 
 ing the whole general body, and not under 
 orders emanating from mere army regulations. 
 
 February 2. 
 
 Dear Mother: I continue this letter in the 
 cantonment where a lot of fatigue duties fill up 
 the spare moments that would otherwise cause 
 time to weigh on my hands and spirits. But, 
 nevertheless, I am in a sort of a fit of the dumps, 
 where nothingness seems to be the chief end 
 of everything, though all that happens around 
 me proves the contrary and speaks to me of the 
 plenitude of the universe. Yes, devotion, not 
 to individuals, but to humanity in mass, sus- 
 tains me. What magnificent examples of this 
 do we find in Jesus among the poor — this Just 
 One, who, by performing a thankless task, re- 
 veals to us the boundlessness of altruistic duty, 
 and especially teaches the lesson of expecting 
 no reward for good works. Through my expe- 
 rience of men and things, I have gained that 
 tranquil state of mind where one expects noth- 
 ing from others. Then duty assumes an ab- 
 stract form disassociated from any of the selfish 
 human aims which veil the atrocity of this 
 present situation. 
 
 I am going to describe to thee our three days' 
 
124 A Soldier of France 
 
 sojourn in the front trenches. Let me begin by- 
 saying that we had today a wonderful sunrise, 
 and that spring is coming, though it is snowing 
 and freezing. As we went down the slopes 
 which lead up to our positions in the village, 
 the night was so beautiful that all the soldiers 
 were struck by it. But I fear it is quite impos- 
 sible for me to give thee an exact idea of the 
 delicate features of this region. How can I 
 adequately picture to thee this chased work of 
 the tree branches melting into a dream of mists 
 and the moon sailing majestically through it 
 all? For three consecutive nights my duties 
 have transported me into the heart of this pur- 
 ity and whiteness, where the shadows on the 
 trees were as refined as the goldsmith's art, and 
 where, in spite of the camaïeu, or single color 
 effect, reddish and blue tints were spread over 
 the scene. There are now moments here of such 
 beauty that he who grasps them feels that he 
 cannot die. For instance, I am now far in ad- 
 vance of our first-line positions, and yet never 
 have I felt so convinced that I am under some 
 special protection. How could it be otherwise 
 when I came back this morning and saw the sun 
 rising in pink and green and spreading its rays 
 over pink and blue snow, where a wide stretch 
 
A Soldier of France 125 
 
 of landscape was checkered with snow-covered 
 woods and fields, while in the far-away back- 
 ground the silvery surface of the Meuse faded 
 out of sight? Here was beauty in spite of all 
 our wickedness. 
 
 February 2. 
 
 After endless days of sadness have come sud- 
 den and fugitive flashes of philosophy — duty, 
 an austere but comforting refuge; and along 
 with this were some views of unheard-of 
 beauty. 
 
 February 3. 
 
 Dear loved Mother: I have this moment 
 received here in cantonment thy letter of the 
 twenty-ninth ult. This is an anonymous day 
 without any distinctive mark of its own, though 
 there is a mysterious impression of spring in the 
 atmosphere. The lengthening days give a new 
 touch of warmth to the air and a sudden mild- 
 ness is spreading over the surface of nature. 
 Alas ! how sweet by contrast would be this emo- 
 tion if we were not in this present bondage; but 
 the gentleness of spring renders still heavier this 
 burden. Dear Mother, how happy it makes me 
 to feel that far-away friends have such warm 
 
126 A Soldier of France 
 
 sympathy for me. What kindliness there is in 
 this poor world, after all. 
 
 I am so glad to have the reviews. I have 
 remarked this sentence in an excellent article 
 on Louis Veuillot: 1 u O my God! relieve me 
 of my despair and leave me my pain." Yes, 
 we should not ignore the fecund lesson of suf- 
 fering, and, doubtless, if I return from this war, 
 I shall come back with an enriched and well- 
 formed soul. I have also read with pleasure 
 the lectures on Molière, and there, as else- 
 where, I have noticed the solitude in which 
 superior souls move. But, thanks to those old 
 sentimental wounds of mine, I never suffer any 
 more from the acts of others. But, beloved 
 Mother, I will write thee in better spirits 
 tomorrow. 
 
 February ^. 
 
 Last evening, when I came back to my barn, 
 I found everybody drunk. There were quar- 
 rels, shouting, songs, and yelling. Such is our 
 life here at times. But this morning, with these 
 disagreeable experiences of the night before 
 still in mind, I got up earlier than usual, and 
 
 1 Distinguished French ultramontane publicist (1813-83). 
 
A Soldier of France 127 
 
 there was my friend the moon and majestic 
 night retiring before the morning, which took 
 pity on me. This blessed and spring-like day 
 gilds all with its own brightness, dispenses 
 promises, and gives all fresh hope. 
 
 Dearest, I have been thinking about that 
 title which Tolstoy chose for his book — War 
 and Peace. I used to suppose that he had in 
 mind the antithesis between these two states; 
 but I now ask myself if he did not associate 
 these two contrary conditions in the same in- 
 anity, if he did not consider with equal pain 
 humanity, whether at war or in peace. Of 
 course, I believe that we should ever try to be 
 good; but, in spite of ourselves, we understand 
 this rule of conduct much as we do the exhorta- 
 tion of the Society for the Prevention of 
 Cruelty to Animals, which paints on its street 
 signs : "Be kind to dumb beasts." How hard it 
 is to control our actions as the occasion arises 
 during our daily experiences. 
 
 February 5. 
 
 A sleepless night. Returning to the barn, 
 we found things in an abominable state. In 
 fact, there was such a row on that the corporals 
 complained and punishments were inflicted. We 
 
128 A Soldier of France 
 
 went on a march this morning, and to get rested 
 therefrom we worked this evening! 
 
 February 6. 
 
 Dear loved Mother: After the sleepless 
 night in the cantonment, due largely to an over- 
 dose of vinasse, that poor, cheap wine which the 
 men seem to like, we had work to do through to 
 the morning. So I have been sleeping all day 
 and have just got round to writing to thee. You 
 can get some idea of what my present existence 
 is when I confess that sleep and night are about 
 the only conditions in which life has any attrac- 
 tions for me. 
 
 Dear Mother, I have been going over again 
 that beautiful Sarpedon 1 legend and I find this 
 exquisite flower of Greek poetry still a consola- 
 tion to me. Read this episode of the Iliad in 
 my fine translation by Lecomte de l'lsle, 2 and 
 you will perceive that Zeus, face to face with 
 Destiny, speaks words in which the sentiment of 
 the eternal and the divine stand out as nobly as 
 in the Christian Passion. He suffers, and there 
 
 1 A Lycian prince, son of Jupiter and an ally of the Trojans, 
 who fell at Troy and whose body was carried home for 
 burial by Sleep and Death. 
 
