Duff Cooper in Air Raid and Ecstasy; Cynthia Asquith on Monogamy and the Avoidance of Official Inquiry into Malfeasance; Private Frederic Manning is Spared

Duff Cooper, on garrison duty in London, dined last night with his mother. They were interrupted by an air raid, but not, apparently, a very damaging one. Being by now something of an old soldier, at least as far as the home goes, Cooper simply went home

and slept soundly until the all clear signals woke me at between one and two. At about the same time Diana telephoned to know if I was alive.

Lovely to be able to simply pick up the phone and check on a loved one–it will be different when he is finally sent overseas. But Duff and Diana were reunited in person today, a century back–and intimately, too, in the wee hours of tomorrow…

January 29, 1918

Lunched very happily with Diana at the Piccadilly and we went together to the Coliseum. We dined at Katharine’s house. She herself was out… We sat comfortably in front of the fire and I have seldom enjoyed a meal more. At about ten Katharine came in and almost at the same moment we heard the guns beginning. I was on air raid duty so had to go at once to barracks. Luckily I found a taxi at Marble Arch. I had to wait about a long time in barracks. At last the all clear signal came at about one thirty and I dashed back to Oxford Square just in time to catch Diana who was on the point of leaving. We had a most exquisite drive home. I adored literally the soles of her feet.

 

Our only other entry is also from London society, and–as this is Cynthia Asquith–from an adjacent arc of the very same social circle.

Tuesday, 29th January

I was going down to Taplow for the day to see Mamma who, I am glad to say, is having ten days rest there. Ettie and Willie conducted me to her suite—through about three swing doors—and I asked, ‘Why on earth are you keeping my poor mother like a sort of Glamis monster?’ I thought her looking really better and she is very happy. I hoped she would be able to discover the mysteries of Ettie’s system and organisation of life, but I don’t think she has gleaned much…

But the matter at hand is a rather interesting intersection of society charitable work and politics, namely the control of canteens in France, specifically the “hut” or huts run by one Lady Angela Forbes.

I read them what Papa had given me, as he was very anxious for Ettie’s opinion, the draft of the procedure in the House of Lords agreed to by Lord Derby. This is it: ‘Lord Ribblesdale will ask the questions and will be followed by Lord Wemyss. In their speeches they will not attack the War Office, but they will be at liberty to eulogise the work of Lady Angela and to make reference to the necessity, in the interest of military discipline, of the centralisation of the control of huts.’ After they have spoken. Lord Derby will reply in the following terms:

‘The noble Lord is quite right in saying that in the interest of Military Discipline it is necessary that the control of Huts in big Military Areas should be centralised, and this is gradually being carried into effect. I quite recognise the valuable and difficult work done by Lady Angela and the closing of her canteens was not intended in any way to reflect on her management of the huts, or upon the zeal and ability she has shown in discharging her onerous tasks. I understand Lady Angela is prepared to take up other work and I should regret if this incident should interfere with her doing so. I hear of many wild rumours in regard to this case…

After this Lord Ribblesdale will answer in the following terms:

‘I beg to thank the noble Earl for the statement he has just made, and to accept it on Lady Angela’s behalf as a settlement of her case. While no one will I think consider that, in view of the nature and extent of her work for the soldiers, the noble Earl’s appreciation of her services erred on the side of exaggeration, I am ready to admit that in view of the circumstances which have necessitated this discussion of her case, the noble Earl’s tribute is not an ungenerous one. Lady Angela and her friends would, of course, have preferred the investigation she has repeatedly pressed for, but she recognises that the exigencies of the service, the critical state of public affairs, and the expense of these inquiries render it extremely difficult for the authorities to grant them.’

This is, I assume (I should do some more research…), another distant echo of the mutiny of Étaples. At the very least it shows the cognizance of one earnest noblewoman that something is rotten in the largest British army camp in France.

There is general agreement that Lady Angela has been reasonably well served–and then country house life resumes:

It was a lovely day and we went out in the garden before luncheon. At luncheon we discussed the Master of Trinity plan for Mr Balfour…

Lord Desborough, Ivo, and Imogen went out to shoot our dinner Mamma, Ettie, and I played tennis: I played well.

Boring! What else is going on?

Afterwards Ettie and I had a delicious walk. We discussed ‘lovers’ and their compatibility with happy marriages. She said she was not monogamous in the strict sense of the word, and had never been in love in the way which excluded other personal relations. To be at her best with one man she must see a great many others…

Cynthia, perhaps, was too discrete to discuss Bernard Freyberg directly–and certainly too careful to confirm him in writing as a “lover.” But surely she had something to contribute the the conversation? Perhaps it was pure theory, on her end…

In spite of all entreaties, I obstinately insisted on returning to London by the 9.56, instead of staying the night. I was well punished. In about half an hour the lights went out and then we stuck at Acton for about an hour and a half listening to the Hell of a bombardment. I was alone in a cold dark carriage—not frightened—but very bored. At last we moved on to Paddington and then I went by underground to Sloane Square. All the lights were out and lots of poor children were encamped on the platforms. I didn’t get home till about two. The raid of the night before had been severe…[1]

Sometimes it feels as if 1919-39 will pass in the blink of an eye.

