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.

Rowland Feilding at Notre Dame D’Amiens; Cynthia Asquith Sits to Tonks; Osbert Sitwell’s Modern Abraham

Yesterday we looked ahead, toward the German offensive and the beginning of the end. But who could know such things? It’s February 2nd, and the war goes on as it has for years now. There is time, yet, to see all the old sights, as Rowland Feilding did today, a century back.

February 2, 1918. Continental Hotel, Paris.

I got up at 4.15 this morning and caught a train at Roisel, reaching Amiens about ten o’clock. There I had
lunch, bought a few things, and of course visited the Cathedral.

The contrast between the destruction I have left behind and this wonderfully majestic work of man was quite bewildering. High Mass was being sung as I went in, and as the great organ thundered out again and again, it made the air and even the ground throb.

I reached Paris at 4.30, and leave again to-morrow at noon. I have just been to Gaby Deslys’ “Revue” at the Casino, and as it is past midnight I will go to bed.

Yes, nothing says “war of attrition in very-late-nineteenth-century Europe” than the irony of proximity being applied to Gothic arches and Picard trenches.[1]

 

That’s all I have as far as the war narrowly construed–but there also a pastel and a poem, both involving a crossing of paths. The pastel is by Henry Tonks, the great artist-teacher of the Slade School, where he has taught artists among our writers as well as fictional artists and created by our writers. His war work is unique, powerful, and unsettling (and, unlike today’s production, available online): he has been aiding pioneering plastic surgeons in their work, drawing the stages of facial reconstruction of some of the war’s most grievously wounded.

Tonks took a break from this work today, a century back, to paint Cynthia Asquith, and talk of friendship.

Saturday, 2nd February

Bicycle through the rain to sit to Tonks. I was feeling dyspeptic and cross. Talked of the difficulty of preventing one’s life from being overrun by friends to the complete destruction of leisure. He said he was quite deliberately complet, like a hotel. He didn’t want to make any new friends, any more than he wanted more furniture in his room. He was pleased with his work on me, but I hope he will subdue the roses in my cheeks. He commented on the funny way I suddenly brought my mouth, as it were, to ‘attention’, and I promised to let it ‘stand at ease’…[2]

 

And the Nation, today, published another anti-war poem, inadvertently upping the ante of competition among two pairs of new 1917 friendships. Osbert Sitwell is not a great poet, but he’s not one to shy from the big idea or let the main chance slip. (He, too, likes clichés.) Today’s poem takes on a trope that what will come to seem, with hindsight, a bit obvious: the biblical drama of divinity, obedience, and perhaps even–depending on how you look at these things–the madness of blind faith.

Sitwell–who, together with his brother and sister, made a splash of sorts at the Great Colefax Gathering in December–is eager to strengthen a new friendship. To read the poem one might guess–and correctly–that Sitwell is not only an Angry Young Man but one with a particularly vexed relationship with his father. But the theme, I think–and I think he thinks–is indebted to Sassoon’s example. Hence the horrid caricature of the old profiteer… not to mention the fealty indicated by the dedication.

 

The Modern Abraham

To Siegfried Sassoon

His purple fingers clutch a large cigar—
Plump, mottled fingers, with a ring or two.
He rests back in his fat armchair. The war
Has made this change in him. As he looks through
His cheque-book with a tragic look he sighs:
“Disabled Soldiers’ Fund” he reads afresh,
And through his meat-red face peer angry eyes-
The spirit piercing through its mound of flesh.

They should not ask me to subscribe again!
Consider me and all that I have done—
I’ve fought for Britain with my might and main;
I make explosives—and I gave a son.
My factory, converted for the fight
(I do not like to boast of what I’ve spent),
Now manufactures gas and dynamite,
Which only pays me seventy per cent.
And if I had ten other sons to send
I’d make them serve my country to the end,
So all the neighbours should flock round and say:
“Oh! look what Mr. Abraham has done.
He loves his country in the elder way;
Poor gentleman, he’s lost another son!”

 

As he was published in the same paper so recently, it would be likely that Wilfred Owen saw this poem, or will very shortly. He wouldn’t overlook a new poem by a young name he had surely heard of, especially one dedicated to Sassoon. So this was likely something like a reminder, or challenge, or spur, or goad… in any event Owen, too, will soon tackle the same subject, and with considerably more subtlety…

 

References and Footnotes

  1. War Letters to a Wife, 250.
  2. Diaries, 407.

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.

Richard Aldington’s New Directions; Carroll Carstairs’ Improbable Password

Richard Aldington has been home on leave, and busy–not so much with his new officer’s identity as with the early stages of an extramarital affair with Dorothy Yorke, a young member of the circle now centered on D.H. Lawrence and H.D., Aldington’s wife. Aldington is writing quite a bit, as well, poems which reflect not only his profound self regard and far shallower talent but also the doubly overheated atmosphere of a soldier home on leave and a man in the grips of a new sexual passion. Today, a century back, he sent some of the poems–not war poems, and not particularly modernist, but quite sexually explicit–to his American patroness and publisher, Amy Lowell. And then there is the matter of last year’s war poems, a few of which we have looked at here…

2 January 1918
44 Mecklenburgh Square,
London, England.

My dear Amy,

Hilda sent me on your charming letter this morning and I was most happy to get it. We had your cheery cable on Christmas day—I was at home—and were delighted that you had thought of us. After I passed my examinations I had nearly a month’s leave. It was a wonderful time, so much was compressed into those few weeks. It was marvellous after those other days.

I have my commission now and am expecting to be back in the trenches in a month or six weeks. So probably I’ll be gone before I can hear from you again. I will try and send you just a word before I go. Unhappily, I feel I mustn’t send you any details about my military life—the rules are very stringent and I don’t want to say anything I shouldn’t…

I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you—after the war I’ll spin you more soldier’s yarns than you’ll care to hear!

