Bayoneting With Edward Heron-Allen; Wilfred Owen’s “Last Words”

First, today, another very entertaining entry from our great latecomer, Edward Heron-Allen. He is recently commissioned, still under training, and very much in England. But he has advanced, thematically, as far as the “Bull Ring.” Other than this not being in France–and the instructor not being notably Scottish–it fits the pattern well:

…I was detailed to watch advanced bayonet practice which was extremely interesting and real. The men start in a trench, go ‘over the top’ in waves, across a plateau of sand jumping obstacles, and over a ditch into a trench where they stab recumbent sand bags, painted to represent Huns. They form on the other side and rush a row of hanging Hun-bags, and then make a final charge on the last trench, which means a six foot jump landing with one’s bayonet well through another row of Hun-bags. A concealed instructor pulls wires which make Hun heads bob up on the way, and you have to jab those en passant. As the men yell furiously the whole time the scene is cataleptically exhilarating to watch, and the men evidently enjoy it vastly. I should not care to do it myself![1]

 

Wilfred Owen, though he could hardly top this, also has some exhilaration to share. In this rather strange letter to his mother, he describes how exploring the older parts of Scarborough with a Belgian painter led to an aesthetic euphoria.

Last night I took an artist johnny—called Claus…  (a fat old tub, with round spectacles, and a conical head) …to Scarborough, where there’s not a house built since 1780, not a street much wider than Claus, and miles of it, mind you, miles of glorious eighteenth century. It was twilight…

Not a soul in the alleys.

Not a lamp lit. A dim moon—and the Past.

And we got excited. What excited us, who shall say? We jumped about, we bumped about, We sang praises, we cursed Manchester; we looked in at half open doors and blessed the people inside. We saw Shakespere in a lantern, and the whole of Italy in a Balcony. A tall chimney became a Greek Column; and in the inscriptions on the walls we read romances and philosophies.

It was a strange way of getting drunk. I wonder if the people in the officers’ bar suspected that evening how much more cheaply a man can get fuddled on fresh air and old winding passages?

Very nice, and refreshingly un-1918: it’s a passage that throws us back to Baudelaire or ahead to Dylan, c. 1965.

But it’s still 1918, and euphoria is not all that Owen has been experiencing:

I am sorry you have disturbing and daylight-lingering dreams. It is possible to avoid them: by proper thinking before sleep. I confess I bring on what few war dreams I now have, entirely by willingly considering war of an evening. I do so because I have my duty to perform towards War.

Sudden seriousness. And, perhaps, another explanation for the metaphorical drunkenness. Owen seems to have exorcised another segment of his war experience in producing this poem draft, which he prefaces with a stern warning to his mother, whose Christian faith he risks offending:

There is a point where prayer is indistinguishable from blasphemy. There is also a point where blasphemy is indistinguishable, from prayer.

As in this first verse:

Last Words[2]

‘O Jesus Christ!’ one fellow sighed;
And kneeled, and bowed, tho’ not in prayer, and died.
And the Bullets sang—‘In vain’
Machine Guns chuckled ‘Vain’
Big Guns guffawed ‘In vain’

‘Father and Mother!’ one boy said.
Then smiled—at nothing like a small child; being dead.
And the Shrapnel Cloud
Slowly gestured ‘Vain!’
The falling Splinters muttered ‘Vain’.

‘My Love!’ another cried, ‘My love, my bud!’
Then, gently lowered, his whole face kissed the mud.
And the Flares gesticulated, ‘Vain’
The Shells hooted, ‘In vain’
And the Gas hissed, ‘In vain’.[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Journal, 165-6.
  2. This will be revised and re-titled "The Last Laugh."
  3. Collected Letters, 533-34.

A Petty Victory for Wilfred Owen, and a Harsh Defeat for the Royal Welsh

Despite the constant false alarms along the Western Front, we are now entering another quiet period on the line. So we’ll catch up with Wilfred Owen, writing today both to his mother and to his hapless rhymester cousin. To his mother, Owen makes a sweetly grandiose gesture, using the fruits of his labor to fan the flames warming the heart of his greatest supporter…

Tues. Morning.

…The £ 1 : 1 : 0., my first proud earnings, must be used on superb coal-fires in your room. It is only poetic justice. Stoke up!

I have ‘written’ profusely last week, but nothing of a topical nature…

But Owen has another correspondent with whom he’d like to discusses his earnings. He sends an amusing postcard to Leslie Gunston, who has been offended by Owen’s experiments with pararhyme (and also, perhaps, by Owen’s manifest success and rather cool response to his own effortful verses). Owen sought to amuse (or annoy) Gunston by altering a popular comic postcard to read as follows:

A Little Health, A Little Wealth, A Little
House, and Freedom—and at The End,
I’d Like a Friend, And Every Cause to Need Him.

The internet being bountiful, I located what seems to be another copy of the original post-card, as written on by a different (but also ironic/scornful) card-sender, here. Owen’s message is straight to the point: I am confident in my methods, thank you very much.

Quite as delighted to have your blunt criticism as your first postcard. I suppose I am doing in poetry what the advanced composers are doing in music. I am not satisfied with either. Still I am satisfied with the Two
Guineas that half-hour’s work brought me. Got the Cheque this m’ng!

Your W.E.O.[1]

Now hold on a second: one guinea (£ 1/1/0, i.e. one pound and one shilling, so 1/20th more valuable than a pound, and much more than 1/20th more prestigious) or two? Is he shortchanging mother dearest, or bragging to cousin-left-behind?

 

In an even lighter vein, we’ll close with the entirety of today’s entry in Doctor Dunn’s chronicle of the 2nd Royal Welsh. It is a grim harbinger of the dour struggles that will loom large in the ruck and scrum of modern times:

February 12th: The Welsh Division played disappointing Rugby against New Zealand, and was beaten by 14 points to 3.[2]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Collected Letters, 531.
  2. The War the Infantry Knew, 445.