 

Lastly, today, resolution in the case of Frederic Manning. He has a drinking problem–he is an alcoholic, that is–and, with what degree of conscious choice or acquiescence we cannot be sure, he has allowed his drunkenness to become a clear obstacle to his continued (though as yet quite short) career as an officer. After being repeatedly drunk–and belligerent–in the mess, even his sympathetic C.O. could not control what threatened to become a court martial case. But there are several arguments for a less punitive course, as Manning argued on his own behalf in a December affidavit:

For some time previous to the 29th of October I had been suffering from continual insomnia and nervous exhaustion. I was in an extremely weak condition of health generally, and in those circumstances had recourse to stimulants. I think that my condition subsequently was in a considerable measure the result of these circumstances.

Perhaps this is the reticence of the British officer, or perhaps even so the meaning was clear: he may have only recently been commissioned, but he is a battle-scarred veteran of the ranks, and his experience on the Somme is at the very least a contributing factor to his loss of control.

Skillfully handled it might have saved Manning at a court martial. Further pause was gained by a technical point:
there was only one witness, the medical officer, to the latest offence. This too, the authorities felt, could pose a problem in court. Finally, the Army Council in London was prepared to be swayed by Major Milner’s observations: what “useful purpose’’ would be served by another court martial?

Pragmatism prevailed. In January 1918 the War Office decided that Manning’s service could be “dispensed with”, and so notified officials in Ireland. A new letter from Manning requesting resignation was filed on 29 January.

This time his plea was accepted. There will be a month in limbo, and then the publication of the news that “he had been
allowed to resign because of ‘ill health brought on by intemperance.'”

If this is a dishonorable discharge, it was honorably gained: Manning earned his “shell shock.” Yet Manning cannot have looked forward to being drummed out of the officer corps as a drunkard, and his letters to his friends of this period are “less than forthcoming.” He refers to back pain as a disabling factor and sneers at the idiocy of the officers around him–then, much later, he will acknowledge what must be at least a comfortable plurality of the truth: “disorganized nerves” and personal conflicts led to his loss of commission…

There is just a little bit of Henry Williamson here, although Manning had more reason to be secure in terms of his age and education, and his social problems in the regiment were brought on by a more aggressive sort of anxiety than Williamson/Maddison’s moody insecurities…

Manning’s biographer Jonathan Marwil arrives at a balanced conclusion:

Was the cause of his loss of control delayed shell shock, the “hard” time he had at the very beginning with the colonel, the boredom and contempt he increasingly felt for the “imbecilities’’ of his brother officers, or the demands made on him as a parade-ground and now commissioned soldier? It may have been of all these, and more besides. What is clear is that, having fallen foul of authority in July, he could not recover his balance. The more he drank, the more anxious he became; the more anxious he became, the more he drank. And so he was perceived as a misfit, as “a nice gentlemanly young fellow, but weak in character”.

The judgement was neither unkind nor unfair…

This conclusion was abetted when he learned, more than a half-century after the fact, that a sympathetic (and influential) officer of the Royal Irish Regiment had intervened to help divert Manning’s path from a salutary court martial. It didn’t take modern understanding of PTSD to understand that a drinking problem might be exacerbated by hard military service, and some combination of mercy and special pleading on behalf of a very talented “misfit” probably helped him avoid punishment for his failure to conform as an officer or control his own alcoholism. It also seems that the family of this officer–a barrister named Sir John Lynch–took Manning in after his discharge and helped restore him to help.

So Manning will not be sent out to France any time soon, and so, perhaps, we get our book. As Marwil points out, there will be another sort of testimony entered belatedly into evidence: Manning’s brilliant novel, Her Privates We.

What this judgement omitted was the record of Private 19022, the private who had been on the Somme.[2]

A novel–based on its author’s experiences but quite “heavily” fictionalized–can’t really plead a legal case. But few books of the Great War do more to show the nature of the traumas inflicted on an infantryman c. 1916.

All that is behind us, now…

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Diaries, 404-6.
  2. Marwil, Frederic Manning, An Unfinished Life, 186-89.

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.

Siegfried Sassoon in Ireland, and not London, Bound for Egypt, not France

It’s Robert Graves‘s wedding’s eve, and all through Britain a few poetical types are bestirring themselves and brushing down their formal wear–unless they’re not.

