The other day, overlooking this great prospect of earth welcoming the spring, I remembered the joy I once had to be a man.  And now to be a man——­

Our neighbour regiment, that of R.L., has returned with a few of its companies reduced to some two-score men.

I dare not now speak of hope.  The grace for which one may still pray is a complete sense of what beauty the passing hour can still yield us.  It is a new manner of ‘living one’s life’ that literature had not foreseen.

Dear Grandmother, how well your tenderness has served to keep me up in my time of trial.

March 22.

A splendid sun; looking on it one is amazed to see the world at war.  Spring has come in triumph.  It has surprised mankind in the act of hatred, in the act of outrage upon creation.  The despatches tell us little, fortunately, of what is happening.

Being now these twenty-one days away from the front, I find it difficult to re-accustom myself to the thought of the monstrous things going on there.  Indeed, dear mother, I know that your life and mine have had but one object, one aim, and that even in the time we are passing through, we have never lost sight of it, but have constantly tried to draw nearer.

Therefore our lives may not have been altogether useless.  This is the only thought to comfort an ambitious soul—­to forecast the influence and the consequences of its acts.

I believe that if longer life had been granted me I should never have relaxed in my purpose.  Having no certainty but that of the present, I have tried to put myself to the best use.

March 25.

Here I am living this life in the earth again.  I found the very hole that I left last month.  Nothing has been done while I was away; a formidable attack was attempted, but it failed.  The regiments ordered to engage had neither our dash nor our perfect steadiness under fire.  They succeeded only in getting themselves cut to pieces, and in bringing upon us the most atrocious bombardment that ever was.  It seems the action before this was nothing to be compared with it.  My company lost a great many men by the aerial bombs.  These projectiles measure a metre in height and twenty-seven centimetres in diameter; they describe a high curve, and fall vertically, exploding in the narrowest passages.  We are several metres deep underground.  Pleasant weather.  At night we go to the surface for our hard work.

Dearest, I wanted to say a heap of things about our joys, but some of them are best left quiet, unawakened.  All coarse, common pleasure would frighten them away—­they might die.

I am writing again after a sleep.  We get all the sleep we can in our dug-outs.

I had a pile of thoughts that fatigue prevents my putting in order; but I remember that I evoked Beethoven.  I am now precisely at the age he had reached when disaster came upon him; and I admired his great example, his energies at work in spite of suffering.  The impediment must have seemed to him as grave as what is before me seems to us; but he conquered.  To my mind Beethoven is the most magnificent of human translations of the creative Power.