Siegfried Sassoon Paints the Emerald Isle; Rowland Feilding Admires the French

A quiet day today, with only two writers to hear from. First, Rowland Feilding describes life “on a course.” He is an experienced senior officer, so he is sent now to learn not from elderly “dug-outs” or fulminating drill sergeants, but from the French, who are still the senior ally when it comes to land warfare. Feilding is no fool, and instead of rivalry or mild prejudice we get frank admiration for the seriousness and professionalism of the French. They are war-weary too, but with the Germans occupying French territory, there is no lack of clarity about war aims.

February 8, 1918.

Cours Supérieure d’Infanterie, Secteur 220, Vadenay.

It is like being at school again. We go to the lecture room at 8.30, or earlier, each morning, and are lectured to—in French, of course—for 3 1/2 hours, or more! Will you believe me when I tell you that I have sat through 4 1/2 hours of it to-day? In the afternoons we are motored to see different Army Schools, etc.

I am much struck with the thoroughness and efficiency of these Frenchmen, and the serious way—in contrast to ours—that they go about the war. I wonder if they overdo it. And the voluminous literature that is handed to us here to digest almost throws our army (which I have always thought held the record in this particular) into the shade. But it is an interesting and valuable experience, and I am being most hospitably treated, and am already getting into the French ways of eating and living.

The Commandant—Major Lemaire—is a very animated Frenchman of great personality, though small in stature;—a devotee to his profession and to France! He is so full of energy that he seems to be on springs…

Though between his lectures and sometimes during them he laughs and jokes almost incessantly, he has his troubles, and these are serious. For all his property and that of his wife is in the northern part of France, which has been devastated by the enemy so that he has only his pay–600 francs a month, out of which he supports himself and his wife, and her parents, and, I believe his own as well! He was in the trenches till a month ago and was severely wounded in the chest at Douaumont (Verdun). Hence his presence here. As he said to me when I first came, “I am no embusqué,”[1] and threw open his chest to show me the wound as he said it.

The one discomfort is the cold, since this is a woodless and coalless country, and one cannot get a fire very often. The French do not seem to mind, or else have got “habitué” (as they say) to this kind of hardship. Gardner and I have not, and we slink back from our evening walks with any old end of timber we can find, discarded from the Back Area defences, to warm our frigid billet. Saturday afternoons and Sundays are kept for “repos” and all are heartily glad of it…[2]

 

And Siegfried Sassoon, his bags packed (or, at least, his book list assembled), had the last hunt of his Irish idyll. It was a good enough hunt, it seems, but the main literary opportunity was to wax rhapsodic (to his diary) about the glories of the scenery. Sassoon really does landscape well…

…we scrambled about over walls and rough places… The country all round looked beautiful–shining with water and grey villages, and white cottages, and the green fields, and soft, hazy, transparent hills on the horizon–sometimes deep blue, sometimes silver-grey.

And that was that: luncheon with friends, a farewell to Limerick, an afternoon train to Dublin, then an overnight ship to London.

There is a long chapter in the Memoirs detailing the characters and scenery of this fox hunting interlude from the point of view of “George Sherston,” and it borrows from the diary (not least the above passage) but not for the purposes of expanding on “Sherston’s” inner life. It’s a chapter more in the manner of Surtees than Barbusse, to use two of yesterday’s touchstones. At the end of the chapter, we learn that Sherston/Sassoon made the Dublin train with “30 seconds to spare…” and then the book hops over his leave to begin again at the end of the next journey…[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. I.e., malingering, or serving as a R.E.M.F.; he wouldn't be in such a safe job if weren't recovering from a wound.
  2. War Letters to a Wife, 250-1.
  3. Diaries, 210-11; Complete Memoirs, 584.

Siegfried Sassoon Packs for Palestine; Isaac Rosenberg is Sent Packing

I suppose it is neither terribly perceptive nor strikingly original to note the importance of reading to writing and, in return, the utter dependence of reading on writing. Still, there is perhaps slightly more to say here than to make small jokes about the blindingly obvious–a reminder, at least, of one of the Fussell-inspired beginning places of this project: when you come to the task of describing something frightening, emotionally intense, and both utterly unlike your previous experiences and almost literally unimaginable to your future readership, you may be thrown back in confusion on the resources of your reading. In other words, all books derive in part from the books their writers read, but war books more than others.

Siegfried Sassoon likes to play the innocent or the ingenue–he failed to take a degree, he wasn’t a serious scholar, and he finds himself to be overawed by the presence of powerful intellects. Perhaps; but he is still intelligent and serious, and growing less diffident. And he’s packing literary weight, now:

February 7

Orders to embark Southampton next Monday.

Books to take to Egypt:

Oxford Book of English Verse
Keats
Wordsworth
Shakespeare’s Sonnets
Hardy, Moments of Vision
Crabbe, The Borough
Browning, The Ring and the Book
A Shropshire Lad
Meredith, Poems
Oxford Dictionary
Hardy, The Woodlanders

Barbusse, Le Feu
Pater, Renaissance
Trollope, Barchester Towers
Surtees, Mr Sponge’s Sporting Tour, Facey Romford’s Hounds
Bunyan, Holy War
Plato, Republic
Tolstoy, War and Peace (3 vols)
Scott, The Antiquary[1]

It’s quite a list: heavy on the essentials of English poetry, a few crucial “war books,” a late emphasis, perhaps, on autodidactic self-improvement, and then a few personal touchstones. The list explains where Sassoon is coming from as a poet much better than his “binary”–which is to say shaped with a heavy hand, and half-occluded–memoirs or his contemporary jottings and letters, and it is worth examining somewhat closely. Also, who doesn’t love to read a list of books?

Where do we begin? Blue-bound, of course, on India paper. The Oxford Book. Where else? This is the essential point of reference, the common ground codified and certified by the great University. And England’s poetic soil is green and fertile, if not always uncomplicatedly pleasant.

The most important poets are supplemented in their own volumes–Keats, the essential Romantic; Wordsworth, if ambition should point in that direction; Browning is perhaps a bit surprising, but he ranked quite high among the young Sassoon’s closer Romantic forebears. Crabbe, whose The Borough is a work describing everyday life in heroic couplets, is a bit of an outlier, but he might be there to strengthen Sassoon’s intention to write directly and descriptively about what the soldiers are experiencing.

Shakespeare’s sonnets, of course. Even though several are included in the Oxford Book, a lyric poet abroad might feel naked without them.

Of the later Victorians, Meredith and Hardy. Meredith, too, might be there for his unromantic emphasis on everyday life. And Thomas Hardy, Sassoon’s family friend at one remove, his more-than-polite correspondent, and something, perhaps of a poetic dream-mentor: he is becoming a Doktorvater or poetic grandsire while Rivers has become the dream father of Sassoon’s suffering soul.

But the choice of Hardy is interesting: not the enormous Satires of Circumstance, which is more essential to Sassoon’s 1916 poetry than any other examplar–and perhaps quite well remembered, by now–but the newest volume of poetry, Moments of Vision, together with The Woodlanders. Although this is one of Hardy’s later novels, it is something of a throwback to his early “Wessex” novels, treating of love in a rural setting in which, while not all goes well, to say the least, it does not end in utter calamity. It was broadly popular, too–not, in other words, one of the heavy-hitting late career novels which both sustain Hardy’s reputation to this day and helped finish him as a novelist in censorious Victorian Britain.

If there is one book that both advances the tradition of the rural English Lyric and narrows it to suit a certain sensibility–inclined to tragedy, to gently-posed but bitter irony, and toward a worship of the young male form that is at least implicitly homoerotic–it is Housman’s A Shropshire Lad. The poems are good–sometimes very good–but their influence on Sassoon’s generation is out of proportion to their merit-in-a-vacuum. (Which is not a thing that actually exists, of course. See Peter Parker’s Housman Country on all this.) Housman doesn’t really stand alongside Shakespeare, Keats, Wordsworth, and Hardy–but he does, in Sassoon’s valise.

Then there’s the Pater and the Plato–signs of an awakened intellectual appetite or ambition–bracketed by a few significant war books. Shorter, more recent, and French is Barbusse’s Le Feu (Under Fire) the first really influential realistic depiction of modern war. It’s a better book than All Quiet–which won’t be published for a decade, anyway–and should be read in its place. It’s got the horror and the intensely-lived experience, but without the heavy narrative hand on the wheel. Sassoon, Graves, and Blunden will all read this book…

It’s hard to tell whether War and Peace is there as a Modern War Essential or as a Great Book that is also a great way to spend a great deal of time in boats, trains, and dusty camps. Probably the latter, although Sassoon would have very much enjoyed Tolstoy’s own first-person fictions of warfare–the Sevastopol Sketches–had they been available.

Whether Bunyan’s second book (generally he’s a one book author, except for Protestant Allegorical or Siege Warfare completists) is there because Sassoon knows that it’s an allegory from static warfare (they all tried to use Pilgrim’s Progress when they could, but it’s a quest narrative, and they were going nowhere, so only the Slough really appealed) or whether because he just thought there might be some as-yet-untapped veins of Christian allegory in the tradition suitable for the smelting-into-satire, I am not sure. But I incline to the latter, once again.

Let’s see: then there is Trollope, and Scott, which are entertaining things; holes, perhaps, in his literary education, or middleweights to spar with before Tolstoy if he gets a bit windy.

Last, and very certainly least, are two novels by Surtees, who sits uncontested upon the throne of middlebrow Mid-Victorian fox hunting literature.

