Deer by John Drinkwater

It feels like it happened to someone else now, but just before the lockdown started I had a temporary job. To get there, I took a train down a rural railway line, a sort of reverse commute, if you like, going away from town.

I was sitting in a modern electric train yet passing through countryside that couldn’t have changed too much since the line was built over one hundred years ago.

Every morning in the pale March sunshine, I saw scenes that reminded me of the paintings of Eric Ravilious. Where was that rusting water tank on a muddy track? Where exactly was that row of ancient cottages, or those fields accessible only by footpath? I made a mental note to look on the map and visit them one day.

I saw kestrels and buzzards flying over fields that were full of rabbits and pheasants. There were sheep, horses and, to my great surprise, deer. Did someone own these creatures, or were they wild? One evening, I saw a lone deer exploring the woods on the bank of a narrow river, and I decided they must be wild.

That brings me rather neatly to the poem below. John Drinkwater (1882-1937) was one of the group of poets who lived in or visited the Gloucestershire village of Dymock in the years just before the first world war. Others included Rupert Brooke and Edward Thomas. I don’t know exactly when this poem was written, but it does capture rather well what I felt when I saw the deer.

 

Deer by John Drinkwater  

Shy in their herding dwell the fallow deer.
They are spirits of wild sense. Nobody near
Comes upon their pastures. There a life they live,
Of sufficient beauty, phantom, fugitive,
Treading as in jungles free leopards do,
Printless as evelight, instant as dew.
The great kine* are patient, and home-coming sheep
Know our bidding. The fallow deer keep
Delicate and far their counsels wild,
Never to be folded reconciled
To the spoiling hand as the poor flocks are;
Lightfoot, and swift, and unfamiliar,
These you may not hinder, unconfined
Beautiful flocks of the mind.

 

*old word for cattle

 

 

 

 

Madam Life’s a Piece in Bloom by W E Henley

I have to apologise for the lack of posts recently. I’ve been in hospital having some rather serious surgery. Face masks all round, no visitors,  and Covid swab tests; it’s hardly surprising that the poem below popped into my mind. W E Henley wrote this in 1877. His Invictus is probably better known today, but I prefer this one. After all, we’ve all been trying to avoid meeting the ruffian on the stair recently, haven’t we.

 

Madam Life’s a Piece in Bloom by W E Henley

Madam Life’s a piece in bloom
Death goes dogging everywhere:
She’s the tenant of the room,
He’s the ruffian on the stair.

You shall see her as a friend,
You shall bilk him once or twice;
But he’ll trap you in the end,
And he’ll stick you for her price.

With his kneebones at your chest,
And his knuckles in your throat,
You would reason — plead — protest!
Clutching at her petticoat;

But she’s heard it all before,
Well she knows you’ve had your fun,
Gingerly she gains the door,
And your little job is done.

 

The Duel by Joseph Conrad

It really has turned into the summer of Conrad for me, as anyone who has read some of my earlier posts will know. I have greatly enjoyed re-discovering his writing. This one is another old friend, that I first read many years ago.

The Duel is one of Conrad’s novella-length works. It was first published in 1908 and is based on a real-life story of two officers in Napoleon’s army who fought a series of duels with each other over a period of many years.

In Conrad’s story, this mutual antagonism begins over a trivial incident when D’Hubert and Feraud are young lieutenants, and goes on for years, with the origin of the quarrel long since forgotten. Outsiders believe there must be some terrible enmity between them, that perhaps they fell out over a woman. It only ends when both men are retired generals.

This covers a longer period of time and is also told in a more conventional manner than many Conrad works. It is a linear narrative with none of the time shifts for which he is famous. It is mostly seen from the point of view of one character, D’Hubert.

It’s plain from the opening sentence that Conrad intended this to be rather more than just the story of the two main characters. “Napoleon the First, whose career had the quality of a dual against the whole of Europe, disliked duelling between the officers of his army.”

The tale of the long association of these two men becomes nothing less than the story of the rise and fall of Napoleon’s France, a picture of the era, its politics and its military attitudes. The two men “pursued their private contest through the years of universal carnage”.

These two soldiers fight campaigns all over Europe, and experience the harshness and brutality of the retreat from Moscow, described here in detail. Yet there is a sense in which their relationship as opponents somehow benefits them. The code of honour says that a duel can only be fought between those of the same rank, so as one of them climbs the ladder of promotion the other is inspired to follow him.

