only the lowest place. Life in general closed him round, imposing on his
great heart a more serious and immediate task than that which awaited
his genius.


_January 15_ (in a new billet), 12.30 P.M.

We no longer have any issue whatever in sight.

My only sanction is in my conscience. We must confide ourselves to an
impersonal justice, independent of any human factor, and to a useful and
harmonious destiny, in spite of the horrors of its form.


_January 17, afternoon_ (in a billet).

What shall I say to you on this strange January afternoon, when thunder
is followed by snow?

Our billet provides us with many commodities, but above all with an
intoxicating beauty and poetry. Imagine a lake in a park sheltered by
high hills, and a castle, or, rather, a splendid country house. We lodge
in the domestic offices, but I don't need any wonderful home comforts
to perfect the dream-like existence that I have led here for three days.
Last night we were visited by some singers. We were very far from the
music that I love, but the popular and sentimental tunes were quite able
to replace a finer art, because of the ardent conviction of the singer.
The workman who sang these songs, which were decent, in fact moral (a
rather questionable moral, perhaps, but still a moral), so put his soul
into it that the timbre of his voice was altogether too moving for our