I am thinking of collecting all my war poems—I have about 60 or 70—into a book. Do you think the U.S.A. would care for them? They are not popular—I mean they are bitter, anguish-stricken, realistic, not like Brooke or Noyes or anybody like that. They are stern truth, and I have hesitated about publishing them…

There is a lot of gamesmanship here. New officers may be more inclined to follow the letter of the law, but his zealous secrecy about not much at all (he’s not even in France) should set Lowell’s eyes rolling, and his aw-shucks “hesitations” as well.

Now for the name-dropping:

I am translating Anacreon in camp—I find I can’t do really good work in a camp, so I am doing these light Greek things, just to keep the “feel” of literature. Great poetry—Shelley and Euripides and Dante—moves me so terribly that I cannot bear it. I feel choked. For this reason I had to give up those burning passionate poems of Meleager. They left me unnerved & unstrung. I am reading a little Dante, but only a very, very little each day—it exhausts me with emotion. He understands so wonderfully the piercing passion of love—the mystic exaltation which is prolonged beyond the contact of the flesh. Do you remember the two cantos towards the end of the Purgatorio where he  meets Bia after those years of absence and where Virgil leaves him? It seems to me to put most modern poetry utterly out of count. It is like Plato’s Symposium, but more tortured, more like ourselves in its bitterness & intensity.

Aldington has been very busy, and much of this–the poems as well as the translations–will soon be published. But his poems lately have been very unlike his earlier ones, at once besotted hand-wavingly dramatic in a manner not quite befitting the cerebral Modernism favored by Lowell. A single stanza of a poem written this month, a century back, should give the rough idea:

Go your ways, you women, pass and forget us,
We are sick of blood, of the taste and sight of it;
Go now to those who bleed not and to the old men,
They will give you beautiful love in answer!
But we, we are alone, we are desolate,
Thinning the blood of our brothers with weeping,
Crying for our brothers, the men we fought with,
Crying out, mourning them, alone with our dead ones;
Praying that our eyes may be blinded
Lest we go mad in a world of scarlet,
Dripping, oozing from the veins of our brothers.

Faced with this, as well as poems clearly about Aldington’s affair with Yorke, Lowell will take the unusual step of writing to H.D. (i.e. Aldington’s wife Hilda Doolittle) to ask her advice…

 

And after all that, here is a very strange little anecdote from Carrol Carstairs

I was left behind until the new unit had taken over the billets and found them “all correct.”

It was dark when I left for Arras. Nothing moved on the road. I had to walk—five or six or seven miles? A frequent look over my shoulder as I stumbled on revealed nothing. I moved on automatically, breathing hard and painfully. I would scarcely know when I had reached Arras. There wouldn’t be many lights. Interminable! How could anything take so long. What? Was I asleep? Where am I? Oh, yes, Arras. I must get to Arras. God, but I feel groggy.

Outlying houses, like stragglers, appeared in the gloom, and then I was in Arras itself, walking the streets of a town empty of life but for a private soldier or two. It stood only partially destroyed, but the Hotel de Ville with its fine Gothic façade and the cathedral were among the ruins. I don’t know why I thought of this as I sought Battalion Headquarters. The word periwinkle also suddenly occurred without my associating the name with its meaning.

“Periwinkle!” I said out loud. “Periwinkle!” I announced as I entered the officers’ mess.

“Periwinkle?” questioned Alec Agar-Robartes.

“Well, possibly not,” I replied. . . .[1]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. A Generation Missing, 148-9. According to a note on page 235, this was tonight/tomorrow, a century back.

The Master of Belhaven Masters the Mimeograph; A Regenerating Tale of Cowardice; Ford Madox Ford’s “Footsloggers;” Wilfred Owen, Fourth Musketeer?

The Master of Belhaven has never been the savviest of our writers. But he is a good officer–energetic and competent and cool under fire, be it literal artillery fire or the pressure of a Christmas Eve faux pas:

All the battalions and brigades have been sending us Christmas-cards. We had not thought of it, so feel rather left. So I spent the morning printing off a hundred little double sheets on the duplicator, with 106th Brigade Royal Field Artillery on one side and “With best wishes for Xmas and the New Year from Lt.-Col. The Master of Belhaven and Officers 106th Brigade, R.F.A.”[1]

 

It sounds like a merry Christmas Eve for Wilfred Owen. Not that he is home with his family or in the bosom of his friends (or vice versa). No: he is back in Scarborough after a brief leave in Edinburgh, but the post has been kind to him. He began a letter to his mother yesterday morning, a century back:

My own Mother,

Came back last night… A good journey, and as a show well worth the money in itself. The sun began to think of setting about two o’clock and so there was a three hours’ winter sunset over the Northumberland moors…

Having been interrupted, he continued the letter today.

Have now had your lovely parcel, & opened it but not broken into the scrumshies.

And what did he get from the schoolboys that he taught and mentored?

The Scotch boys gave me 100 Players Cigarettes. It was most touching…

Those were the days. But this is mere preamble:

I can think of nothing at the moment but Robert Graves’ letter, which came by the same post as the parcel.

He says ‘Don’t make any mistake, Owen, you are a —— fine poet already, & are going to be more so. I won’t have the impertinence to criticize . . .

Puff out your chest a little, and be big for you’ve more right than most of us . . .

You must help S.S. & R.N. & R.G. to revolutionize English Poetry. So outlive this war.

Yours ever, Robert Graves.’

I have never yet written to him![2]

So there it is: the implied offer, from Robert Graves–lo, even as he is about to threaten the group with a permanent female presence–that Owen, the young man from the provinces with the unfashionable accent, might become their D’Artagnan.

