I like this, from the Sunday Times of 1915:
From A Soldier’s Mamories by Major-General Sir George Younghusband K.C.M.G., K.C.I.E., F.R.G.S., etc. (1917)
And now for a curious thing. I myself had served for many years with soldiers, but had never once heard the words or expressions that Rudyard Kipling’s soldiers used. Many a time did I ask my brother Officers whether they had ever heard them. No, never. But sure enough, a few years after the soldiers thought, and talked, and expressed them-selves exactly like Rudyard Kipling had taught them in his stories! He would get a stray word here, or a stray expression there, and weave them into general soldier talk, in his priceless stories. Rudyard Kipling made the modern soldier.
Other writers have gone on with the good work, and they have between them manufactured the cheery, devil-may-care, lovable person enshrined in our hearts as Thomas Atkins. Before he had learnt from reading stories about himself that he, as an individual, also possessed the above attributes, he was mostly ignorant of the fact. My early recollections of the British soldier are of a bluff, rather surly person, never the least jocose or light-hearted, except perhaps when he had too much beer. He was brave always, but with a sullen, stubborn bravery. No Tipperary or kicking foot-balls about it.
To Rudyard Kipling and his fellow-writers the Army owes a great debt of gratitude for having produced the splendid type of soldier who now stands as the English type.
Last year I gave a paper at the Oxford War Poetry conference, about the ways that war poets were depicted in novels of the twenties. I gave it the title ‘I too am a murderer’(a quotation from Patrick Hamilton’s Rope) – but I had no idea then that there was a 1921 in novel in which a war poet commits a murder.
The first chapter of The House by the River by A.P. Herbert introduces us to Stephen Byrne, a poet very much in the mould of Rupert Brooke:
From the forthcoming BBC version of Lady Chatterley’s Lover
Last week’s Times Literary Supplement included a recently rediscovered 1927 essay by T. S. Eliot on modern British novelists. Eliot’s judgement on D. H. Lawrence is devastating:
Worth listening to is the new Guardian podcast, in which Kate Macdonald and Robert McCrum talk about John Buchan and The Thirty-Nine Steps. Kate makes a good case for Buchan, and defends him against charges of Anti-Semitism.
John Galswortnhy’s 1922 play Loyalties includes one of the more interesting twenties portrayals of an ex-soldier.
Captain Ronald Dancey has most of the military virtues – dash, courage, resolution – but has not done well in the peacetime world. The play brings him into conflict with Ferdinand de Levis, rich and successful in everything he does, and Jewish. After a Newmarket race meeting where de Levis has done very well, both are staying at a country house, when a thousand pounds goes missing from de Levis’s room. De Levis accuses Dancey of being a thief, and things get nasty.
In yesterday’s episode of Life in Squares, the BBC drama serial about the Bloomsbury Group, the First World War came and went.
It incommoded them slightly, one gathered. The chaps had to get themselves muddy on a farm, pretending that they were doing work of national importance to avoid conscription, and all of them got a bit miserable, but by and large the war was less important to them than their own romantic tangles.
Here’s the beginning of an article in the Times for 29th September, 1914:
In all, the paper prints six of these efforts, each putting topical words to a traditional tune. So who is ‘A.C.A.’? If he’s familiar to officers from their schooldays, does this make him the author of a textbook, or perhaps the editor of a school anthology?
The tiny Finborough Theatre in West London is one of my favourites. Like the Orange Tree at Richmond, it finds part of the British theatrical heritage that the National Theatre and the RSC don’t seem to be remotely aware of.
This September and October, the Finborough programme will include Horniman’s Choice, a quartet of one-act plays first presented by the great Annie Horniman at the Gaiety in Manchester, Britain’s first repertory theatre.
There are two hard-hitting plays by Harold Brighouse (who wrote Hobson’s Choice); one is about the dangers of coal-mining, and the other about the fate of the elderly and disabled in the days before the Welfare State.
The third play is by Stanley Houghton, author of Hindle Wakes, and I like the sound of it very much – it’s called The Old Testament and the New, and is described thus:
1914. The home. Christopher Battersby is a devout Christian, running his household in strict and obsessive accordance with the Old Testament. When his daughter runs off to London with an unsuitable man, he struggles with his faith and the limits of what he can forgive.
The fourth play is Night Watch, by Allan Monkhouse, a strange comedy set in a military hospital in 1916. I wrote about it after reading the script a few years ago, and would very much like to see it on stage. Now that I live a long way from London, it’s less easy for me to visit theatres there, but I shall make the effort for this one.
The plays of this period are revived less frequently than they should be, though when they reach the stage they usually repay the effort. The West Yorkshire Playhouse did a good job on Lawrence’s The Daughter-In-Law a while back, and Northern Broadsides triumphed in Rutherford and Son. Let’s have more.