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

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

February 8, 1918.

Cours Supérieure d’Infanterie, Secteur 220, Vadenay.

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

References and Footnotes

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

Siegfried Sassoon Packs for Palestine; Isaac Rosenberg is Sent Packing

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

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

February 7

Orders to embark Southampton next Monday.

Books to take to Egypt:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

References and Footnotes

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

Two Pacifists in Contemplation: Max Plowman on Bloody Murder, as Seen from England; Olaf Stapledon Organizes the Library

Max Plowman‘s letter to the pacifist leader Mrs. Pethick Lawrence began yesterday, a century back, as a thank-you note–she has evidently been providing moral support and advice– which also enclosed some news and also some (unidentified) verses of his own. But today he added a thoughtful few paragraphs on his thoughtlessness, namely his inability–and the  inability of soldiers generally–to consider the war as an ethical problem while actively engaged in fighting it. It’s only when returning that the soldier is ready to analyze–and protest.

Looking back I see this. When the average soldier says, as he almost invariably does, after his first “bad time” at the front “This isn’t war, it’s bloody murder”, he does so because he realises for the first time that he is not fighting man but that he is pitting his flesh & blood against killing-machinery. When a 9″ shell arrives from perhaps 2 miles away his most elementary sense of fairness is at once outraged…[1]

This seems right, of course, and it’s hard not to feel that it’s strange that it has taken Plowman so long to see it this way. And yet his conclusion is at once too materialist and too hopeful: he argues that since all men will come to hate war as an “outrage on humanity” then there is hope in the brutal industrialization of war. War is killing itself, and soon humanity will have done with it. But the irony will not break that way, will it…

 

Olaf Stapledon has never wavered in his pacifism, and–though manning an ambulance behind the lines (never mind in reserve) is not the same thing, when it comes to facing up to war’s industrial slaughter, as fighting in the trenches–he has remained steadfast in his belief that something of what he experiences can not only be understood, but also communicated, across a world-wide gulf.

SSA 13

3 February 1918

We have been on the move again, and are now settled down to the old old work. There is very little doing, but the moving is quite an affair, & I am on duty for two or three days also. This good old billet is a palace compared with our others, as it is a deserted farmhouse. But beds are scarce, and I have none, sleeping on the floor with a few rugs folded up to form a mattress, but I have got a good spot that is practically open air.

The last convoy to be here left the place in utter filth, but they left behind some excellent board-shelves which I have commandeered for the public library; and so I have been busy reorganising all the books and cataloguing, seizing the opportunity just now when all the books are in. Quite an undertaking, especially scolding people who have lost or ill-treated books. Tomorrow I shall not be here, so it had to be done today. Tomorrow I wear my good old tin hat again for the first time for two months. . . .[2]

Olaf Stapledon was not an unlikely pick to end up as what we might call a non-combatant combat librarian…

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Bridge into the Future, 96.
  2. Talking Across the World, 279.

Olaf Stapledon on Elizabethan and Future Man; Rowland Feilding on the Offensive Spirit

The linking theme for today would seem to be high and mighty personages and their curious effects on the war at ground level. For Olaf Stapledon of the Friends Ambulance Unit, a mere general is the cause of a stir, as protocol and sartorial disreputability create embarrassment. But then–just after we had to throw up our hands in dismay over his foolish approval of (very early) Bolshevik policy–he spins a much more accurate and interesting query at the future.

On our run yesterday, in the midst of our breathless career, we met a real live general walking with a friend. His gorgeous hat flashed in the sun, and he was all splendid in blue & red & gold… The meeting of a general, all ornate with his golden oak leaves, is quite an event in this our reposeful life, & to be caught with no hats, bare legs and very ragged shirts, is as if you were to be caught in the city with your hair down, though alas in your case the vision would be charming & in ours it was merely disreputable. There is absolutely no other news at all to tell you except that they read “Henry V” aloud while I was lying on the bed of sickness [from dysentery]. I listened in great comfort and seclusion while Renard as Henry stirred all our hearts with mighty speeches. It was very interesting to compare it all with things of today. One dare almost prophesy that there is less difference between men’s minds in Elizabeth’s reign & men’s minds today than there will be between men’s minds today & men’s minds a hundred years hence. . .[1]