 

Wilfred Owen has secured leave, and is coming to the wedding. But he has had to placate his mother, so instead of a leisurely journey to London and a night at a hotel, he will take a very indirect journey from Scarborough to London, spending the night in Shrewsbury and then hurrying up on an early morning train.[1]

 

Siegfried Sassoon prefers not to. He will draw heavily on a recent diary entry when he comes to write George Sherston’s experiences of this period, then reclaim “Sherston’s” experiences as his own when he circles back for the second biography in his own name. (The veil grows ever thinner, unless it’s that the thin layer of air trapped between the author’s skin and the woolly garment of fiction grows ever clammier…)

In any event, Sherston-Sassoon-Sherston is happy, and still tacitly (in his published writings) indifferent to Graves’s wedding. It might have been hard, true, to get leave from Ireland–but it doesn’t seem that he tried.

By the time I had been at Limerick a week I new that I had found something closely resembling peace of mind…

Toward the end of my second week the frost and snow changed to soft and rainy weather.

And we know what that means. But Sassoon seems to have had only one “exhilarating” and truly carefree hunt in heavy Irish country before reality began to reassert itself:

At the end of the third week in January my future as an Irish hunting man was conclusively foreshortened. My name came through on a list of officers ordered to Egypt. After thinking it over, I decided, with characteristic imbecility, that I would much rather go to France. I had got it fixed in my mind that I was going to France…

So instead of angling to go to Graves’s wedding, Sassoon is angling to get to France, where heavy fighting is soon to be expected, rather than the presumably less intense fighting in Palestine or Mesopotamia. But his telegram to the 2nd Battalion asking to be posted out there will have no effect. (Sassoon mentions that the C.O. broke his leg around this time, which accords with Dunn’s note that Major Kearsely, who was perhaps temporary C.O. during another officer’s leave, slipped while on horseback and “sprained or fractured” his knee on January 19th. This is useful irony: a brave officer (“himself a fine horseman”) goes down on icy pavé in shell-ravaged Ypres while Sassoon recklessly leaps Irish walls and ditches on a hired hunter.[2]

 

And at Red Branch House, Wimbledon, the Graves family and friends foregathered, admiring presents–perhaps including the eleven apostle spoons sent by Wilfred Owen (the 12th, he explained, had been shot for cowardice)–and planning the details of the next day’s affair. Three of Robert’s four siblings were there (Rosaleen, a relatively recently-enrolled V.A.D. nurse, could not get leave) as was his best man–his former schoolmaster, friend, and climbing partner George Mallory, who was now an officer in the heavy artillery.[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Hibberd, Wilfred Owen 297.
  2. Dunn, The War the Infantry Knew, 433. Sassoon, Complete Memoirs, 564-6.
  3. R.P. Graves, Robert Graves, The Assault Heroic, 191.

A Madonna of the Trenches

Rudyard Kipling was three things: a prodigious storyteller, a problematic political figure, and too old to fight in the Great War. (He was many other things, it’s true, but I do like to hew to the main argument, once in a while.)

So it is only a venial violation of the rules against post-century-back peeking to note that Kipling will survive the war, and write about it. But that writing–the two volumes of the History of the Irish Guards in the Great War, as well as a number of short stories–will still be overshadowed by death. By the millions of combat dead around the world, the nearly a million British dead, the many hundreds of officers and men of the Irish guards, but, more than any of them, by the death of Kipling’s only son, Jack, while serving in that Regiment. The work is a memorial of sorts, but it also stretches toward a less well-lighted exploration of grieving. Several stories–including the incomparable “The Janeites“–are set in a rather peculiar Masonic lodge, where men come together for ritual and for learning, and to talk through the experiences that haunt them. The story takes place at about the time of its composition–several years after the war, when Kipling was researching and writing the histories, and steeping himself in the lives of the two Guards battalions.

“A Madonna of the Trenches” is strange, fascinating, and–depending upon your taste and Kipling-appreciation-tendencies–either a strangely double-filtered and portentously spooky story or a harrowing spine-tingler that crosses over from mere frisson to real tragedy. The story involves traumatic trench horrors, doomed love, suicide, a ghostly visitation, an obnoxiously masterful doctor, and the misery of a soldier, standing in for so many surviving soldiers, who is condemned to perpetually recall both the many ways that the trenches can kill a man, and the ways they keep the dead literally unquiet. But why continue to crib from an able summary and discussion which is available online?

One of the many “controversial”–which is, I think, here, only to say “not easy to settle”–aspects of the story is the significance of the date of the main (past) action of the tale, a date which is mentioned several times during the story. It’s today, a century back, which is also St. Agnes’s day, and, as such, may may refer to a poem by Keats (whom Sassoon is reading about just now) concerning star-crossed lovers both like and unlike the ones in the story.

The events of the story do not seem to have any direct connection to the factual action of the war or the experiences of the Irish Guards on this January 21st–but there’s the date in the text, plain as plain, nevertheless. Did I recently recommend reading a huge four-book Modernist novel just because an apparently haphazardly-chosen January 1918 date appears in it? That was silly… don’t do that

But do read this story–just a yarn, just a ghost story that revets its pathos with the horrors of the trenches. And also, just maybe, a short story of real affective power… What happened, in that trench, today, a century back?

