future. My very various attempts at work all have an indescribable
immaturity about them still, a halting execution, which consorts badly
with the real loftiness of the intention. It seems to me that my art
will not quite expand until my life is further advanced. Let us pray
that God will allow me to attain. . . .

As for what is in your own heart, I have such confidence in your courage
that this certainty is my great comfort in this hour. I know that my
mother has gained that freedom of soul which allows contemplation of the
universal scheme of things. I know from my own experience how
intermittent is this wisdom, but even to taste of it is already to
possess God. It is the security I derive from knowledge of your soul and
your love, that enables me to think of the future in whatever form it
may come.


_December 9._

DEAR MOTHER,--P---- L----, in his charming letter, tells me he would
willingly exchange his philosophers for a gun. He is quite wrong. For
one thing, Spinoza is a most valuable aid in the trenches; and then it
is those who are still in a position to profit by culture and progress
who must now carry on French thought. They have an overwhelmingly
difficult task, calling for far more initiative than ours. We are free
of all burden. I think our existence is like that of the early monks:
hard, regular discipline and freedom from all external obligations.


_December 10_
(a marvellous morning).