 

A major contemporary writer, half-realized master Modern novelist, and occasional poet, Ford Madox Hueffer is surely too old to be included on such a list of future revolutionaries, and still too young to mind all that much. Also, he probably wouldn’t care in the least, since his dance card of literary adversaries is already overfilled with those whose barbs have drawn blood, and I’ve seen nothing to indicate that he has any regard for Georgian War Poetry.[3] Ford will be after bigger fish as soon as he can sit down and really write. A novel, that is.

But, as it happens, he did sit down today and begin to write a long, elegiac, apparently fairly traditional poem… which gets ironic and weird before it even begins. It is titled after the nameless infantry, then dedicated to the British propaganda chief (and friend of Ford’s) C.F.G. Masterson.

 

Footsloggers

To C. F. G. M.

I

What is love of one’s land?
. . . I don’t know very well.
It is something that sleeps
For a year — for a day —
For a month — something that keeps
Very hidden and quiet and still
And then takes
The quiet heart like a wave,
The quiet brain like a spell,
The quiet will
Like a tornado; and that shakes
The whole of the soul.

II

It is omnipotent like love;
It is deep and quiet as the grave
And it awakes Like a flame, like a madness,
Like the great passion of your life.
The cold keenness of a tempered knife,
The great gladness of a wedding day,
The austerity of monks who wake to pray
In the dim light,
Who pray
In the darkling grove,
All these and a great belief in what we deem the right
Creeping upon us like the overwhelming sand,
Driven by a December gale,
Make up the love of one’s land.

 

It goes on for several more stanzas, a poem that lulls–or deceives?–with its prettiness and music, even as it works around central issues of the conflict. Is Ford a very good poet tossing off something with deceptive lightness? Or is this another game, another none-too-serious expenditure of prodigious talent on a production which might acquiesce too easily to a narrowly patriotic reading, allowing the unwary reader to fall into a trap?

I’m honestly not sure what to make of it… Ford evidently worked on it over the next few days; the entire poem can be read here.

 

And finally, today, in Pat Barker’s novel The Eye in the Door (the second of the Regeneration trilogy), Charles Manning, an older, erudite officer and family man who has an affair with the protean Billy Prior (and has also been treated by W.H.R. Rivers), will recall staying with Robbie Ross this Christmas Eve, along with Siegfried Sassoon. (In reality, Sassoon is at Litherland.) Tonight was–in Manning’s telling, in the novel–the occasion of an air raid with a predictably ironic outcome. It was his first raid, and he “was a complete bloody wreck,” although Ross’s housekeeper was perfectly calm. Manning adds, in this perhaps doubly fictitious anecdote, that Sassoon was also windy, commenting “All that fuss about whether I should go back or not. I won’t be any bloody good when I do.”[4]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. War Diary, 422-7.
  2. Collected Letters, 518-19.
  3. He will shortly write, in fact, a letter hawking the poem below as a rare example of poetry written by a man who has actually been at the front.
  4. Barker, The Eye in the Door, 166-7.

A Gathering at Mrs. Colefax’s: Nichols, the Sitwells, Graves, Sassoon, and Sorley; Eliot and Huxley too; and Cynthia Asquith is Very Glad She Went

At precisely 5 o’clock in the afternoon of today, a century back, a reading–to benefit charity, as well as, naturally, the stature of the participants–began in Mrs. Colefax’s drawing room, in Argyll House, King’s Road, Chelsea. The eminent Edmund Gosse presided, insisted on speed, and then immediately launched into a rambling introduction memorable only for the fact that he broke off to scold a late arrival–T.S. Eliot, coming straight from work. Gosse then read a poem or two by the absent Robert Graves, and, after ceding the limelight, kept the attention of the crowd by “snapping” at the other poets throughout the night.[1]

Next came Robert Nichols, opening with a poem of Gosse’s (yes, that sort of thing flattered Gosse) and following with several of his own. Nichols was either a compellingly dramatic reader and performer, or he made an ass of himself by screaming and capering. It depends on whose account you favor–Sassoon’s opinion of his friend seems to state the former sort of opinion, but the language rather implies the latter. Nichols also read two poems by Charles Sorley, who has now been dead for twenty-six months. These didn’t, alas, make much of an impression–When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead was evidently not on the bill.

Other performers included all three Sitwells–Osbert (still an unwounded and inexplicably free-and-easy-in-London subaltern of the Guards), Edith, and Sacheverell–as well as the actress Viola Tree, Irene Rutherford Mcleod, and Aldous Huxley. Irene Macleod impressed several of the onlookers, if more with her performance–“fierce, rapt”–than her work. It’s not clear what she read, but her next volume of poems will be dedicated to Aubrey de Sélincourt, classicist and fighter pilot, now languishing in a German P.O.W. camp.[2] Huxley had been rejected for military service because of his eyesight, spent some time at a desk job in the Air Ministry, and was now a young teacher at Eton and tending toward pacifism. He was probably thrilled to be there, but he did not take kindly to Gosse, whom he described as “the bloodiest little old man I have ever seen.” And while we’re at it we’d better get Huxley’s other much-quoted mot out of the way: it’s a description of Nichols, who, Huxley wrote, “raved and screamed and hooted and moaned… like a Lyceum Villain who hasn’t learnt how to act.” Which sounds like a hatchet job–or just a broad-for-effect version of Sassoon’s opinion. Nichols, however, had been previously put down by Vita Sackville West, and with much deadlier efficiency.

