Dear mother, our village has just had a visit from two shells.  Will they be followed by others?  May God help us!  The other day they sent us a hundred and fifteen, to wound one man in the wrist!

A house in which a section of our company is living is in flames.  We have not seen a soul stirring.  We can only hope that it is well with them.

I am deeply happy to have lived through these few months.  They have taught me what one can make of one’s life, in any circumstances.

My fellow-soldiers are splendid examples of the French spirit. . . .  They swagger, but their swagger is only the outer form of a deep and magnificent courage.

My great fault as an artist is that I am always wanting to clothe the soul of the race in some beautiful garment painted in my own colours.  And when people irritate me it is that they are soiling these beautiful robes; but, as a matter of fact, they would find them a bad encumbrance in the way of their plain duty.

Christmas Morning.

What a unique night!—­night without parallel, in which beauty has triumphed, in which mankind, notwithstanding their delirium of slaughter, have proved the reality of their conscience.

During the intermittent bombardments a song has never ceased to rise from the whole line.

Opposite to us a most beautiful tenor was declaiming the enemy’s Christmas.  Much farther off, beyond the ridges, where our lines begin again, the Marseillaise replied.  The marvellous night lavished on us her stars and meteors.  Hymns, hymns, from end to end.

It was the eternal longing for harmony, the indomitable claim for order and beauty and concord.

As for me, I cherished old memories in meditating on the sweetness of the Childhood of Christ.  The freshness, the dewy youthfulness of this French music, were very moving to me.  I remembered the celebrated Sommeil des Pelerins and the shepherds’ chorus.  A phrase which is sung by the Virgin thrilled me:  ’Le Seigneur, pour mon fils, a beni cet asile.’  The melody rang in my ears while I was in that little house, with its neighbour in flames, and itself given over to a precarious fate.

I thought of all happinesses bestowed; I thought that you were perhaps at this moment calling down a blessing upon my abode.  The sky was so lovely that it seemed to smile favourably upon all petition; but what I want strength to ask for perpetually is consistent wisdom—­wisdom which, human though it may be, is none the less safe from anything that may assail it.

The sun is flooding the country and yet I write by candle-light; now and then I go out into the back gardens to see the sun.  All is light, peace falling from on high upon the deserted country.

I come back to our room, where the brass of the pretty Meusian beds and the carved wood of the cupboards shine in the half-light.  All these things have suffered through the rough use the soldiers put them to, but we have real comfort here.  We have found table-implements and a dinner-service, and for two days running we made chocolate in a soup-tureen.  Luxury!