Edward Heron-Allen Analyzes a Word of Command; Wilfred Owen Has Made an Influential Friend; Vera Brittain’s Poetic Ambitions, and What Comes Out in the Wash

We can sketch Siegfried Sassoon‘s leave in London only in appointment-book fashion. Yesterday it was friends and music; today, family. Sassoon spent the day at an aunt’s house, his mother having come up from Kent for the day.[1]

 

Meanwhile, back in Kent, Edward Heron-Allen, still learning the ropes of infantry drill, has a quite surprisingly funny rendition of the strange contortions of drill-ground commands. These are choreographic orders that began as simple English words but have been altered by years of shouting at men who already know the stereotyped commands into what seems like a foreign language. Heron-Allen is, after all, a splendid linguist…

…The colonel appeared and marched us off. His word of command is astonishing when you don’t know it. First an extraordinary gurgle, which I afterwards learned to mean ‘4th Queen’s Own’, and then, with great lucidity ‘mootwryicolleroo’ which the intelligent military interpreted as ‘move to the right in a column of route’, and so we marched off…[2]

 

And Wilfred Owen, back in Scarborough, is belatedly realizing the social heights to which his friendship with Sassoon has delivered him, as he will describe in tomorrow’s letter to his mother.

Yesterday, I had tea in the Club in Scarborough, and taking up Who’s Who was amazed to find that Roderick Meiklejohn who invited me to dinner at the Reform was Mr. Asquith’s private secretary while Mr. Asquith was in office…

Meiklejohn, as it happens, will spend tomorrow morning with Sassoon…[3]

 

We also learn, today, that Vera Brittain has been rather busier than she has led us to believe. Not only has she written enough poetry for a small book, but she has sent them off–bereft of influential literary friends though she is–to a publisher, received a favorable reply, and already written to her brother about it. Verses of a V.A.D. is on it’s way, and Lieutenant Brittain sounds just a bit jealous…

Italy, 10 February 1918

Very glad to hear that Erskine Macdonald was so favourable in his criticism; it is certainly rather unusual–I should think–for him to half-finance a first volume of any sort…

I am extremely busy again with all sorts of work–chiefly range practices and difficulties connected with washing men and clothes. The most excellent system of giving a man clean underclothes every time he went to the baths which we had in France cannot apparently be done here. The present system is to have a Corps laundry; all kinds of units send clothing when asked to do so: the result is that the company has to have (say) 50 shirts, 45 pants, 55 socks, and 30 undervests collected. This of course leaves a lot of men without a change of certain garments; then at some time or other they will carefully return to you washed 35 shirts, 50 pants, 40 socks, and 20 undervests. At present we are doing some of the washing ourselves. A few people come over and drop bombs when the moon is favourable — otherwise there is not much war going on.[4]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Diaries, 211; Moorcroft Wilson, Siegfried Sassoon, I, 441.
  2. Journal, 153.
  3. Collected Letters, 530.
  4. Letters from a Lost Generation, 389.

A View, a Poem, a Hunt, a Truce of Sorts, and a Poet’s Death

A quick tour today, a century back, of the literary war: from poetry to killing and from a cathedral-crowned vista to a quagmire.

The poetry we have read before: Wilfred Owen wrote to his mother, enclosing a copy of his recent success.

28 January 1918

Here then is the Nation.

I hope you’ll not hawk it about or make much of it to anybody whoever. I’m proud of one thing and that’s the decent amount of room they give under the impressive tide POETRY !

…There is nothing to tell you…

Always your W.E.O.[1]

 

Siegfried Sassoon, too, has a success to report:

January 28

Limerick Hounds at Fedamore

…A good hunt of an hour and fifteen minutes… Found two at Rockbarton and dug one out (both bad
foxes). Rode Sheeby’s bay mare—a lovely ride. Strong southwest wind, and rain later in day. Home 5.30. Best hunt I’ve had Since the war. Took one fall—my own fault.[2]

 

And Rowland Feilding isn’t quite sure whether the status quo on his front indicates success or failure, wisdom or defeatism–or some sensible middle course.

January 28, 1918.

Left Sub-Section (Right Brigade)
(Tombois Farm to Island Traverse), Lempire.

We came up into the Front line this evening, relieving the 1st Royal Munster Fusiliers, and this morning, in anticipation, I went round the trenches—the same that I left to go home on leave on the 23rd December.

The change is remarkable. I left the trenches frozen like rock. I find them, to-day, half full of sticky mud; twice as wide and half as deep owing to the caving of the sides; two layers of trench-boards buried 2 feet deep in glutinous mud. It is a labour to walk in them, and to-day being a clear, sunny day it was not an occasion for easy cuts across the open.

Even so, for long stretches of these trenches you are under full view of the enemy—about 500 yards away; But he does not shoot, which suggests that his trenches are no better than ours (which, no doubt, is the case), and that he does not want us to shoot at him.

Indeed, for a few days past I find that the officers on duty on both sides have been making it a practice to walk along the parapet, so as to avoid the quagmire of the trenches. This morning, however, when an officer on our side tried it, the enemy opened with machine-gun fire: so this highly irregular practice is now at an end, which is perhaps as well…[3]

 

Meanwhile, in the semi-peacefulness of reserve, Dr. Dunn of the Royal Welch–or one of his contributors–waxes rhapsodic today about the scenery around St. Omer.

January 28th–On rising I looked down on a lawn of vivid green sparkling with dew, which continues into a glade in the trees that surround the house; closing the glade, framed in black stems and branches, was the weathered grey Cathedral, aloft on its hill, standing in relief in liquid winter sunlight against a clear blue sky. It was an enchanting scene, awakening visions of faerie…[4]

 

And it was today, a century back, that the Canadian Medical Officer and poet John McCrae died, at Boulogne, of pneumonia. He was the author of “In Flanders Fields,” perhaps the most popular poem of the war.

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Collected Letters, 529-30.
  2. Diaries, 207.
  3. War Letters to a Wife, 248-9.
  4. Dunn, The War the Infantry Knew, 439.

Wilfred Owen Reports to Mother; Kipling’s Soldier Breaks Down

We take a deep breath today after the excitement of seeing one of our poets married off–and two of our writers hit if off. (What could go wrong?)