As for the Sitwells, only Sacheverell’s poetry impressed, but Edith’s work with the Wheels anthologies had forged an all-important link between “society” and Modernism. This, “the first recorded sighting of the three Sitwells operating publicly as a team,” was something of a coming out party for the artistically ambitious siblings.[3]

Among the literary lights in the audience was Arnold Bennett, who enjoyed the occasion and found Eliot’s choice of light verse–The Hippopotamus (which is indeed charming and light, for a half-realized and possibly self-deceiving satire on the Church of England)–to be the “best thing” about the evening. And of course it would be, as well, in any account that looked back on the day in the fullness of time and literary-consensual retrospect. T.S. Eliot! Months after “Prufrock!” Reading a satire as second-fiddle to a syphilitic third-rater and some absent “Georgian” war poets! Come on!

But Eliot wasn’t Eliot yet–he was an American of indeterminate talent whom no one, really, had read. His strange ascent had barely begun, while Robert Nichols was selling a ton and had surely achieved peak Robert Nichols. It was his show: he would have seemed the one to bet on. Not schoolboyish Huxley, who would soon give up poetry, and probably not the three slightly freakish Sitwells, at once too outré and suspiciously like aristocratic enthusiasts rather than major talents. And certainly not the amusing American banker, either: despite the English affinity for light satiric verse, it has hardly been a typical route to poetic world-conquest.

Eliot, however, enjoyed himself. After having written a purposefully obscene and nevertheless nasty letter to Ezra Pound about his invitation (“Shitwells,” etc.) he will soon manage a faintly preening letter to his mother.

I assisted in a poetry reading last week at the house of some rich person for the benefit of something. A hundred and fifty people were induced to pay 10/6 each, so it was rather a rich audience… It was rather amusing, as the audience and most of the poets were very solemn, and I read some light satirical stuff, and some of them didn’t know what to make of it…[4]

 

Which brings us to another attendee, whose judgment in most things I’ve recently come to trust. Cynthia Asquith gives us the most balanced–and most thorough–review of the evening:

Wednesday, 12th December

…Went with Mamma to the Poets’ Reading at Mrs Colefax’s. Somehow it was ever so much better than Elizabeth’s Parnassuses—smaller, more intime, and above all shorter. All the poets were young and most of them had fought in the war. It was very moving. I liked Nichols enormously, with his bright, intensely alive, rather stoat-like face. He read again in the same intensely passionate dramatic way: I like it, but a great many people don’t. As well as his own, he read two—as I thought—very beautiful poems by Sorley who was killed at twenty years of age. Gosse was in the chair and acquitted himself quite well. Three Sitwells, all looking very German—Osbert, Sacheverell, and Edith—all read from their works. The author of ‘Prufrock’ read quite a funny poem comparing the Church to a hippopotamus. There was a young man called Huxley, and a very remarkable, fierce, rapt girl called McLeod who read her own clever poems beautifully. Siegfried Sassoon didn’t appear, but his poems were read by this girl. Mamma was very much moved by the war poems. I was very, very glad I went. Dined with Freyberg at the  Trocadero again and we went on to play poker at Ruby’s—I won £3 2s. Freyberg took me home and found his way into the hall with me.[5]

All very interesting, not least in the sincerity of emotion in Asquith’s reaction to the reading. Jaded as I am by the years on this project, it’s hard not to see a society charity reading as something of a hollow performance (especially when, as we know, but Asquith didn’t, that the young poets present had seen very little of the worst of the war, compared to those who were absent). But Cynthia Asquith, who actually went to this and many other charity-literary events, know of what she writes, and was moved.

So much for the famous evening at Mrs. Colefax’s. And afterwards? It doesn’t seem, judging from Asquith’s diary, that Freyberg attended the reading, although at least one later writer assumes that he did.  It would have been interesting, certainly, to have him and his V.C. lording it over the doubly-absent M.C. of Sassoon. Regardless, Freyberg’s pursuit of the hesitating Asquith will shortly encounter Sassoon as something of an intellectual obstacle. If Freyberg wasn’t there, then Asquith surely discussed the reading with him at dinner, and Freyberg knows the poetry well enough to have at least have an opinion (which is not to say, of course, that he knows it well). Remarkably, even as flirtation (and/or unwanted advances) continues between the two, their disagreement on the whys and wherefores of Sassoon’s position will soon come between them, and his anti-war war-hero literary cachet will turn Sassoon into a shadow rival to Freyberg and his  muscular/dashing appeal.

 

References and Footnotes

  1. It should be noted here at the outset that this gathering is crying out to be the focal point of a trendy (if minor-key) potted literary history... but as far as I know its only wholly-owned chapter, even, is the one in Ricketts's book. The problem is that for all the writers, celebrities, and diarists present, no one wrote a very full account, or recorded much about what was actually read. No program survives, and so the evening remains only half-imaginable.
  2. Mcleod and de Sélincourt will marry after the war; her poetry seems to stop as his career (Herodotus, Livy, etc.) takes off; they will have two daughters, and become, naturally, the in-laws of Christopher Robin.
  3. Ziegler, Osbert Sitwell, 78.
  4. The Letters of T.S. Eliot, 241.
  5. Diary, 379-80.

Ivor Gurney in a Nutshell; Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon Eat, Drink, and Mock Merrily; Herbert Read the Very Model of the Modernist Company Commander

A day, today, of striking contrasts. First, Marion Scott seems to have asked Ivor Gurney for some biographical details, presumably for some task related to the publication of his Severn and Somme, which she has single-handedly seen into the press. He responded with a charmingly inexact potted bio:

26 October 1917

Details of the Life and Crimes of the private named Gurney.

Gloucester Cathedral 1900…

Head boy sometime

I have forgotten when I got the Scholarship (I have asked Mrs Hunt to tell you.)
Stanford — Composition
Mr Waddington (whom I like very much) for Counterpoint…

Also the Westminster Board.

Mr Sharpe (a good man) for Piano…

Centre-forward for Kings School

Owner of the “Dorothy” (defunct)

2nd best batting average
3rd best bowling — last term of school

crack platoon shot July 1917

Author of “Severn and Somme”
and a further unborn imbecility.