I am not going to pretend that I have read all the books on this list. However, since the point of such lists (or, at least, of publishing and then re-posting them) is to posture at imagined adversaries with pointy paper antlers, I will assert that I have read most of them, mostly, and thereby imply that those readers who haven’t have a lot of work to do.

But when I confronted my own failings in regard to Sassoon’s list, I decided that, rather than pay close attention to Meredith (or some of the other poets) or Trollope, I would read Surtees. Sassoon loves reading him–I believe he calls him his favorite author, somewhere–and perhaps this might offer a window into the meeting of the minds of the allegedly binary Sassoon: he is reading, but he’s reading about hunting. Well, I have to report… not so much. A few chapters in, Mr. Sponge is entertaining, but not memorable–kind of like Dickens arrested at the Pickwick stage, dressed in a clean waistcoat, told to mind his manners about all that social reform stuff, and rusticated. But then again I haven’t gotten to the allegedly excellent hunt scenes, which may be the missing link between Renaissance epic and cinematic car chases that I have been looking for all these years…

A preliminary conclusion, then: it’s a false lead to look for literary inspiration in the two hunting novels. Sassoon is bringing along old favorites to reread, and the very fact that they treat of the war-analogous activity of hunting in its innocent mid-Victorian days (and, more importantly, in the long moments of prewar innocence during which they were first read) suggests that he is not reading the, with any thought toward his own writing (not that that means that they won’t have any influence). The analogy is probably to modern soldiers who might bring along Ender’s Game or (closer to home, here) The Lord of the Rings.

 

This post should probably end lightheartedly, with a challenge to lay bets upon just how much he will actually read during his time in Egypt and Palestine. But we have instead a weird and ominous transition through tenuous connections. Sassoon is off to Palestine–not only the ancient homeland of his father’s people, but also rather near to the much more recent homeland of his father’s (but most especially his great-grandfather’s) family. And he is bringing books on Greece, Russia, and many an English covert.

Isaac Rosenberg, whose Jewishness is not something he could deny,[2] is now reaching actively toward it. But that’s not the real irony–the real irony is that just as Sassoon has accepted Palestine when he really wants France, Rosenberg is desperate to escape France for Palestine. He has many hopes, transfer-wise, but has begun to focus them on the Jewish battalion, which is to be sent to serve in that theater of the expanding war.

There is another much more direct connection between Sassoon and Rosenberg, but I am fairly certain that this connection–Eddie Marsh–would never have made much of it. Sassoon’s snobbery (which might, in a familiar irony, contain an anti-semitic strain) would not have appreciated being connected with the rough-edged and impassioned Jewish poet-artist from the slums, nor would their styles have been congenial.

In any event, Rosenberg is putting his hopes in Marsh. Can Churchill’s secretary save him from France and his declining health? Perhaps, but not today. Today’s transfer will get Rosenberg out of the trenches, but not out of a fighting unit destined for more combat in France. He was sent from the 11th King’s Own Lancasters, about to be disbanded in the reorganization of infantry brigades from four to three battalions, but not to any cushy billet: The 1st King’s Own may be in rest in Bernaville at the moment, but they are an old Regular battalion and part of the 4th Division, and their services will be required should the Germans attack, as they are expected to do shortly.

Rosenberg will feel the dissolution of his old unit much as David Jones did, and it will affect his writing. Perhaps because of the endless war, his separation from his old unit, the doldrums of February and the promise of an attack in March–for any of these reasons, or all, or none and simply from the nature of his mind and powerful, grim poetic gift–his writing, too is dwelling increasingly on historical suffering and destruction and on Jewish themes. Which go rather well together. When Rosenberg finishes and mails the next batch we will have a date on which to read them, but for now it is a long lonely train trip for him, and a wait for us for his poetry, undated and unrecorded as he is sent from unit to unit and task to task…[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Diaries, 210. Jean Moorcroft Wilson, Siegfried Sassoon, I, 440, reports that he abandoned some of the weightier (in a literal sense) volumes, but then bought them in Egypt--he is a man who sticks to his list, evidently.
  2. Not that Sassoon is an apostate or a traitor to his people or anything so dramatic as that. He had few memories of his father and almost no contact with traditional Judaism. He was not Jewish by any then-accepted standard, and was raised as an Anglican by his mother. But he was socially able to treat his Jewishness, such as it was, as only an exotic part of his family's past, and his extreme Englishness of manner probably made it hard for all but the truly impassioned anti-semites to hate him once they knew him. If a man writes better English poetry than you, plays better cricket than you, and rides to hounds, hurling old slurs is bound to look a little silly... Not that other forms of anti-semitism wouldn't have dragged him down in other situations, but if there were more than sneers thrown at him by other "gentlemen," he doesn't have anything to say about it.
  3. Moorcroft Wilson, Isaac Rosenberg, 390-1.

Olaf Stapledon’s Little Twiddly Scrawls; Siegfried Sassoon’s Idyll Turns to Remorse; Edward Heron-Allen on Parade

Olaf Stapledon remains committed to the principle that the experiential gulf (not to mention the two hemispheres) that separates him from his beloved Agnes can best be bridged by creating familiarity with his circumstances. This letter isn’t quite up to his previous high standard of literary teleportation, but it operates on the same implicit premise: if I can write you into knowing the people I’m with, it will be like we are closer together…

SSA 13

4 February 1918

Yesterday I wrote you a scrap in a hurry; today I am beginning again or rather tonight, and under awkward circumstances, for I am at an aid post with three garrulous Englishmen and two garrulous Frenchmen. The latter have gone but the former remain. One of them is making cocoa, which is now an almost unheard of luxury. He is the well-bred and well-built younger [George Romney] Fox, our best runner, and a charming lad although he is a bit too pleased with himself. Another is one [William] Meredith, formerly in Cadbury’s works, a keen self-educating lad who suffers from two disadvantages, being neither of the well-to-do nor of the proper “working” class. He somehow always errs on the side of formality and over respectability; but he also is a good lad, a hard worker too. The third is the great and famous inhabitant of Liverpool, Alec Gunn, called the mitrailleuse on account of his endless rattle of talk. . . .

Goodnight. These silly little black twiddly scrawls that are our only lines of communication! Goodnight.[1]

It’s Stapledon’s gift–and his dogged project–to keep two hearts close together as their time apart stretches to many years.

 

And it’s Siegfried Sassoon‘s gift to house two different personalities within himself–Outdoor Sassoon (or George Sherston, the Fox-Hunting Man) and Indoor Sassoon, the poet. Today, however, he once again works from the outside in.

Hacked to meet—four miles from Limerick. Fine sunny morning. Rode Sheeby’s big bay mare…  [the fox] ran very twisting (a vixen). Slow hunting for about forty minutes, ran toward Limerick, and killed at a farm… A poorish day, but very jolly… Happy days.

Sassoon’s previous few days of “jolly” hunting produced poems that dwelt in the happy hunting grounds of his mind, keeping the war well in the background. But today this “jolly,” “happy” diary mood somehow twisted, vixen-like to produce a bloody, angry, haunted war poem in his old style.

 

Remorse

Lost in the swamp and welter of the pit,
He flounders off the duck-boards; only he knows
Each flash and spouting crash,—each instant lit
When gloom reveals the streaming rain. He goes
Heavily, blindly on. And, while he blunders,
‘Could anything be worse than this?’—he wonders,
Remembering how he saw those Germans run,
Screaming for mercy among the stumps of trees:
Green-faced, they dodged and darted: there was one
Livid with terror, clutching at his knees…
Our chaps were sticking ’em like pigs. ‘O hell!’
He thought—‘there’s things in war one dare not tell
Poor father sitting safe at home, who reads
Of dying heroes and their deathless deeds.[2]

 

Sassoon does this sort of thing very well. What should I add? Either you are pummeled by the force of the imagery and the rhythm of the verse into a sharper awareness of the horror of war, or you are put off by the oversimplifications that such a direct assault necessitates. Or both…

 

Finally–this is an awkward segue, given that this is an older man, safe at home, and very impressed with his own father’s deathless deeds–we mark a major change in the circumstances of Edward Heron-Allen. After several years (but only a few entries, here) of life as a not-so-young and slightly cracked home-front volunteer, he is now to begin life as an elderly subaltern: he began training with his very own platoon of Sussex volunteers, today, a century back, at Tunbridge Wells.

Here I am at the end of the first day and if it is all going to be like today it will be interesting…

Perhaps: but the diary is not–unless it can be excerpted for the purpose of not-so-gentle mockery. The ankle deep mud on the parade ground at Tunbridge Wells gave Heron-Allen “an idea of the state of things in Flanders…” except for the fact that in the very next sentence they give up bayonet training because it is “too filthy,” and have a lecture instead. Just like in Flanders.[3]

But we will look in on Heron-Allen as his time in training camp continues… it will get more interesting for him, and for us as well…

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Talking Across the World, 280.
  2. Diaries, 209-10.
  3. Journal, 141-44.

Three Poems for February: Edmund Blunden’s Deceitful Calm, Vera Brittain’s Dream Grown Vain, and Siegfried Sassoon’s Upteenth Idyll; Thomas Hardy Looks to Past Collapse; Kipling and the War at Home; Happy Birthday Muriel Spark

And so we come to February, a strange month. It will be slow, here (though enlivened by two strange and awesome childhood visitations by later writers, on which see below). In fact, it’s really the last “slow” month of the war. Is the end in sight? Well, in hindsight, yes. But, then, of course, to see February in this light is a violation of the terms of our compact. Yes, a German offensive is expected, and yes, the strategists see this spring and summer as crucial, because Germany is under tremendous pressure to strike a winning blow after the collapse of Russia and before the weight of the United States can turn the tide on the Western Front. But “the strategists” have been promising breakthroughs for several years now, and we can hardly be look complacently forward and congratulate them for being right. And yet…

I have three poems, today–one dated to the day and the other two appearing as “month poems.” And the first one, at least, is a bit of a cheat. The argument I’m trotting out here is that this February occupies a doubly ironic position: there is no reason to expect–or so the poor bloody infantry would feel–any change, any way to remember another cold, muddy month in the fourth winter of a war of attrition. And yet there is no way to remember this month other than as the month before[1] the last German offensive, before everything changed.

