_Thursday, July 29th._ I intend to write this diary with great fulness for two reasons--in the first place because I can see that it is of the greatest importance, if one is to get through this business properly, to leave no hours empty. The trying thing in this affair is having nothing to do--nothing one can _possibly_ do. They all, officers, soldiers, from Nikolai Nikolaievitch to my Nikolai here, will tell you that. No empty hours for me if I can help it.... Secondly, I really do wish to record exactly my experiences here. I am perfectly aware that when I'm out of it all, when it's even a day's march behind me, I shall regard it as frankly incredible--not the thing itself but the way I felt about it. When I come out of it into the world again I shall be overwhelmed with other people's impressions of it, people far cleverer than I. There will be brilliant descriptions of battles, of what it feels like to be under fire, of marches, victories, retreats, wounds, death--everything. I shall forget what my own little tiny piece of it was like--and I don't want to forget. I want intensely to remember the truth _always_, because the truth is bound up with Marie, and Marie with the truth. Why need I be shy now about her? Why should I hesitate, under the fear of my own later timidity, of saying exactly now what I feel? God knows what I _do_ feel! I am confused, half-numb, half-dead, I believe, with moments of fiery biting realisation. I'm neither sad, nor happy--only breathlessly expectant. The only adventure I have ever had in my life is not--no, it is not--yet ended. And I know that Marie could not have left me like that, without a word, unless she were returning or were going to send for me.