Army Feb. 9th (?) 1915

Proficiency pay. C[onfined to].B[arracks]. every now and then. Sang Widdecombe Fair
blushingly at Albert Nov: 1916

Wounded Good Friday night — or rather on the Sat:
Gassed (?) at Ypres.[1]

 

A few miles away in Edinburgh, Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon spent the day together. It was something of a last hurrah,[2] since Owen’s Medical Board–not to mention Sassoon’s make-up Board–is looming on the horizon. But it was a low-key last hurrah, centered on two things dear to combat soldiers: food and laughter. Owen will write, tomorrow:

I am so happy with Sassoon. Spent all day with him yesterday. Breakfast, Lunch, Tea & Dinner, chiefly at the Conservative Club…[3]

Sassoon provided the chief amusement:

After a good dinner and a bottle of noble Burgundy had put us in good spirits, I produced a volume of portentously over-elaborate verse, recently sent me by the author. From this I began to read extracts—a cursory inspection having assured me that he would find them amusing.

The extracts included bizarrely eccentric lines such as

When Captain Cook first sniff’d the wattle
And love Columbus’d Aristotle…

Which left Owen “surrendering to convulsions of mirth in a large leather-covered armchair.” Before joining Owen in this surrender, Sassoon managed to get as far as:

What cassock’d misanthrope
Hawking peace-canticles for glory-gain,
Hymns from his rostrum’d height th’epopt of Hate?

O is it true I have become
This gourd, this gothic vacuum?[4]

Very bad poetry is funny, it’s true…

 

Herbert Read, however, is a serious-minded Modernist, and, in today’s letter to Evelyn Roff, he writes… well, perhaps from the heart, perhaps to impress, perhaps some of both. But he certainly becomes the first poet here to quote an abstract contemporary poem in lieu of describing what his latest tour in the line was like–in lieu of Dante, Bunyan,  or the Bible. It’s also, for us, a remote crossing of paths: the poem he quotes–almost accurately–is by the important Modernist H.D., wife of Richard Aldington (and current hostess of D.H. Lawrence).

We have had a terrible time–the worst I have ever experienced (and I’m getting quite an old soldier now). Life has never seemed quite so cheap nor nature so mutilated. I won’t paint the horrors to you. Some day I think I will, generally and for the public benefit.

This casual-but-major statement of intent, with Read’s habitual mix of studied rationality stretched thin over his ambition, is especially noteworthy if we follow his train of thought. It makes very good sense, of course, to go from horror to the hope of writing to the question of what writing the war might accomplish… which would be some sort of attempt to bridge–or at least signal across–the yawning gulf that separates combat veterans from civilians. Very good sense: but I feel as if we don’t often see these two thoughts nakedly next to each other, and in this order. Sassoon feels the gulf and then writes in anger and in ways which are neither didactic nor conciliatory; Read wants to write, and then thinks of the gulf…

I was thoroughly ‘fed up’ with the attitude of most of the people I met on leave–especially the Londoners. They simply have no conception whatever of what war is really like and don’t seem concerned about it at all. They are much more troubled about a few paltry air raids. They raise a sentimental scream about one or two babies killed when every day out here hundreds of the very finest manhood ‘go west’.

…and then he comes back to the anger. This we saw as long ago as 1915, but it is getting worse.

And yet Read pulls up short again, and turns, doing an unusual sort of somersault back over the gulf. He will describe war, but he will use the words of a civilian and a woman–a woman moreover in a position analogous to the letter’s addressee: both are women in England with long experience in waiting for the next letter, and fearing the next telegram.

Of course, everyday events are apt to become rather monotonous. . . . but if the daily horror might accumulate we should have such a fund of revulsion as would make the world cry ‘enough!’ So sometimes I wonder if it is a sacred duty after all ‘to paint the horrors’. This reminds me of a poem I’ll quote–by one of our moderns and a woman at that.

Another life holds what this lacks,
a sea, unmoving, quiet—
not forcing our strength
to rise to it, beat on beat—
a stretch of sand,
no garden beyond, strangling
with its myrrhlilies—
a hill not set with black violets
but stones, stones, bare rocks,
dwarf-trees, twisted, no beauty
to distract—to crowd
madness upon madness.

Only a still place
and perhaps some outer horror
some hideousness to stamp beauty,
a mark
on our hearts.

H.D.

Perhaps the quotation has too much of the gesture about it–“See, I read women!”–but it’s not impossible to read it as whole sincere. This is a novel way of reaching out to Roff, across the gulf, and implying that she is to be considered an honorary combatant, able to understand something of its horror and not get hysterical about “a few paltry air raids.” And even if it is working hard to emphasize their connection, it’s not a bad quotation at all: the poem, with its horror and ruinscape and madness, is quite a good fit for the Salient in 1917. Which, I suppose, could be said of a lot of Modernist poetry, especially for those readers who might find the Christian framework of the old standby descriptions of Hell or the Slough of Despond off-putting…

In any event, Read is not just the impressively intellectual and in-touch boyfriend, here: he is also, to a surprising degree, given the emphasis on accumulating horrors, a happy warrior. This is not as uncommon a combination as we might think–Sassoon is the most obvious analogue, of course, but we might also remember gentle Roland Leighton‘s thirst for a decoration–and Read should, even in a somewhat preening letter, be given credit for facing up to the apparent contradiction.