 2 French poet (1818-94), whose translations from the Greek 
 are famous in French literature. 
 
A Soldier of France 129 
 
 is a long struggle in his paternal heart before 
 he can bring himself to accept the death of his 
 son. Then Hypnos and Thanatos are sent to 
 bring back the loved remains of the dead prince. 
 Hypnos, as you know, is the Greek god of sleep. 
 To think that I should have reached the point 
 where I welcome sleep ! I who formerly found 
 every hour of the day a joy; I who took pride 
 in every instant of activity. But now I find 
 myself longing for this way of escaping from 
 the tumult which surrounds me. 
 
 The fine spirit of Hellenic optimism you find 
 beaming in all its brightness on those vases in 
 the Louvre Museum, where the two genii are 
 represented as perpetuating Sarpedon after his 
 human end. We must all admit that Sleep and 
 Death enlarge and infinitely prolong our deter- 
 minism, that is, materialistic fatalism. Thana- 
 tos, Death, is a mystery whose horror is due 
 to the misunderstanding of it which our imme- 
 diate appetites generally prevent being dissi- 
 pated — we can see only the horror of it. But 
 look at the grand way Maeterlinck presents the 
 subject in his book on death. 1 His strong 
 words, permeated by a spirit of peace, awaken 
 
 lu La Mort" (1913). ("Death, an Essay," Dodd, Mead 
 and Company, N. Y.) 
 
130 A Soldier of France 
 
 a sympathetic echo among us here in this fear- 
 ful theater, where death is always with us. 
 
 February 7. 
 
 Very dear and much loved Mother: I re- 
 ceived yesterday thy admirable letter of the 
 first inst. Please don't ever hesitate to send me 
 what you characterize as idle gossip. It is not 
 such to me. Thy love for me and the identity 
 of our hearts come out in all thy letters. That 
 is what interests me the most in them. But in 
 addition, they bring me a thousand other tender 
 things which are vital to me. 
 
 We are having a hard time of it now. But 
 my non-commissioned grade makes things a 
 little lighter for me. The men, however, are 
 now serving five nights at a time without any 
 real sleep, and after five nights of rest, have 
 five more nights in the trenches. 
 
 February g. 
 
 Once again, when I was on the point of giv- 
 ing way, I find myself in an oasis, and the mo- 
 ment of consolation comes. The breeze which 
 refreshes, fans me once more. I have had the 
 good fortune to be designated corporal of the 
 guard in a charming spot where I am chief in 
 
A Soldier of France 131 
 
 command. In addition, we have with us beau- 
 tiful spring weather. But what can I say of 
 this nature whose secret powers I never before 
 felt so keenly? The hours and the seasons suc- 
 ceed one another with such certitude, so un- 
 escapably, with such all-embracing impassibil- 
 ity, that he who waits for their coming feels in 
 them the enormity of the initial energy of 
 nature. I have often experienced the joy of the 
 advent of spring or some other season, but 
 never before have I lived every instant of it as 
 I do now. How one thus acquires, without 
 the aid of any instruction, a vague but unques- 
 tionable intuition of the absolute. A poor hu- 
 man being, possessing, perhaps, the genius of 
 a savant, may declare that he has not found 
 God with his scalpel. What a shocking blunder 
 on the part of a superior mind. But why is 
 there any need of a scalpel when the joy and the 
 quivering of the senses suffice to tell us of the 
 immutable order which rules all evolution? The 
 poet sees the seasons come just as we do the 
 big ships whose return can be computed. Some- 
 times they may be delayed by the tempests, 
 but finally they arrive in spite of all things, 
 bringing with them the perfumes of unknown 
 lands. So, too, a returning season seems to 
 
132 A Soldier of France 
 
 fetch with it the pleasures acquired in the course 
 of a long voyage. 
 
 Ah! dear Mother, may we still be blessed 
 with isolation. Oh! the joys of solitude for 
 those who are worthy of it. But how this soli- 
 tude is broken in upon sometimes. Perhaps 
 it is a blessing in disguise, a privilege, which 
 destiny offers our generation by making it the 
 witness of these horrors. But what a ransom 
 is paid therefor. However, we must never for- 
 get that eternal Faith rules all things — faith 
 in evolution and in an order which surpasses 
 our poor human patience. 
 
 February II, Second day in the first-line 
 trenches. 
 It is necessary in moments like the present 
 to seek refuge in a sacrifice above and beyond 
 what is human, for it is impossible for poor 
 mortals to go any further in this direction than 
 we have already gone. We must renounce all 
 earthly hope and look for consolation else- 
 where. As for myself, I have not found myself 
 these last days worthy to be anything more than 
 a souvenir; and as a souvenir of me, I send thee 
 some flowers which I have culled in the midst 
 of the mud where we are floundering. 
 
A Soldier of France 133 
 
 Five p. m. — In spite of everything, we must 
 have courage, courage whatever comes. 
 
 February 13. Fourth day in the first line. 
 
 Dearest: After revolts, accompanied by- 
 flows of tears which have shaken my whole 
 moral and physical frame during all of this 
 recent period, I have finally been able to get 
 possession of myself again so as to be able to 
 say, "Thy will be done." And in so far as my 
 abilities are equal to the task, I would like to be 
 one who, up to the very end, does not despair 
 of laboring in the building up of the Temple. 
 I would like to be that workman who, though 
 he knows that the scaffolding on which he stands 
 will crumble without him being saved, never- 
 theless goes right on sculpturing the ornaments 
 of the cathedral. I say ornaments, for never 
 could I carry up the great stone blocks, espe- 
 cially as there are masons for that sort of work. 
 Yes, I have again found the calm, and if I have 
 not attained that universal repose for which I 
 have prayed, I do, at moments, catch glimpses 
 of that serene light, where everything, even our 
 own affections, take on a new aspect and are 
 transfigured. 
 
 I am sitting as I write thee at the foot of a 
 
134 A Soldier of France 
 
 hill which ends in a precipice, whose harmonious 
 outlines are of nature's handiwork. Here man 
 is hunting man, and a pitched battle between 
 them is imminent. In the meanwhile a skylark 
 is winging his flight up into the air, and as I go 
 on writing thee a strange feeling of serenity 
 takes possession of me; a something that is 
 extremely consoling; either a human assurance 
 or a revelation from above; the while every- 
 body around me is sleeping. 
 
 February 14. Fifth day in the first line. 
 