On the other hand, many things stay the same, so we’ll hear from two great Victorian writers as well. And on the other, other hand, “everything changed;” so we’ll also hear from a Modern woman as yet unborn–this morning, that is–and yet at the top of her game.

 

Gouzeaucourt: The Deceitful Calm

How unpurposed, how inconsequential
Seemed those southern lines when in the pallor
Of the dying winter
First we went there!

Grass thin-waving in the wind approached them,
Red roofs in the near view feigned survival,
Lovely mockers, when we
There took over.

There war’s holiday seemed, nor though at known times
Gusts of flame and jingling steel descended
On the bare tracks, would you
Picture death there.

Snow or rime-frost made a solemn silence,
Bluish darkness wrapped in dangerous safety;
Old hands thought of tidy
Living-trenches!

There it was, my dears, that I departed,
Scarce a plainer traitor ever! There too
Many of you soon paid for
That false mildness.[2]

 

So Edmund Blunden, looking back only to look ahead, and writing yet another agonized version of the survivor’s poem, this time in retrospect and prospect at once.

 

Vera Brittain, barred by her gender from any sense of comradeship in the face of death–indeed, from any tighter embrace of danger (she’s done as much as she can, in that regard, to get to a hospital in France)–is already a three-fold survivor. Her poem–written this month, a century back, amidst the calm that Blunden would remind us is about to be disturbed–looks steadfastly back at the first love she lost. This is more than personal mourning or general disenchantment. Given the short lines and traditional rhymes this reads, at first, as a rather prim poem–which makes the sharpness of its despair surprising: a pretty thing with jagged edges.

 

Roundel

(“Died of Wounds”)

 

Because you died, I shall not rest again,
    But wander ever through the lone world wide,
Seeking the shadow of a dream grown vain
            Because you died.

 

I shall spend brief and idle hours beside
    The many lesser loves that still remain,
But find in none my triumph and my pride;

 

And Disillusion’s slow corroding stain
    Will creep upon each quest but newly tried,
For every striving now shall nothing gain
            Because you died.[3]

 

 

Siegfried Sassoon is also sad today–“very sad,” in fact.

February 1 (Limerick, Maine)

Went to the Meet… but weather very wet and stormy, and hounds went home from the meet… Twenty-three miles for nothing… Very sad.

Once again Outdoor Sassoon comes home from a hunt and writes a poem, its music sweet and its sentiment… sentimental.

 

Idyll

In the grey summer garden I shall find you
With day break and the morning hills behind you
There will be rain-wet roses; stirring wings;
And down the wood a thrush that wakes and sings.
Not from the past you’ll come, but from that deep
Where beauty murmurs to the soul asleep:
And I shall know the sense of life re-born.
From dreams into the mystery of morn
Where gloom and brightness meet. And standing there
‘Til that calm song is done, at last we’ll share
The league-spread quiring symphonies that are
Joy in the world, and peace, and dawn’s one star.

February 1[4]

 

And back in England, two great men of the older generation (two different older generations, really) cope with the war in very different ways. Sometimes it seems as if there are really only two modes of being an old (i.e. past military age) man in times like these: you either lament the war and all its foolish, backward, wickedness, or you fantasize about taking part.

Thomas Hardy, in this letter to Edward Clodd, takes the first course.

Max Gate, Dorchester, Feb 1. 1918.

My dear Clodd:

My best thanks for “The Question” which I shall read with interest, as I do everything of yours…

What a set-back this revival of superstition is! It makes one despair of the human mind. Where’s Willy  Shakespeare’s “So noble in reason” now! In another quarter of a century we shall be burying food & money with our deceased, as was done with the Romano-British skeletons I used to find in my garden.

Sincerely yours,

Th. Hardy.[5]

 

And then there’s Rudyard Kipling–a great writer in a different mode. In terms of sheer narrative energy and storytelling verve he is almost without peer–which says little enough about his life or his politics, which are both far less exemplary and entertaining. But I don’t comment, here, upon his imperialist writings, or his celebrations of the manly spirit of adventure. I just quote from this letter, about how, having sussed out the movements of the enemy by careful observance of the natives, he has to stay home this weekend to defend his castle against maliciously anti-Kipling rioters and other crypto-socialist/peacenik undesirables.

Bateman’s
Burwash
Sussex

Feb. 1.1918.

Dear Colonel–

I ought to go up to London tomorrow for the week end as I have a good deal of important business there. But I understand that some sort of “demonstration” with regard to the food question is being planned by some of the women in the village, for Saturday night, which is not the sort of thing to leave behind one as it might easily end in window-breakings and other things that would upset our maids…

There has been in our service a Mrs. Smith–sister of Fennels–who has been here as charwoman. She has suddenly given notice for no reason though she has no other work and has been carried by us through hard times; and I understand that she is among the women concerned.

This seems to point to Bateman’s as one of the objectives in the “demonstration.”

Very sincerely

Rudyard Kipling

The editor of Kipling’s letters notes that there are no records of disturbances in Sussex this weekend, a century back. There is general unhappiness about food shortages at home, and Kipling is far from the only person in Britain tempted to believe the rumors of nefarious doings afoot. But if any vengeful members of the working class laid siege to Kipling’s Keep, he seems to have annihilated them in complete secrecy… I imagine that his gardeners diligently kept the grass short, otherwise I would imagine the Great White Hunter stalking up and down in the long grass in pith helmet and tweeds, shouldering his elephant gun…[6]

 

Finally, to begin a week in which we observe (in a very clever and literary way!) the birthdays of two major women writers of the mid-20th century, I should mention that Muriel Spark was born today, a century back. This would be trivia rather than literature were it not for her brilliant, lacerating satirical story, “The First Year of My Life.” This makes Spark surely the youngest person to contribute a properly dated fictionalized memoir to A Century Back.

The story begins with these memorable sentences:

I was born on the first day of the second month of the last year of the First World War, a Friday. Testimony abounds that during the first year of my life I never smiled.

It’s viciously good–and, much like Blunden’s backward-looking song of February–it rather spoils the outcome of the war, noting her babyish progress at each of the major milestones to come. Reader, the war will end in November, and the unsmiling baby will grow up to write a great deal, and little enough of it smile-provoking…

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Well, there were also three quiet weeks at the beginning of March...
  2. Later published in Undertones of War.
  3. Later published in Verses of a V.A.D.
  4. Diaries, 208-9.
  5. Collected Letters, V, 247.
  6. The Letters of Rudyard Kipling, IV, 482.

Siegfried Sassoon Gallops with a Ghost; Isaac Rosenberg is Still a Harassed Mortal

Sometimes I strive mightily to produce awkward effects of juxtaposition, as if readers always need to be reminded that two very different people were in very different situations, even on the very same day in the very same war! And sometimes the reminder can be more effectively achieved just by allowing the writers’ conditions, rank, and locations to affect their writing–or their ability to even write at all.

Siegfried Sassoon professed, recently, to being in a state of unthinking bliss-carefree and pleasantly dull, happy to have the sturm und drang of protest behind him and to be living the “outdoor” life of physical exertion and no (perceived) ethical and intellectual challenges to cloud his mind. He drills, he hunts…

January 30 (Limerick, Kilfinny Cross) Drove thirteen miles in taxi to meet. A fine, breezy morning, with drifts of sunshine. Rode Sheeby’s little white-faced bay horse (rather lame all day, and slow, but clever jumper)…

Found at 2 o’clock at Durrach and ran down wind to Croome Gorse, through there and over the river at Caherass, straight through the demesne, and on toward Killonehan… he was viewed going into Adare Deer Park, and they picked him up after forty minutes, and killed him in Adare village, in the Police Station!

…Very amusing day and got to know some jolly people.[1]

A jolly day indeed, if rather off-putting to latter-day proponents of animal welfare. But Sassoon is a human being as well as a literary construct, and the historical record shows more elision between his binary selves than his prosy self-representations generally allow He wrote more than a diary, today–he wrote verse, too. And yet this proof of the co-existence of the indoor “writing” Sassoon with the fox hunter is more of a muddying of the waters than a melding of fire and ice. He wrote–but he wrote about fox hunting, and a fox hunting friend:

 

Together

Splashing along the boggy woods all day,
And over brambled hedge and holding clay,
I shall not think of him:
But when the watery fields grow brown and dim,
And hounds have lost their fox, and horses tire,
I know that he’ll be with me on my way
Home through the darkness to the evening fire.

He’s jumped each stile along the glistening lanes;
His hand will be upon the mud-soaked reins;
Hearing the saddle creak,
He’ll wonder if the frost will come next week.
I shall forget him in the morning light;
And while we gallop on he will not speak:
But at the stable-door he’ll say good-night.