War is horrible, but he’s enjoying himself; it’s more than can be borne, but he’s bearing it quite well:

My military progress continues… I  am now commanding a company… I thoroughly enjoy my despotism… I have got a fine lot of lads though they are fastly decreasing in numbers… they are a gallant crew: we have more decorations in our company than in any other in the battalion. I got four Military Medals today out of seven for the battalion. And damn proud of it we all are…

My subalterns (notice the ‘my’–sort of possessive pride) are quite a good lot…

The day grows long, so instead of transcribing the characters-of-the-company piece which closes the letter, I will merely summarize his band of brothers. They are much what we would expect: the quiet old guy of thirty or so; the sturdy, pretty-eyed optimist; the boastful but efficient sportsman; and, most promising, the “young rake of the cockney variety”…[5]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. War Letters, 226-7.
  2. But not as much as Sassoon remembers it to be, since he seems to confuse/conflate two memories, including aspects of their next evening out in this description, or vice versa...
  3. Collected Letters, 503.
  4. Siegfried’s Journey, 64-65. See also Hibberd, Wilfred Owen, 278-9. The unfortunate author was one Aylmer Strong; Sassoon presented Owen with the volume.
  5. The Contrary Experience, 112-14.

Wilfred Owen Dines Out, and Richard Aldington at the Death Agonies of a Civilization

Wilfred Owen had another evening out tonight, a century back, a guest of literate/srtistic upper middle class Edinburgh society. Everything really is going well, it would seem, with Owen’s humane and successful course of treatment…

Went with Mayes to a perfect little dinner at the Grays’ and passed an evening of extraordinary fellowship in All the Arts. The men are not of the expansive type—one is a History Honoursman at Oxford, the other owner of a large Munition Works. The ladies have more effusiveness, but are genuine. One is really witty and the other is a sculptor of great power.[1]

 

The pleasantness of this recuperation still makes an odd contrast with the dreariness of ordinary life as an officer on home service in Britain–the life of Richard Aldington, to take a convenient example. And yet the contrasting of conditions is not as sharp as that between Owen’s peppy and enthusiastic attitude and Aldington’s posing Modernist cynicism, as expressed in this letter to F.S. Flint…

A Company,
No. 8 Cadet Battalion,
Whittington Barracks,
Lichfield
Weds. [6th September 1917]

Dear old Franky,

We are “at it” for umpteen hours a day here, dodging from one military subject to another with incredible rapidity. We get up at 5.30 ack emma, and do strenuous runs of 3 miles of [sic] so most evenings, so I generally feel pretty wilted by the time letter writing time arrives.

On the whole, though, this is a great deal better than the 11th Devons, where I was being tortured at this time last
year.

I hope to heaven neither you nor anything that is yours suffered in last night’s raid. We know little about it here yet, except the usual yarns of Oxford St. in ruins &c. And a bloody good job if it were. We are apparently assisting at the death-agonies of a civilisation, & the quicker it gets through the better.

Wouldn’t Huysmans have enjoyed the spectacle–if he were over military age.

He was a kind of prophet, for when he and Mallarmé “got at” the society of their days as being like decadent Rome they were not so far wrong. We haven’t seen the fall of Paris, but we’ve seen the bombardment of London & we’ll probably see the fall of Petrograd. The more cities that fall the better. I remember thinking that one day on Hill 70, watching our howitzers knocking hell out of Lens. There were 2000 women & children in the town too! Bon pour soldat, no bon pour civile!

What a shocking frisson, and how terribly artistic! But Aldington, who has seen relatively little of the war, comes off more as a poseur old soldier than a second-rate shocker-of-the-bourgeois. This violent separation between civilian and military–and the principled insistence that we query our instinctive horror of civilian deaths in the light of so many more pointless military deaths–is nothing that polite, serious young men had not been expressing years ago, or angry poets some months back.

I may be being too harsh–it is against our principles, or should be, to judge a man’s state of mind by trying to relate the amount of fighting he’s seen (i.e. the amount of shelling he has experienced) to his “right” to break down or seek a way out. These things are subjective. And, of course, he is not all that far wrong. The coming thirty years will see hundreds of cities bombed and burnt, and millions of women and children murdered… but his melodramatic style makes his predictions of these sorts of things in the current context of attrition and stalemate, a century back, seem glib. And it’s cruel to slap on the old charge of “decadence” because it fits his artistic preferences…

And if Aldington wins some sympathy by reminding us that he is married and separated from his wife, that he has seen barrages and fears to endure them again, he promptly loses it by noting that he gets to see her regularly, and by rolling confessions of damaged nerves into another facile dream of revolution…

H.D. is in Lichfield–3 miles from here… Each week-end I get a sleeping out pass; so altogether I feel I could stand this for duration. The sober fact is that I’ll be back in France by December, & I’ve got the wind up horribly. I think I shall just lie down and sob if I get into another artillery barrage.

Well, I suppose one will get along somehow. But I do wish the capitalists would rise in revolt & give us the job of quelling them. I would use a Lewis gun not a rifle!

…Ever thine

R.[2]

As a point of comparison, recall Siegfried Sassoon’s tank, crushing the profiteers and ignorant civilians–that is a naked fantasy, first of all, and in it the writer is the vengeful observer. Here we have a wish rooted in actual politics (the profiteers as “capitalists,” rather than leering, “harlot”-accompanied revelers, in Sassoon’s fever dream) even if it is not much more likely to come true. And Aldington would do the imaginary shooting, would he? If this is the fear of the shells speaking, it’s still coming out sideways, and in a distinctly unflattering way…

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Collected Letters, 491.
  2. Imagist Dialogues, 211-2.