 All is agitation around us, and we, too, are 
 on the move. The nearer the inevitable ap- 
 proaches, the greater is the calmness which 
 takes possession of my heart. My dear coun- 
 try is defiled by abominable preparations to 
 attack her, and the silence is broken by the pre- 
 liminary cannonading. For the moment man 
 succeeds in violating all that is beautiful; but 
 in spite of everything, I feel sure that Beauty 
 will find a refuge somewhere. 
 
 During the past twenty-four hours I have 
 become myself again. Dear Mother, my re- 
 grets about my u ivory tower" are culpable. 
 What one takes too often for the ivory tower 
 is simply the cheese of the rat become hermit. 
 
A Soldier of France 135 
 
 On the contrary, may a better spirit move me 
 to recognize the benefits springing from this 
 tempest which has snatched me from a too 
 pleasant existence; and let us thank the Des- 
 tinies who, at moments during these never-to- 
 be-forgotten hours, have made a man of me. 
 No, I do not regret that dead youth of mine 
 which has led me by diverse paths to heights 
 where, at times, are dispersed the mists which 
 becloud the understanding. 
 
 February 16. 
 
 During these past days I have been living 
 hours which the grand problems of the uni- 
 verse, become more visible to me, have made 
 capital and decisive in my existence. We were 
 kept five days in the front-line positions, where 
 the service was exceedingly difficult and made 
 all the more so by a dreadful mud. The longer 
 we stayed there, and while I was keeping up the 
 struggle against a frightful sadness of soul, we 
 all felt that the situation was becoming more 
 and more strained, for we perceived that 
 greater and greater preparations were being 
 made for an attack. So we were not surprised 
 later that such an order had been issued to take 
 effect in one or two days. Then it was that I 
 
136 A Soldier of France 
 
 wrote thee two letters — those of the thirteenth 
 and fourteenth, I think; and, will you believe 
 it? as I went on writing thee, I felt spread over 
 me such a spirit of plenitude and suavity that I 
 could not but become convinced that the only 
 real things in this world are the good and the 
 beautiful. In the meantime the bombardment 
 of our positions went on violently; but nothing 
 that emanates from man, whatever it may be, 
 can smother what nature says to the soul. 
 
 On the night between the fourteenth and the 
 fifteenth, we took our places in the trenches 
 which were swept by machine guns. But our 
 men were so worn out that the attack had to be 
 made by another battalion. However, there 
 we waited in the water and in the cold night, 
 expecting any minute to be ordered to charge, 
 when we suddenly learned that we were re- 
 lieved; but for what reason we were not told. 
 So here we are again in this village where the 
 men are drowning in wine the dejection of spirit 
 which pervades their poor souls; and here, too, 
 am I in this crowd. 
 
 Dear Mother, if there is an absolute state 
 in the order of human feelings, it is suffering. 
 Until this war broke out, I had lived in rela- 
 tively charming emotions in which was lost the 
 
A Soldier of France 137 
 
 real significance of life. But now I feel what 
 life really is — the instrument which clears the 
 way for the soul to attain the absolute. But I 
 have suffered less from existing in this tran- 
 sitory state than I am suffering now from asso- 
 ciation with the persons with whom I am 
 brought into contact. 
 
 Nine p. tn., February 16. 
 
 Dear beloved Mother: I was at table when 
 I was told that we are to start at midnight. I 
 was sure that this is what would happen; so the 
 countermanding of that attack simply resulted 
 in our having to march some twenty-four miles 
 in addition to the fatigue of our sojourn in the 
 first line. As we were leaving our sector of the 
 attacking line, I saw such a lot of artillery being 
 brought up that I guessed there would be no 
 repose for us. But here where we are I find 
 at least calm of soul, while the sky is full of 
 stars. The weather is freezing. 
 
 February IQ. Post card sent in the midst of the 
 battle. 
 
 Only a word. We are in the hands of God. 
 Never, never have we needed more completely 
 confiding wisdom. Death is at work, but it does 
 
138 A Soldier of France 
 
 not reign. Life is still noble. Dead and 
 wounded yesterday and day before. Dearest, 
 letters will probably arrive very late. 
 
 February 22. 
 
 We are back in cantonment after the great 
 battle. 1 This time I saw everything. I did my 
 duty, and the kindly way in which everybody 
 treats me proves it. But the best of us are 
 dead; a painful loss. The regiment was heroic. 
 We gained what we were aiming at. Fuller 
 details later. 
 
 February 22. First day in cantonment. 
 
 Dear well-beloved Mother: I shall speak 
 to thee of the kindness of God and of the hor- 
 ror of all that has happened. The heaviness 
 of soul which I have been trying to bear up 
 under for the past month and a half was 
 anxiety over what was reserved for us during 
 these past days. 
 
 We reached the scene of action on the seven- 
 teenth. But the preliminaries did not interest 
 me ; I was waiting for the fight to begin. This 
 
 1 In the Argonne region during this period, great activity- 
 was in course on both sides, but no special name has been 
 given to any of these encounters. 
 
A Soldier of France 139 
 
 happened at three o'clock with the explosion of 
 nine mine-shafts which had been driven under 
 the enemy's trenches. It sounded like distant 
 thunder. Then over five hundred cannon let 
 hell loose, and in the midst of all this we 
 charged. By the time darkness came on, we 
 had pretty firmly intrenched ourselves in our 
 conquered positions, which I was engaged the 
 whole night in strengthening. I had to pass 
 over a rather large area in the obscurity, and I 
 was continually stumbling on the dead and 
 wounded of both sides. My heart was moved 
 for all of them, but I could only speak to them 
 in their distress. Up to this time our men had 
 not suffered much; but when morning came, we 
 were forced back, with considerable loss, to our 
 former positions. But in the evening, we went 
 at it again and retook the lost ground; and here 
 once more I did my duty. At one moment I 
 rushed forward to receive the sword of a Ger- 
 man officer who wished to surrender, and the 
 next moment I was busy stationing men in the 
 posts we were to hold. Our captain used me as 
 his aid and I drew for him a plan of our posi- 
 tion. He told me he was going to have me 
 mentioned in dispatches; but scarcely were the 
 words out of his mouth when he was killed out- 
 
140 A Soldier of France 
 
 right under my very eyes. Furthermore, dur- 
 ing the horrible three-days' bombardment, I 
 organized and kept going the supply service 
 of cartridges, when three of my men were 
 wounded. Our losses are terrible, but those of 
 the enemy still greater. You cannot imagine, 
 dear Mother, what awful things man can do to 
 man. For the past five days my shoes have been 
 positively soaked in human brains; I have 
 crushed under foot the chests of my fellows, 
 and my eyes could behold only entrails. What 
 little they can get, the soldiers eat along side 
 of dead bodies. The regiment was heroic. We 
 have lost all our officers — all killed sword in 
 hand. Two good friends of mine were slain — 
 one a handsome young fellow who sat for the 
 last portrait I made. One of my most frightful 
 experiences that evening was my suddenly com- 
 ing on his corpse, pale and magnificent, in the 
 moonlight. I stopped a moment near him and 
 the sight awakened the ever latent spirit of 
 beauty in me. Finally, after five days of hor- 
 ror, which cost us twelve hundred lives, we were 
 withdrawn from this place of abomination. The 
 whole regiment is mentioned in dispatches. 
 Dear Mother, who can ever tell all of the un- 
 heard-of things which my eyes have beheld and 
 
A Soldier of France 141 
 
 who can ever number the certitudes which this 
 tempest revealed to me? Duty, effort! 
 