“A Madonna of the Trenches” is available online here, at the website of the Kipling Society.

 

The Master of Belhaven Readies a Raid; Ivor Gurney in Love

Ralph Hamilton, Master of Belhaven, makes his final preparations for the artillery support for a local raid on the German lines. He has himself had quite an adventure as a forward observer not that long ago, but it is his duty, now, to restrain his subordinates from similar acts of derring-do.

The thaw has come with a vengeance now, and the country is in an awful state. The roads are three inches thick with mud… After lunch I went to B Battery and met the special liaison officer for the raid–Walsh–from C Battery. I gave him his final orders in writing and forbade him to go over the top with the raiders. I can’t afford to have good officers killed in joy riding. The raid is tonight…[1]

 

Meanwhile, there is an affair of a different sort brewing in Scotland. Ivor Gurney‘s role here has been that of the neurasthenic poet or the febrile, forgetful composer–an attenuated artist, living for his art, in any case. And that picture is incomplete, of course. He has also been a soldier and, in a salvage company, a sort of professional scavenger, writing intermittently of some of the war’s most dispiriting scenes. And since most of the letters we read are to Marion Scott, there are still layers of reserve that we might forget to notice amidst the impassioned poetic utterances. She is a friend as well as a patron, but there is still propriety, and the fear of provoking new and unpleasant emotional responses… so we have heard nothing, yet, of Annie Drummond.

Annie Nelson Drummond was a twenty-nine-year-old Scottish V.A.D. nurse at the Edinburgh War Hospital where Gurney spent much of October and November. Of all the people he met in his time there, she “made the most dramatic and lasting impression on him. She touched his heart and captured his imagination in a way that no other woman had been able to do.” She also, clearly, captured his esteem as well as his imagination, his bodily love as well as his metaphorical heart. Gurney has been reticent about the relationship not only because it was improper–nurses were not supposed to enter into relationships with patients–but also because, to be frank and/or craven, he had every reason to suspect that news of the affair might cause Scott to break with him, and both her friendship and her aid to his career (she singlehandedly produced his book, Severn and Somme, and saw several of his compositions to performance) were too valuable to risk.[2]

But Gurney has been away from Edinburgh for nearly two months now, and he misses Drummond badly. It seems that a letter or two reached him, and that they were able to plan to spend a weekend together. It is this combination of longing and expectation that seems to have prompted Gurney to write of Drummond to his friend Herbert Howells.

Fittingly, the first clear reference to Drummond (she has appeared–I did not notice–in previous letters under code-names of one sort or another) is in a letter from some time over the last few weeks, the date of which is lost.[3]

My Dear Howells…

…[ ] Nelson Drummond is older than I thought — born sooner I mean. She is 30 years old and most perfectly enchanting. She has a pretty figure, pretty hair, fine eyes, pretty hands and arms and walk. A charming voice, pretty ears, a resolute little mouth. With a great love in her she is glad to give when the time comes. In Hospital, the first thing that would strike you is “her guarded flame”. There was a mask on her face more impenetrable than on any other woman I have ever seen. (But that has gone for me.) In fact (at a guess) I think it will disappear now she has found someone whom she thinks worthy.

A not unimportant fact was revealed by one of the patients at hospital — a fine chap — I believe she has money. Just think of it!

Pure good luck, if it is true (as I believe it is). But she is more charming and tender and deep than you will believe till you see her….

I forgot my body walking with her; a thing that has not happened since……………when? I really dont know.

Drummond would probably not be offended by this reference to her money. (Although, of course, if they are intimate and she would not be offended, then why would he not have asked?) A sensible Scotswoman (although not so sensible as not to become involved with a patient under her care, and one with an “artist’s temperament,” not to say mental health issues past and present, and a penchant for parentheticals), Drummond hailed from the upper reaches of the working class, a descendant of several female businesswomen. But she can’t have much money–she does not seemed to have worked (outside the home: she ran much of the household and raised her younger siblings while her parents worked) until she began nursing after the outbreak of war.

Two more letters to Howells, the latest dated today, a century back, follow in turn:

Going North to Edinburgh

My Dear Howells: I have just written you a letter telling you of my coming up here. Please dont say anything about it to anyone but the Taylors. It will need explanation I am not ready to give yet, and of course my people will want to know why I did not go home — but a week-end leave is so short…

It is amusing to see Gurney walking the same balance as Wilfred Owen: leaves are few (far fewer for a soldier like Gurney than an officer like Owen), and the demands of family and friends must both be weifhed–or, rather, the demands of family must be set against a personal preference for seeing particular friends…

16 January 1918, Wednesday

My Dear Howells: Enclosed with this you will find a letter enclosed written just before I was hastening North to Edinburgh.

