This consolation consists especially in the supernaturally certain conviction that all divine and immortal energy, working through mankind, far from being enfeebled, will, on the contrary, be exalted and more intensely effectual at the end of these storms.
Happy the man who will hear the song of peace as in the "Pastoral Symphony," but happy already he who has foreknowledge of it amid the tumult! And what does it matter in the end that this magnificent prophecy is fulfilled in the absence of the prophet! He who has guessed this has gleaned great joy upon earth. We can leave it to a higher being to p.r.o.nounce if the mission is accomplished.
_October 28_ (2nd letter, almost at the same hour).
MY DEAR, DEAR MOTHER,--Another welcome moment to spend with you. We can never say any but the same thing, but it is so fine a thing that it can always be said in new ways.
To-day we are living under a sky of great clouds as swift and cold as those of the Dutch landscape painters.
Dear, I dare not wish for anything--it must not be. I must not even consider a partial relaxation. I a.s.sure you that the effort for endurance is less painful than certain times of intensive preparation that we have pa.s.sed through. Only we can each moment brace ourselves in a kind of resistance against what is evil in us, and leave every door open to the good which comes from without.
. . . I am glad that you have read Tolstoi: he also took part in war. He judged it; he accepted its teaching. If you can glance at the admirable _War and Peace_, you will find pictures that our situation recalls. It will make you understand the liberty for meditation that is possible to a soldier who desires it.
As to the disability which the soul might be supposed to suffer through the lack of all material well-being, do not believe in it. We lead the life of rabbits on the first day of the season"s shooting, and, notwithstanding that, we can enrich our souls in a magnificent way.
_October 30._
I write to you in a marvellous landscape of grey autumn lashed by the wind. But for me the wind has always been without sadness, because it brings to me the spirit of the country beyond the hill. . . .
The horrible war does not succeed in tearing us from our intellectual habitation. In spite of moments of overwhelming noise, one more or less recovers oneself. The ordinary course of our present existence gives us a sensibility like that of a raw wound, aware of the least breath.
Perhaps after this spoliation of our moral skin a new surface will be formed, and those who return will be for the time brutally insensitive.
Never mind: this condition of crisis for the soul cannot remain without profit.
Yesterday we were in a pretty Meuse village, all the more charming in contrast with the surrounding ruins.
I was able to have a shirt washed, and while it dried I talked to the excellent woman who braves death every day to maintain her hearth. She has three sons, all three soldiers, and the news she has of them is already old. One of them pa.s.sed within a few kilometres of her: his mother knew it and was not able to see him. Another of these Frenchwomen keeps the house of her son-in-law who has six children. . . .
For you, duty lies in acceptance of all and, at the same time, in the most perfect confidence in eternal justice.
Do not dwell upon the personality of those who pa.s.s away and of those who are left; such things are weighed only with the scales of men. We must gauge in ourselves the enormous value of what is better and greater than humanity.
Dear mother, absolute confidence. In what? We both already know.
_October 30, 10 o"clock._
Up till now I have possessed the wisdom that renounces all, but now I hope for a wisdom that accepts all, turning towards what may be to come.
What matter if the trap opens beneath the steps of the runner. True, he does not attain his end, but is he wiser who remains motionless under the pretext that he might fall?
_November 1, All Saints", 8 o"clock._
Last night I received your card of 24-25th. While you were looking at that moon, clouded from us, you were very wrong to feel yourself so helpless; how much reason had you to hope! At that very moment I was being protected by Providence in a way that rebukes all pride.
The next day we had the most lovely dawn over the deeply coloured autumn woods in this country where I made my sketches of three years ago; but just here the landscape becomes accentuated and enlarged and acquires a pathetic majesty. How can I tell you the grandeur of the horizon! We are remaining in this magnificent place, and this is All Saints" Day!
At the moment, I write to you in the silvery light of a sun rising over the valley mists; we are conscious of the sleeping country for forty kilometres around, and battle hardly disturbs the religious gravity of the scene.
Do love my proposed picture! It makes a bond with my true career. If it is vouchsafed to me to return, the form of the picture may change, but its essence is contained in the sketch.
_Mid-day._--Splendid All Saints" Day profaned by violence.
Glory of the day. . . .
_November 2, All Souls"._
Splendid feast of sun and of joy in the glorious beauty of a Meusian landscape. Hope confines itself in the heart, not daring to insult the grief of those for whom this day is perhaps the first day of bereavement.
Dear beloved mother, twenty-eight years ago you were in a state of mourning and hope to-day, the agony is as full of hope as then. It is at a different age that these new trials occur, but a whole life of submission prepares the way to supreme wisdom.
What joy is this perpetual thrill in the heart of Nature! That same horizon of which I had watched the awakening, I saw last night bathe itself in rosy light; then the full moon went up into a tender sky, fretted by coral and saffron trees.
Dear, the frightful record of martyrdom of the best French youth cannot go on indefinitely. It is impossible that the flower of a whole race can disappear.
There must be some n.o.bler task than war for the nation"s genius! I have a secret conviction of a better near future. May our courage and our union lead us to this better thing. Hope, hope always! I received grandmother"s dear letter and M.R."s kind and affectionate card.
Dear, have you this beautiful sun to-day? How n.o.ble is the country and how good is Nature! To him who listens she says that nothing will ever be lost.
_November 4, 10 o"clock._
I live only through your thoughts and in the blessings of Nature. This morning our chiefs menaced us with a march of twenty kilometres, and this threat fulfilled itself in the form of a charming walk in the landscape that I love so much.
Exquisite vapours, which we see lifting hour by hour at the call of a temperate sun; and, yonder, those high plateaux which command a vast panorama, where everything is finely drawn, or rather is just felt in the mist. . . .
There are hills furnished with bare trees holding up their charming profiles. I think of the primitives, of their sensitive and conscientious landscapes. What scrupulous majesty, of which the first sight awes with its grandeur, and the detail is profoundly moving!
You see, dear mother, how G.o.d dispenses blessings that are far greater than griefs. It is not even a question of patience, since time has no longer any meaning for us, for it is not a matter of any calculable duration. But then, what richness of emotion in each present minute!
This then is our life, of which I wrote to you that not one event must make of it something unachieved, interrupted; and I hope to preserve this wisdom. But at the same time I want to ally it with another wisdom which looks to the future, even if the future is forbidden to us. Yes, let us take all from the hands of the present (and the present brings us so many treasures!), but let us also prepare for the future.
_November 5, 8 o"clock._
DEAR MOTHER,--Do not hide from me anything of what happens in Paris, of your cares, or your occupations. All that you will decide is for the best. My own happiness, in the midst of all this, lies just in that security I have in thinking of your spirit.
The weather is still exquisite and very soft. To-day, without leaving the beautiful region to which we came on September 20th, we have returned to the woods. I like that less than the wide open view, but there is prettiness here too. And then the sky, now that the leaves have fallen, is so beautiful and so tender.
I have written to C----. I will write to Mme. C----. I hope for a letter from you. If you knew how much the longer is a day without news! It is true I have your old letters, but the new letter has a fragrance which I now can"t do without.
_November 6._
Yesterday, without knowing why, I was a little sad: what soldiers call _avoir le cafard_. My sadness arose from my having parted the day before with a book of notes which I had decided to send to you in a package.