 February 23. 
 
 Very dear loved Mother: This is our sec- 
 ond day in cantonment and tomorrow we return 
 to the front. Dearest, I cannot write thee at 
 this moment. Let us get nearer to what is 
 eternal and let us both cling close to duty. I 
 know thy thoughts are ever speeding towards 
 mine, while I am ever turning towards what I 
 feel is best for our happiness. Let us both be 
 courageous — I among all these young dead, 
 and thou waiting resignedly for whatever may 
 come. God is with us. 
 
 February 26. A fine afternoon. 
 
 Dear Mother: Here I am again on the bat- 
 tlefield. We have climbed up on the heights 
 where it would be more decent for me to con- 
 template the glory of God than to reprove the 
 horrors of man. The innumerable bodies which 
 one saw immediately after the battle are dis- 
 appearing little by little, and the few that are 
 left have now taken on the color of earth and 
 are repellent to eye and nostril. The losses are 
 called in the official bulletin, "serious." I can 
 
142 A Soldier of France 
 
 assure thee our soldiers are admirable in their 
 heroic resignation. All of them deplore this 
 shameful war, but the majority feel that the 
 performance of a horrible duty is the only thing 
 which, at the present moment, can excuse the 
 fearful necessity of being a man. But, dear 
 Mother, I can go on no further in this narra- 
 tion. The plain is now sinking to sleep bathed 
 in mauve and pink. But how is it possible for 
 such horrors to be? 
 
 February 28. In cantonment. 
 
 Dear beloved Mother and dearly beloved 
 Grandmother: I write you just after coming 
 out of a most dreadful nightmare during which 
 I lived Dantesque hours. What Gustave Doré 
 had the audacity to perceive in the text of the 
 Divine Comedy , has just been realized with the 
 varied additional details which reality always 
 gives to things of the imagination. In the midst 
 of fatigues whose only advantage is that they 
 render one less sensitive, I could get some idea 
 of what was profitable in our torments. Let 
 me explain the matter a little. 
 
 On the evening of the twenty-fourth, we re- 
 turned to our positions, where already some 
 attempt had been made to render the surround- 
 
A Soldier of France 143 
 
 ings less repulsive. But here and there could 
 still be seen human members which had already 
 taken on the appearance of the earth to which 
 they were returning. The weather was fine and 
 cold, and the heights which we had conquered 
 placed us high up in the sky; so the outlook on 
 land and heaven was brightened. Above, the 
 stars shone; below, the plain was red from con- 
 flagrations. The Germans were keeping up a 
 fearful bombardment, but their shells were 
 wasted on us. I was ensconced in a dugout, 
 whence I could follow the course of the moon, 
 and there I waited quietly for morning to come. 
 At times a shell would sprinkle me with earth 
 and deafen me, and then a dead calm would 
 spread over the frozen ground. So I had in- 
 stances of solitude with God, though I had to 
 pay dear for them. 
 
 I think I have pretty well adapted myself to 
 the necessities of this military existence, at least 
 in the eyes of my superiors, since, as I have 
 already written thee, I am proposed for the 
 grade of sergeant and I am to be mentioned in 
 dispatches. But, my dear mother, this war is 
 long, too long for those who feel that they have 
 a real task to perform in this world. What you 
 tell me of the sympathy felt for me at Paris of 
 
144 A Soldier of France 
 
 course gives me pleasure, but it will not take 
 me out of this position and transfer me else- 
 where where I could be better utilized. I some- 
 times ask myself why I am thus sacrificed, while 
 others who are not so good as I am escape. 
 Though I had something good to do on earth, 
 since God will not avert this bitter cup, may 
 His will be done. 
 
 March 3. In cantonment. 
 
 Today is the fourth we have passed in repose, 
 and for me it has been nearly a vacation, a 
 rather sad one, however, which recalls certain 
 sojourns at Marlotte — days passed in efforts 
 to build up physical and moral fatigue, and to 
 fill up hours now so empty and bare. But this 
 is at least a repose, or rather a halt in an onward 
 march, which makes it possible forme to classify 
 somewhat impressions whose violent character 
 has left me in a rather confused state of mind. 
 I am especially shaken by the noise of the burst- 
 ing shells. Think of it, on the French side 
 40,000 shells passed over us and about as many 
 on the German side, but with this difference, 
 that the latter burst right over our heads and 
 among us. One of these shells buried me under 
 a mass of earth which it threw up. In addi- 
 
A Soldier of France 145 
 
 tion, a lot of shrapnels exploded all around us. 
 After having gone through such an experience 
 I am excusable, perhaps, if I ask to be allowed 
 to live a little while longer, especially in the fur- 
 tive sunshine of March. The result is that my 
 brain has been left in a very muddled condition 
 and I am only just beginning to read again. I 
 have been glancing over a review article which 
 criticizes three new novels. In fact, this reading 
 lightens somewhat the cares of our present first- 
 line duties. 
 
 I have received a fine letter from André, who 
 must be in our neighborhood. I am glad to see 
 that he holds much the same opinion as I do in 
 regard to this dreadful war literature. I find 
 more comfort in music. Of what remains to me 
 of my modest little stock of accomplishments, 
 musical improvization is perhaps the best. 
 Thus, during this whole night I have been listen- 
 ing to the most beautiful orchestrated sympho- 
 nies, and, I may say it to thee, for this treat I 
 was indebted for the most part to those grand 
 German composers. 
 
 March 5. Sixth day in cantonment. 
 