…Your criticisms are true. As to similarity — well, perhaps I wont admit anything but similarity in method. As to linking them up more tightly, that may come; but as to setting the things I do in an orthodox fashion — well it could be done; but I live attempting difficult things, and this is my way.

Wait till I am out of this though.

But enough about the criticism of his book:

Well I have just been up to Edinburgh, about that magnificent place, and in and out to Bangour.

Herbert Howells, it is just perfectly and radiantly All Right. I have reach Port, and am safe. I only wish and wish you could see her and know her at once. You and Harvey.

My Goodness, but it was a hot pain leaving her. We had a glorious Saturday afternoon and evening together. A glorious but bitterly cold Sunday evening. A snowy but intimate Monday evening. For the first time for ages I felt Joy in me; a clear fountain of music and light. By God, I forgot I had a body — and you know what height of living that meant to me. Well I’ll say no more.

Being in the Army is worse and better for me filled with memories and anticipations and being where I am — in surroundings that mock all beautiful dreams.

But to get her and settle down would make a solid rock foundation for me to build on — a home and tower of light.

Like you I see in her first of all a beautiful simplicity — her very first characteristic, — As you see in Dorothy. The kind of fundamental sweet first-thing one gets in Bach; not to be described, only treasured.

Well, well; why bore you? You know what I think and how it is with me.

May good luck be with you in this thing and all things:

Yours ever

I.B.G.[4]

Gurney is far from the most precise of poets, but it is nevertheless amusing to read that in the throes of this new love he both “forgot my body” and “forgot I had a body.” Many-splendoured thing indeed.

 

References and Footnotes

  1. War Diary, 440.
  2. See Blevins, Song of Pain and Beauty, 137.
  3. The printed text is marked--delightfully or creepily, take your pick--"[Mouse-eaten and incomplete]."
  4. War Letters, 240-2.

Robert Graves Rattles a Poetic Sabre at Siegfried Sassoon; Ivor Gurney on Edward Thomas, but not Marion Scott

One sign of the strain in the friendship between Robert Graves and Siegfried Sassoon is that this letter sounds less like half of an epistolary dialogue than like a two-handed conversation between Graves and himself.

11 January 1918

My dear Sassons

I’m sure if you bit old Flood’s ear nicely you could get leave to come to the wedding. Should be rather a rag as all the best sort of people will be there: no relations but a very few will be allowed to come on after the ceremony to drink champagne at the studio in Appletree Yard, only the elect people of God will be there… The date is fixed for January 23rd: meanwhile I have been to see Sir James Fowler re chests and so on and he says it’s no good my going on active service though my lungs are soundish. Says I’ll break down. So I stay back I suppose: it seems rather silly after all my sabre rattling: still I suppose it’s good news for Nancy…

I have just written a poem that Robbie says is a masterpiece. It seemed all right when I casually examined it the morning afterwards… I think it’s rather a hit… Called ‘The God Poetry.’..

Love

Robert.[1]

Does Graves suspect that Sassoon will not exert himself to come to the wedding? Wangling leave from Ireland might be a bit difficult even for a not-recent-ex-protester/hospitalized officer, and Sassoon has shown no inclination to want to come…

It’s tempting, then, to read Graves’s new ode to the power of poetry as a reminder to Sassoon of what binds them together–or should bind them together, in Graves’s view of things. But it’s not clear if he sent a copy of the poem with the letter or only mentioned it, to dangle before Graves. In any case, it can also read as an example of how different–despite their friendship and the mutual enthusiasm of 1916 to mid-1917–their approaches to poetry actually are.

Now I begin to know at last,
These nights when I sit down to rhyme,
The form and measure of that vast
God we call Poetry, he who stoops
And leaps me through his paper hoops
A little higher every time.

 

Tempts me to think I’ll grow a proper
Singing cricket or grass-hopper
Making prodigious jumps in air
While shaken crowds about me stare
Aghast, and I sing, growing bolder
To fly up on my master’s shoulder
Rustling the thick stands of his hair.

 

He is older than the seas,
Older than the plains and hills,
And older than the light that spills
From the sun’s hot wheel on these.
He wakes the gale that tears your trees,
He sings to you from window sills.

 

At you he roars, or he will coo,
He shouts and screams when hell is hot,
Riding on the shell and shot.
He smites you down, he succours you,
And where you seek him, he is not.

 

To-day I see he has two heads
Like Janus—calm, benignant, this;
That, grim and scowling: his beard spreads
From chin to chin: this god has power
Immeasurable at every hour:
He first taight lovers how to kiss,
He brings down sunshine after shower,
Thunder and hate are his also,
He is YES and he is NO.

 

The black beard spoke and said to me,
‘Human fraility though you be,
Yet shout and crack your whip, be harsh!
They’ll obey you in the end:
Hill and field, river and marsh
Shall obey you, hop and skip
At the terrour of your whip,
To your gales of anger bend.’