A hundred years hence, quotha? A good question! But I’m not so sure. Ready Henry V, well, good God, I hope so. But Stapledon the dreamer should think more of the Tempest, perhaps, and there I think we–and the Elizabethans–might have him…

 

And in France, it is Rowland Feilding and the perennial question–well, it’s the Fourth Annual Question, at least–of how exactly the Kaiser’s birthday will be observed. A pleasant disappointment leads Feilding into a more interesting discussion of a question that is well worth revisiting. It’s 1918, and the last year was a bad one for the allies (see the Bolsheviks, above). It is expected that Germany will try to win the war with a Spring Offensive. So what of the war of attrition, and the old arguments for the positive moral effects of constant, low-level murderousness instead of a more careful husbanding of lives?

January 27, 1918 (Sunday). Ronssoy.

To-day is the Kaiser’s birthday, and we half expected that things might happen, but there has been a thick fog, and all has been as silent as can be. I am afraid the troops are not so sorry as they ought to be.

“Am I offensive enough?” is one of the questions laid down in a pamphlet that reaches us from an Army School some 30 miles behind the line. It is for the subaltern to ask himself each morning as he rises from his bed.

Most laudable I But, as the Lewis Gun Officer remarked to-day, it is one of the paradoxes of war that the further you get from the battle line the more “offensive” are the people you meet!

The Brigadier called to-day just as I was finishing lunch, and I had a walk with him. He said he had sent in my name for three weeks’ attachment to the French Battalion Commanders’ School at Vadenay, near Châlons-sur-Marne,
which will be an interesting change—if it comes off.

The battalion is getting very weak, and something will have to be done before long.[2]

Feilding, again, is one of our most balanced voices–regular and reservist, field officer and now battalion commander, from an old army family but a sympathetic commander of volunteers and conscripts. And when with nothing more than a sigh he signs on to the idea that the exhortations coming up from the staff is ridiculously out of touch, we should conclude that the gap between the fighting units and the generals commanding them is growing ever wider… and that something will have to be done before long.

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Talking Across the World, 275.
  2. War Letters to a Wife, 248-9.

Max Plowman Supported; Olaf Stapledon Stays the Course; the Master of Belhaven Mastered by Paperwork

Max Plowman, embarked, now, on his own odyssey of protest, is mustering support. Or, rather, he is thanking some of those who have already offered their support–in this case, Janet Upcott.

It was dear of you to write Janet & very kind of you to copy out Sassoon‘s letter for me. I’m very glad to have it… as Dorothy will tell you things have begun just as you prophesied….

Can it really be that Plowman has not read the famous letter of protest? I don’t know–it’s possible, but it seems likely that Upcott copied it out for him to refer to, and that his lack of reference to reading it for the first time indicates that he has in fact done so. Does he know, then, the manner of Sassoon’s subsequent apostasy?

The letter goes on to show how different Plowman’s situation is from Sassoon, and how different his motivations:

You & Mary are like Fairy Godmothers straight out of a Fairy Tale to us… And then you heap coals of fire on my head by saying that we lift you out of the world of material considerations & policies of caution. Dear Jane! You make me laugh!  …Passion & love, you can’t ultimately divide them I think. Is anybody’s consciousness utterly destroyed? That’s what it comes to. I don’t think so. I don’t think I believe in total damnation, though it may be so.

My love to you dear Janet.[1]

 

Ralph Hamilton, Master of Belhaven, has had his raid. And when it was his show he didn’t mind cranking the mimeograph–or even doing his own colored-ink touch-ups. But when it’s a matter of bumff come down from up the chain of command…

I have turned into a Babu–I spend my whole time writing reports and organising things. It seems to get worse and worse. I have increased my office staff, and still we hardly get through the paper that comes by one despatch rider before another arrives…[2]

 

Finally, today, another charming letter from Olaf Stapledon to Agnes Miller. It shows many sides to Stapledon’s personality, not least a strong-to-the-point-of-foolishness liberal idealism, or the inability of a gentle soul to imagine the depravity of others. But who rates a perfect score in predicting political futures?