 I wish I had in me still the extreme sensi- 
 bility which I once had, so that I could give the 
 
146 A Soldier of France 
 
 true color and the exact outlines of the tragedy 
 through which we have just passed. But this 
 I cannot do, at least for some time to come, as 
 I am in a sort of benumbed state, which, while 
 it may be in itself a happy condition when com- 
 pared with what preceded it, muddles a bit my 
 vision of things and doesn't let me see perfectly 
 clearly into the future. I still have to make 
 an effort to get back to a correct notion of 
 eternal and stable things, though this effort is 
 not always crowned with success. But some of 
 the spectacles of that devastated field taught 
 such a beautiful lesson, one so noble and so 
 convincing, that I would like, along with thee, 
 to feel again the admirable certainties of these 
 last few days. 
 
 For instance, how harmonious death is in the 
 ground, and how much more genial it is to see 
 the body returning to mother earth than to see 
 it the victim of the human paltriness of our 
 conventional funeral ceremonies. But yester- 
 day I would have felt that those poor aban- 
 doned dead were wronged, yet now, after 
 attending a few hours ago, the formal burial of 
 an officer, I am convinced that nature has a more 
 tender pity for her children than has man. Yes, 
 indeed, the death of a soldier is almost a natu- 
 
A Soldier of France 147 
 
 ral thing. It is an honest horror which meets 
 universal violence face to face. Many times 
 recently I have passed near dead bodies in uni- 
 form that were slowly sinking away into a natu- 
 ral grave and this new life of theirs with earth 
 was less repulsive to me than the cold and 
 unalterable sight of the city tombs. On account 
 of our life in the open air, our conception of 
 things has become so free and broad, our ges- 
 ture and thought so ample, that those of us who 
 return to the walks of man will find your cities 
 repellent and artificial. But, dear Mother, I 
 fear that I write thee badly of the things which 
 I have felt nobly; yet let us take refuge in the 
 peace of spring and the treasure of the passing 
 moment. 
 
 Ten-thirty a. m. } March 7. 
 
 Dear well-beloved Mother: I am filling up 
 the idle moments of this morning by enjoying 
 the sight of the clear waters of the Meuse, 
 which animates the graces of the valleys and 
 the gardens round about us here. The gam- 
 boling of the current among the reeds and peb- 
 bles offers my weary soul a reposeful spectacle 
 and reflects the calm life of this big village 
 sheltered by the river's heights. The church is 
 
148 A Soldier of France 
 
 full of soldiers, who, like me, feel that there is a 
 definitive ideal, but who desire a more formal 
 and less direct manifestation of it than I do. 
 
 I am taking board for a fortnight in the 
 house where, almost two months ago, our happy 
 little band lived. But today I saw these fine 
 fellows in tears when they learned who had been 
 killed and wounded. 
 
 Before leaving for here I received your sleep- 
 ing bags; they go all right. But I am bothered 
 with rheumatism, which, during almost two 
 months, has spoiled many of my nights in can- 
 tonment. Dear Mother dear, a calm has come 
 over the usual hullabaloo of the barracks, 
 where our life will be led for some little time 
 to come. As all of us now here are non-com- 
 missioned officers, we are all forced to do 
 fatigue duty, and so I am renewing my acquaint- 
 ance with broom and menial work in general. 
 But we were told beforehand that we would 
 have to perform considerable manual labor of 
 one kind and another; all this so that we may 
 learn how, later, to direct others. 
 
 Later. — Mild weather after rain. In the 
 evening the church bells. The running water 
 goes on singing under the bridges, but the trees 
 are going to sleep. Good night to thee, too. 
 
A Soldier of France 149 
 
 March II. 
 
 Dear Mother dear: There is nothing to say 
 about my present existence, as everything now 
 moves along normally. At moments, perhaps, 
 an image of the past is evoked or a memory 
 rises up, but as a rule I sit here stagnant, with 
 aching bones, except when, as happens today, 
 I read some fine article like that of Renan's on 
 "The Origins of the Bible," 1 which appeared 
 in the Revue des Deux Mondes for March, 
 1886. If I can only manage to retain some of 
 it, my ideas on the subject, which are rather 
 conflicting, will be clarified, perhaps. In fact, 
 I am much as if I had risen from a bed of 
 typhoid fever. I am weak in body and mind, 
 and the simplest things find a response in my 
 soul. Just now I get a lot of pleasure out of 
 the water which abounds here — the sluggish 
 current of the Meuse, the springs murmuring 
 through the grass and over the pebbles, the 
 ponds dormant under the big trees, the cascades 
 and rills splashing on the listening ear. On the 
 steep hillsides the snow shines in a dreamy 
 light. I live in all this, though I am not quite 
 
 !"Les Origines de la Bible," by Ernest Renan (1822-92), 
 learned French philologist and historian, member of the 
 Academy. 
 
150 A Soldier of France 
 
 equal to telling how I do it. I am, in fact, a 
 little ashamed to vegetate in this wise, but I 
 think we are all like this every time we quit 
 that hell at the front. I eat and sleep, too, when 
 my dreadful lumbago will let me. So don't be 
 too hard on me, please, if I am thus below the 
 mark. I am as if I were deprived of my armor. 
 But, then, in the end, what difference does all 
 this make? 
 
 Five p. m. — I am back from drill rather 
 tired. But this fine Meuse air always keeps 
 me in good trim. Dear Mother, I would once 
 more strive towards all that is beautiful and 
 noble; I would like ever to feel in me the inspi- 
 ration which bears me towards the spiritual 
 riches of life. But alas ! for the moment my 
 soul is as heavy as lead. 
 
 Sunday morning, March 14. In Sabbath peace. 
 Dear Mother dear: Thy good and vivify- 
 ing letters have at last reached me. If I had 
 been at the front I would have got them more 
 promptly. So this privation is the ransom I 
 have been forced to pay for the substantial hap- 
 piness I am enjoying in this reposeful spot, 
 where, at this moment, the pretty town is awak- 
 ening in the morning mists of the Meuse and 
 
A Soldier of France 151 
 
 the brook is hurrying along over the well- 
 washed pebbles. Everything has the precious, 
 moderate, delicate touch which is the dominant 
 characteristic of the region. 
 
 I have been reading a little, but we are all 
 so tired from the exercises which we are put 
 through that I go to sleep as soon as we get 
 back. We are now engaged in making a lot of 
 trenches. 
 