 

The pale beard spoke and said in turn
‘True: a prize goes to the stern,
But sing and laugh and easily run
Through the wide airs of my plain,
Bathe in my waters, drink my sun,
And draw my creatures with soft song;
They shall follow you along
Graciously with no doubt or pain.’

 

Then speaking from his double head
The glorious fearful monster said
‘I am YES and I am NO,
Black as pitch and white as snow,
Love me, hate me, reconcile
Hate with love, perfect with vile,
So equal justice shall be done
And life shared between moon and sun.
Nature for you shall curse or smile:
A poet you shall be, my son.’

 

While we are on the subjects of poetry, paeans thereto, and the mutual appreciation of war poets, Ivor Gurney wrote a very long letter today, a century back, to his friend and patroness Marion Scott. After the initial pleasantries, we’ll skip to the most relevant part–the part that puts his judgment years ahead of Graves’s:

11 January 1918

My Dear Friend: Your gift came today, received with pure pleasure and sincere thanks. It looks most fascinating, and will be read as soon as possible. The song is ready written out but must be tested on some piano.

And now I’m going through your long and most interesting letter…

Yes, Edward Thomas is a very poetic soul indeed, and English at the core. Please write about them. Haines knew him intimately, and talks of him a lot…

Interestingly, Scott seems to have tossed her own poems into the midst of a wide-ranging conversation on English poetry. I don’t know what they were like, good, bad, decent, or indifferent. As for Gurney, though he puts up a strong critical barrage, it proves to be a distraction or demonstration–he clearly doesn’t want to tell her what he thinks, which does not bode well…

About your work I am going to be simply honest. I don’t know what to say, and that’s true. Should you go on writing? Well, I care only for Music of strong individuality… It is the same with verse — I care only to hear what I could not do myself; I like what is beyond me.

But as to the use of making a body of English music there is no doubt, whether it has genius or not; but I, who am paralysed by doubt, before writing, as to whether it is worth while or no, cannot be expected to give advice. Literature? Now, could I — could I give any opinion? Can’t you ask Mr Dunhill, who must have read some things of the kind you mean? I am simply in the dark—dont know.

Consider what l am — the semi-invalid who tried to write and the fairly fit man totally out of touch with everything!!!

Your influence may be strong for good anyway, but you have a perfect right to please yourself, not ask hopeless, fed-up, people like myself…

I feel ashamed to close now, but even this must be paid for by writing illicitly tonight after Lights Out… It’s worth it.

You are a good friend indeed. Letters are not here what they are in France, but gratitude (I like G K Cs definition) has not become so dead in me that I am not glad to get your warm hearted vivid letters…

Your sincere friend

Ivor Gurney[2]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. In Broken Images, 91.
  2. War Letters, 238-40.

Diana Manners’ Unwanted Caresses; Siegfried Sassoon Goes West; Max Plowman Exposes a Propagandist

It’s probably time to move on from the solipsistic diaries of Duff Cooper–at least as far as his mourning for Patrick Shaw Stewart is concerned. But… just one more! I find Cooper’s mix of self-pity, self-criticism, and wildly inconstant levels of self-awareness to be strangely fascinating. Cooper is back to London, again, today, and restored to the full glow of Diana Manners‘s attention. But is all well with them?

I met Diana at King’s Cross in the evening and we dined together at the Rendezvous. She doesn’t feel Patrick’s death as I do. We had a passionate drive after dinner. She gives me her caresses as a nurse gives sweets to a child–most when I am most unhappy which is not really when I want them most.[1]

 

Meanwhile, Siegfried Sassoon has finally gotten an assignment. He had endured a medical board only after winning from Dr. Rivers the assurance that he will be sent overseas–back to France, to endure the worst alongside the men for whom he had protested. Well… and perhaps he will, one day. But the War Office answers to no man, and there were no truly binding “promises” exchanged. Sassoon is heading west, not east, to garrison the nearest restive part of the Empire.

January 7 (New Barracks, Limerick)

Left Liverpool 10.30 Sunday night and arrived Limerick this morning. Weather cold and snow on ground. Came across with Attwater and Hickman (the Quartermaster).

About 120 officers here. Four who were in France with First R.W.F. in 1915-16, C. D. Morgan, Freeman (both wounded for second time up at Ypres in October), Dobell and Garnons-Williams. Also J. V. Higginson who went out with me in November 1915. Very glad to get away from Litherland. Had been there since December 11 and done nothing but play golf and eat expensive dinners at the Adelphi.

Bells tolling from Limerick Cathedral; much nicer than sirens from Bryant & May’s factory.[2]

Well, so far so good: but of course a sleepy garrison, in good hunting country and equipped with numerous friendly acquaintances, will be preferable to the all-too-familiar Litherland. His spirits are rising… but will he write?