 

A hunting poem, and an elegy of sorts–and so therefore a war poem as well. The subject of the poem is surely Gordon Harbord, killed in August, and evidently much on Sassoon’s mind. Harbord had been the most beloved of Sassoon’s hunting friends, and his death, which he learned about while at Craiglockhart, seems to have loomed very large for Sassoon. In Memoirs of a Fox-Hunting Man Harbord will become Stephen Colwood, and take on the shape of a surrogate brother for Sassoon (his death is moved up to 1915, when Sassoon’s actual brother died) and becoming one of the spurs to “Sherston’s” breakdown and protest.

But all that is to complicate a simple poem, an elegy for a lost friend. Sassoon’s life may be pleasant now, but he comes home to write these thoughts, confirming that even away from the war reminders of its destruction are unavoidable.

 

I don’t know what Isaac Rosenberg would make of a fox hunting elegy. A sickly private in the trenches in winter, he is trying to survive, and to keep himself alive in the memories of his friends and patrons. By writing even a short note he may feel, perhaps, as if he is keeping alive his own sense of himself as a writer. He writes to Gordon Bottomley, today, but can do little else, whatever he might plan or dream…

Dear Mr. Bottomley

I have been in the trenches some time now & it is most awkward to get letters away… I had the Georgian Book sent me & though I had to send it back I had just time to gallop through it & seeing yours made me very anxious to know what has been happening to you…

My address is

Pte I Rosenberg 22311

4 Platoon A. Coy

11th KORL BEF

Im writing this in the line & have no light or paper. There is a lot I’d like to write–

So yes, here a private from the slums looks very different from an independently wealthy subaltern free to hunt several days a week. But I don’t have to do the dirty work of underlining all this with a black pen–the censors took care of that, too: whatever reason Rosenberg gives (after that dash) for not being able to write more, it must have been deemed to be of military value–the next line is struck out by the censor’s pen.

…I have Balzacean schemes suggested this time. I just write this to let you know Im still a harrassed mortal.

IR[2]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Diaries, 207.
  2. Liddiard, Poetry out of My Head, 117.

Wilfred Owen and Charles Scott Moncrieff Return; Lord Dunsany’s “Songs of an Evil Wood,” Siegfried Sassoon Breaks Through, and Finds Something to Live For: “Love and Beauty and Death and Bitterness and Anger.”

Today we have two brief updates, a rant and a poem from our fox hunting man, and then, naturally, a poem from a foremost fantasist set in an all-too-real wood.

 

First, tonight, a century back, the relief arrived, and Wilfred Owen led his platoon–intact except for the blinded sentry–back through the miles of cloying mud toward safety in the reserve line. Tomorrow he will take up his pen in an initial attempt to describe his first days in the line.[1]

 

Charles Scott Moncrieff, meanwhile, is returning to the front for the first time in many long months. He had expected a training assignment in France, as his health is generally none too good. But he seems pleasantly surprised–or is he just putting a brave face on?–to return to active duty in winter.

15th Jan.

We reached part of the Battalion last night, after a circuitous journey, by various funny trains. We were sent on Saturday to the wrong place, a village which our men had left that morning. It was very sad and sorry and beginning to snow, however we found some hospitable Irishmen who took us in, and next morning we found our way to the 1st Bn. of our own regiment. It is a great triumph being here. My friend Major Campbell Johnson is commanding at present, the Colonel being on a month’s leave and I shall probably be Second in Command till he returns. . . . Do not worry. I am very happy with the Regiment, particularly as I didn’t expect to rejoin it. I am looking forward to occupying a responsible and important position, and the risks are at present negligible.[2]

 

Two days ago, and a century back, Siegfried Sassoon went a-hunting–we may recall the disappointing end of the hunt, with the fox’s unsporting resort to a “wet drain.” Afterwards, Sassoon “stayed the night at Wistason Hall and danced at Alvaston. Came home yesterday afternoon.”

Which all sounds pleasant enough. But apparently that dance wasn’t quite the thing. Today Sassoon caught up with his diary, first recording the events of the hunt in the usual sporting shorthand. But his mood changes rather suddenly as he reflects on the indoor pursuits that followed:

A few hours in the pre-war surroundings… Pleasant enough; but what a decayed society, hanging blindly onto the shreds of its traditions. The wet, watery-green meadows and straggling bare hedges and grey winding lanes; the cry of hounds, and thud of hoofs and people galloping bravely along all around me; and the ride home with hounds in the chilly dusk—those are real things. But comfort and respectable squiredom and the futile chatter of women, and their man-hunting glances, and the pomposity of port-wine-drinking buffers—what’s all that but emptiness? These people don’t reason. They echo one another and their dead relations, and what they read in papers and dull books. And they only see what they want to see—which is very little beyond the tips of their red noses. Debrett is
on every table; and heaven a sexless peerage, with a suitable array of dependents and equipages where God is [page torn out].

Page torn out, eh? Deliberately? Tough to tell. The editor is unwilling to risk an explanation, and no paleographer could do much with the stub and scattered characters that remain.

Sassoon’s rant, however, has not yet run its course. He describes an officer who has been at the depot for eighteen months and takes sick leave because of an “injury caused by riding” which (in a precise foreshadowing of a Seinfeld joke) is actually gonorrhea.

What earthly use are all these people? They don’t instruct anyone; they simply eat and drink. I think nearly half the officers in our Army are conscripted humbugs who are paid to propagate inefficiency. They aren’t even willing to be killed; I can at least say that for myself, for I’ve tried often.

There’s the rub–the gulf that separates one kind of soldier from a very different kind, the absolute difference between the combat tribe and all those who are safe. And Sassoon’s thoughts race from death to fame and poetry, even while staying on the ostensible subject of military efficiency:

Twelve months ago today my poem appeared in The Times. “To Victory”–and it’s not arrived yet–not the sort of Victory I meant. And since then I’ve been lucky. Things might have gone just a little differently, and all those decent poem’s I’ve done since then might never have been written. Now I’ve got my book fixed up, and there’s nothing to do but wait for something else to happen to set my emotions going in a blue-and-crimson flare-up–mostly blue—with a touch of yellow (for liver). Now I’ve really got a grip of the idea of life and describing it, I hope I shan’t get myself killed in 1917. There’s still a lot to say. Love and beauty and death and bitterness and anger.

Now that’s a soldier-poet’s ars poetica. The next page in the journal holds this poem:

England has many heroes; they are known
To all who read of German armies beat.
One chap got drunk and took a trench alone,
And grinned to cheering mobs in every street.
Though England’s proud of him—her stuffed V.C.—
No medal was attached to his D.T.
Think of the D.C.M’s and D.S.O’s
And breasts that swell with Military Crosses;
They are the pomps of War; and no one knows
Nor cares to count the bungling and the losses.
But I would rather shoot one General Dolt
Than fifty harmless Germans; and I’ve seen
Ten thousand soldiers, tabbed with blue and green,
Who, if they heard one shell, would crouch and bolt.
But when the War is done they’ll shout and sing.
And fetch bright medals from their German King.[3]

This is a private journal, of course. But Sassoon is waxing powerful here, and trying out a new power, a new rage, that cannot be unleashed on the world. Yet.

Only one year after “To Victory” and we have suddenly a near-repletion of the tropes of disillusionment, rage, and protest: the cost of war, the hypocrisy of rewarding valor without reckoning those costs, the bungling of generals, the emptiness of military pomp (but also the cynical injustice of its distribution), the fantasy violence against his own superiors, the preference for hating the Englishmen-of-the-rear who get killed without risking themselves rather than hating the “harmless” Germans, his fellow front-fighters; and, last, the sharp-elbowed play with the military acronyms and the nasty last couplet which, if not exactly coherent in its critiques, shows how well verse can serve these sorts of emotions…

To become a great war poet one needs, at a minimum, intense combat experiences and a fallow period that focuses emotional turbulence into some sort of breakthrough in the craft. Owen has just had the first and now Sassoon has moved on to the second.

 

According to a dated letter of his wife’s, Lord Dunsany left England today, a century back, for France. Due to some combination of age (though he is only thirty-eight), infirmity (he has been wounded and ill), possible unreliability (although there is no evidence of this) or general unpopularity (being an Anglo-Irish lord, a litterateur, and a former-ex-officer all may have made life in the mess difficult), Dunsany has been kept at home for rather a long time. His movements over the next months are difficult to trace, but it may be that he is intended now for a depot/training officer and is merely being sent out for a bit of first-hand trench experience. He will not be out long (and if there is an explanation for his recall other than his next bout of illness–tonsilitis–I don’t know it) and I have no dates for quite some time, yet in the next week or two he wrote his most significant real “war poem.” So I’ll give it here–it’s usually entitled either “Songs of an Evil Wood” or “Plug Street [i.e. Ploegsteert] Wood.”

.
There is no wrath in the stars,
They do not rage in the sky;
I look from the evil wood
And find myself wondering why.

Why do they not scream out
And grapple star against star,
Seeking for blood in the wood,
As all things round me are?

They do not glare like the sky
Or flash like the deeps of the wood;
But they shine softly on
In their sacred solitude.

To their happy haunts
Silence from us has flown,
She whom we loved of old
And know it now she is gone.

When will she come again
Though for one second only?
She whom we loved is gone
And the whole world is lonely.

And the elder giants come
Sometimes, tramping from far,
Through the weird and flickering light
Made by an earthly star.

And the giant with his club,
And the dwarf with rage in his breath,
And the elder giants from far,
They are the children of Death.

They are all abroad to-night
And are breaking the hills with their brood,
And the birds are all asleep,
Even in Plugstreet Wood.

II.

Somewhere lost in the haze
The sun goes down in the cold,
And birds in this evil wood
Chirrup home as of old;

Chirrup, stir and are still,
On the high twigs frozen and thin.
There is no more noise of them now,
And the long night sets in.

