CHAPTER FOUR

John Masefield, Robert Bridges, W. B. Yeats

In January, 1919, I went to Oxford. That seems about the shortest way of relating a fact that is of singularly little interest to anybody but myself. What _is_ of interest is that Oxford, at that time, was a regular nest of famous singing birds gathered together in the aftermath of the War, choosing Oxford as a sheltered resting-place, as though their wings were a little weary and their feathers rather draggled.

W. B. Yeats had come to rest from the storms of Ireland in a quiet, green-shuttered house in Broad Street; John Masefield was writing his marvellous sonnets in a cottage on Boar’s Hill; Robert Bridges, the Poet Laureate, was near by, occasionally producing a few lines of verse which had more satire in them than poetry, to say nothing of such young men as Aldous Huxley, Robert Nichols, and Robert Graves. I must also pay tribute to Leslie Hore-Belisha, who is now perhaps the most brilliant of our younger M.P’s. He did not write poetry, but his quite unmatched eloquence at the Union will always linger as one of my keenest intellectual (I almost said emotional) pleasures.

Of all these men, by far the greatest, to me, at least, was John Masefield. He was the strangest blend of passion, and ethereality. He was, moreover, the most generous of men. As soon as I went to Oxford I decided, in company with a little band of equally impertinent young men, that what Oxford needed was a new literary magazine which should reflect the new spirit of the university after the War. Delicious innocence! One really was under the impression that one was doing something, not only terribly important, but quite new.

After endless cigarettes and a quantity of mulled claret we decided on two things--the title and the price. It was to be called _The Oxford Outlook_, and people were to pay half a crown for it. It is still called _The Oxford Outlook_ to this day, which must be something of a record for ’varsity papers. The price, however, is only a shilling.

Now came the question of contributors. Although we were properly idealistic we were also shrewd enough to realize that unless we got some big names, apart from those of the undergraduates, our publication would stand little chance of creating any very great stir in the world outside, which was what we secretly desired. Somebody therefore suggested Masefield. And that night I sat down and wrote to Masefield, telling him what we were doing, and asking him if he could possibly send us a few lines for our first number.

By the next post came a most charming letter from Masefield, wishing us all good luck, and enclosing two of the best sonnets he has ever written--poems which any editor of any country in the world would have been proud to publish. Here is the first of them, which has since been included in the collected edition of his works:

ON GROWING OLD

Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying, My dog and I are old, too old for roving; Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying Is soon too lame to march, too cold for loving.

I take the book and gather to the fire, Turning old yellow leaves. Minute by minute The clock ticks to my heart; a withered wire Moves a thin ghost of music in the spinet.

I cannot sail your seas, I cannot wander Your mountains, nor your downlands, nor your valleys Ever again, nor share the battle yonder Where your young knight the broken squadron rallies, Only stay quiet, while my mind remembers The beauty of fire from the beauty of embers.

And that he sent to somebody whose name he had never even heard, knowing full well that we could not afford to pay for them.

A few weeks later I met Masefield himself. He had promised to read some of his poetry to a little literary society which we had gathered together, and we all assembled in my rooms to await his arrival. It was a bitterly cold night, with driving snow, and he lived some eight miles out of Oxford, in a region where there were neither taxis nor buses, so that he would have been perfectly justified in ’phoning us to say that he could not come. However, he turned up only a few minutes late, having bicycled all the way, in order not to disappoint us.

One never forgets Masefield’s face. It is not the face of a young man, for it is lined and grave. And yet it is not the face of an old man, for youth is still in the bright eyes. Its dominant quality is humility. There were moments when he seemed almost to abase himself before his fellow-creatures. And this humility was echoed in everything he did or said, in the quiet, timid tone of his voice, in the way in which he always shrank from asserting himself.

This quality of his can best be illustrated by his behaviour that night. When the time came for him to read his poems, he would not stand up in any position of pre-eminence but sheltered himself behind the sofa, in the shade of an old lamp, and from there he delivered passages from ‘The Everlasting Mercy,’ ‘Dauber,’ ‘The Tragedy of Nan,’ and ‘Pompey the Great.’ He talked, too, melodiously, and with the ghost of a question-mark after each of his sentences as though he were saying ‘Is this right? Who am I to lay down the law?’ And when it was all over, and we began to discuss what he had said, all talking at the top of our voices, very superficially, no doubt, but certainly with a great deal of enthusiasm, it was with a sudden shock that I realized that Masefield had retired into his shell, and was sitting on the floor, almost in the dark, reading a volume of poems by a young and quite unknown writer.