 

Finally, today, a century back, we check in with Sassoon’s opposite number, Max Plowman. Plowman’s medical board is behind him, and his course of protest has been chosen, but not yet embarked upon, at least as far as the army is concerned. He writes again to Mrs. Pethick Lawrence of the Women’s International, to report on the doings of a political enemy. (Who this redacted enemy is, I’m not sure.) Although I don’t really understand what’s going on here, it’s very interesting to see the same sort of scene playing out once again: a fire-breather, a propagandist, a cynical double-standard, and the war’s indifferent and insidious assault on truth…

I have just seen your enemy–the blatant beast… the occasion was a lecture… which about 1000 newly-conscripted boys are compelled to attend. His object is to explain to them with the aid of maps what would happen to them if peace were made now. I thought of the Women’s International when after carefully describing German atrocities in Belgium & picturing how much worse they would be in England, he appealed to them to tell their women folk what they had heard & added that if the women knew what had happened in Belgium they would see to it that no conscientious objector dared to show his contemptible face in the street–an odd comment on the fellows in gaol which nevertheless received the loudest applause…  He has already been lecturing for the past 6 weeks. I am glad to think that my letter of resignation may be interpreted as a direct response to his mendacity.

Yours ever sincerely

Max Plowman[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Diaries, 64.
  2. Diaries, 201.
  3. Bridge into the Future, 91.

Olaf Stapledon Plays Defense; Duff Cooper Takes the Last Blow

The antipodean mails have caught up with Olaf Stapledon, leaving him to respond to two very different letters from his beloved, Agnes Miller. First the personal, then the political:

. . . In one you talked about our inevitable drifting apart in all this absence; and all that you said was wise and comforting, and rests on the solid base rock of our now-long-standing love. It will all come right when we meet. Meanwhile let us always be frank and say just what we feel, so that we may know where we are, nicht war? Naturally I also have ups and downs of feeling. Life would be unendurable if one were always at the excruciating zenith of feeling. In the absence of summer the little beasts hibernate, to save themselves for keener living when the sun returns. With us also there must needs be much hibernating of the keen spirit of “being in love.” Be sure it will wake again in full vigour when the time comes…

As for the second letter, Stapledon’s rehearsal of his motivations and justifications is especially interesting in light of Max Plowman‘s recent deliberations:

In one letter you talked about the FAU and my relations with it… As to the whole question of my being in the F.A.U. here is a summary of the matter: I joined largely because I was in a hurry to get out & do something, partly because I was nearing pacifism. (I was practically promised a commission before joining the FAU. There was not much question of pacifism at first.) My pacifism strengthened itself in the Unit, till now it is pretty firm. It is of course a compromising sort of idea in my case—simply “I’ll do all that the state commands save whatever seems utterly wrong.” If everyone were ready to do this work & no more there would be no war. That seems to me the reasonable and—what shall I say?–the gentlest course. And I do hold that reasonableness and gentleness are the qualities most needed today. Of courage and masterfulness the world has already shown itself to have a glorious sufficiency. Anyhow here I am in the middle course, the compromise, by no means contented with it, but aware that if I were to  take either of the other two courses it would be less from a sense of duty than from the longing to be out of an uncomfortable position. . . .

Haste now. Love me. I cannot change from loving you, in spite of all hibernating.

Your own

Olaf Stapledon[1]

 

And in London, the weight of the war comes home again. Duff Cooper‘s diary records his shrinking circle’s latest loss:

I dined at the Ritz in Lionel [Tennyson]’s sitting room. It was a bachelor party. I arrived first, then Michael. We had to wait some time for William Rawle who was the fourth. He came at last and said ‘I’m sorry I’m late. Patrick Shaw-Stewart has been killed.’ I felt stunned. This is the last blow. Lionel, Michael and William were all sad but none of them could have felt what I did. I courted forgetfulness in champagne but didn’t get much comfort.[2]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Talking Across the World, 267-8.
  2. Diaries, 63.

The Master of Belhaven Toasts Qualified Success; Alf Pollard Dumps the Americans; Duff Cooper Rededicated; The Winter Scene by Carroll Carstairs; Max Plowman’s Protest Begins with Home Service

We’ll begin the year with a cold-eyed appraisal from the Master of Belhaven:

To-day we start the fifth year of war, and I am convinced it will still be going on next New Year. The question is how many of us will be alive to see it? Some, at any rate, will survive. We saw the New Year in properly and at exactly midnight by the signal officer’s watch I gave the toast: “Success to ourselves and damnation to the  ——— Hun.”[1]

 

A New Year’s Card for 1918, designed by David Jones

And this we’ll follow with a hopeful (or bizarrely oblivious, or refreshingly oblivious, or weirdly-non-despairing, or eternally young and silly–it’s up to you, as the reception theorists say) bit of horseplay, interrupted by the stroke of midnight, last night, a century back. Alf Pollard and other English machine-gun instructors have planned a treacherous assault on their allies.

