Today’s theme will be the making fun of respectable young men who, though endearing in some contexts, can make–and write–asses of themselves. Cads!
First, Duff Cooper, the more-or-less fiancé of Diana Manners. Three days ago, all was well.
Spent the afternoon and evening with Diana. She said she would certainly marry me if we had enough money…
I am happy only with her. I dined with a large party at Venetia’s and lost £125 at chemin de fer.
Clever with money, isn’t he?
And today, Cooper is off to a house party with an old flame, Rosemary Leveson-Gower. I have no idea if Duff realizes that among his potential rivals for this young heiress is the Prince of Wales, who is in love with her and seeking his father’s permission to marry her. (Which he will not get–but that is another story.)
But there’s a fellow named Michael Herbert along as well:
I found myself falling in love with her again and feeling jealous of Michael…
After tea I had a long talk with Rosemary and told her I loved her. She said I mustn’t–that she was very fond of me but could not be in love with me. I felt terribly false to Diana, to whom I write daily and who writes beautifully to me.
So ends 1917–which has been I think the least happy year that I have lived. Funnily enough I am thinking of Rosemary now as I was this time last year although I have hardly thought of her at all in the interval. But I know that she will really never mean anything to me–and that the one thing which is important in my life and which becomes increasingly so is my love for Diana and hers for me.
Confusing, isn’t he?
And then there is Robert Graves, who often shows himself to be honest if clumsy, and well-meaning if gaffe-prone. And then, at other times, he is, purposefully, both dishonest and deft, mischievous and precise.
This is a little of both, isn’t it…
My Dear Eddie,
I wonder what you’ve thought of my silence? I am awfully sorry but there was been a good reason. I’ve been busy arranging wedlock, with Nancy Nicholson, daughter of William Nicholson the painter… Will send you a formal invitation. Have been also very busy with Fairies and Fusiliers which has been as favourably reviewed as I hoped, and also for the last two months, nearly, have been in charge of a detachment of 600 fusilers and 80 officers up here, when the rest of my battalion suddenly moved off to Ireland.
Having finished tooting his own horn, Graves deigns to compliment Eddie Marsh as well:
Many thanks for Georgian Poetry. It’s a great success…
And now back to his own ambitions:
Eddie, I am just beginning to feel that I know what I’m getting at and in this next year of 1918, if I’m spared, I hope to satisfy the expectations you’ve had of me since I was a sixteen-year-older at Charterhouse, by doing some work of really lasting value.
George Mallory, as my oldest surviving friend who first introduced me to mountains and, through you to modern poetry, my two greatest interests next to Nancy and my regiment, is going to be my best man on the 23rd.
Last of all, Graves–whose reference to his early, less-than-momentous association with Marsh reads like an attempt to cut the line in front of Siegfried Sassoon, who was much closer to Marsh and more influenced by his patronage–tries to take credit not just for the poetic production of another man, but also for his friend’s “discovery” of him. Still, at last we have the name of the most promisingly powerful of the young war poets making its way to one of the most influential patrons and publishers of contemporary poetry.
Sassons is amazingly well again and now he’s passed for France again, quite happy. I have a new poet for you, just discovered, one Wilfred Owen: this is a real find not a sudden lo here! or lo there! which unearths an Edward Eastaway or a Vernede, but the real thing; when we’ve educated him a trifle more. R.N., S.S., and myself are doing it.
Actually, claiming the discovery of Owen was only the penultimate offense of this deeply, almost goofily caddish letter. R.E. Vernède and Eastaway were both killed in April, but while Vernède was a poet of no great merit whose “war poems” will not stand the test of time, Edward Eastaway is Edward Thomas. True, Graves is judging only from a handful of poems, and many other readers will miss the complexity and gentle precision of Thomas’s first published work–but, in the sureness of his vision and the subtle interpenetration of observation, thought, and verbal music, he is a far greater poet than young Graves will ever be. With Owen the comparison is easier in some ways, and perhaps favorable. In other ways, Thomas still stands far above his contemporaries, no matter what the 1918 he never saw holds in store for them…