 Dear Mama, let us return to those extraor- 
 dinary moments at the end of February. I may 
 say again that I recall the whole affair just as 
 I would the stages of a scientific experiment. 
 My conception of violence had been, up to that 
 moment, of a theoretic-formula sort and I 
 thought I had settled what its rôle was in the 
 universe. But I had never been given an oppor- 
 tunity to note the practical effect of it, except 
 under very trivial circumstances. In this instance, 
 however, the manifestation of the working of 
 violence was on such a scale that all my receptive 
 faculties had to be brought into play in order 
 to grasp its full meaning. I must confess it was 
 an interesting study, though I should add that 
 during the crisis I never lost my balance, but fol- 
 lowed things and events in a cold, impersonal 
 manner. My sensitive eye was the peculiarity 
 
152 A Soldier of France 
 
 of my temperament which here stood me in 
 good stead and enabled me to mark some of the 
 scenic effects whose dramatic side was as ar- 
 tistic, if I may be permitted such a word in such 
 a connection, as that seen in any human crea- 
 tion. But, unlike what usually happens on such 
 occasions, I kept my head and clung to my orig- 
 inal intention of "seeing how the thing worked." 
 I am very happy to be able to say that never 
 once during the battle did the mad excitement 
 caused by carnage get possession of me, and I 
 trust it will always be so. 
 
 Unfortunately, this contact with the German 
 race has spoilt forever my opinion of them. Of 
 course, I could not assume the responsibility of 
 allowing myself to be controlled by misplaced 
 sensibility or humanitarianism when such feel- 
 ings would have made me, in this instance, the 
 dupe of a crafty enemy; but I confess I found 
 myself accepting a state of tolerating what I 
 once would have considered an abomination 
 and the negation of all that is worthy in life. 
 
 I have seen the French in battle. They are 
 terrible in action, but magnanimous when the 
 struggle is over. This phrase may be very trite 
 and commonplace, found in the mouths of our 
 greatest writers and in the mouths of our sim- 
 
A Soldier of France 153 
 
 plest school boys, but my former decadent, 
 overeivilized intellectualism finds no other 
 which adequately expresses the impression 
 which the French soul makes on the observer in 
 great events of this sort. 
 
 March 14. 
 
 TO MADAME DE L. 
 
 My mother has told me of the great blow 
 which has again fallen upon you. What heavy 
 afflictions some unfortunate souls have to bear 
 in this life I I know how strong you are and 
 with what habitual fortitude you suffer pain; 
 but how fervently I wish you had been saved 
 this one. My mother had told me how all news 
 about Colonel de B. was lacking and how much 
 this fact worried her. So I was prepared to 
 hear the worst. We men at the front are anx- 
 ious only about those of us who are on the 
 firing line. But we know that there is in the 
 spectacle of the soldier who falls a lesson of 
 grandeur and of eternity which arms one for 
 whatever comes — a lesson which we would like 
 to see those dear to us at home profit by. Rest 
 assured, dear Madame, that the Colonel's exam- 
 ple will bear a magnificent fruitage. I am sure 
 of this, for I have seen similar instances — the 
 
154 A Soldier of France 
 
 heroism which transfigures the soldier whose 
 chief has fallen. 
 
 To me the times have been fertile in tragic 
 events. I have lived through hours of violence, 
 during which I have tried to do my duty. I 
 have seen my chiefs fall and the regiment deci- 
 mated. No longer is there any human hope for 
 him who is in the fiery furnace. I have placed 
 myself in the hands of God, asking him only to 
 keep me in such a state of mind and heart that 
 I can appreciate in His creation all that man 
 has not disfigured; the true proportions of my 
 life's past events I can grasp no longer. 
 
 March î$. 
 
 Dearly loved Mother: I think you now per- 
 ceive the grace that was accorded me when I 
 was assigned to this platoon. Whatever God 
 may have in store for me in the coming days, 
 this respite here has enabled me to get full pos- 
 session of myself again and to prepare myself 
 submissively, happen what may. Standing face 
 to face with destiny, I send thee my love and 
 our union. Farewell. 
 
 March ij. 
 
 A charming morning; a white sun enveloped 
 in mist, silhouetted trees on the heights, and the 
 
A Soldier of France 155 
 
 vast landscape bathed in light. This is a privi- 
 leged period. The other day while reading an 
 old number of the Revue des Deux Mondes 
 for 1880 I found myself in the midst of a fine 
 article, just as when one enters a noble palace 
 with sumptuous vaulted ceiling and richly dec- 
 orated walls. The subject was Egypt and it was 
 signed George Perrot. 1 Yesterday my battalion 
 left the cantonment en alerte , but I am kept here 
 to continue my instruction for my sergeantship. 
 How thankful I am for this respite, which, how- 
 ever, is not a sinecure, though it does permit me 
 to enjoy what is very dear to me — a lucid mind 
 and a heart open to nature. 
 
 I forgot to tell thee that during the battle 
 of the other day I saw in the evening the cranes 
 coming back north, and a lull in the fight made 
 it possible even to hear their cries. It seems 
 so long since I saw them depart on their south- 
 ern journey. I remember that when they left 
 us at the beginning of winter everything 
 appeared to grow sadder afterwards. Their 
 coming back is like a dove from Noah's ark; 
 not that I dissimulate the dangers which remain, 
 
 1 Georges Perrot (1832-1914), French archeologist. "Les 
 Etudes d'Archéologie," etc., Revue des Deux Mondes, August 
 i, 1880. 
 
156 A Soldier of France 
 
 but these ambassadors of the air brought me 
 a more visible assurance of the universal calm 
 which prevails in the midst of our human 
 frenzy. Yesterday it was the wild ducks which 
 turned their wings northwards. They formed 
 various patterns as they flocked together in 
 the heavens and then disappeared on the hori- 
 zon like a long floating ribbon. 
 
 I appreciate very much the high opinion 
 which M. Chevrillon has of me. I had a 
 taste for letters, even when a child, and I have 
 always regretted that the irregular way in 
 which I was educated left so many gaps in my 
 intellectual make-up. But throughout all my 
 scholastic vicissitudes I always preserved the 
 faculty of picking up right and left any choice 
 bit of knowledge encountered by the way. As 
 I can't tell what may happen, I, of course, say 
 nothing about my desire to make the personal 
 acquaintance of M. Chevrillon. This pleas- 
 ure will have to be adjourned till more favorable 
 times. 
 
 I have written to Madame L. This will be 
 the final blow for her. It is the lot of some 
 persons to be a sort of medal on which are 
 struck all the signs of pain. Adversity has ham- 
 mered them so full of these that there is no 
 
A Soldier of France 157 
 
 place left to put in joy. But I suppose that 
 such a complete turning of a life into channels 
 which lead only to distress must finally find 
 some compensation, if only that of at last feel- 
 ing that the sources of misfortunes are at length 
 dried up. It is indeed something to have a limit 
 set to human distress. Destinies of this kind 
 make the impression on me of sentinels who 
 defend others from the attacks of a contrary 
 destiny. 
 
 Every day I see a new cross in the little mili- 
 tary cemetery, while victorious springtime 
 spreads over all. 
 