Of all the wonderful things
That I have seen in the wood,
I marvel most at the birds,
At their chirp and their quietude.

For a giant smites with his club
All day the tops of the hill,
Sometimes he rests at night,
Oftener he beats them still.

And a dwarf with a grim black mane
Raps with repeated rage
All night in the valley below
On the wooden walls of his cage.

III.

I met with Death in his country,
With his scythe and his hollow eye
Walking the roads of Belgium.
I looked and he passed me by.

Since he passed me by in Plug Street,
In the wood of the evil name,
I shall not now lie with the heroes,
I shall not share their fame;

I shall never be as they are,
A name in the land of the Free,
Since I looked on Death in Flanders
And he did not look at me.[4]

References and Footnotes

  1. Hibberd, Wilfred Owen, 209-215.
  2. Diaries, 121-2.
  3. Diaries, 118-20.
  4. Amory, Lord Dunsany, 133. Patches of Sunlight, 293-5.

Two Fusiliers in the English Country Clover: A Final Chapter From John Bernard Adams, Siegfried Sassoon on the Hunt

We return with two Royal Welch Fusiliers to their home hunting grounds, today: one at ease thinking diligently of war and the other riding hard and strenuously avoiding all thought. But first, our second mention of the American Guardsman Carroll Carstairs, whose movement toward the front lines is simple physics: he goes to fill the vacuum left by the lacerations of September 15th.

We left Waterloo Station on the 21st of September, eight of us, embarked at Southampton and reaching Le Havre the next morning proceeded to the Guards Divisional Base Depot at Harfleur. Harfleur! Five hundred years ago Henry V had taken it from the French. We still seemed to have it! Here we were billeted in huts, two officers per hut. Paths with trim herbaceous borders gave to the camp, for its transient inhabitants, a final touch of home before the train that took one up to the front had jerked slowly out of the station at Le Havre.

Around the table in the officers’ mess one pondered over the lists of casualties that, occurring on the 15th, had begun to appear in the “Roll of Honour.” But not for long. We were needed to fill the gaps and remained at Harfleur scarcely more than a day or two before we received orders to join the Division…[1]

 

Has Siegfried Sassoon been beating a path toward protest, toward poetic efflorescence, toward an outing of the indoor man? Is the sensitive poet ready to fling barely metaphorical bombs at the profiteers and jingoists on his own side? Perhaps. He has, after all, just spent time in Wales with Robert Graves and at Garsington Manor with the “sophisticated hospitalities” of Lady Ottoline Morell.

But he has also, during this strange prolongation of sick leave (he is healthy, and the army is shorter and shorter on officers, yet several medical boards will renew his leave), beaten a certain path of retreat into “that pre-war personality.” Today, a century back, was his first day in quite some time as a fox hunting man. Cub-hunting, rather–five times in the coming week. Cub hunting, it seems, is a way of training dogs and horses for the proper hunting season while killing off young foxes who are full-grown but not yet sexually mature. If Sassoon sees the irony in training the young to cull the weaker young this fall, he doesn’t mention it.

September 21st. Met at Orton Waterville, 6.30. Fine morning after slight frost. Found in the Long Covert and hunted one over the road and railway, through the osiers and along by the railway bridge; then back by the river and lost him beyond the ferry… they afterwards killed a brace. Scent fair. Home 11.30. Rode Westmorland.[2]

 

Not every officer on medical leave was using the fine Summer weather to escape the war, however.

 

Chapter XVII
Conclusion

It was a slumbrous afternoon in September. My wound had healed up a month ago, and I was lazily convalescent at my aunt’s house in one of the most beautiful parts of Kent. The six soldiers who were also convalescent there were down in the hop-garden. For hop-picking was in full swing. I was sitting in a deck-chair with Don Quixote on my knees; but I was not reading…

I was listening to the incessant murmur that came from far away across the Medway, across the garden of England, and across the Channel and the flats of Flanders. That sound came from Picardy. All day the insistent throb had been in the air; sometimes faint bimips were clearly distinguishable, at other times it was nothing but one steady vibration. But always it was there, that distant growl, that insistent mutter. Even in this perfect peace, I could not escape the War.

So begins the end of John Bernard Adams‘ memoir, Nothing of Importance. Wounded in June, Adams has missed the Somme battle which claimed the lives of so many of his Regiment, the Royal Welch Fusiliers. But he came back to this moment to put a coda to his book–I am fudging here, for he does not give a precise date for his “slumbrous afternoon” when news of a bloody attack is in the papers, but this one fits the bill fairly well–and I wanted to observe it with him.

Like his comrade Siegfried Sassoon–another Kentish officer of the Welch–Adams finds the contrast of perfect English peace with the chaotic hell of trenches almost too much to bear. But unlike Sassoon, Adams finds himself–or writes himself–sure of his subsequent direction. Out of dissonance and irony, conviction. I will excerpt at length:

To-day I felt completely well; the lassitude and inertness of convalescence were gone — at any rate, for the moment. My mind was very clear, and I could think surely and rapidly…

I tried to imagine trenches running across the lawn, with communication trenches running back to a support line through the meadow; a few feet of brick wall would be all that would be left of the house, and this would conceal my snipers; the mulberry tree would long ago have been razed to the ground, and every scrap of it used as firewood in our dug-outs; this desk chair of mine might possibly be in use in Company Headquarters in one of the cellars. No, it was not easy to imagine war without seeing it.

I picked up the paper that had fallen at my side. There had been more terrible fighting on the Somme, and it had seemed very marvellous to a journalist as he lay on a hill some two miles back, and watched through his field-glasses: it was wonderful that the men advancing (if indeed he could really see them at all in the smoke of a heavy artillery barrage) still went on, although their comrades dropped all round them. Yet I wondered what else anyone could do but go on? Run back, with just as much likelihood of being shot in doing so? Or, even if he did get back, to certain death as a deserter? Everyone knows the safest place is in a trench; and it is a trench you are making for. Lower down on the page came a description of the wounded; he had talked to so many of them, and they were all smiling, all so cheerful; smoking cigarettes and laughing. They shook their fists, and shouted that the only thing they wanted to do was to get back into it! Pah! I threw the paper down in disgust. Surely no one wants to read such stuff, I thought. Of course the men who were not silent, in a dull stupefied agony, were smiling: what need to say that a man with a slight wound was laughing at his luck, just as I had smiled that early morning when the trolley took me down from Maple Redoubt? And who does not volunteer for an unpleasant task, when he knows he cannot possibly get it? Want to get back into it, indeed! Ask Tommy ten years hence whether he wants to be back in the middle of it again!

I wondered why people endured such cheap journalism…Are not our people able to bear the truth, that war is utterly hellish, that we do not enjoy it, that we hate it, hate it, hate it all? And then it struck me how ignorant people still were; how uncertainly they spoke, these people at home: it was as though they dared not think things out, lest what they held most dear should be an image shattered by another point of view…

Well then, let’s get shatterin’. But he has been, carefully and methodically, for a few hundred pages now. He thinks of horrible wounds on one side of the experiential gulf, of smug pro-war convictions on the other.

Oh! you men and women who did not know before the capabilities of human nature, I thought, please take note of it now; and after the war do not underestimate the quality of mankind. Did it need a war to tell you that a man can be heroic, resolute, courageous, cheerful, and capable of sacrifice?

There were those who could have told you that before this war. There was a lull in the vibration. I turned in my chair, and listened. Then it began again.

“People are afraid to think it out,” I said. “I have not seen the Somme fighting, but I know what war is. Its quality is not altered by multiplication or intensity. The colour of life-blood is a constant red. Let us look into this business; let us face all the facts. Let us not flinch from any aspect of the truth.” And my thoughts ran somewhat as follows:

First of all, War is evil—utterly evil. Let us be sure of that first. It is an evil instrument, even if it be used for motives that are good. I, who have been through war and know it, say that it is evil. I knew it before the war; instinct, reason, religion told me that war was evil; now experience has told me also.

I break in now really only for the rhythm of the thing. It should be clear by now that Adams is closing his book with what we might call a programmatic statement. And that he has our interests at heart: the knowledge that experience confers, and the ethical, historical, and literary challenges that it poses.

He is angry, but he pauses and, Hankey-like (yet pushed to a more radical position) forces himself to weigh things carefully.

It is a strange synthesis, this war: it is a synthesis of adventure, dullness, good spirits, and tragedy; but none of these things are new to human experience… I have seen and felt the adventure of war, its deadly fascination and excitement: it is the greatest game on earth: that is its terrible power : there is such a wild temptation to paint np its interest and glamour : it gives such scope to daring, to physical courage, to high spirits: it makes so many prove themselves heroic, that were it not for the fall of the arrow, men would call the drawing of the bow good. I have seen the dullness, the endless monotony, the dogged labour, the sheer power of will conquering the body and “carrying on”: there is good in that, too. In the jollity, the humour, the good-fellowship is nothing but good also. There is good in all these things; for these are qualities of human nature triumphing in spite of war. These things are not war; they are the good in man prostituted to a vile thing.

For I have seen the real face of war: I have seen men killed, mutilated, blown to little pieces; I have seen men crippled for life; I have looked in the face of madness, and I know that many have gone mad under its grip. I have seen fine natures break and crumble under the strain. I have seen men grow brutalized, and coarsened in this war. (God will judge justly in the end ; meanwhile, there are thousands among us—yes, and among our enemy too—brutalized through no fault of theirs). I have lost friends killed (and shall lose more yet), friends with whom I have lived and suffered so long.

Who is for war now! Its adventure, its heroism! Bah!