20 January 1918

. . . The most thrilling subject now is the slow but steady evolution of the various nations & parties toward peace. One feels that there is now quite a new air about it all. Personally I greatly admire the Bolsheviks in spite of their oppression of their enemies. The hope of the future is with them. It is they that seem to have the courage and the faith. . . Peace is really coming at last. Then comes the beginning of real work at last. It will perhaps be an age of starvation and disorder and terror and misunderstanding and revolution, but it will be the age of the beginning of the new alignment of life, at least if we all try hard enough. . . .

Alas.

Would that he, too, had protested a bit more? But Stapledon now turns to the subject of his own writing, and what he hopes will be his first major work:

Lately I have been thinking with little content about “In a Glass Darkly” and planning out considerable additions to it, & alterations If I can get the additions adequately written the whole will be a far bigger thing than before, & actually a book. Was there ever a book that took so much re-writing? Indeed it has not been written, it has grown of its own accord & very spasmodically. I don’t know if I am doing right or wrong in giving so much time & thought to this one effort. I don’t know that I even care whether it is right or wrong. All I care is that the book when it is completed shall be sound. If in years to come the world (!) asks me “What did you do in the great war?” and I have to say, “I wrote a book” I don’t care for the world’s condemnation, nor for anybody’s…

But hope remains…

…the Idea is all that matters. And faith, I did not try to avoid the war so as to write a book. I did my best to get into the war while not betraying the Idea; and since the war would not have me on those terms more than as an ambulance driver— tant pis, and all the more obligation to serve directly the Idea by laborious thought & writing. . . .

The other evening we read “Twelfth Night” and I took Sir Toby Belch with much relish. We have some rather good readers amongst us, especially one [Frederick] Jeffrey who is called Amelia because (oh horrid pun!) when he first came to us he was sent as an orderly to an outstation where the drivers reported that he greatly “ameliorated” their lot! Amelia took Portia in “The Merchant of Venice,” and did it with much spirit and delicacy. He is a nice lad, but generally asleep. At present we are having an epidemic of slight illness, due probably to some bad food or other, or possibly to the rather foul atmosphere of the stable over which we live. In the evenings, what with the stable, tobacco, acetylene lamps, the stove, and forty or more men, and the necessity for keeping the two wee windows shut because of the light, we get up a fearsome fug.[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Bridge into the Future, 92-3.
  2. War Diary, 442.
  3. Talking Across the World, 273-4.

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

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

19 January 1918, Scarborough

My dear darling Mother,

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

The wedding is at 2.30.

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

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

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

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

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

Always your W.E.O.[1]

 

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

 

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

January 19

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

The Dream

I

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

II

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

III

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

IV

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

 

References and Footnotes

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

Ralph Hamilton Worries the Finer Points; Cynthia Asquith on Lady Desborough and Charles Dickens

Ralph Hamilton stayed up until two in the morning last night, a century back, first slaving over the duplicating machine and then touching up his colored maps by hand, with a paintbrush. A raid has been ordered on his sector and he has been charged with devising and executing the artillery plan. He is “very anxious the thing should go off well for everyone’s sake, and particularly as it is the first little battle that I have entirely arranged by myself.” Then, with all the planning done but for the smaller details, he went to a Casualty Clearing Session to have a rotten tooth pulled.[1]

 

While we await developments, then, let’s to London and, beginning with yesterday’s entry, reacquaint ourselves with Cynthia Asquith’s diary. Her husband’s surprise leave from his own artillery command lends a festive atmosphere to… scenes that may have had a different festive atmosphere had “Beb” not been there.

The list of friends to be mourned has grown longer, but her life is still filled with visitors, amusements, and sharp commentary on familiar figures–Lady Desborough, for one, whom we most recently saw mourning the death of Patrick Shaw Stewart.

Monday, 14th January

Lady Desborough, long before the war, with her two eldest sons, Julian and Billy Grenfell

Ettie and I were deep in conversation about Gosta Berling, and for what sum we would ‘give ourselves’, when Michael rushed up with a small silver egg-cup and peremptorily shouted, ‘Take that, and be sick in it!’ His power of suggestion was so great that Ettie began to feel sick and even she lay down before dinner.