We heard something of Wilfred Owen‘s impressions of the wedding, yesterday, but I might as well give the rest of the letter–a prompt after-action report to his mother–that he wrote upon returning to duty, today, a century back.

Thursday, 24 January 1918 Scarborough

Just five minutes and half a sheet of paper left to tell you what a good, full, & profitable 24 hours I had in London.

Lunched with Ross. Wells was there, but at another table, whence he waved to me from afar. Had a few words after lunch, but we were in a hurry to drive off. The wedding was nothing extraordinary…

Dined at the Reform again with Roderick Meiklejohn of the Liquor Control Board. (Lord Rhondda was the nearest person to me at lunch!) Then repaired to Half Moon St. with Meiklejohn, & passed the evening with Ross and two Critics. At 2 a.m. found my way to Imperial Hotel, and started up this morning by the 10 a.m. from King’s Cross.

Feel much refreshed. Dearest love. W.E.O.[1]

The presence of Charles Scott Moncrieff in this letter is, perhaps not surprisingly, heavily veiled: he is merely one of “two critics!”

 

And in the fictional future-past of today, a century back, Strangwick, the traumatized soldier at the heart of A Madonna of the Trenches, breaks down, unable to bear the weight of confusion and guilt about the death of his “uncle” three days earlier.

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Collected Letters, 528.

Angelic Voices and Parade Ground Shouts: Young Lovers at the Graves-Nicholson Wedding

Robert Graves and his best man, George Mallory,[1] left Wimbledon early for the church in Piccadilly. The rest of the family followed, as his father, A.P. Graves, recorded in his diary:

Mr. Sassoon’s invitation (declined) to the festivities. Berg Collection, NYPL

Amy [his wife, Robert’s mother] in her wedding war paint, a fine green velvet with gold trimmings and a suitable hat … then the rest of us … we taxied, 5 inside, to Apple Tree Yard and thence walked to Church. I had a new suit (grey morning) admired of all but Amy and neat bowler and gloves, and a trimmed head and beard. We were almost the first arrivals, but the Church filled up…

Robby looked fine and said his responses firmly and clearly, as did Nancy. She was in a beautiful blue check dress with veil and had a wonderful bouquet arranged by her good father. The choir boys sang beautifully and the Parson was in earnest.[2]

Well, that’s that–a fine wedding, and no dissenting opinions!

Except, of course, for Robert’s own description of the event. This comes afterward, and is marked by the same combination of comic precision, irresistibly truth-y tone, and general untrustworthiness shared by most of his writing:

Nancy and I were married in January 1918 at St. James’s Church, Piccadilly, she being just eighteen, and I twenty-two. George Mallory acted as the best man. Nancy had read the marriage-service for the first time that morning, and been so disgusted that she all but refused to go through with the wedding, though I had arranged for the ceremony to be modified and reduced to the shortest possible form. Another caricature scene to look back on: myself striding up the red carpet, wearing field-boots, spurs and sword; Nancy meeting me in a blue-check silk wedding-dress, utterly furious; packed benches on either side of the church, full of relatives; aunts using handkerchiefs; the choir boys out of tune; Nancy savagely muttering the responses, myself shouting them in a parade-ground voice.[3]

See, funnier! And there being no digital record of the relative (ha!) volume of Graves’s voice or the choir’s tunefulness, these semi-objective facts are lost in the mire of history.

And isn’t that just fine? Of course the parents of the somewhat wild, troublesome boy–not so long ago reported dead–are pleased to see him wed a girl from a good family, and find euphony everywhere; and of course the young man suddenly uncertain of how exactly he and his very young, fiercely independent/feminist bride will actually manage (not least this coming evening) remembers discord, shouting, and muttering…

There were many other witnesses: school friends from Charterhouse, family friends from both sides, Robbie Ross and Eddie Marsh, a smattering of less closely-connected celebrities, including Max Beerbohm and the great architect Edwin as Lutyens. But let’s stick to our trusted–or familiar, at least–sources…

 

Wilfred Owen was there as well, feeling perhaps a little nervous to be at a London wedding of two scions of much-higher-up-the-middle-class artistic families. In his report to his mother he will channel, it seems, the spirit of Mrs. Elton (see the very end of Emma):

The wedding was nothing extraordinary. Not a great crowd of people, but a very mixed one. Some were dressed in the dowdiest unfashion. Possibly these were celebrities in their way? George Belcher was the greatest surprise: togged up in 1870 costume, a very striking figure.

Graves was pretty worked up, but calm. The Bride, 18 year’s old, was pretty, but nowise handsome.

Oh, but he was pleased about one thing, as another letter to his cousin Leslie (the earnest but untalented poet) confides:

Heinemann was there; and Edward Marsh, the Georgian Anthologist tho’ I did not know him as such till afterwards. I was introduced as ‘Mr. Owen, Poet’ or even ‘Owen, the poet’.[4]

 

Also in attendance was Charles Scott Moncrieff, a valued friend of Graves’s since his positive review of Over the Brazier and his help in getting Fairies and Fusiliers published. But Moncrieff was not particularly thrilled to be there–he had also reviewed, and far less favorably, several of Graves’s friends, including Nichols, who was there, and Sassoon, whom he might have expected to be, but, of course, wasn’t. Moncrieff, too, was still on crutches and in a leg brace–his wounded leg will never heal completely and was still giving him severe pain.

Nor had Moncrieff’s morning been free from emotional stress and personal risk. Still a serving officer recently appointed to a desk job at the War Office, and he was habitually indiscreet about his sexual preferences–which sounds like a species of criticism but is in this case evidence of considerable moral courage: Moncrieff had gone to court this morning, a century back, to try to secure the release of a friend who had been arrested for “gross indecency with a male person.” He had failed, and seen his friend was sentenced to a year in Wormwood Scrubs.

Given the anti-gay witch hunt then being stirred up by the thoroughly revolting (and somehow familiar) Noel Pemberton-Billing, a right-wing M.P, whose personal rag The Imperialist has been lately thriving on a heady mix of hate-mongering and conspiracy theories, Moncrieff was either loyal but rash or loyal and carefully calculating, i.e. that his MC and his wound would give him some protection from gay-bashing rabble-rousers. Which it might–for a little while.