Adams goes on–at some length–about the horrors of war. But he soon arrives at his second point: the duties of a Christian in this time of murder are not the same as those of a writer from the trenches–they are, in fact, in no way predicated on experience:

I knew that war was vile, before I went into if. I have seen it: I do not alter my opinion. I went into this war prepared to sacrifice my life to prove that right is stronger than wrong; I have stood again and again with a traverse between me and death; I have faced the possibility of madness. I foresaw all this before I went into this war. What difference does it make that I have experienced it? It makes no difference. Let no one fear that our sacrifice has been in vain. We have already won what we are fighting for. The will for war, that aggressive power, with all the cards on its side prepared, striking at its own moment, has already failed against a spirit, weaker, unprepared, taken unawares. And so I am clear on my second point. We are fighting from just motives, and we have already baulked injustice. Aggressive force, the power that took up the cruel weapon of war, has failed. No one can ever say that his countrymen have laid down their lives in vain.

And yet experience has played an important role. It hasn’t changed reality, but it has catalyzed perception:

I got up from the chair, and started walking about the garden. Everything was so clear. Before going out to the war I had thought these things; but the thoughts were fluid, they ran about in mazy patterns, they were elusive, and always I was frightened of meeting unanswerable contradictions to my theorising from men who had actually seen war. Now my conclusions seemed crystallised by irrefutable experience into solid truth.

After a while I sat down again and resumed my train of thought:

War is evil. Justice is stronger than Force. Yet, was there need of all this bloodshed to prove this? For this war is not as past wars; this is every man’s war, a war of civilians, a war of men who hate war, of men who fight for a cause, who are compelled to kill and hate it. That is another thing that people will not face. Men whisper that Tommy does not hate Fritz. Again I say, away with this whispering. Let us speak it out plain and bold. Private Davies, my orderly, formerly a shepherd of Blaenau Festiniog, has no quarrel with one Fritz Schneider of Hamburg who is sitting in the trench opposite the Matterhorn sap; yet he will bayonet him certainly if he comes over the top, or if we go over into the German trenches; ay, he will perform this action with a certain amount of brutality too, for I have watched him jabbing at rats with a bayonet through the wires of a rat trap, and I know that he has in him a savage vein of cruelty. But when peace is declared, he and Fritz will light a bonfire of trench stores in No Man’s Land, and there will be the end of their quarrel…

It is hard to trace ultimate causes. It is hard to fix absolute responsibility. There were many seeds sown, scattered, and secretly fostered before they produced this harvest of blood. The seeds of cruelty, selfishness, ambition, avarice, and indifference, are always liable to swell, grow, and bud, and blossom suddenly into the red flower of war…

And it is because they know that we, too, are not free from them, that certain men have stood out from the arena as a protest against war. These men are real heroes, who for their conscience’s sake are enduring taunts, ignominy, misunderstanding, and worse. Most men and women in the arena are cursing them, and, as they struggle in agony and anguish they beat their hands at them and cry ”You do not care.” I, too, have cursed them, when I was mad with pain. But I know them, and I know that they are true men. I would not have one less. They are witnesses against war. And I, too, am fighting war. Men do not understand them now, but one day they will.

I know that there are among us, too, the seeds of war: no cause has yet been perfect. But I look at the facts. We did not start, we did not want this war… It was the seeds of war in Germany that were responsible. And so history will judge.

But what of the future?

Adams ends his book on this September afternoon, a century back (give or take a few days), with a return to fundamentals. There is no way out of modern war, he argues, except for a way that was there from the beginning. Experience has sent him back to the central Christian story. John Bernard Adams will be neither the first nor the last to see the sufferings of the infantry prefigured in the Passion:

…I walked up and down the lawn, my eyes glowing, my brain working hard. Here around me was all the beauty of an old garden, its long borders full of phloxes, delphiniums, stocks, and all the old familiar flowers; the apples glowed red in the trees; the swallows were skimming across the lawn. In the distance I could hear the rumble of the wagon bringing up the afternoon load of hop-pokes to the oasthouse. Yet what I had seen of war was as true, had as really happened, as all this. It would be so easy to forget, after the war. And yet to forget might mean a seed of war. I must never forget Lance-Corporal Allan.

There is only one sure way, I said at last. And again a clear conviction filled me… There is only one Man whose eyes have never glittered. Look at the palms of your hands, you, who have had a bullet through the middle of it! Did they not give you morphia to ease the pain? And did you not often cry out alone in the darkness in the terrible agony, that you did not care who won the war if only the pain would cease? Yet one Man there was who held out His hand upon the wood, while they knocked, knocked, knocked in the nail, every knock bringing a jarring, excruciating pain, every bit as bad as yours…

Do you want to put an end to the arena? Here is a Man to follow. In hoc signo vinces.

Now as I stood on the lawn, I heard the long continuous vibration of the guns upon the Somme.

“You are War,” I said aloud. “This is your hour, the power of darkness. But the time will come when we shall follow the Man who has conquered your last weapon, death: and then your walls of steel will waver, cringe, and fall, melted away before the fire of LOVE.”[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Generation Missing, 61-2.
  2. Siegfried's Journey, 24-5.
  3. Nothing of Importance, 313-29.

Siegfried Sassoon and Robert Graves Come Down From Wales, and the Narrative Gets Dodgy; Bimbo Tennant in the Front Lines

Today, a century back, marked the end of the Welsh idyll of Siegfried Sassoon and Robert Graves. They have been writing and reading each other’s work and rewriting (but not, alas, dating their manuscripts) and walking the hills, and Sassoon has played more than a few rounds of golf. But their joint holiday is not quite over–it merely pivoted, today. The two went to London together to see the same lung specialist–Sassoon’s lungs had been damaged by a fever, Graves’s by a German shell–and will then continue into Kent, to Weirleigh, Sassoon’s home.

This, in any event, is the dating provided by Graves’s nepotic biographer R.P. Graves, and although he is not inerrant, he seems correct on this, despite his uncle’s assertions in Good-Bye to All That, which include dating his first meeting-up with Sassoon to September 6th rather than late August.[1] In any event, today’s doctor’s appointment marked the transition from Wales to Kent, and since it is also a calm between two storms on the Somme, it’s a good point to work in, here, some of their interesting but factually unreliable stories of this month.[2]

The reason the 6th stuck in Graves’s memory is probably because it was a horrible day for the two young men, each of whom had each served with the First Battalion of the Royal Welch (Graves was with the Second when he was wounded). This memory may be misplaced or combined, but it seems unlikely to be fabricated:

Siegfried bought a copy of The Times at the book-stall. As usual, we turned to the casualty list first; and found there the names of practically every officer in the First Battalion, listed as either killed or wounded. Edmund Dadd, killed; his brother Julian, in Siegfried’s Company, wounded–shot through the throat, as we learned later, only able to talk in a whisper, and for months utterly prostrated. It had happened at Ale Alley near Ginchy, on September 3rd. A dud show, with the battalion out-flanked by a counter-attack. News like this in England was far more upsetting than in France. Still feeling  very weak, I could not help crying all the way up to Wales. Siegfried complained bitterly: ‘Well, old Stockpot got his C.B. at any rate!’ 

So far so awful. Survivors’ guilt is not a new phenomenon, but it is growing more common. Both Graves and Sassoon are at pains to explain how ill at ease they were as officers honorably at leisure in wartime England, and although Graves partially backdates his disillusionment to 1915 and Sassoon was shaken by the deaths of his brother in late 1915 and, especially, of David Thomas, in March, they both write this long period of leave as a key passage in their emotional and political progress.

Characteristically, Sassoon is gentle, and Graves knocks over all the tea trays he can get his hands on.

Also characteristically, Graves is direct and offensive, while Sassoon would prefer to wound with erasure styled as gentle reticence–but we’ll get to that in a moment.

Sassoon’s fictionalized memoir’s task is made easier by the fact that “George Sherston” is not visiting his bereaved mother but his “Aunt Evelyn.” There is an aside to the reader about “the difficulty of recapturing war-time atmosphere” and wanting to write something more personal and specific than any historian’s generalization–ironic from a man who has chosen the stylish veneer of fiction, but piles that veneer on awfully thick at times like this. So “Sherston” wanders about deserted stables–his beloved groom “Dixon” and his hunting friend “Stephen Colwood” have both been killed–and broods upon empty cricket pitches, finding everywhere time-capsule mementos of the Last Summer.

This is literarily appropriate, since we are closing the book on the “Fox-Hunting Man” before he begins to face the destructiveness of war and contemplate protest. But it also omits Graves entirely.

Sherston’s wilful idyll, undisturbed by “David Cromlech”– who is not mentioned at all during the account of these weeks in Sherston’s Memoirsis eventually interrupted by letters from his friend Joe “Dottrell”/Cottrell, the quartermaster of the First Royal Welch:

The old Batt. is having a rough time. We… lost 200 men in three days… The Batt. is attacking to-day… All the boys send their love and best wishes…

This is bad enough, but then come details of the news he would have already learned from the casualty lists:

Dear Kangaroo… Just a line to let you know what rotten bad luck we had yesterday. We attacked Ginchy with a very weak Batt. (about 300) and captured the place but were forced out of half of it… Poor Edmonds was killed… Also Perrin. Durley was badly wounded, in neck and chest… Asbestos Bill died of wounds. Fernby… not expected to live… Only two officers got back without being killed.

These are pseudonyms, but the September 1st attack on Ginchy–and its cost–was real. “George Sherston,” spared all this by an illness, can’t quite handle the news–but what choice has he?