Professor Walter Raleigh (University of Glasgow)

The beloved Professor arrived before dinner, looking more like a Blake drawing than ever. I love the way his eyes signal the thought which his tongue is shortly going to voice ‘coming over’, and he has such a delicious giggle in his eye.

This would be the formidably named Professor Walter Raleigh, one of the first and most influential professors of (contemporary) English Literature. But it is not to be a night, merely, of learned discussion.

After dinner really brilliantly amusing games were played. First Ettie unveiled me as a Renaissance statue; her float voice in pointing out the ‘lascivious contours of my cheek’ was admirable. Then Beb unveiled Evan as a ceramic of Helen of Troy—far the best thing of the kind I have ever seen. He really was brilliant, reaching his climax when he bared Evan’s shirt-front as Helen’s famous breast, delicately pointing out the curious and uncommon formation grotesquely represented by Evan’s two studs ( : instead of . .  )!

Cynthia Asquith (Bassano, whole-plate glass negative, 1912)

Just in case no one else is as pleased with the timelessness of Asquith’s writing as I am, I will note for the record that the above typographical representation–of what I take to be vertically-arrayed (rather than traditional horizontally-arrayed) nipples–is a pioneering use of whatever those ASCII smiley faces we used to use in emails are called…

We rocked with laughter. The Professor and Letty then did an excellent Hamlet and Ophelia to Beb’s judge.

 

That was yesterday, a century back. To today, then:

Tuesday, 15th January

Ettie had to go up by early train and so Evan was carried off bound to her chariot wheels—I wonder if he wouldn’t have loved to stay and talk to the Professor. Pages and pages of Barriesque sentiment from John’s governess, comparing John to Peter Pan and me to Wendy.

Which is a bit odd. But then again Asquith is a close friend of Barrie’s, and has worked as his assistant.

I got up late and took the Professor for a short walk before lunch. He wore a rug instead of a coat, and it looked just like a Sir Walter Raleigh cloak. I told him about Sylvia Strayte and he promised to write a scenario with the right part for her. After luncheon… my question, ‘Do you miss Ettie?’ led to the most interesting discussion on her.

‘Miss her? No,’ he replied, ‘I never miss her—I’m glad to see her, but I never miss her—because you see she’s never a rest.’ I said I thought she was just one of the people one might miss in absence more than one enjoyed in presence; Ettie being such a tuning-fork, one might feel in the dark—as if the electric light had been turned out—and when it was turned on it might make one blink. He said he didn’t need a ‘tonic’, and that his quarrel with her was her constant ‘battling’ against life, her swimming against the current—precisely the ‘steel’ qualities in her which Letty and I had been admiring and enjoying. I had even thought I must make an effort to emulate her and I must say it was honey to hear the Professor’s disapproving dissection of her. How she would have minded what he said!

I said that I thought, before the war and its weight of personal suffering had fallen on her, One might have been irritated by her stubborn gospel of joy and attributed it largely to health and personal immunity. But that, now she had earned the right to preach and practise, her determination to go on fighting with broken tools and to save what was still worth keeping was wholly admirable and most valuable. This he admitted, but when I said I envied her capacity for intimacy, he strenuously denied it and said that her deliberate activity made her mechanical, and prohibited any real friendship or the finest companionship—his great point being that she never ‘blossomed’, and that that was what he valued. When, in his comparison of us, I denied the dewdrop that I was natural he said, ‘No, you’re not natural—you’re Nature.’

A compliment produced with the skill of an Elizabethan courtier. But Asquith–high-born and well-married though she is–would rather Raleigh pass another test. She is a serious reader, unashamed of having popular taste (of the best sort), and requires some of this taste to be shared by her intimates:

The Professor has just re-discovered Dickens—having not touched him for years and approached him critically, he has now found himself caught up in a flame of love and admiration. At dinner he said no one should read him between childhood and thirty or forty—certainly not in college days. The discussion led to his reading us heavenly bits out of Our Mutual Friend, chiefly those-relating to those masterpieces the ‘Wilfers’. Beb’s sick, dainty face led to a fierce discussion between me and him, which inducted the Professor into some very good talk about beloved Dickens. I said he was my principal touchstone about people, and that I should never have married Beb had I fully realised this dreadful lacuna. Beb said, with a sort of pride, that at Oxford they had considered Dickens something scarcely to be mentioned, and he accused us of being on the wave of the counter reaction. This annoyed me—as at every age I have read and revelled in him from pure hedonism—I maintained that no one would feel obliged to admire him from literary snobbishness, as they would Keats. He gaped at me when I said that, whatever his faults of style, I ranked him with the real giants—with Shakespeare, in fact, because he had above all the quality of wealth, and love, and sympathy—and I also claimed the Homeric quality for him.