So today, a century back, Moncrieff was out of sorts for many good reasons.

I was too sore… in mind and body, to regard very closely the quiet little person who stood beside me in a room from which I longed to escape…

This quiet little person was Wilfred Owen. They will meet again, this evening, at dinner and then at Robbie Ross’s flat in Half Moon Street, where a lively literary discussion lasted into the wee hours. Ross, with his old fame as Oscar Wilde’s most loyal friend, is about to become the prime target of the Pemberton-Billing attack.

Owen was probably relatively unaware of the quasi-political threat facing London’s prominent semi-closeted gay intelligentsia, but it seems unlikely that there would have been no mention of the noxious cloud creeping toward Ross. Nevertheless, today, from his lunch with Ross and their arrival at the wedding together to the late night gathering, marked a sort of double arrival for Owen: he was now at the center of London gay social life, and he had arrived as a poet.

There is a marked tendency among biographers to speculate as to what was talked about all evening[5]–Owen’s poetry? the new sound effects of Owen’s Miners? French translation? Ross’s foolish decision to allow an upcoming performance of Wilde’s Salome?–but I don’t think we actually know. Still, it will soon be clear that Owen and Moncrieff did more than cross paths. They parted as “intimate” friends–an ambiguous adjective which may or may not have already (i.e. tonight, a century back) have carried a wink and a nudge.

There’s another tendency among later writers to go for a nice irony or parallelism today: Graves had flirted with homosexuality for a long time but was now, with all of his gay friends in attendance, committing to heterosexuality–meanwhile, two of his gay friends meet, and sparks are struck…  The problem is that Graves, despite his own scandal-and-sales-courting later emphasis on his schoolboy love, was never really sexually interested in men. He was passionate, prudish, and living in all-male social environments, so he fell in love with a boy and was passionate about his friendships with other young men. But when he met the strong-willed, artistic, unconventional Nancy Nicholson, he fell in love with her, and the speed of their marriage suggests not just old ways or wartime accelerations but also, probably, an interest in attaining to physical intimacy right quick.[6] Nor does Owen’s sexuality seem to have required an evening at Robbie Ross’s for confirmation: in all likelihood he has been aware of, and relatively at peace with, his own sexuality for some time. But it is hard to tell, as such topics never come up in the family letters.[7]

Nevertheless, Owen’s friendship with Moncrieff will blossom–soon, if not tonight–into something more, probably for Owen and certainly for Moncrieff. Moncrieff will accompany Owen back to his hotel around 2:00 a.m. tomorrow, a century back, and also put him in touch with an old friend living in Scarborough. Strangely, perhaps, since Owen was less sophisticated, less experienced, and four years younger, it is Moncrieff, the decorated, wounded, handsome critic who is most smitten with the quiet little poet…[8]

 

But let’s not forget about the rest of the heteronormative festivities, as recounted in the Groom’s suspiciously candid later reminiscences:

Then the reception. At this stage of the war, sugar could not be got except in the form of rations. There was a three-tiered wedding-cake and the Nicholsons had been saving up their sugar and butter cards for a month to make it taste like a real one; but when George Mallory lifted off the plaster-case of imitation icing, a sigh of disappointment rose from the guests. However, champagne was another scarce commodity, and the guests made a rush for the dozen bottles on the table. Nancy said: ‘Well, I’m going to get something out of this wedding, at any rate,’ and grabbed a bottle. After three or four glasses, she went off and changed back into her land-girl’s costume of breeches and smock. My mother, who had been thoroughly enjoying the proceedings, caught hold of her neighbour, E. V. Lucas, the essayist, and exclaimed: ‘Oh, dear, I wish she had not done that!’ The embarrassments of our wedding-night (Nancy and I being both virgins) were somewhat eased by an air-raid: Zeppelin bombs dropping not far off set the hotel in an uproar.[9]

Funny, my other London sources do not mention an air raid that night…

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Yes, that George Mallory, once Graves's teacher at Charterhouse--they had since climbed together in Wales.
  2. R.P. Graves, Robert Graves, The Assault Heroic, 191-2.
  3. Good-Bye to All That, 272.
  4. Collected Letters, 528-9.
  5. Yes, I realized belatedly, that I had just done so.
  6. This will be, for Graves, the beginning of a checkered but fervent career of extolling/pursuing the feminine, uxoriously, literalily, and otherwise...
  7. Except, perhaps, in some of the editorial elisions later performed by his brother.
  8. Findlay, Chasing Lost Time, 140-3.
  9. Good-Bye to All That, 272-3.

Wilfred Owen, Shunted to Shrewsbury; John Ronald Tolkien at Twenty Per Cent; Siegfried Sassoon has a Dream

Wilfred Owen, “Major Domo” though he is, has been called on the carpet regarding his rather self-indulgent request concerning leave… and not by a military superior, mind you, nor about whether he will take leave, but rather whither.

19 January 1918, Scarborough

My dear darling Mother,

That was a naughty tentative letter of mine. I meant to call at Home on the way. If I can get away on Tuesday Morning, I shall arrive Shrewsbury a few minutes to 5 p.m. There surely will be an early morning train to London, arriving noon or one p.m.

The wedding is at 2.30.

So that’s going to be kind of a hectic morning…

But Owen has cause to be in a very good mood, despite his mishandling of maternal preferences. He not only began a poem shortly after hearing the news of the Podmore Hill disaster but finished shortly after that, set it directly to The Nation, and had it accepted, all in a week. Never has Owen had such swift success.

With your beautiful letter came a proof from the Nation of my ‘Miners’. This is the first poem I have sent to the Nation myself, and it has evidently been accepted. It was scrawled out on the back of a note to the Editor; and no penny stamp or addressed envelope was enclosed for return! That’s the way to do it.

‘Miners’ will probably appear next Saturday, but don’t order a copy…

Of course the Leave is not absolutely certain. It is a kind of duty both to myself and Graves to go to the Wedding. You know how hard it will be to start away on Wednesday Morning.