I saw a good deal of him after that. He lived in a little red house looking over the hills and valleys about eight miles out, and on fine days one could see from his window the grey spires and panes of Oxford glittering in the distance.

‘Oxford is always different,’ he said to me once. ‘Always I see her in a new mood of beauty from these hills.’ We were looking down on the city from the distance and I too knew how he felt. Oxford from the hills is a dream eternally renewed. Under the rain, when only a few spires and towers rise above the driving sheets of grey, on an April morning, when the whole city is sparkling and dappled with yellow shadows, by moonlight when it is a fantastic vision of the Arabian Nights.

Like many other literary geniuses, Masefield is clever with his hands. He will, with equal complacency, make a model of a ship or mend a garden gate. But since he was himself a sailor--since he has himself known the sea in every mood of loveliness or of terror, it is only natural that, when he does model, he should turn, by instinct, to ships. He showed me, at his house, a most exquisite model in wood of an old sailing vessel of the eighteenth century. There was nothing of the dilettante about that work. Every spar, every rope, every mast, every tiny detail was there, modelled to scale. It would have satisfied the most ardent technician, and yet it had a grace and a poetry that only Masefield could have given it.

‘You must keep this in a glass case,’ I said to him. ‘It’s far too precious, too dainty, to knock about like the other things.’

He shook his head. ‘She’s not going to stay here,’ he said. ‘I made her for a friend who has been very kind to me.’

That was like Masefield, I thought, to spend weeks and weeks of labour to please ‘a friend who had been kind to him.’

* * * * *

Anybody more different from Masefield than the Poet Laureate, Robert Bridges, it would be difficult to imagine. One was always longing to put him on a pedestal, to thrust a sceptre into his hand, and a crown on his head, and then to wait for the lightning. A most leonine and noble gentleman. Even when he wandered round the streets of Oxford clad in shabby knickerbockers, with a large, dirty satchel full of books on his bent back, it was impossible to forget either his great height or the immense head, modelled after Meredith, with a snowy beard and silvery locks, flowing with just that touch of abandon which made one wonder if, after all, Nature had not been a little improved upon.

Just as Masefield’s favourite word was Beauty, so, according to popular tradition, Bridges’ favourite word was Damn. We all know his celebrated retort to Horatio Bottomley, who had suggested in the House of Commons that in view of the exceedingly limited output of the Poet Laureate, it might be advisable to grant him, instead of his salary, the ancient Poet Laureate’s privilege of an annual cask of wine, in order that his tongue might be a little loosened. Bridges, in reply to all these criticisms, merely wrote and said, ‘I don’t care a damn.’ It was typical of him, but most of us thought that the criticism was justified, for, at the time, there _was_ a war on, he _was_ Poet Laureate, and he _wasn’t_ writing a word.

The only time I ever heard Bridges deliver himself of this word was at a tea-party at his house on Boar’s Hill. He damned the Press, he damned the university, he damned, also, more than one of the modern poets whom we were so ill-advised as to mention. When I mentioned Masefield he was most generous to him, which made me realize how little truth there was in the story which some wit had sent round the university at the time, concerning Bridges’ criticism of Masefield. However, though fictitious, it is amusing enough to recall.

‘“Masefield’s Sonnets”?’ he is alleged to have said. ‘Ah! yes. Very nice. Pure Shakespeare. Masefield’s “Reynard the Fox”? Very nice too. Pure Chaucer. Masefield’s “Everlasting Mercy”? Mm. Yes. Pure Masefield.’

The other literary celebrity who at this time had chosen Oxford for a home was the Irish poet, W. B. Yeats. Yeats always seemed to me to move in a mist.

He was like ‘men as trees walking.’ He certainly did not do it on purpose, as Bridges may have done. He would wander along the street with his head in the air and his hands behind his back, always wearing an overcoat, even in the warmest weather, with a long loose bow, and a mouth perpetually open. To walk behind him was in itself an adventure, for when he crossed the street he never took the faintest notice of any traffic that might be bearing down upon him, but dawdled over oblivious of the stream of cars, bicycles, horses and motor-lorries that were rushing past.

A lovable man, Yeats, but, I should imagine, that some people would have found him a trying fellow to live with. When I left my college rooms I went to a divine old house with a rickety staircase, and low ceilings, which looked out on to one of the fairest views in Oxford, the Sheldonian library. To this house after a little time, drifted Yeats, complete with his wife and his baby. It was a time when the servant problem was at its height, and occasionally, if the house was more than usually under-staffed, all the undergraduates and other occupants of rooms, including Yeats himself, used to gather to eat a communal luncheon.