Shakespeare and Dickens again!

To my joy, the Professor was an eloquent ally and said Dickens was a ‘howling swell’: that he had suffered from mispraise—which had produced the reaction against him—that by his contemporaries he had been liked for the comic and the sentimental, and that now the tide of true appreciation had thrown him right up amongst the giants. He spoke of his ‘heavenly homeliness’, his exuberance and amazing richness, and proved how false and superficial the charge of ‘unreality’ was. To Beb’s inquiry he maintained that Sterne was ‘thin’ beside him, Meredith nowhere, and Thackeray pour rire. In fact he said he had ‘eternity’. He considers Great Expectations the masterpiece and that, even from the point of view of ‘style’, the description of the marshes was as good as anything.

It was interesting talk and I wish I could record it. I enjoyed getting heated, and Mamma told me to ‘put two bits of Beb on the fire’—meaning coal. I made the Professor promise to ‘testify’ his conversion to Dickens. I think he might write something delicious about him.[2]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. War Diary, 436-7.
  2. Diaries, 395-7.

Carroll Carstairs Decorated in Retreat; Herbert Read: the Game is not Worth the Candle; Rowland Feilding: Another Life Well Snuffed Out

Not long ago we saw Carroll Carstairs to the Casualty Clearing Station with a raging fever that will carry him all the way to Blighty. As he lay there, thinking “[h]ow cool these sheets and how warm these blankets” he also fantasized about pinning on the “pretty ribbon” of the Military Cross he had earned during a desperate withdrawal near Cambrai. Today, a century back–in his absence–the award was paraded, along with four other officers of the 3rd Grenadier Guards, before their reserve billets in Arras.[1]

 

Rowland Feilding‘s letter of today, a century back, is the purest war story we’ve had in quite some time–and it, too, is a story of determined and courageous defense rather than aggressive valor.

January 10, 1918. Front Line, Lempire.

A few minutes before four o’clock this morning the enemy tried to raid one of my Lewis gun posts which is placed, necessarily in an isolated position, well out in Noman’s Land, about 150 yards in front of the fire-trench, in a sunken road which crosses both lines of trenches. The raiders came across the snow in the dark, camouflaged in white overalls.

In parenthesis, I may explain that while I have been away there have been two unfortunate cases of sentries mistaking wiring parties of the Divisional pioneer battalion for the enemy;—whether owing to the failure of the wiring parties to report properly before going out, or to overeagerness on the part of the sentries, I do not profess to know. No one was hurt on either occasion, but a good deal of fuss was made about it, our new Brigadier blaming the men who did the shooting—his own men—and saying so pretty forcibly.

When I first heard of this I thought that a mistake had been made—if for no other reason than that there would for a time at any rate be a disinclination on the part of sentries to shoot promptly, which might prove dangerous;—and that is what happened this morning.

The double sentries on duty in the sunken road heard, but in the darkness did not see, a movement in front of them. Hesitating to shoot, they challenged. The immediate reply was a volley of hand-grenades. Private Mayne, who had charge of the Lewis gun, was hit “all over,” in many parts, including the stomach. His left arm was reduced to pulp. Nevertheless, he struggled up, and leaning against the parapet, with his uninjured hand discharged a full magazine (forty-seven rounds) into the enemy, who broke, not a man reaching our trench. Then he collapsed and fell insensible across his gun. The second sentry’s foot was so badly shattered that it had to be amputated in the trench. The doctor has just told me that he performed this operation without chloroform, which was unnecessary owing to the man’s numbed condition, and that while he did it the man himself looked on, smoking a cigarette, and with true Irish courtesy thanked him for his kindness when it was over.