Always your W.E.O.[1]

 

Also today, a century back, John Ronald Tolkien went before yet another Medical Board. He has still been running a temperature and having regular relapses of other symptoms, but things are tightening up as a manpower shortage is looming: he is ruled only 20% disabled and given another month’s home service, with the possibility of more active duty afterwards.[2]

 

And finally, Siegfried Sassoon. He has been happy, and busy, and, therefore, not writing a whole lot. Until today, a century back:

January 19

And another week has fled. Frost and snow till Wednesday. Now it’s warm and rainy. I walked out to Adare this afternoon. At the end of the journey I suddenly came upon the wide, shallow, washing, hastening, grey river; the ivy-clad stones of a castle-ruin planted on the banks, amid trees. Very romantic scene, on a grey evening… Strange peace of mind now. The last two weeks have been a complete rest for mind, while body stood about for hours on parade, watching the boys drill and do P.T. or lecturing lance-corporals in barrack-room…

Robert Graves is married on Tuesday. Sent me his new poem “The God Poetry” yesterday. Very fine. Hunt Monday, and go to Cork for Anti-Gas Instruction till the end of the week. Hunt Saturday with Jerry Rohan’s hounds.

The quick proceeding from poetry to hunting–the indoor Sassoon overwritten by the outdoor Sassoon–is more dismissive of Graves, I think, than a harsh comment on the poem (which he evidently did send) would have been.

Reading Colvin’s Keats, Hardy’s new poems, and dipping into Barbusse now and then (all this apart from my military text-books which I study again!!)

This is quite a literary diet, and indoor Sassoon is more energetic than the peaceful/mindless tone of the diary entry would suggest. Keats for the lyric soul, Hardy for the hard-nosed satirist, and Barbusse (in French) for the new possibilities of war-writing.

Which he duly produces, writing a poem into the journal directly after closing today’s entry with  this two-sentence, half-cryptic, half-revealing cri de coeur. Outdoor Sassoon is happy huntin’ and drillin’ far from mental strife; indoor Sassoon is reading and writing and doing reasonably well–but he is homesick for the place of his mental and emotional rebirth…

How many miles to Craiglockhart? Hell seems nearer.[3]

 

The Dream

I

Moonlight and dew-drenched blossom, and the scent
Of summer gardens; these can bring you all
Those dreams that in the starlit silence fall:
Sweet songs are full of odours.
While I went
Last night in drizzling dusk along a lane,
I passed a squalid farm; from byre and midden
Came the rank smell that brought me once again
A dream of war that in the past was hidden.

II

Up a disconsolate straggling village street
I saw the tired troops trudge: I heard their feet.
The cheery Q.M.S. was there to meet
And guide our Company in…
I watched them stumble
Into some crazy hovel, too beat to grumble;
Saw them file inward, slipping from their backs
Rifles, equipment, packs.
On filthy straw they sit in the gloom, each face
Bowed to patched, sodden boots they must unlace,
While the wind chills their sweat through chinks and cracks.

III

I’m looking at their blistered feet; young Jones
Stares up at me, mud-splashed and white and jaded;
Out of his eyes the morning light has faded.
Old soldiers with three winters in their bones
Puff their damp Woodbines, whistle, stretch their toes:
They can still grin at me, for each of ’em knows
That I’m as tired as they are…
Can they guess
The secret burden that is always mine?—
Pride in their courage; pity for their distress;
And burning bitterness
That I must take them to the accursèd Line.

IV

I cannot hear their voices, but I see
Dim candles in the barn: they gulp their tea,
And soon they’ll sleep like logs. Ten miles away
The battle winks and thuds in blundering strife.
And I must lead them nearer, day by day,
To the foul beast of war that bludgeons life.

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Collected Letters, 527-8.
  2. Chronology, 104.
  3. Diaries, 203-4; poem version from Counter-Attack and Other Poems.

The Master of Belhaven’s Raid Comes Off; Wilfred Owen Puts in for Leave; Pretty Much All of Ford Madox Ford’s Parade’s End

If there has been a big build up to the Master of Belhaven‘s raid, well, that’s only to be expected, since we were working from his diaries, a century back, and not from any forgone conclusions. It was a big project for him, and a source of much anxiety. (And I trod relatively lightly, in any case: I could have included several pages of detailed fire plans, as he did.)

But sometimes let-downs are reliefs…

Last night’s raid went off very successfully. We got one live Hun, who turns out to be a Bavarian, a Bavarian Ersatz Division having just arrived. I have not yet had details of his examination, but imagine they have lately arrived from Russia… he was in such a hurry to get safely over to our lines that he showed our man the easiest and quickest way to get through the German wire.

…they got back without any losses.

The raid was supposed to take forty minutes, but they were out an hour and forty minutes, so we began to wonder if they had all been captured… I “stood to” with all batteries till 6 o’clock, but nothing happened.[1]

In the end, for the artillery commander of a planned raid, no news is good news.

 

This letter from Wilfred Owen requires little in the way of glossing…

17 January 1918 IScarborough]

My own dear Mother,

Just had your lovely letter, together with an invitation to Robt. Graves’s Wedding at St. James’ Piccadilly, and afterwards at 11 Apple-Tree Yard, St. James’s Square, on Jan. 23rd.

Suppose I got leave for this, would you be very sad? Nichols will no doubt be there, and a host of others. Graves is marrying Miss Nicholson, daughter of the Painter.

I send you the Coal Poem—don’t want it back. Yes, I got the Georgian Anthology while in London.

I suppose you saw how Subalterns are now getting 10/6 a day. I should soon be getting 11/6.

Foot’s better.

Love to all.

Your W.E.O.[2]

I’ve tried to tiptoe around the well-worn theme of The Poet With the Close Relationship With His Mother, but this is a funny one, showing the rapidly maturing poet in a decidedly young-mannish light. What does he think will come of asking his mother if it’s o.k. with her that he plans to use a rare leave to visit his fancy new friends in London and not his old mum in Shrewsbury?