I walked around the room, whistling and putting the pictures straight. Then the gong rang for luncheon. Aunt Evelyn drew my attention to the figs, which were the best we’d had off the old tree that autumn.[3]

 

Graves also discusses the unpleasant strangeness of being celebrated by fatuous civilians, but instead of containing himself he launches an attack on “The Little Mother,” an anonymous letter-writer who gained fame around this time. She seems to have been a creation of the propagandists, and she is pretty awful, objecting to peace-talking soldiers by whipping up a sort of sacrificial-holy-mother version of 1914’s pretty-girls-waving-white-feathers phenomenon. The claim–made to silence any protest against the war–was that British mothers were very proud to “fill the gaps” by shooing in their sons–and any shirkers alongside–forward. Graves includes numerous blurbs of fulsome praise for this letter–perfect and complete evidence, in his eyes, of the wicked immensity of the experiential gulf, where the older generation are lemmings who push younger beasts off the cliff while keeping their own gazes piously elevated–and moves on…

Which brings us to a bit of a bump in the road. Graves cites the praise for “The Little Mother” as an example of what he was “up against” a century back, but he follows with another rather more personal illustration of the impossibility of soldiers’ mothers…  Let’s just say that his handling of his visit to Kent is difficult to discuss without spoilers. But I will do my best to write clearly without violating the letter of the law.

Even if “Sherston” is alone with “Aunt Evelyn,” Graves and Sassoon did journey to Kent together, this week, a century back. And Graves writes about the behavior not of the fictional Aunt Evelyn but the real mistress of the house, Sassoon’s mother. Which will not make Sassoon happy–never mind that a man who entirely eliminates his mother from his lightly-fictionalized “Memoirs” doesn’t have a perfect claim to the moral high ground.

Graves’s posture of reticence about embarrassing a good friend is tissue-thin. He talks about early September with Sassoon, and directly after this next quotation he is again talking about what he and Sassoon did together. Gosh! Who could this Kentish friend be I wonder?

Towards the end of September, I stayed in Kent with a recently wounded First Battalion friend. An elder brother had been killed in the Dardanelles, and their mother kept the bedroom exactly as he had left it, with the sheets aired, the linen always freshly laundered, flowers and cigarettes by the bedside. She went around  with a vague, bright religious look on her face. The first night I spent there, my friend and I sat up talking about the war until past twelve o’clock. His mother had gone to bed early, after urging us not to get too tired. The talk had excited me, and though I managed to fall asleep an hour later, I was continually awakened by sudden rapping noises, which I tried to disregard but which grew louder and louder. They seemed to come from everywhere. Soon sleep left me and I lay in a cold sweat. At nearly three o’clock, I heard a diabolic yell and a succession of laughing, sobbing shrieks that sent me flying to the door. In the passage I collided with the  mother who, to my surprise, was fully dressed. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘One of the maids had hysterics. I’m so sorry you have been disturbed.’ So I went back to bed, but could not sleep again, though the noises had stopped. In the morning I told my friend: ‘I’m leaving this place. It’s worse than France.’ There were thousands of  mothers like her, getting in touch with their dead sons by various spiritualistic means. 

This is cruel, and neither is it fair or entirely truthful–Graves will also write a letter praising the peacefulness of Weirleigh several days after arriving. Otherwise, sadly, it falls into the category of probably-essentially-true tales altered by Graves for dramatic effect. Theresa Sassoon is one of many bereaved parents who have begun to indulge in spiritualism.

Sassoon will write about his mother during this period, eventually, in his own autobiographical voice:

I could get no relief by discussing the war with my mother, whose way of looking at it differed from mine. For her, the British were St. George and the Germans were the Dragon; beyond that she had no more to say about it. The war had caused her so much suffering that she was incapable of thinking flexibly on the subject.

Sassoon–who defies me by using the “barrier” metaphor rather than the “gulf,” will note that their mutual understanding is also thwarted by the fact that he doesn’t know “what it feels like to be an elderly civilian in a great war.”[4] But this is wisdom yet to be realized, a century back.

 

Bimbo Tennant moved up past Rowland Feilding yesterday, taking the place of his exhausted Connaught Rangers. Tennant survived the trip and seems, naturally, to be enjoying himself so far. Not every man of the 4th Grenadier Guards was as lucky:

Sept. 11th, 1916.

“… Up to now I am safe and well; but we have had a fairly uncomfortable time, though we have been lucky on the whole. Poor Thompson (in my Company) was killed yesterday. I shall miss him so, he was such a charming fellow. We have been heavily shelled everywhere of the line.

We had very good luck getting up here, having hardly any casualties in the whole Battalion. I was flying up and down the batt. with messages to different people from the Commanding Officer all the time, it was quite a busy time for me; but since then, apart from helping to write messages, and being generally useful and cheerful, it’s been less strenuous. I keep my ‘Oxford Book of English Verse‘ with me.[5]

This is no passing reference, really: the Oxford Book of English Verse is, among our poetically-inclined subalterns, second-best to a bible–or even quietly preferred to it.

 

References and Footnotes

  1. And despite Jean Moorcroft Wilson's rather sensible abdication--"the dates simply do not tally" (Siegfried Sassoon, 294). They don't, but I'm not sure why anything more nefarious is going on with Graves than either a confusion of dates or a conflation of the memory of crying on a train with another day on which Sassoon read the casualty list. Today is a plausible day for reading of the Royal Welch at Ginchy (see below), but otherwise Moorcroft's complaint stands: "Sassoon's autobiography is clearly not factually reliable," and neither is Graves's. Worse, from my shallowly date-obsessed point of view, Sassoon is not writing many letters or keeping up his diary, so there is no way to securely date several important things. Alas: in late August I had no place to discuss he and Graves planning to co-publish like Coleridge and Wordsworth, and none of the biographers can quite find a date for Sassoon's September introduction to life at Lady Ottoline Morrell's Garsington Manor...
  2. R.P. Graves, Robert Graves: The Assault Heroic, 162.
  3. Complete Memoirs, 376-7.
  4. Siegfried's Journey, 27.
  5. Memoir, 229.

Olaf Stapledon on Religion, War, and Progress; Siegfried Sassoon is Lifted Up Toward Heaven; Vera Brittain’s Shattered Dreams Lead Her toward the Stygian Spring

Olaf Stapledon continues his letter of yesterday, to Agnes his love across the seas.

We used to complain of having too little work here, but now we are always busy though there is no fighting to speak of. One begins to appreciate slack times when one realises that the winter is passing and the spring cometh wherein no man can slack–for in the spring I suppose they will fire off at one another all the shells they are busily making now, and there will be what a friend of mine vigorously described as a “bloody spring,” like last spring, or worse. Good God why should we have another bloody spring! I am sure neither of the opposing armies wants it. It is as if certain foolish persons were to drive two great herds of cattle furiously one against the other. Why not have let them peacefully graze? And yet that simile is all wrong, for the instigators were part of the herds, & the herds were willing to be roused. In fact it must be admitted even by those whose faith is in democratic control that the war is really a great primitive folk war and not a curious accident and a “put up job…”

This will become a common lament. Stapledon, pacifist and ambulance man, is out in front of the herd in realizing that this war is, given its duration and destructiveness, insufficiently furnished with hate. But only a little. By the end of this year, and all the more so in the mires of the next, many foot soldiers on both sides will be asking themselves why the war grinds on if the men who are doing–and suffering–the grinding do not wish it. Common, but not common–or vociferous enough–to overwhelm the herd instinct to bullishly pursue what it has begun. Another good point from young Olaf.

We should have outgrown folk wars, and “bloody springs.” If we were not so parochial, and did not follow only our tribal gods there would be some hope. Yes, that is surely it! England’s God and Germany’s are parish idols in so far as they differ. All hail to Bahi the Persian prophet who embraces all the Gods and finds their common quality to be the one true God of all the worlds…

Gentle irony, then. Stapledon must know his Exodus, and understand its continuing tribal hold: “My God is a man of war…” Stapledon is saddened rather than maddened, and he smiles away the terror. The trench fighter pacifists will react somewhat differently, in part because of the different things being asked of them. Stapledon has committed himself, but while his work will get more dangerous during major combat, nothing dramatically different will be asked of him than has been asked already. He doesn’t have to think of killing, or of suffering new horrors from unimagined weapons. No–this is a thought, only a thought. He has made his peace with the war, as it were. And he would rather be thinking of other things.

Bedtime. We call the nights more enjoyable than the days. It’s cosy and lazy in bed. Also at night one is not just a cog in the great war machine; one is free of the whole universe, to wander at will. At night also there is less between Agnes and her lover,

Olaf.[1]

 

And Siegfried Sassoon–blissful outdoor Siegfried–has at last taken an indoor stroll. It’s in much the same register, however. Here he is on the most uplifting and poetical building in all of the British area of the line. (I like this description very much–for its straining poetry, odd prejudices, and mingling of rote monument-approving and genuine emotion–so I’ll let it stand alone, without commentary or interpolation from the Memoirs version. Illustrations, though!)

Last Sunday (January 23) I left here to go to Amiens on a sunny morning, which had turned dull and cheerless by 1 o’clock. The train rambles in to Amiens in one and a half hours, about eighteen miles.

The Cathedral, as one stands in the nave, gives an impression of clear whiteness; the massive columns seem slender, so vast is the place; and the windows beyond the altar are high and delicate, with a little central colour, blue, violet and amber, and the rest white, with a touch of grass-green in the sombre-glowing glass lower down.