The defeat of Napoleon brings great changes. The plight of the cashiered ex-soldiers, the “living wreckage of Napoleonic tempest” who now languish on inadequate pensions is quite poignant. Feraud does not know what to do: “No longer in the army! He felt suddenly a stranger to the earth like a disembodied spirit. It was impossible to exist.”

But D’Hubert seems to regret this changed state of affairs, too. “He felt an irrational tenderness toward his old adversary, and appreciated emotionally the murderous absurdity their encounter had introduced into his life. It was like an additional pinch of spice in a hot dish.”

By the end the reader may think that this strange relationship was the most important of their lives to both men. Is than an echo here of that other Conrad “double” story, The Secret Sharer?

This story was originally called The Duel, but was later also published as The Point of Honour. The 1977 film adaptation used the title The Duellists. It is a very fine film, Ridley Scott’s first as director, with marvellous photography of the French countryside.

 

Victory by Joseph Conrad

Victory was one of Joseph Conrad’s later works, published in 1915. I can’t pretend to fully understand this complex novel. It’s not the easiest read, and yet it fascinates me for several reasons and I’ve read it more than once.

There is the resemblance to Shakespeare’s Tempest for one, although by the end the stage is littered with bodies more like Hamlet. Indeed, we might see the main character as a rather Hamlet-like figure.

The story is really fairly straightforward, but the telling of it is not, with the time shifts and changes of point of view characteristic of Conrad.

As so often with this writer, the title is ambiguous and possibly ironic; readers must decide for themselves who the winner is.

We are in Conrad’s familiar territory of the Malay Archipeligo. Axel Heyst has withdrawn from the world to live alone on the island of Samburan. His outlook on life has been influenced by his philosopher father. Heyst has drifted through life, believing that the only way to avoid doing harm is to avoid taking any action at all: “The world is a bad dog. It will bite you if you give it a chance; but I think here we can safely defy the fates.”

The world bites back in the form of three of the nastiest villains in literature, who come to Heyst’s island intending to relieve him of the fortune that they believe he has hidden there.

This has been brought about by two actions of Heyst’s that were well-intentioned. He rescued Morrison from financial ruin and became his business partner. Morrison, however, died on a visit back to England. Then, when visiting the hotel on a neighbouring island owned by Schomberg, Heyst rescued a young woman, Alma, from a life of near-slavery as a member of a travelling orchestra, and took her to live with him on the island.

Schomberg coveted Alma for himself, so he now dislikes Heyst intensely. He is in any case, a gossip and teller of tales, who has been spreading the story that Heyst murdered Morrison and stole his money. The nefarious trio of Mr Jones, Martin Ricardo and Pedro turn up at his hotel and thoroughly frighten him, so he persuades them that Heyst is sitting on a fortune to get rid of them.

The world bites back in the form of three of the nastiest villains in literature, who come to Heyst’s island intending to relieve him of the fortune that they believe he has hidden there.

This has been brought about by two actions of Heyst’s that were well-intentioned. He rescued Morrison from financial ruin and became his business partner. Morrison, however, died on a visit back to England. Then, when visiting the hotel on a neighbouring island owned by Schomberg, Heyst rescued a young woman, Alma, from a life of near-slavery as a member of a travelling orchestra, and took her to live with him on the island.

Schomberg coveted Alma for himself, so he now dislikes Heyst intensely. He is in any case, a gossip and teller of tales, who has been spreading the story that Heyst murdered Morrison and stole his money. The nefarious trio of Mr Jones, Martin Ricardo and Pedro turn up at his hotel and thoroughly frighten him, so he persuades them that Heyst is sitting on a fortune to get rid of them.

When they arrive on the island, Heyst’s position is complicated by the fact that his Chinese housekeeper, Wang vanishes to the far side of the island, taking Heyst’s gun with him.

The stage is now set for the drama of the later part of the novel, which takes place in an intense, dreamlike atmosphere, under the shadow of the nearby live volcano sputtering on the horizon.