Close on one o’clock in the morning, I and three other fellows entered quietly by one door. Working in pairs we rapidly turned over all the beds with their occupants enveloped in their blankets and flea-bags. The pandemonium was terrific. Irate sons of the United States were hitting out at one another in their desire for retaliation. By the time the first light went on we were clear at the opposite end of the hut.[2]

 

Elsewhere, we have what amounts to a New Year’s resolution from Duff Cooper. He has dallied–or considered dalliance–lately, but no more: he will be true to the woman he loves best.

I get a letter from Diana every day and write to her. It is my chief occupation.[3]

 

But it’s not all hijinks and resolutions: we do have one piece of actual business. The Chelmsford Medical Board observes no holiday, today, and it is hearing the case of Max Plowman, among others. Plowman has had a long, slow recovery from shell shock–there seem to have been temporary cognitive effects as well as basic neurological (and,  of course, psychological) damage. But he is physically whole, now, and psychologically stable–and unwilling to fight any more. Plowman, who wrote poetry, memoir, and essays on the subject of war and its horrors, will explain how his return to his pacifist principles came about:

I was sitting in an Army tent at Chelmsford, reading Tagore on Nationalism, considering the argument quite objectively, when suddenly I knew that I had no right to be in the Army. The conviction was immediate, and seemingly spontaneous. But it was ludicrous, absurd, impossible, beyond entertainment: there I was, very definitely in the British Army. It was futile to think I had no right to be. Then it was as if a voice added “And now you have to come out of it.” The decree was flat and so peremptory I could have laughed. But it was true, and I knew it. So there was simply nothing for It but to assent. A confounded nuisance, but there wasn’t any option about it.

“Right,” I said to myself, “and that’s that”. Whereupon I had a sense of extraordinary elation, and with it an immense feeling of good-will. This was hardly due to a sense of release from personal danger, for I thought at the time I might be asking to be shot, but at that moment I knew what the sailor feels when he comes to port, what Bunyan’s pilgrim felt when the burden rolled off his back, what we all feel when we cease to live from our wills I felt as if I had received a free pardon from spiritual death.

If this experience provided a sense of philosophical relief, Plowman still needed to register his political change of direction–and then deal with the personal consequences. His essay “the right to live” stated the case (or asked the obvious and unanswerable questions) rather firmly. Of the men of the infantry–neither heroes nor stoic Tommies, here, but, as in Sassoon’s writing, helpless and abject victims, he wrote:

And for liberty they have suffered the torments of the damned. They have been shot and stabbed to death. They have been blown to pieces. They have been driven mad. They have been burned with liquid fire. They have been poisoned with phosgene. They have been mutilated beyond description. They have slowly drowned in mud. They have endured modern war. To what end?[4]

Plowman, however, cannot undo his own decision, long ago, to leave the ambulances and join the infantry. His own right to live is very much a vexed question. But, unlike Sassoon, his medical care and his public position against the war have not compromised each other: he went before the board today and took his chances.

Well, I went through the inquisition this morning. “one month’s Home Service” with an intimation that they were quite sure it would be the last–advice to take no notice of a dilated heart–& a hint that it was simply ‘up to me’ to be well by the next board. –So that’s that. Had they known they might have spared themselves the pains. As it is I think it is all to the good…[5]

In other words, the result is convenient, as regards his protest: Plowman can attempt to resign his commission in protest of the war’s prolongation while he himself is marked “Home Service.” Even though he decided upon this course weeks ago, and even though he believes that he will shortly be sent back to “the torments of the damned,” his opponents will not be able to accuse him of returning to pacifism at the very moment that the war will begin to directly threaten his own safety once again. And then, should he in fact be sent back to the front, the Army’s motivations might well seem suspect. (Though Plowman is happy to admit that their callousness in sending him back is not personal, but rather part of the general acceleration of the meat grinder, at least as far as it concerns those already fed into its maw.) It’s 1918, and idealism and cynicism are shadowboxing…

 

And finally, today–New Year’s Day itself has occasioned far less forward-looking meditation than the eve stimulated retrospect (which is natural enough, at this point in the war)–we have Carroll Carstairs, doing the foreboding winter scene in proper painterly fashion:

The first day of the new year came pale as death. The trees looked very black against the snow. The ruts in the roads were frozen hard. In the process of shaving, one’s fingers became so cold that one had to dip them in the hot water to be able to go on. We bought a tree from a farmer to use as kindling wood. The men tore off every loose plank in their huts for the same purpose. Very much against regulations, but who could have stopped them?[6]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. War Diary, 431.
  2. Fire-Eater, 241-2.
  3. Diaries, 63.
  4. The Right to Live, 33, 75-6; see Pittock, "Max Plowman and the Literature of the First World War.
  5. Bridge into the Future, 89.
  6. Carstairs, A Generation Missing, 147.