 March ig. 
 
 Our vacation is going to end in pleasantness, 
 while tumult and carnage are raging not far 
 away. I hear the regiment has done well again. 
 
 March 20. 
 
 Dear Mother dear: After so many instances 
 of grace, I should have more confidence, and I 
 am going to make renewed efforts to give my- 
 self up completely to God. But these are hard 
 times for us. I have just heard of the death, 
 among many others, of a friend of mine who 
 was my bedfellow at the cantonment. He had 
 
158 A Soldier of France 
 
 just been made a second lieutenant. Dear 
 Mother, love is the only human sentiment which 
 one may cherish at such a time as this. 
 
 March 2 1. 
 
 Dear Grandmother: As the hour of trial 
 approaches, I seize the occasion to send thee 
 my whole love ; it is all that I can do. The sit- 
 uation is going to demand sacrifices, in the pres- 
 ence of which we must forget all that binds us 
 elsewhere. But let us pray that the certitude 
 of the Beautiful and the Good does not aban- 
 don us in the midst of our sufferings. 
 
 Sunday, March 21. In the most beautiful 
 sunshine. 
 
 Dear well-beloved Mother: I think we are 
 going to stay here a day longer and get started 
 only on Tuesday. I don't know where I shall 
 find my battalion or in what condition I shall 
 find it, for the present action is very violent and 
 drags on. The reports are very contradictory 
 as regards gains, but as regards victims, all 
 agree that the number is very large. We can 
 hear from where we are a most vigorous can- 
 nonading going on, and the fine weather will 
 
r A Soldier of France 159 
 
 probably decide both commanders to push 
 forward the attack. 
 
 I would like to talk much to thee about this 
 noble nature which envelops me with its glory, 
 but at the present moment the truth is that my 
 thoughts are elsewhere — there where the sun 
 does not bring men together for its own wor- 
 ship, but to furnish light in which to develop 
 hatred, and where night serves only to produce 
 anguish and ruse. The other day as I was 
 gazing on this noble expanse of country now 
 offering itself to spring, I felt joy in being a man. 
 But now what is it to be a man ! 
 
 Our neighboring regiment has come back 
 with its companies reduced to forty men. I dare 
 no longer speak of hope. The only grace one 
 may ask is to be allowed to exhaust all that the 
 passing moment offers of the beautiful. Here 
 is a new way "of living one's life" never fore- 
 seen by literature. But, dear Grandmother, 
 what a great support to me in these trials has 
 been thy tenderness. 
 
 March 22. 
 
 We have a burning sun today, which makes 
 one wonder how it can be that, with such 
 warmth and brightness around us we can still 
 
160 A Soldier of France 
 
 be in the midst of war. Spring has come in 
 triumphantly and caught men in a fit of madness 
 and in the very act of outraging creation. For- 
 tunately, the official bulletin says nothing about 
 what is going on, so this adds to the deception 
 that we cannot be in the midst of war and 
 rumors of war, and as I have now been for 
 three weeks away from the front, I can scarcely 
 picture to myself the monstrous things going on 
 there. But, dear Mother, I know that thy 
 life and mine have both had but one aim, and 
 that even during these recent days we have 
 striven more nearly to attain it; so perhaps our 
 lives will not have been useless. At present the 
 only consolation of an ambitious soul is to try 
 and foresee in what form his thoughts will be 
 reechoed in the years to come. It seems to me 
 that if it should be accorded me to live I would 
 never interrupt this effort of ours; but being 
 certain only of the present, I am striving to 
 put into it the best of me. 
 
 March 25. 
 
 Dear Mother dear: Here I am living again 
 a burrow existence. I have found the same 
 spot where I was last month. While I have 
 been away nothing has happened. A strong 
 
A Soldier of France 161 
 
 attack on our part was tried, but didn't accom- 
 plish anything. They utilized regiments which 
 were inferior to ours in what goes to the making 
 of good soldiers under fire, so all they succeeded 
 in doing was to get cut to pieces and to draw 
 down upon us a terrible bombardment. It 
 appears that the preceding combat was as noth- 
 ing in comparison with this one. My company 
 lost heavily from air torpedoes. These pro- 
 jectiles, which are over a yard long and nearly 
 a foot in diameter, are fired very high up into 
 the air and then fall straight down, so that they 
 penetrate the most defiladed hollows and 
 explode there. So we are now living several 
 yards underground and go out only at night for 
 fatigue duty. Fortunately, the weather is 
 clement. 
 
 Dearest, I would like to tell thee a whole 
 lot of things of a happy nature, but, as I have 
 already written thee, there are some which must 
 not be awakened by words. Our clumsy human 
 joy might frighten them, perhaps be repug- 
 nant to them, might even cause them to faint 
 away! 
 
 I take up my letter again after a nap. In 
 our casements we sleep as much as we can. 
 Before I lay down I had my head full of 
 
162 A Soldier of France 
 
 thoughts which I was too tired to jot down. 
 Among these I was thinking of Beethoven. I 
 am now just the age he was when he was 
 stricken with disease and I recall the fine exam- 
 ple he set of laboring under great difficulties. 
 The obstacles in his way must have seemed to 
 him as unsurmountable as does the present one 
 to us. But he came off victorious. To my mind 
 Beethoven is the finest human example of 
 creative power. 
 
 But I am afraid I am not writing well, as I 
 am still half asleep. 
 
 How everything concerning my return here 
 was made easy and softened with kindness. I 
 left our castle quite alone, and passing in front 
 of a battery of artillery, I was treated in a most 
 fraternal manner by the non-commissioned offi- 
 cers. The artillery has a friendly feeling for 
 the infantry who protect them, and they, who 
 are not even exposed to the rain, show a warm 
 sentiment of pity for us. 
 
 But I must stop rather abruptly, repeating 
 once more that thy courage sustains me. What- 
 ever comes, I will have found joy here below. 
 Why, even the night on which I arrived here 
 was superbly beautiful. 
 
A Soldier of France 163 
 
 March 26. 
 
 Dear Mother dear: Nothing new on our 
 heights, which we go on getting in order — 
 interesting work, though presenting many diffi- 
 culties. We are aided in our labor by fine 
 weather. From time to time the pickaxe strikes 
 some poor dead body which war thus torments, 
 even in his humble grave. 
 
 March 28. On the heights. A cloudy Sunday 
 disturbed by yesterday } s bombardment. 
 
