But you see how any one’s personal history, his little wants, his little habits, are ground out into something quite different by the war-machine. The only thing any one asks is strength to get through what he has to do. He doesn’t demand to get through in any special way—just get through—where so many don’t. Not to be so cold that you can’t use your hands or your mind, not to be so tired that you can’t stand, not to be so hungry that you are faint and useless, not to go without sleep till you don’t care what happens to anybody, especially yourself. Life is fairly simple, and somehow very satisfactory, on such a basis. _11.30 p.m._ A long day, with the exception of luncheon at the house on the Marne and a talk in the garden, where Mrs. Corbin and I sat for a while under the yellow chestnut-tree, looking out on the brimming, jade-colored, slow-flowing Marne, talking of destinies, and the illusion of free will, by which, however, all these high deeds which we witness are done. And it seems to me the thing called Destiny resides somewhere. It isn’t a purely subjective affair, created out of the combination of qualities and opportunities of each, rather something definite and operative and immutable; but that may only be the way I feel about it now. I am overcome all the time by the relativity of everything, even of truth. The little white birch-tree has no leaves, the butterflies are gone, and winter is close upon the war-world. The gardener has been returned to his home. What of his sons, I wonder? He has a tender heart. Miss Stanton lives in the little yellow room with the niche and the emanations. Now she looks out on yellowing trees; yellow pumpkins lie in the little wet garden; there is a border of yellow and red nasturtiums and dahlias. It’s all like some stage-setting. When I said to her, “I hear you have the little room with the emanations,” she answered, “There must be something about it; for in spite of the fact that I am not comfortable, I don’t dislike it.” I wondered again what soul had inhabited within those four walls and if the niche had been an altar, and to what god, as I walked along in a sudden cold mist that began to envelope Châlons. _Since 10 o’clock._ I have been swept about by varying tides of blue-clad men. Some thought the _cantine épatante_, others thought sadly and remarked loudly that so much money being spent on an installation meant that the war was going to last indefinitely. “_C’est trop long_” one thin, blond man, with deep-set eyes and bright spots on his cheeks, kept repeating, till one of his friends in unrepeatable _poilu_ terms told him to “leave the camp.”