 

But let us not linger too long on these workaday letters and successful raids: we have a Modernist doorstop to do today as well. Ford Madox Hueffermort Ford Madox Ford (but not for a while)–comes up here often enough: he wrote a “patriotic poem” rather recently, and can be counted upon to pen strange and sometimes ridiculous letters at irregular intervals. But he is already, a century back, a major novelist, even if his 1915 novel The Good Soldier, in a flurry of little ironies, has yet to be recognized for the great, if essentially pre-war (despite its title), Modernist novel that it is.

Ford has still a greater novel in store, however: the greatest (but who needs superlatives?) baggy monster written that will ever be written about the war by one of its participants. The Tietjens tetralogy–four books about the shambling, distracted genius Christopher Tietjens, who shares too many characteristics with his creator for his other characteristics (e.g. heroism, ineffable moral courage, and extreme attractiveness to younger, attractive women) not to be worth a few winces–is one of the really Big Important Modern novels. Which is to say that it is fascinating, confusing, difficult to read, and probably rewarding–although there’s not much actual combat in the book, and a mere few hundred pages are set in France.

One lives in the mind of Tietjens for a very long time, which can be enthralling but also perplexing. The chief problem (for me, at least), is the character of his adversary and wife, who is modeled to some extent on Hueffer’s own wife but, I believe, even more closely resembling a paranoid view of his pseudo-second-wife Viola Hunt. She is such an outlandish monster that she introduces several new levels of complexity for readers: what of Tietjens’ impressions of her are mistaken? And if they aren’t, how much of this character’s portrayal is driven either by misogyny or excessive personal hatred on the part of Ford? And if this strange and powerful novel is driven to some extent by a monstrously one-sided settling of personal scores, to what extent does that hamstring its considerable contribution to literature’s advancing struggle to depict and explain the human condition?

So, anyway, if you like that sort of thing–go for it![3]

The tetralogy is, sadly, also a four-volume work set during the war that contains hardly any dates or precisely dateable events at all. I can’t even remember if I’ve been able to make a reference to it since August 1914. Alas! Virginia Woolf drops in a date or two, and Ulysses is very precisely dated (though a bit crowded, in that way), so you’d think Ford could have done better by me…

In any event, I find in my notes that on page 498 of my paperback omnibus edition (near the end of the second volume, No More Parades), there is a conversation between Tietjens and General Campion securely dated to today, a century back. It brings to a head the action of the novel, in which, over the past few days, Tietjens’ evil wife Sylvia appears (improbably) in France and (laboriously) entraps Tietjens between her lover, his enemies, his own contorted sense of honor, and the professional and personal concerns of several more powerful officers. The result is this dramatic “judgment” scene–very Joycean (or sub-Joycean–but very, very high on the potentially abyssal scale of the sub-Joycean scene)–in which the General offers Tietjens a choice between a court-martial which would clear him of military wrongdoing but expose his wife’s infidelities, or being sent back to the trenches. Reader, you too might divine his choice, and all in barely 500 pages of high literary footslogging…

 

References and Footnotes

  1. War Diary, 440-1.
  2. Collected Letters, 527.
  3. NB: I have steered clear of the recent miniseries, entitled, as the four books sometimes are, "Parade's End." On principle, and also on the "Ford/Tietjens looked nothing like Benedict Cumberbatch" corollary to the general principle of literary-adaptation avoidance.

Duff Cooper’s Country Weekend; Wilfred Owen’s Poetic Candlepower

Duff Cooper‘s weekend must continue to balance his mourning for Patrick Shaw Stewart with, well, getting on with the rest of his life.

January 5th.

Lady Desborough came down to breakfast and held the table as gallantly as ever. A pleasant morning spent playing with ponies and donkeys and sitting about, I went for a walk with Rosemary before tea the same walk that we went only a month ago when we were lamenting Edward. We had not had time even to find new words for our new sorrow. I like her enormously. She is so sensible. This evening more guests arrived. Michael, Rosemary, Diana and I played bridge until dinner… We talked about the past. It is my favourite subject now…[1]

 

Wilfred Owen provides a pretty direct contrast: work instead of play, and thoughts for the future and for new friends, instead of the past, and vanished ones.

10.30 p.m. 5 January, 1918

My dear dear Mother,

This has been a day of continuous work from 7 a.m. to 9 p.m…

On such days I always write to you—as you notice. Because on such days I have no time to settle down to my art. For it is an art, & will need the closest industry. Consider that I spend—what ?—three hours a week at it,  which means one fruitful half-hour, when I ought to be doing SIX hours a day by all precedents.

Poor Wilfred Owen, born into a time when writers’ work habits were glorified and dramatized instead of analyzed and debunked. Six hours! Surely not…

Owen doesn’t mean to gloat over his untalented cousin’s lack of success, but, again, simple contrasts are irresistible to a certain cast of writing mind… and this is a clever line, just self-deprecating enough, and yet accurate in its claims. There is power, here…

Leslie has been unfavourably reviewed by the Times Literary Supplement. Not attacked of course: one does not attack harmless civilians—They say he rimes with ease but has no originality or power.

I rime with wicked difficulty, but a power of five men, four women, three children, two horses, and one candle is in me…

Your own Wilfred x[2]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Old Men Forget, 72.
  2. Collected Letters, 525-6.

Horseplay with Alf Pollard; Reading and Reflection with Vera Brittain, Olaf Stapledon, Cynthia Asquith, and Edmund Blunden; Wilfred Owen Goes Out a Poet; Thomas Hardy in the Moon’s Bright Disbelief

The last day of the year, with its predictable subjects of reflection and memorable rituals, is often described even in otherwise sparsely dated accounts. So we’ve got a lot of material, and will check in today with not only most of our remaining regulars but also a half-forgotten figure or two.