Words cannot express my feelings of admiration for Private Mayne’s magnificent act of gallantry, which I consider
well worthy of the V.C. It is, however, improbable that he will live to enjoy any decoration that may be conferred upon him.[2]

 

So one Irish soldier lies dying, and another has lost his foot–and who knows how many Germans were killed or wounded in the pointless raid, in January, months away from any possibility of “strategic” effect.

Could the war have gone otherwise?

Of course–and of course not. But it really does seem that this is the season of discontent among the more philosophically-minded officers of the B.E.F.–and not just Plowman, with his liberal political ties and pacifist past, or Sassoon, with his impulsiveness and sensitivity. Although career officers like Feilding may still generally confine their criticisms to aspects of the conduct of the war with which they themselves are familiar–the slack pioneers, the short-sighted brigadier–more and more “fighting officers” are turning against the entire war of attrition, now in its fourth bitter winter.

Herbert Read is a happier warrior than many, equipped as he is with a fondness for Nietzsche, an aptitude for small-unit warfare, and unusually deep reserves of mental fortitude. But though the tone is different and the protest oblique rather than direct, he is in more or less the same place, in terms of ethical calculation, as Sassoon and Plowman: the war of attrition is a foolish waste, and cannot be won by indefinite persistence. Courage notwithstanding and courtesy aside, Feilding’s two Irish sentries might agree.

Read’s letter to Evelyn Roff begins ordinarily enough, but soon works toward the somewhat surprising admission of his own public statement against the war.

We are midway through a long weary tour of trench duty. We do four days in the line and then four in support and four in reserve–and this sometimes for more than a month…

As a Company commander I get a much easier time in the line–no long dreadful night-watches. I manage to get a little reading done. I’ve just finished one of Conrad’s novels–Under Western Eyes. Like all Conrad’s it is extraordinarily vivid and a fine appreciation of life. You must read Conrad… Get hold of Lord Jim if you haven’t already read it. There’s a human hero for you…

I also managed to write a short article and send it on to the New Age…  I called it ‘Our Point of View and my chief points were:

a) That the means of war had become more portentous than the aim–i.e. that the game is not worth the candle.

b) That this had been realized by the fighting soldier and on that account has been, out here, an immense growth of pacifist opinion.

Of course, it might offend the Censor. But it is the truth. I know my men and the sincerity of their opinions. They know the impossibility of a knock-out blow and don’t quite see the use of another long year of agony. We could make terms now that would clear the way for the future. If, after all that Europe has endured, her people can’t realize their most intense ideal (Good-will)–then Humanity should be despaired of–should regard self-extinction as their only salvation. But I for one have faith, and faith born in the experience of war.[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Generation Missing, 150.
  2. War Letters to a Wife, 246-7.
  3. The Contrary Experience, 116-7.

Olaf’s Agnes Votes Yes; So Too Does the Graves Family; Wilfred Owen Awaits Poets’ Books, and Letters

Olaf Stapledon has written several letters to Agnes Miller over the past few days about his disillusion and despair. He is both contemptuous of the home island he is leaving–the complacency, the luxury, the hypocrisy–and frustrated at the sadness that his once again leaving it for ambulance work at the front is causing.

But he has also discussed a bitter and uncomfortable irony: that his service in the Friends’ Ambulance Unit was accepted long ago, when Britain had a volunteer army, and then grandfathered in after conscription. But now a schoolfellow–and fellow pacifist–who holds precisely the same views has no such option available to him and, instead of laborious and dangerous service at the front, is languishing at Wormwood Scrubs. This must be an evil. Australia, meanwhile, is to vote on the question of conscription. Agnes’s letter to him is written just after his, and yet it will be read only months after…

18 December 1917

Thursday Conscription Referendum. Everything is in a turmoil about that. Public meetings pro & anti everywhere, eggs & other missiles in constant use, papers full of it. Trams full of argumentative people. Posters everywhere. I am going to vote yes.[1]

And months later each will learn of the other’s position. As Olaf recently wrote, they can hardly part, since they have really yet to meet, as lovers.

 

Robert Graves, suddenly, has similar obstacles to face, but his are right before him, and eminently conquerable. Today he and Nancy Nicholson told their families of their plans to marry.

