'Tuesday, June 22, 1915, 4.45 p.m.
'Well! What a long war, isn't it? Never mind, I believe it will finish up without much help from us, and our job is really killing time. And our time is so pleasant it doesn't need much killing out here. The days roll along nice sunny days too bringing us nearer, I suppose, to Peace. (One hardly dares even to write the word now, it has such a significance.) There have been cases where the war has driven people off their heads (this applies only, I think, to the winter campaign), but I often think if Peace comes suddenly that there will be many such cases.
'It really is rather amazing the unanimity of everybody on this subject, and it must be the same behind the German front-line trenches.
'I should think that never in this world before have there been so many men so "fed up" before. And then the women at home too —it is wonderful where the driving force comes from to keep things going on.
'But still —I don't want to convey a false impression. If you took my last letter by itself you might think things were very terrible out here all the time. They are not. On the whole it is not a bad time at all. The life is full of interest, and the discomforts are few and far between. Bad times do come along occasionally, but they are by way of exceptions. It is most like a long picnic in all sorts of places with a sort of constraint and uneasiness in the air. This last is purely mental, and the less one worries about it the less it is, and so one can contrive to be light-hearted and happy through it all —unless one starts to get depressed and moody. And it is just that which has happened to Laws and Fletcher, and one or two others. They had been out long and had seen unpleasant times and without an occasional rest; none but the very thick can stand it.'
'Lord Kitchener and Mr. Asquith came here last evening. Here, to this convent. I don't know what for; but there was of course a good deal of stir here.
'Way and I went into the town last night. We hired a fiacre for the return journey. It came on to rain, so it was just as well we had a hood. We both thoroughly enjoyed the journey. The fiacre was what would be dignified by the name of "Victoria" in England. But in France, where it seems to be etiquette not to take any trouble over carriage- work, fiacre is the only word you could apply, and it just fits it. It expresses not only its shabbiness, but also hints at its broken-backed appearance.
'We went into some stables and inquired about a fiacre and a fat boy in a blue apron with a white handkerchief tied over one eye said we could have one. So I said, "Ou est le cocher?" and he pointed to his breast and said, "C'est moi!"
'The fare, he said, would be six francs, and the pourboire. Thoughtful of him not to forget that. We agreed, and he eventually produced the usual French horse.
'The fiacre was very comfortable, and we were awfully tickled with the idea of us two in that absurd conveyance, especially when we passed staff officers, which was frequently. Altogether we were quite sorry when our drive was over.'
