and the devotion of his countrymen. By a happy fortune that he did not
foresee when he left his clean solitude for the sweat, the servitude,
and the throng, he no doubt produced the best of himself in these
letters; and it may be doubted whether, in the course of a successful
artist's life, it would have been given to him to express himself with
so much completeness. This is a thought that may strengthen those who
love him to accept whatever has come to pass. His soul is here, a more
essential soul perhaps, and a more beautiful, than they had known. It
was in war that Marcus Aurelius also wrote his thoughts. Possibly the
worst is needful for the manifestation of the whole of human greatness.
We marvel how the soul can so discover in itself the means to oppose
suffering and death. Thus have many of our sons revealed themselves in
the day of trial, to the wonder of France, until then unaware of all
that she really was. That is how these pages touch us so closely. He who
wrote them had attuned himself with his countrymen. Through the more
mystical acts of his mind we perceive the sublime message sent to us
from the front, more or less explicitly, by others of our brothers and
our sons--the high music that goes up still from the whole of France at
war. In all his comrades assembled for the great task, he too had
recognised the best and the deepest things that his own heart held, and
so he speaks of them constantly--especially of the simplest of the
men--with so great respect and love. Far from ordinary ambitions and
cares, the things that this rough life among the eternities brings into
all hearts with a heretofore unknown amplitude are serenity of
conscience and a freshness of feeling in perpetual touch with the
harmonies of nature. These men do but reflect nature. Since they have
renounced themselves and given themselves, all things have become simple
for them. They have the transparence of soul and the lights of
childhood. 'We spend childish days. We are children.' . . .