…on Tuesday the 18th, Nancy, her parents, and her brother Kit all came to lunch at Red Branch House. Nancy had defied convention by arriving not in a skirt but in the trousers of her land-girl’s ‘uniform’, of which she was immensely proud; but Alfred accepted this tolerantly, and wrote in his diary that evening that ‘Nancy grows on one’, and that it had been ‘a delightful party. Mr. N. most witty and charming, Mrs. N. a very capable and wise woman’.
When the other Nicholsons had departed, Nancy stayed on for tea, ‘and then went off with Robby into town carrying part of his baggages. Before this John came in and announced their engagement as Cupid. Robby threw the family ring, the ancient Eagle, with “Catch” and she caught on and caught it.’ Later that day, Robert and Nancy broke the news of their engagement to her parents… [2]

A good catch; but not everything will go so smoothly.

 

Wilfred Owen has no such weighty matters on his mind–just a few of his favorite things: Christmas, poetry, and friendship…

My dearest Mother,

…If you hold to giving me a present this is what I most want: Tides, Poems by John Drinkwater…

Siegfried is going out next week, but may stay in Ireland on the way. He feels like a condemned man, with just time to put things straight. One of his last deeds here is causing Robert Nichols (of the Ardours & Endurances) to write to me, and befriend me. I await Nichols’s letter with much wonder…[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Talking Across the World, 261-2.
  2. R. P. Graves, Robert Graves, The Assault Heroic, 189.
  3. Collected Letters, 516-7.

Ford Madox Hueffer’s Last Prayer to Viola Hunt; Robert Graves and Nancy Nicholson Are Engaged; Edward Brittain Turns to The Loom; The Master of Belhaven Wines and Dines; Patrick Shaw Stewart Visits the New Brigadier

Ford Madox Hueffer‘s not-quite-marriage to Viola Hunt is on the rocks, but that does not preclude grand Late Romantic gestures. Today is his birthday–his forty-forth–and Hunt sent him “a box of preserved fruits & some vests & plants & tablecloths.” Her did her one better, sending a “lovely” poem… and then slashed a remainder mark across the romantic gesture by assuring her that the poem is not a heartfelt communication to her, but the result of a mere poetic game of bouts rimés, in which he tosses off poetry at short order to a given rhyme scheme. This, alas, is not only rather mean of Ford, but highly probable.

So, dear reader, try not to get too weepy–it’s just a game![1]

 

One Last Prayer

Let me wait, my dear,
One more day,
Let me linger near,
Let me stay.
Do not bar the gate or draw the blind
Or lock the door that yields,
Dear, be kind!

I have only you beneath the skies
To rest my eyes
From the cruel green of the fields
And the cold, white seas
And the weary hills
And the naked trees.
I have known the hundred ills
Of the hated wars.
Do not close the bars,
Or draw the blind.
I have only you beneath the stars:
Dear, be kind!

17/12/17

 

Robert Graves and Nancy Nicholson are at a much earlier stage of their romance–more first prayer than last–but today, a century back, they took a big step forward. They have been discussing their future at great length during their long weekend together, and now it is settled: they must marry. Robert’s biographer R.P. Graves explains:

…they ‘decided to get married at once’. Nancy evidently ‘attached no importance to the ceremony’, and Robert was bound to agree with her. Luckily for him, however, Nancy also said that ‘she did not want to disappoint her father’. At that stage in his life Robert very much desired the approval both of his family and his friends; and it is highly unlikely that the man who talked to Sassoon about ‘acting like a gentleman’ could have seriously contemplated ‘living in sin’ with this girl of eighteen…

But although Graves is due back in Wales to take up his military duties once again, they decided–either from some point of tactics or, perhaps, or simple pusillanimity– to wait to tell the family. Today the Graves family will celebrate… Robert’s brother Charles’s winning of a Classical Exhibition[2] to St John’s College, Oxford.[3]

 

Speaking of educated/aspirational youth, there’s a letter of today, a century back, from Edward Brittain to his sister Vera which touches on a topic that Graves has often discussed. Brittain is reading one of the big books of the year–and perhaps the most scandalous (if we are not inclined to find militarist–or pacifist–screeds scandalous on their political principles).