Voutes,_nef,_rosace_ouest_et_grandes_orgues_de_la_cathédrale_Notre-Dame_d'Amiens,_France_-_20080125-02The architecture of the place, leading the eye upward, soars above the gaudy insignia of the service–shrines and candles and pictures (like the great idea of religion—outshining all formulae of office and celebration). The rose-windows are full of dusky flames; with touches of scarlet, apple-green, sapphire, violet, and orange.

The noble arches and pillars are lifted up toward heaven to break into flowers, lilies of clear light, and the gorgeous hues of richer petals and clusters. And the voices of the great organ shout and mingle their raptures high overhead, shaking the roof with glory.

Cathedrale_d'Amiens_-_Rosace_nord_depuis_le_triforiumBeyond the great wrought-iron gate, where the marvellously carven stalls are, the choir are a black bevy against the stars of the altar-lights. They fill the cathedral with their antiphons, while the French are at their meek orisons, old women and tired soldiers in blue-grey, children and white-haired men.

6740631

But the invader is here; a Japanese officer flits in with curious eves; the Army Service Corps and Red Cross men are everywhere, walking up and down with the foolish looks of sightseers who come neither to watch nor to pray.

And the Jocks, the kilted ones, their arrogance is overweening, they move with an air of conquest; have we conquered France? For the old English knights and squires and varlets must have moved up and down just as these do, elbowing the fantastic Frenchmen against the wall; their eyes had the same veiled insolence five hundred years ago, l am certain. These wear long capes or cloaks which give them a mediaeval look.[2]

 

 

Vera Brittain, meanwhile, is beginning the struggle. Yesterday–perhaps, just perhaps–she may have had an inkling of the other woman she had been up against all along, from the very beginning of her romance with Roland Leighton.

Saturday January 22nd

I had a very sweet & sympathetic letter from Mrs Leighton, who seems not quite to know what to advise me to do… But she says she is sure the light will come, if I will only wait. I bought the Sphere in which Clement Shorter had written a charming little notice of Roland in the Literary Letter part, & had printed “Violets”. The context sounds as if the poem was written to his Mother, but no one reading it could doubt in what relation he stood to the person to whom he wrote it, even though they did not know me.

And today, a century back:

Sunday January 23rd

Just a month ago to-day. And we are still looking for the shattered fragments of that world which the War Office telegram smashed for us. I started to-night to write a little story about him & me…

Two sad sentences, but a hopeful third-and-ellipsis. She is writing, and she seems to imply that she will use fiction, perhaps to enable a clearer assumption of control over the narrative. But it would be foolish to conclude that is a “good sign,” evidence of uplift. The tone of this diary entry from later in the week, describing how she observed the passing of the first month since his death, is really somewhat alarming:

On Sunday night at 11.0–the day of the month & hour of His death–I knelt before the window in my ward & prayed, not to God but to Him. For if the Dead are their own subconscious selves they can surely hear us and know that we are thinking of them even though we cannot know that they know or are thinking of us. Always at 11 p.m. on the 23rd day of the month I mean to pause in whatever I am doing & let my spirit go out to His. Always at that hour I will turn to Him, just as the Mohammedans always turn to Mecca at sunrise.[3]

It’s hard, in a snippet like this, to feel out the boundaries between grief–naturally incorporating romantic tendencies that had been there before–and a deeper crisis. For the young rationalist that she had been, this wobbling toward spiritualism seems almost like an incipient meltdown. She had been capitalizing Him for many months already when he was killed, but these mingling spirits, this almost literal idolatry, seem to go much further…

Vera, we hope, will find her way back from the blood-drenched fountainhead in the far north, around which the restless shades teem. Roland isn’t coming back for a chat…

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Talking Across the World, 126-7.
  2. Diaries, 35-6.
  3. Chronicle of Youth, 306-8.

Siegfried Sassoon to the Transport; Raymond Asquith on Army Work: I Rather Like War… But I Utterly Detest “Soldiering”

Today, a century back, we have a near-convergence of two spirits generally divergent. Both the dewy-eyed Siegfried Sassoon and the gimlet-eyed Raymond Asquith are kicking against the traces, frustrated at being given jobs that take them from their unit, their men. But then again these two have always both shared the common conviction–stronger, it would seem, among amateur soldiers who have found their way into storied regiments of the Regular Army–that their only honorable calling is to serve in a fighting battalion, and die. Or, as they put it a few days ago, respectively, “my only point (if any) was to be a potential corpse,” and “Soon shall [mine] eager cry/Be numbered and expire.

Asquith had been asked to serve as a “Prisoner’s Friend” in a court martial, and we will hear his report today to his wife Katherine. For Sassoon, though, the blow is a fresh one:

Since January 18, when R. Ormrod went on leave, I am Transport Officer; why does this safe job come my way when I wanted danger and hardship? But there is no way out of it, without looking a fool, so I must take it. And it is better fun than with the company. The old nags want a bit of looking after—and the whole show wants tidying up.[1]

Well, he got over that disappointment quickly. Danger and hardship weren’t coming during Divisional Training in Montagne in January either, so Sassoon will probably soon realize that he is quite fortunate. Less drill, and plenty of time with horses, which he has always loved. Outdoor Sassoon!

 

For Asquith the new assignment is complicated by a change of regime in his battalion of the Grenadier Guards. So, to advance today’s parallel story of job-work, frustration, and contentment among strong and simple-minded army beasts, let’s go back three days for an update:

15 January 1916

I am writing this because you say you like a letter however empty. I never felt more barren, jumpy and ill-conditioned, than I am now. Our new commanding officer is a perfect soldier, and that always makes things very uncomfortable for a perfect civilian like myself. He is wonderfully efficient, and not in the least disagreeable, but patently limited. He is only here temporarily as he really commands another battn. and has been sent here on a special mission to repair the errors of the last reign. The result is that one doesn’t get a moment to oneself. All subalterns parade at 8 a.m. and do the most elementary form of drill under a sergeant major. I cannot believe that this helps us to win the war, and I would far rather be shelled for an hour than drilled for an hour…

I couldn’t resist that one, despite the bad form of continually insisting on Asquith’s witty insincerity and then implicitly holding up one of his blithe overstatements as evidence of secret, shockingly soldierly preferences…

But today’s letter to his wife Katherine does clear up one bit of recent guess-work. Suspicions that the offer of a place on the Staff (after his lawyerly service at the court-martial) was the result of movements in high places were evidently well-founded. “The P.M.” is, of course, daddy.

18 January 1916

I got 3 of the sweetest letters from you yesterday all by one post. It is a comfort to find you sympathetic about my wretched predicament, but rather wish you had forbidden the P.M. to move in the matter without consulting me. However, things may turn out to be less black than they look at present, and I suppose I shall be able to get back here when I am sick of the other place; though my brothers in arms are frankly cynical on the subject, and refuse to believe in the possibility of my return.

So it looks like the staff for Raymond–which is unfortunate, because his battalion, having been whipped into shape, is about to become more pleasant. Back to the letter of three days ago for more on the joys of Regimental service:

The rigours of the new regime have at any rate mitigated the wrench of leaving the battalion–In fact I don’t think I could bear this highly Prussianised life for many days more–I have come to the conclusion that I rather like war (though I prefer peace), but I utterly detest “soldiering”. As soon as the Court Martial is over I am to be whisked off to G.H.Q…

And today:

Today we have yet another commanding officer, this time a permanent one, Brooke. I know him slightly, and should think he would be a great success.

For a man of strong opinions, strongly worded, Asquith does seem to be wavering in his attitude. And no wonder: the attractions of not just the staff but G.H.Q.–the great big chateau in the rear–are something to set against the quotidian miseries of drill and trench navvying. Asquith, the cynic and high-liver, still wants the most honorable, dangerous service, still craves the unique esprit de corps of being in an elite combat unit… but how much? Enough to offset status, safety, and all those lampreys?

The court martial, too, puts Asquith in an interesting position vis-a-vis the Regular army. He has been cast as The Brain, a chap clever enough to be a short-notice lawyer, and he is defending a consummate Regular officer for allowing something that everybody allowed a year before, and which many continue to believe was in the proper spirit of real soldiering. Back to today’s letter:

Yesterday I had a pretty bloody and exhausting struggle with the Court Martial. I don’t think I can blame myself in the matter, as the facts were sadly against us all the time.

This officer, in other words, did in fact allow his men to fraternize with the Germans on Christmas, in contradiction to orders but far from alone.

The sentence has not been announced yet, but I should think it would be a light one, something in the nature of a reprimand. I think there was no doubt that he committed a technical offence, but in reality he showed a good deal of decision and common sense, and his military character is so first rate that they ought to take a lenient view of the case. I became much attached to Colquhoun in the course of the case. His deportment was quite faultless, both before and during the proceedings. There is a finished arrogance and sullen grace about him which is very attractive, and there is no doubt that he is a man of exceptional dash and courage…

Once again I want to hark back three days so that we can see the same opinion being refined:

Ian Colquhoun, on the other hand, is perfectly haughty and indifferent, and impresses me more and more as being a man of great individuality and charm, so far as one-can have those-things without a brain.[2]

Isn’t all just right with the world, then? The soldier of little brain but dark charisma, with all his prominent courage and “decision” (the most important quality of all, in a combat officer) will be sent back to command troops, while the brilliant politician’s son shines in difficult intellectual work, and shows his high spirits through punchy prose. And, for that matter, the horsey pastoral poet gets to take care of the horses. Perhaps the swollen British Army is finding equilibrium? Or are these the vagaries of chance, influence, and bureaucratic hap?

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Diaries, 35.
  2. Life and Letters, 234-6.