The Gothic Vortices of Herbert Read; Frederic Manning Drinks Himself into Trouble; Wilfred Owen Steels Himself for Silk Stockings

We have a few shorter updates today, a century back. First, Herbert Read is on leave, and seeing the sights–and it is against the rules, here, to omit certain pilgrimages:

The Army is becoming quite a benevolent old gentleman, arranging little joy-rides for us when we are in reserve… We passed through the valley of the Somme–past Albert, with its leaning Virgin–(when it falls, according to the superstition of Tommy, the war ends.–I would like to have charge of a German battery for a few hours)–and finally arriving in Amiens…

Will Read, now a full-fledged zine-publishing Modernist, have the strength to resist the obvious pull? No… and yes, sort of:

Naturally we made for the Cathedral and spent an hour or so there. I can’t go into ecstasies about it. It is fine, of course, especially the exterior… There are some fine flying bastions, or whatever they call them,

They call them flying buttresses, although it’s possible this is a joke, since flying bastions sound like some sort of late-17th century excrudescence on a French étoile fortress now held against Teutonic machine guns…

which would make a finer ‘vorticist’ design.

Ah! That’s a pretty good call, actually… compare the link to the buttresses at right:

The interior is disappointing… After lunch more sightseeing… we saw the famous mural decoration of Puvis de Chavannes and a bust by Rodin.[1]

 

 

Next we have the long-neglected Frederic Manning. He’s getting a second crack, now, at being an officer–it befits his class status, after all, and his experience–he has seen combat service in the ranks. But once again alcoholism has gotten in the way. He joined a new unit on garrison duty in Ireland ten days ago, and only a few evenings later he had “broken all the rules of the mess out of sheer ignorance and no premeditated vice.’’

As he wrote to William Rothenstein today, a century back, he was”liable to be tried by court martial.” And yet he is oddly defiant about the mess (so to speak:)

…I rather like being under arrest, as it spares me the company of my brother officers at mess… Nothing, I think, will
happen; I am only to be ‘strafed’ in canting phrase; then I shall be told how vastly I have improved under the treatment.[2]

We shall see…

 

Henry Williamson, meanwhile, continues to recover in Cornwall–but slowly. Today he went before a board and was ruled “Unfit [for] G[eneral] S[ervice] 3mos.” His doctor at Trefusis Auxiliary Hospital wrote that “Lt. Williamson has during the last ten days begun decidedly to improve, but in my opinion he will need much longer than the time he has already had under treatment before one can report him recovered.”[3] Since Williamson has recently begun writing in earnest, this lull will provide a long runway for the early drafts of his autobiographical novel…

 

 

The First World War Poetry Digital Archive

And Siegfried Sassoon, after having accepted a second chance at a Medical Board, will be on his way, very shortly, to “Dottyville,” the Military Hospital at Craiglockhart.

And how are things going up there?

Quite well, actually, at least as far as Wilfred Owen is concerned. He was even published today, a century back.

Patient-run hospital magazines were once what they aren’t, that’s for sure.

Owen had a hand in this rather polished production of The Hydra, seen at right. He not only wrote the note on the Field Club‘s activities but also, in all probability–the piece shows, in Dominic Hibberd’s estimation, all the hallmarks of Owen’s style–a light sketch about the awkwardness of going stocking-shopping with nurses. Racy stuff, although you may have to scroll down for the large scanned image of the magazine page:

 

The First World War Poetry Digital Archive

 

 

References and Footnotes

  1. The Contrary Experience, 103-4.
  2. Marwil, Frederic Manning, 183. See also Coleman, The Last Exquisite, 129.
  3. Anne Williamson, Henry Williamson and the First World War, 167.

Happy Birthday Richard Aldington; A Painful Encounter for Vivian de Sola Pinto; A Different Sort of Protest from Siegfried Sassoon; Duff Cooper is Saved by Alice; Ivor Gurney’s Delightful Present and Grim Portent

It’s a busy day, today, in England and France…

Today is Richard Aldington‘s twenty-fifth birthday and, having been newly trained as an officer, he was able to take a weekend’s leave and spend it with his wife, the poet H.D., at her rooms in the village of Brocton. It was a happy and productive time:

That birthday weekend she reassured him and helped him take stock of his situation. He wrote to [a friend]: ‘I have been thinking over writing, translation & similar matters & under the encouragement of my wife I have begun to try to build up the ruins again!’

With H.D.’s support, he was tackling the problems the war had brought him as a writer: the lack of time for any sustained work, the limited opportunities for publication–and, worst of all, his ‘writer’s block’, arising out of his not having the luxury (unlike Pound and Eliot) of being able to ignore the war and yet feeling that what he could write about it was weak and inadequate…[1]

Now if he would only date his manuscripts…

 

In any other regiment, Vivian de Sola Pinto would be a literary giant; in the Royal Welch Fusiliers, he is more of a minor memoirist. But it it really is a very good memoir–just short on hard dates, alas–and it’s not quite fair to the man that he will only feature prominently here as a supporting character, both tactically and literarily.

He arrived in France in April after long service–and a long illness–in Egypt, and recovery at home. Tonight, a century back, his current tour of duty will come to a sharp end.

On the night of 8th July, after completing our usual patrol of no-man’s-land I led my men over the bank into the sunken road. It was bright moonlight, and as we dropped on to the road, we found ourselves in the middle of a number of men in flat caps, obviously a German patrol. For a moment English and Germans stared at each other in amazement. I had my loaded revolver hung round my neck on a lanyard and in my excitement I raised it and fired into the mass of strangers. I thought I had fired one shot, but found afterwards that I had emptied all six chambers. I certainly hit a man near me and saw him fall. Then I saw a blinding flash and heard a tremendous roar. The next thing that I remember was regaining consciousness on a stretcher in our front line with a bandage round the bottom of my face and my mouth full of blood, feeling that, perhaps, my lower jaw had been blown off. Later I learnt that after I fired my revolver a German threw one of their stick-bombs, which exploded above my head and knocked me unconscious…

At the dressing station Pinto learns that his jaw is intact, but that “various teeth were knocked out and pieces of bomb were lodged in my tongue and left cheek.” Eating became something of a challenge in the short term, as, even equipped with a rubber tube, “it tended to spout out through the hole in my cheek.”