One of the latter is Alf Pollard, V.C., now spared further death-defying heroics in the front line. His tale of the year’s end foreshadows important developments on the Western Front. He has been assigned to teach at a Lewis Gun school, and without the Lewis gun, a mobile light machine gun, it is extremely difficult for infantry to sustain their own advance. Moreover, many of his students are particularly innocent, fresh, and eager for the fray:

There were nineteen Americans altogether in the school. They were all picked officers who had been sent on ahead of their army to learn as much as possible about British methods. They were a quiet, studious crowd, more like a party of bank inspectors than soldiers…

Of course they had their legs pulled unmercifully…

I was guilty of organising a rag against them on New Year’s Eve… According to custom we British had a merry party to see the old year out. The Americans on the other hand carried on with their studies all the evening and retired to bed as usual at ten o’clock.. It seemed to me that they might at least have thrown aside the dignity of being the advanced guard of the American Army for one night…

Close on one o’clock in the morning, I and three other fellows entered quietly by one door.[1]

Ah, but that’s next year, already. And that’s the sort of tale told by a man who was never deeply troubled by the violence of the war. Pollard is both psychologically suited to fighting, and more or less immune to doubt. Which does not make him less honest than more sensitive writers: many men–especially men who are not at the front and not likely to see it anytime soon–spent New Year’s Eve in a spirit of holiday horseplay, deliberately forgetful of other things. Others, no less honest, will nevertheless feel constrained to write something in a mood of solemn reckoning.

 

Edmund Blunden has been sustained through his long and relatively scatheless service by his feelings of fellowship with his battalion. But he is away from the old battalion as much as he is with it now, and this signaling course seems both endless and pointless… but it does allow Blunden, even without being on an active front, to close the year with one of its characteristic sights: the mute messages of signal flares, playing over a background noise of ordnance.

I began to be careless whether I was in the line or out of it; nothing seemed to signify except the day’s meals, and those were still substantial, despite the lean supplies of the people at home. The price of all luxuries in the shops was rising fast, but still one could manage it; why trouble about getting back to the battalion? This was the general spirit, and we did not lament when the course was lengthened and the year ended with us waving flags in unison in the snow, or rapping out ludicrous messages to the instructors’ satisfaction, or listening to muddled addresses on alternating current.

At the moment of midnight, December 31, 1917, I stood with some acquaintances in a camp finely overlooking the whole Ypres battlefield. It was bitterly cold, and the deep snow all round lay frozen. We drank healths, and stared out across the snowy miles to the line of casual flares, still rising and floating and dropping. Their writing on the night was as the earliest scribbling of children, meaningless; they answered none of the questions with which a watcher’s eyes were painfully wide. Midnight; successions of coloured lights from one point, of white ones from another, bullying salutes of guns in brief bombardment, crackling of machine guns small on the tingling air; but all round the sole answer to unspoken but importunate questions was the line of lights in much the same relation to Flanders as at midnight a year before. The year 1918 did not look promising at its birth.[2]

 

For the Asquiths, the old year ended with a pleasant surprise–an unexpected leave for Herbert Asquith (“Beb,” to his wife). Whether for convenience or out of courtesy–or a certain delicacy–Herbert had telegraphed ahead on the 27th to let her know that he was on his way. Not coincidentally, perhaps, Bernard Freyberg, a constant presence in Cynthia’s diary for weeks now, disappears.

Today, a century back, Cynthia and Herbert had a walk and a talk, in which she discovers how happy she is that her husband is not inclined toward the family business. Even the son of the former prime minister is aggrieved at what appears to be a callous prolongation of the war…

Beb and I walked up to the top of the New Hill and back via Coscombe. It was one of the most lovely-looking days I have ever seen. Beb is in very good form—in good, lean looks and very keen and eager—seething with indignation against the Government and the ‘hate campaign’ of the civilians. He is ashamed of the way England brutally snubs every peace feeler, and reiterates that, either we should negotiate or else fight with all our might, which he says would mean doubling our army in the field. He speaks with rage of the way we are not nearly up to strength at the Front and says it is to a large extent merely a paper army. In existing circumstances a military victory is quite out of the question until America can really take the field, which will not be for years—and he thinks all the lives now being sacrificed are being wasted, it’s like going about with a huge bleeding wound and doing nothing to bind it up. Thank God Beb isn’t in the House of Commons! I should never have the moral courage to face the reception given to the kind of speech he would make.[3]

Siegfried Sassoon may have had more allies than he knew.

 

Olaf Stapledon would disagree with little of what Asquith is saying. But he is neither politician nor officer, and he is possessed of a much sunnier spirit. Sunny enough, anyway, to relate this pleasantly furry little portent of the coming year:

The other day someone in clearing out some straw came on a queer little beast hibernating. He was rather smaller than a rat and far more elegant, having a delicate brown back, a white underneath, with a black line dividing the two shades. He had a long and furry tail; in fact he was rather like a dormouse, only bigger and fatter & greyer. I saw him lying on his back in someone’s hand with his four dainty feet in the air and his tummy rising & falling ever so gently with his slumberous breath. After a while he opened his mouth and yawned but did not wake up. Some sympathetic fellow put him by the fire, the warmth of which naturally came to him as a hint of spring, so that he finally woke up and ran away. The frost must soon have induced him to find another corner in the straw and turn in again for the rest of the winter. It was very strange to see the little beast in his winter trance, so peaceful he was, almost as still as death, but without death’s stiffness. He let people wind his tail round their fingers and move his legs about and he went on heavily sleeping all the while. One kept thinking of Bergson’s elan vital, the great universal Life, that lay in him patiently awaiting the spring & the opportunity of further creativeness.

It is the last day of the year. Best wishes for the New Year to my Agnes. May there be peace. May the world begin its new and happier age. May you & I meet and marry and begin our new & happier age also. With all my love

Your own Olaf Stapledon[4]

Stapledon is a good writer, isn’t he? With ingenuous brio and a near-total absence of cynicism he takes the microcosmic beast and the whole universe, the world war and the love that carries his hope through all the horror.

And even with all the power of the internet at my disposal (for a good four minutes or so) I can’t do better on beast-identification than Stapledon. This is perhaps not surprising… Anyway… probably a dormouse!

