beauty remains. Let us pray that we may long continue to contemplate
it. . . .


_Monday, December 7._

MY BELOVED MOTHER,--I am writing this in the night . . . by six o'clock
in the morning military life will be in full swing.

My candle is stuck on a bayonet, and every now and then a drop of water
falls on to my nose. My poor companions try to light a reluctant fire.
Our time in the trenches transforms us into lumps of mud.

The general good humour is admirable. However the men may long to
return, they accept none the less heroically the vicissitudes of the
situation. Their courage, infinitely less 'literary' than mine, is so
much the more practical and adaptable; but each bird has its cry, and
mine has never been a war-cry. I am happy to have felt myself responsive
to all these blows, and my hope lies in the thought that they will have
forged my soul. Also I place confidence in God and whatever He holds in
store for me.

I seem to foresee my work in the future. Not that I build much on this
presentiment, for all artists have conceived work which has never come
to light. Mozart was about to make a new start when he died, and
Beethoven planned the 'Tenth Symphony' in ignorance of the all too brief
time that was to be allowed him by destiny.

It is the duty of the artist to open his flowers without dread of frost,
and perhaps God will allow my efforts to fulfil themselves in the