On the first of these luncheons, Yeats arrived very late, and after absently toying for a few moments with a little cold asparagus, turned to me and said:

‘Were you at the Union last night?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, what did you think of it?’

It was difficult to say what one thought of it. The debate had centred round the ever-green subject of Ireland. There had been a great deal of bad temper, and not very many arguments. Before I could reply Yeats said:

‘I thought it was terrible. The appalling ignorance of English Youth about anything remotely connected with Ireland. I was astonished. Why, they don’t know the first thing about us.’

He darted a limp stick of asparagus into the open mouth, looked away for a moment and then said:

‘Why can’t they understand that the Irish people are Irish, and not English? Why can’t they realize that over there they’ve got a race of peasants who believe in fairies, and such-like, and are quite right to do so? Why, I’ve seen myself the saucers of milk which the Irish peasants have put outside their doors for the pixies to drink.’

He talked absently for a little longer, and then said, in a dreamy voice:

‘_If the English could only learn to believe in fairies, there wouldn’t ever have been any Irish problem._’

However, Yeats was not made entirely from dreams. He had a good business streak in him as well. He knew to a ‘T’ the best market for his poems, although like all poets he also knew from bitter experience that verse as a means of livelihood was impossible.

‘America pays best for poetry,’ he said to me once; ‘but even America pays badly. They will give you twice as much for a poem in America as in England. But for an article they will give you three times as much. I wonder why?’

* * * * *

Among the most entertaining people in Oxford at this time (and, I may add, among the most entertaining people in Europe), were the brothers Sitwell. I suppose the Sitwell trio--Osbert, Sacheverell, and sister Edith, have been talked about as much as any literary family in England. Apart from their merits, they have had a great advantage over most writers to whom publicity is not distasteful--they possess a label. A label is tremendously important if you want to impress yourself on the British public. It seems that there are a certain number of niches in the contemporary temple of Fame, and that unless you fit into one of these niches you will never be recognized. There is a niche labelled ‘Paradox Mongers,’ another niche labelled ‘Psychic Storytellers’ and a whole series of geographical niches labelled ‘Dartmoor Scribes,’ ‘Irish Prophets,’ ‘Sussex Poets,’ ‘East End Recorders,’ ‘Yorkshire Romancers,’ etc. If by any chance, a describer of Sussex gorse strayed into the Dartmoor heather, he or she would be disowned. If Mr. Michael Arlen were to get into the wrong omnibus and be observed alighting guiltily at Selfridges, his reputation would be tarnished beyond hope. And if a man who had gained a reputation as a writer of ghost-stories began to make paradoxes, the result, as they say in the Bible, would be confusion.

The particular niche which the Sitwells occupy is that of ‘Chelsea de Luxe.’ It is a very definite and not unprofitable niche. At the time of which I am writing nobody was inclined to take them seriously. In fact, we used to think that if the Sitwells’ papa had been anything else but a baronet with fierce ginger hair, if they themselves had dropped their h’s instead of dropping their rhymes, their united efforts would not have created much of a stir, and that _Wheels_ (the only true schoolboys’ magazine published outside a school) would have been passed over in comparative silence. Since then, however, Osbert has written some of the finest short stories in the English (or the French) language, and Sacheverell has produced a work of real genius in _Southern Baroque Art_.

Sacheverell was ‘up’ at Oxford at the same time as myself, and introduced a very pleasant flavor of Bohemianism--(there really is no other word)--into those dingy quarters. He hung his rooms with drawings by Picasso and Matisse, which were the subject of lewd comment among the more athletic members of the college. There was one drawing by--I believe, Picasso--called Salome, which represented a skinny and exceedingly revolting old lady prancing in a loathsome attitude before certain generously-paunched old men who looked like the sort of people you meet at a Turkish Bath when your luck is out. One day a certain charming don--(an ardent Roman Catholic)--strolled into Sacheverell’s rooms, saw the picture, paled slightly and then asked him what it was all about.

Sacheverell said something about ‘line.’

And then the don let go. ‘Line,’ he said, was the excuse for every rotten piece of work produced by modern artists. If a leg was out of drawing, or a face obviously impossible, if the whole design was grotesque and ridiculous, the excuse was always ‘line.’ And he stamped out of the room leaving untouched the very excellent lunch which Sacheverell had prepared for him.