 

But some of those who are away from the front prefer not to think of the war at all, as its fourth year draws to a close. Wilfred Owen, writing to his mother, is not so much solemn as pompously/mock-pompously portentous. And why not? It has been a momentous year for him: action and injury, shell shock and recovery, promotion from poetic striver to protegé-of-the-young-poets. The full effect of their help–and, more importantly, of his new confidence in his poetry–will be felt this year. He is melodramatic and self-aggrandizing, here… and correct:

31 December 1917, Scarborough

My own dear Mother,

…I am not dissatisfied with my years. Everything has been done in bouts: Bouts of awful labour at Shrewsbury & Bordeaux; bouts of amazing pleasure in the Pyrenees, and play at Craiglockhart; bouts of religion at Dunsden; bouts of horrible danger on the Somme; bouts of poetry always; of your affection always; of sympathy for the oppressed always.

I go out of this year a Poet, my dear Mother, as which I did not enter it. I am held peer by the Georgians; I am a poet’s poet.

I am started. The tugs have left me; I feel the great swelling of the open sea taking my galleon.

Buoyant, and beautiful. But then the galleon bobs on the tide, and the lookout looks back.

I take Owen to task, in these boyish letters to his mother, for being a self-centered young man. And he is–but he is also possessed of enormous powers of sympathy.

Last year, at this time, (it is just midnight, and now is the intolerable instant of the Change) last year I lay awake in a windy tent in the middle of a vast, dreadful encampment. It seemed neither France nor England, but a kind of paddock where the beasts are kept a few days before the shambles. I heard the revelling of the Scotch troops, who are now dead, and who knew they would be dead. I thought of this present night, and whether I should indeed—whether we should indeed—whether you would indeed—but I thought neither long nor deeply, for I am a master
of elision.

But chiefly I thought of the very strange look on all faces in that camp; an incomprehensible look, which a man will never see in England, though wars should be in England ; nor can it be seen in any battle. But only in Étaples. It was not despair, or terror, it was more terrible than terror, for it was a blindfold look, and without expression, like a dead rabbit’s.

It will never be painted, and no actor will ever seize it. And to describe it, I think I must go back and be with them.

We are sending seven officers straight out tomorrow.

I have not said what I am thinking this night, but next December I will surely do so.[5]

 

I wondered, on Christmas, whether Vera Brittain‘s description of that night might have run into New Year’e eve. If not, her Christmas gifts may well have: she has begun reading poetry again, including two writers who have featured slightly here. She mentions not only “an impressive poem called ‘The City of Fear’ by a certain Captain Gilbert Frankau, who had not then begun to dissipate his rather exciting talents upon the romances of cigar merchants” but also reading

some lines from E. A. Mackintosh’s “Cha Till Maccruimein,” in his volume of poems A Highland Regiment, which Roland’s mother and sister had sent me for Christmas:

And there in front of the men were marching.
With feet that made no mark.
The grey old ghosts of the ancient fighters
Come back again from the dark. . . .

Her brother Edward, the one of her ancient fighters who has not yet failed to come back, is thinking along much the same lines as he wrote to her today, a century back:

Italy, 31 December 1917

It has been a rotten year in many ways — Geoffrey and Tah dead and we’ve seen each other about a week all told: so there’s a sob on the sea to-night. I don’t seem to be able to write decently; so often I feel tired and fed up when I’ve done my ordinary work and so waste what little spare time I have; I wish I could manage to write to you more…[6]

 

Often at the beginning of the month I discuss a poem that was written or published during the month (but can’t be fixed to a particular day). But this month-inaugurating habit has such a hopeful, generous cast to it, doesn’t it? Why not mention poems at the end of the month as well?

Well, in December 1917 Thomas Hardy published Moments of Vision, a tremendous collection by a great poet–an old, cranky, great poet still either disesteemed by many as a novelist of less than impeccable writerly morals or ignored as an eminent Victorian who could surely have little to say to the current moment. Well, the more fool them. But as Hardy himself predicted, the book attracted little notice, since it offered little solace and tended to make people face an uncomfortable truth and “mortify the human sense of self-importance by showing, or suggesting, that human beings are of no matter or appreciable value in this nonchalant universe.”

I don’t need the poem to bring Hardy into the end of 1917 as the voice of doom…  there are, too, several end-of-year letters that will also serve…

To James Barrie:

We wish you as good a new year as can be hoped for, & a better one than the old…

To Edmund Gosse, and picking up Owen’s nautical theme:

Just a word of Salutation to you & your house on this eve of the New Year, for which you have our best wishes as fellow passengers in this precious war-galley…

And to Henry Newbolt:

…I don’t know that I have ever parted from an old year with less reluctance than from this.

…Always sincerely

Thomas Hardy.[7]

Yes, always sincere. And what of the old man himself, tonight, a century back?

Went to bed at eleven. East wind. No bells hear. Slept in the New Year, as did also those “out there.”[8]

This, I think, is why Hardy, more than any other eminent older man of letters, will be pardoned, by the young solider poets, of all offenses related to the Experiential Gulf or the Conflict of the Generations. He thinks, in his private thoughts, of what it must be to be a soldier, cold, at the front. And when he gestures to the troubled times, he does not do so without noticing the discomforting dramatizing of just such a gesture, from an old man snug abed…

In this spirit, then, and to see out the year, one of my favorite (write it!) of Hardy’s poems from the recent book. Happy New Year!

I looked up from my writing,
And gave a start to see,
As if rapt in my inditing,
The moon’s full gaze on me.

Her meditative misty head
Was spectral in its air,
And I involuntarily said,
“What are you doing there?”

“Oh, I’ve been scanning pond and hole
And waterway hereabout
For the body of one with a sunken soul
Who has put his life-light out.

“Did you hear his frenzied tattle?
It was sorrow for his son
Who is slain in brutish battle,
Though he has injured none.

“And now I am curious to look
Into the blinkered mind
Of one who wants to write a book
In a world of such a kind.”

Her temper overwrought me,
And I edged to shun her view,
For I felt assured she thought me
One who should drown him too.

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Fire-Eater, 241.
  2. Undertones of War, 202-3.
  3. Diaries, 385-6.
  4. Talking Across the World, 266.
  5. Collected Letters, 520-1.
  6. Letters From a Lost Generation, 387-8.
  7. The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, V, 236-9.
  8. The Life of Thomas Hardy, 378-9.