 Here we are again in the midst of a battle. 
 A formidable attack from our side repeats the 
 carnage of last week; but my company, which 
 was so cut to pieces at the last assault, fared 
 more easily this time, as we were holding a 
 defensive sector. So we were only bespattered 
 by the combat and I could follow at a distance, 
 on a most beautiful spring Saturday, the spec- 
 tacle of the struggle. I saw the rampant beast, 
 which an advancing battalion resembles, twist- 
 ing through the smoke produced by the shells. 
 The attacking party was composed of chasseurs 
 à pied, light infantry, who advanced in spite of 
 the machine guns and the bombarding which 
 was kept up by the French and Germans alike. 
 However, the brave fellows accomplished their 
 
164 A Soldier of France 
 
 object and so retrieved the check of last week 
 when our attack failed. Yesterday I lived the 
 lithographs of Raffet, 1 but with this difference, 
 that in his time it was less dangerous to follow 
 a fight from the distance I was, for the rifles 
 didn't then carry so far. It was a fine sight — 
 the broad plain, at the foot of the cliffs which 
 we occupy, scintillating with the flashes of a 
 hundred thousand bursting shells, while the 
 chasseurs kept on climbing up towards the 
 enemy. 
 
 Sunday, March 28. Second letter. 
 
 Dear Mama: The morning has brought 
 us bright weather. I have been moving about 
 over our sector for some distance and I find that 
 the bombardment is beginning again little by 
 little. But in spite of it all I keep my soul 
 turned towards hope, and whatever happens, 
 I trust you and I may be blessed with wisdom. 
 Dearest, I feel at moments how easy it would 
 be forme to turn again to the occupations which 
 were once the charm and interest of my life. 
 At times during this fine weather I find myself 
 eager to paint and keenly regretting that I am 
 
 1 Auguste Raffet (1804-60), French artist who made a 
 specialty of the soldiers of the Revolution and the Empire. 
 
A Soldier of France 165 
 
 not doing so again. But then I force myself 
 to maintain and direct the resources of my soul 
 and will in the narrow and difficult path 
 required by my present course of life. 
 
 April i. 
 
 Today a sun revealing the youth of spring. 
 The Meuse, a river flowing gracefully by a rich 
 village where the echoes of the cannonade 
 arrive only as a dull sound and so lose their 
 meaning. Such are my present surroundings, 
 and it signifies that we have changed our can- 
 tonment. Such large reinforcements arrived 
 that we gave place to others and our regiment 
 has again changed its quarters. So everything 
 is bright and fresh today. A tender, silver light 
 envelops the distant stretches of the grand, 
 grassy plain which the Hauts-de-Meuse border. 
 I close this letter sitting on the river bank, 
 which calls up keenly the joy I would have if I 
 only could paint. I have before me the prettiest 
 glimpses of spring. 
 
 April 3. 
 
 Only a word. Still in the spring woods. Sun 
 and rain playing in the sky. Courage in spite 
 of all. 
 
166 A Soldier of France 
 
 April j. Second communication. 
 
 I wish I had written better during these last 
 days when everything was sweet to me, even 
 while I was in the front line. But I admit I 
 simply let myself enjoy living in these moments 
 serene in spite of the howlings of war. We 
 don't know what is happening next. There is 
 much coming and going. Are we once more to 
 support the shock of battle? 
 
 During our last stay in the first line we had 
 to pass whole days in the casements, which these 
 miserable bombardments force us to dig in the 
 side of the hill for a distance of some ten or 
 twelve yards. There, in complete darkness, 
 we wait for night to come in order to go out. 
 And will you believe it? There the soldiers, 
 non-commissioned officers and I played, with 
 our whole nature stirred, the nine symphonies 
 of Beethoven. I can't describe the sensations 
 which this music sent through us in that dugout. 
 It was like fireworks. We quite forgot our 
 cramped up position, which was like a Chinese 
 torture, as we were neither seated, nor standing, 
 nor lying down. 
 
 The life of a sergeant in cantonment is very 
 agreeable, though I don't take advantage of 
 it. But when I think of the front, I ask Provi- 
 
A Soldier of France 167 
 
 dence to give me the strength of soul necessary 
 to do my duty there to the very end. A good 
 friend of mine, who was the head of our sec- 
 tion, has just been made adjutant of our 
 company. 
 
 All this, I fear, is of trifling interest to thee. 
 But, dearest, I have not been up to much 
 these last few days. In fact, I have not felt 
 very well since the events of last month. So 
 I have been simply trying to have a good 
 time. I hope I have not been going too 
 far and that Providence will guard me from 
 danger. 
 
 April 4. 
 
 Dear dearest Mama: We are now all on 
 the tiptoe of expectation and we feel that a 
 menace is hanging over us. But in the mean- 
 while all is calm and idleness. Dearest, forgive 
 me if for the last month I have not been up to 
 much. Love me and ask our friends to love 
 me. Did you get my photograph? It was 
 taken at the happy epoch of the war for posi- 
 tions, when the days passed by peacefully and 
 our only enemy was the rigor of the tempera- 
 ture. A little later I became corporal and then 
 began for me a harder existence filled with 
 
168 A Soldier of France 
 
 thankless toil. Next came the storm whose 
 lightning flashes have brightened my life. 
 
 April 4. Evening of Easter Sunday. 
 
 Dear Mother: Here we are again in the 
 care of God. In two hours we leave for the 
 tempest. Dearest, I think of thee, I think of 
 you both. I love you both, and I place all three 
 of us under the protection of Providence. May 
 we be ready for whatever happens. With the 
 full strength of my soul this is the prayer I 
 utter for us all. In spite of everything, let us 
 hope, but above all, let us hold fast to wisdom 
 and love. I embrace you both, but say no more. 
 All my thoughts now turn towards a heavy duty. 
 
 One a. m., April 5. 
 
 Dear Mother and dear Grandmother: We 
 are starting. Courage, love, and wisdom. Per- 
 haps all this is done for our best good. All I 
 can do is to send you both all my love. My 
 life subsists only in you both. 
 
 April 5. About noon. 
 
 Dear Mother: Here we are on trial. So 
 far I see no signs of being forsaken by the graces 
 — those which come from God. It is ever our 
 
A Soldier of France 169 
 
 duty to try and be worthy of them. This after- 
 noon we shall need all our will power and we 
 must have recourse to supreme wisdom. Dear 
 Mother dear and dear Grandmother, may I 
 still have the joy of your letters. Let us pray 
 for support in the midst of all this. Dear 
 dearest, ever all my love for you both. 
 
 April 6. Noon. 
 
 Dear well-beloved Mother: Here we are at 
 noon at the extreme point of the attack. I send 
 thee my whole love. Whatever happens, life 
 has had beauty for me. 1 
 
 1 It was in the combat of this day that the author of these 
 letters disappeared and has never been heard from since. 
 
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