But Sacheverell stood his ground in all his conflicts with the authorities. At the end of every term a terrible ordeal takes place known as ‘collections,’ or more colloquially, ‘collecers,’ which consists of an examination on the work done during term. When Sacheverell came up for his viva voce, he was greeted with black faces and remarks of that strange and curdled quality which, in academicians, passes for sarcasm. ‘As it is obviously superfluous to comment on your knowledge--which is non-existent--we are only left with your style, Mr. Sitwell,’ said one of the examiners. ‘You appear to write very much in the manner of Ouida.’

‘That,’ remarked Sacheverell calmly, ‘is my aim.’

I am not surprised that Sacheverell describes himself in _Who’s Who_ as ‘Educated Eton College, Balliol College, Oxford. Mainly self-educated.’

Osbert, Sacheverell’s brother, is the wittiest of God’s creatures--(forgive me, Osbert, for that expression)--whom I have ever met. He has infused even more wit than Sacheverell into _Who’s Who_--that badly constructed work of fiction. As far as I know, the editor of _Who’s Who_ is not aware of the pranks which Osbert has played in the 1925 edition. May I enlighten him?

Take first that wonderful phrase ‘Fought in Flanders and farmed with father.’ One day I am going to write a beautiful fugue in F to accompany that phrase, but at the moment it is only necessary to call attention to the source from which it sprang. For that, you must cast your eye to the preceding paragraph, which is devoted to Osbert’s papa. There you will read: ‘Being unfit for service, farmed over 2,000 acres, producing great quantities of wheat and potatoes.’

Take again ‘Founded Rememba Bomba League in 1924.’ It sounds so exactly like the sort of thing which most of those who appear in _Who’s Who_ would do. There is no such organization as the ‘Rem....’ No, I won’t be quite as obvious as that. But I might explain that the telegraphic address ‘Pauperloo,’ which appears at the bottom of the paragraph, being interpreted, means ‘Pauper Lunatic Asylum.’

‘Deeply interested in any manifestation of sport.’ One has a feeling that Osbert’s page has got muddled with that of Lord Lonsdale, or Dame (Clara) Butt. Until finally, one is informed that his recreations are: ‘Regretting the Bourbons, repartee, and Tu Quoque.’

Repartee, most certainly. I have laughed as much with Osbert as with anybody in the world. I shall never forget his reply to a certain publisher, who had been endeavouring, unsuccessfully, to shield the body of W. J. Turner from the darts of scorn which Osbert was aiming at it. ‘Personally,’ said the publisher (and when people begin with that word one always knows they have nothing to say), ‘personally, I find W. J. Turner rather a lovable person.’

Osbert put his head on one side and smiled. ‘I know what it is,’ he said, with an air of discovery, ‘you used to keep tadpoles.’

He once told me, with that perfect modesty which his enemies find so disarming, that he gave his superior authorities more trouble during the War than any other officer they had ever known. I suppose it _must_ have been a little trying to the colonel who came up to him and asked if he were fond of horses to be told ‘No. But I adore giraffes.’ And it must have been positively exasperating to the outraged military police to find him, an officer in the Grenadiers, carrying on an intimate conversation with a very private soldier in a very public place. Even worse, when at the subsequent cross-examination, the private soldier turned out to be Epstein (whose taste in birds differs so strangely from that of the British public).

He began a naughty movement during the War to urge that all those who had served in France and had no desire to serve again should first be voluntarily denationalized and then compulsorily deported. It never came to anything. But in spite of its failure, he survived, and still walks from time to time down the grey pavements of Piccadilly, negligently tripping up an occasional poetaster or Royal Academician who has the temerity to cross his path.

One more story. It is set on the said grey pavements, and Osbert was walking over them with another man who was staying with him. There came into sight a mutual acquaintance, whom we will call Lady C. Now Lady C. knew perfectly well that Osbert’s friend was staying with him, but she calmly ignored Osbert and said to the friend, ‘Do come and dine with me on Friday.’ The invitation was accepted. They passed on.

The day of the dinner arrived, and with it, a postcard from Lady C. on Osbert’s breakfast table saying, ‘I should be so glad if you would come and dine to-night as well as Mr. --’

This was too much. Osbert went grimly to the telephone.

‘Hullo? Is that Lady C.? I’m sorry, but I shan’t be able to dine to-night. But listen.... Will you lunch with me last Thursday?’

Yes--England needs its Sitwells.