pure sky an open door for poetry. Yes, all that I told you
of that beautiful time of snow came from a heart that was comforted by
such triumphant beauty.

In the Reviews you send me I have read with pleasure the articles on
Moliere, on the English parliament, on Martainville, and on the
religious questions of 1830. . . .

Did I tell you that I learnt from the papers of the death of
Hillemacher? That dear friend was killed in this terrible war.

_February 1._

MY VERY DEAR MOTHER,--I have your dear letters of the 26th and 27th;
they do bring new life to me.

Up till now, our first-line emplacement, which this time is in the
village, has been favoured with complete calm, and I have known once
more those hours of grace when Nature consoles me.

My situation has this special improvement, that the drudgery I do now is
done at the instance of the general good, and no longer at the dictation
of mere routine.

_February 2._

DEAR MOTHER,--I go on with this letter in the billet, where the great
worry of accumulated work fills up the void which Melancholy would make
her own.

Dark days have come upon me, and nothingness seems the end of all,
whereas all that is in my being had assured me of the plenitude of the
universe. Yes, devotion, not to individuals but to the social ideal of
brotherhood, sustains me still. Oh, what a magnificent example is to be
found in Jesus and in the poor. That righteous aristocrat, showing by
His abhorrent task the infinite obligation of altruistic duty, and
teaching, above all, that no return of gratitude should be demanded. . . .
To my experience of men and things I owe this tranquillity of
expecting nothing from any one. Thus duty takes an abstract form,
deprived of a human object.

An unspeakable sunrise to-day! Another spring draws near. . . . I want
to tell you about our three days in the first line.

Snow and frost. We went down the slopes leading to our emplacement in
the village. The night was then so beautiful that it moved the heart of
every soldier to see it. I could never say enough about the fine
delicacy of this country. How can I explain to you the chiselled effect,
allied to the dream-like mists, with the moon soaring above? For three
days my night-service took me straight to the heart of this purity,
this whiteness.

Tarnished gold-work of the trees. And, in spite of the mist, many
colours, rose and blue.

There are hours of such beauty that those who take them