There followed a very long and uncomfortable journey on a motor ambulance to the railhead, where I was carried on my stretcher to a hospital train by two stretcher-bearers in strange uniforms with broad-brimmed hats like those of boy scouts. ‘Americans!’ I said to myself, and was thrilled by the thought that American units were now in France…[2]

Remarkably, his recovery will be so swift that Pinto will not see Blighty, but instead move directly from the American hospital to a convalescent home near Dieppe…

 

Duff Cooper has not been shot in the face. But he’s still taking his transition into the army rather hard.

July 8, 1917

I arrived in London at about 5 and went to my flat which seemed very desolate with everything put away. It was still raining hard. I telephoned to everyone I knew but not a soul was in London. Then a great cloud of depression came upon me and I felt even more miserable than I had been at Bushey and without hope.

This is a private diary, and surely he showed a stiffer upper lip–not to mention charm and wit–to the outside world. But still… it’s a bit melodramatic! Which befits, I suppose, one of the last of the devoted friends-and-pursuers of Diana Manning. But today, unexpectedly, Cooper turns a corner, emotionally. It must be the radiant love of the divine Diana, right?

Nope–maybe tomorrow. Today, it’s a stiff drink and a dose of Lewis Carroll that does the trick.

I went to the Junior Carlton, drank a pint of champagne and some sherry with a small dinner and read Through the Looking Glass. As if by enchantment my melancholy left me and I knew that I should not be unhappy again. Courage came back to me which I had lost, and I despised myself for having done so. I went back to my flat, changed into my uniform, spoke to the Montagus who had just returned and motored down to Bushey feeling perfectly happy.[3]

 

This sort of mood shift–and its means–might be one of the very few things that Cooper could share with Ivor Gurney. But Gurney’s spirits rise today through the usual pleasures: good food and fond memories of home. And alas that his reading, today, is significantly less fantastic.

8 July 1917

My Dear Friend:

…This village is still delightful, and today the weather is perfect.

Two days ago, I had a dinner of salad and deux pain-beurres. It was perfectly wonderful to have such a dainty meal after aeons of shackles (Englished — skilly: stew.)

Your parcel has arrived, and thank you very much for it. Especially the lemonade powder and the fruit, which are summery things; but do not suppose that the cake, cheese, biscuits and OXO go unappreciated.

Gloster county is packed full of beautiful things, and pink dogroses of the most delicate miraculousness find place therein. Also wild strawberries by the million, and would I were on Coopers Hill looking over to Malvern and Wales while easing my back at times. O God, that goes too deep though!

Then the letter turns on a dime–its import, that is, even though the tone remains light.

We are having really a pretty easy time now, and this means Over the Top, I think. Well, let come what come may, as the Victorians said, I shall have had my day. (And a — poor one at times.)

Alan Seeger’s poems must be interesting. I like “I have a rendezvous with Death” very much…

I have no change now, but next letter shall contain a 5 fr note to be applied to the purchase of Ralph Hodgson’s “Poems”, for you… Or would you prefer the Second Book of Georgian Verse…?

A Frenchwoman told me she never heard French soldiers sing half so much as English. This pleased me, and indeed 7 Platoon has been songful of late…

Your sincere friend,

Ivor Gurney[4]

Singing, then, and thinking of the summer beauties of Gloucestershire… and remembering another soldier’s prophetic/poetic rendezvous…

 

Finally, today, an update of sorts on the Siegfried Sassoon drama. First–and this will prove significant–Robbie Ross is now on the case.

8 July 1917
Hotel Albion, Brighton

Dearest Siegfried, I am quite appalled at what you have done! I can only hope that the C.O. at Litherland will absolutely ignore your letter. I am terrified lest you should be put under arrest.

Let me know at once if anything happens.

Ever your devoted

Robbie[5]

Sassoon has made an interesting choice–out of idleness, he will claim, but perhaps more truly out of a semi-conscious instinct for self-preservation. He informs his influential friends of his dramatic action when it has only half-begun: the letter is sent to Litherland, but the “Statement” is not yet published.

Among the immediate actions Ross will take is to send a letter to Robert Graves, on the Isle of Wight. But today, a century back, Graves is still in ignorance of Sassoon’s action. His letters of today and recent days are all poetry–or, rather, about the placement of poetry. He is drumming up support for his own book and negotiating with Eddie Marsh about the next Georgian Poetry anthology–in which he, Sassoon, and Robert Nichols will be prominent. And in each of these letters to mutual friends he both praises some of Sassoon’s verses and takes behind-the-back potshots at other poems…

Ironically, then, since Graves is about to throw up his poetry-mongering to take up his friend’s dangerous case–Sassoon is risking not only disgrace but imprisonment and, theoretically at least, capital punishment–Sassoon himself has not been as entirely idle as he would have us believe. He has also been tending to his poetic fortunes, and recently wrote to complain about a sharp review–to Charles Scott Moncrieff, as it happens. And today, a century back, Scott Moncrieff replied:

I enjoyed your book much more than I have said, but I do confidently think that you are too ‘good at’ poetry to waste your talents on such London Mail storyette effects as you have secured in ‘The Hero.’ If I had written it I should talk about myself for years after, on the head of cleverness. But that is another matter.[6]

It’s busy times, these days, what with poetry, literary maneuvering, and attempting to provoke a court martial…

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Whelpton, Poet, Soldier, and Writer, 152-3.
  2. The City That Shone, 202-3.
  3. Diaries, 56.
  4. The Ordeal of Ivor Gurney, 174.
  5. Diaries, 179.
  6. Moorcroft Wilson, Siegfried Sassoon, 361.