Italy, 17 December 1917

…We got out of the line alright and are in quite decent billets… I am trying to read The Loom of Youth which is excellent but I am only progressing slowly at present: it is a bit exaggerated but otherwise a very reasonable portrayal of the public school. Victor would have liked it immensely as it very largely expresses his opinions.[4]

What’s interesting about this is that Alec Waugh’s book is not just a critical-satirical book about Public Schools–it’s also a gay love story. But I haven’t actually read the book, and I have no idea how clear that might be to someone “progressing slowly” through it.

It’s tempting to think that Edward is trying to tell his sister something… but I doubt it. If he were, he might mention Geoffrey Thurlow, his intimate friend, rather than Victor Richardson, the school friend who later ardently courted Vera and whom she briefly planned to marry. And also, even if he were trying to hint at secret desires of his own, it would surely sail over her head. The former provincial young lady knows things now–many valuable things–that she hadn’t known before; she knows all about love and loss and what the war does to the minds and bodies of the boys who go to fight it… but she hasn’t learned much about the love that dare not speak its name.

 

All of this is very interesting, of course, but I am once again neglecting the war. Quickly, then, to the Master of Belhaven, upon whose semi-martial doings we must keep half an eye, and then on to the Naval Division.

Yesterday, a century back, Ralph Hamilton pulled off a difficult feat: giving decent entertainment to the officers of a nearby French battery. Luckily, his own officers had recently scored some new opera records in Amiens, so after a dinner for twelve, “which was rather a strain on our resources… we had a two hours’ Grand Opera concert, which was a great success.” After hypothesizing that war “must have been very dull before the days of gramophones,” Hamilton reports a return engagement for today.

Alas–the British are at a disadvantage in two crucial areas: cookery and artillery.

They did us very well… They took us to see their 75’s, and even took the whole thing to pieces to show us the mechanism… The gun is far in advance of ours, much lighter, far simpler and stronger. I have never been able to understand why we did not adopt it at the beginning of the war…

But Hamilton has talked shopped before telling us of the dinner.

…we sat down over twenty. It was a regular feast that lasted for two hours. Their cook was a chef in a French restaurant before the war…

Hamilton even managed the reciprocal speech-making, his French lubricated by “a little good red wine.” Returning home he discovered that he and five of his officers have been mentioned in dispatches– “so we have not done so badly after all.”[5]

 

This is the pleasant side of the war of attrition. But there is also discomfort.

Patrick Shaw Stewart has now found his battalion–and it is all “his,” on a temporary basis, once more–probably about as swiftly as his parting letter found Lady Desborough.[6] Today, a century back, she wrote back:

Patrick darlingest, How I loved your adorable letter from the train, and how above all I loved you. And blessed you for holding on in trust through all the frozen time–never, never fretting… How I shall miss you, how I love you.”

But Patrick was back to writing to Diana Manners, the woman he can’t give up and who is, now that all Englishwoman are equidistantly out of reach, just as reachable as any of the others. She won’t hear his proposals and protestations, but perhaps she will accept this sort of daily diary.

Today I rode again towards the front, a martyr to duty, having evolved a new system of leading my horse the first mile, thus becoming almost entirely thawed before making myself immobile… had an amusing first interview with Oc as Brigadier, in the course of which I took a very fair luncheon off him…

Alcohol and fur are the twin secrets of winter campaigning.[7]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Saunders, Dual Life, II, 563 n31.
  2. A partial merit-based scholarship, in American parlance.
  3. R. P. Graves, Robert Graves, The Assault Heroic, 189.
  4. Letters From a Lost Generation, 385.
  5. War Diary, 423-4.
  6. Although I wrote about his departure and arrival yesterday, the journey must have taken about three days, so he would have left--and written from the train to the coast--on or about the 13th.
  7. Jebb, Patrick Shaw Stewart, An Edwardian Meteor, 237-8. I am not confident of the dates in Jebb, which are not supported by a critical apparatus. He lists today, a century back, as the day Asquith was wounded, but Sellers's The Hood Battalion, 282, has the 20th, and yet has his promotion to brigadier as tomorrow, when it does seem clear that he was already brigadier--or functioning as brigadier--today, a century back. My best guess is that Asquith is the brigadier now in effect, but will officially take the position tomorrow, and be wounded on the 20th, so I will mention it then.