It is the trio of villains who make this novel so compelling. The “gentleman” Mr Jones, is tall and emaciated, with a face like a skull and a hollow voice. He is subject to strange depressive fits and bears more than a passing resemblance to Mr Kurtz from Heart of Darkness. His henchman is Martin Ricardo, repeatedly described as catlike, an unrestrained killer, with a knife concealed under the leg of his trousers. The third is Pedro, a hardly human, Caliban-like figure, treated like an animal by the other two. Heyst says: “Here they are before you, evil intelligence, instinctive savagery, arm in arm. The brute force is at the back.”

For me, Ricardo is the most interesting and vital character in the book. His twisted mind and the strange relationship that he has with Mr Jones feels quite modern. Jones hates women and it is Ricardo’s longing for Alma that causes them to fall out. This aspect of the novel anticipates the later psychological crime fiction of writers such as Graham Greene and Patricia Highsmith.

Indeed, Greene used Heyst’s words from Victory as the epigraph to his 1978 cold war spy story, The Human Factor. “I only know that he who forms a tie is lost. The germ of corruption has entered his soul.”

Read now, Victory feels like the inspiration for a lot of later writing and one of Conrad’s most influential works.

Battle of Britain by C Day Lewis

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The skies over South East England have been quieter and emptier than we are used to of late. Eighty years ago they were full of warplanes as the Battle of Britain began.

This poem was written in 1970 by the then poet laureate, Cecil Day Lewis, for the thirtieth anniversary.

The big-budget cinematic re-enactment of the battle was released around that time, and if my memory is correct, this poem was printed in the programme for the film.

I like the way the narrator of the poem is a witness to the real events, speaking to someone younger for whom they are history. It deserves to be better known, I think.

 

Battle of Britain by C Day Lewis

What did we earth-bound make of it? A tangle
Of vapour trails, a vertiginously high
Swarming of midges, at most a fiery angel
Hurled out of heaven, was all we could descry.

How could we know the agony and pride
That scrawled those fading signatures up there,
And the cool expertise of those who died
Or lived through that delirium of the air?

Grounded on history now, we re-enact
Such lives, such deaths. Time, laughing out of court
The newspaper heroics and the faked
Statistics, leaves us only to record

What was, what might have been: fighter and bomber,
The tilting sky, tense moves and counterings;
Those who outlived that legendary summer;
Those who went down, its sunlight on their wings.

And you, unborn then, what will you make of it—
This shadow-play of battles long ago?
Be sure of this: they pushed to the uttermost limit
Their luck, skill, nerve. And they were young like you.

 

 

 

Ha’nacker Mill by Hilaire Belloc

I knew who Belloc was, but I did not know much about him. One of the giants of Edwardian writing and friend of G K Chesterton. I was familiar with Cautionary Tales for Children, of course, perhaps his most famous work today. And then there is that poem The South Country, with its repeated references to “the men who were boys when I was a boy”.

But it wasn’t until I saw a television programme about writers in Sussex that I began to realise the depth of Belloc’s attachment to the Sussex countryside over many years.

That led me to the poem below, from 1923. The ruined windmill and the desolate field suggest the end of a rural way of life that was coming to a close at that time. It’s a lament, really, and a poem that needs to be heard to get the full effect.

 

Ha’nacker Mill by Hilaire Belloc 

Sally is gone that was so kindly,
Sally is gone from Ha’nacker Hill.
And the Briar grows ever since then so blindly
And ever since then the clapper is still. . .
And the sweeps have fallen from Ha’nacker Mill.

Ha’nacker Hill is in Desolation:
Ruin a-top and a field unploughed.
And Spirits that call on a fallen nation,
Spirits that loved her calling aloud,
Spirits abroad in a windy cloud.

Spirits that call and no one answers;
Ha’nacker’s down and England’s done.
Wind and Thistle for pipe and dancers,
And never a ploughman under the Sun.
Never a ploughman. Never a one.

 

 

 

The Secret Trilogy by John Gardner

John Gardner is mainly remembered today for his series of James Bond continuation novels, published between 1981 and 1996, but he wrote many other espionage stories. The Railton family saga is a trilogy of long novels. They are The Secret Generations (1985), The Secret Houses (1988) and The Secret Families (1989). The family trade of the British Railtons and the American Farthings, to whom they are linked by marriage, is intelligence work.

On the back of the first volume there is a quote from Len Deighton, who says that this is the first book to combine a family saga with the history of British intelligence. This is interesting, because Deighton’s Berlin Game had been published in 1983, and was the first volume in his long sequence of novels involving Bernard Samson, which covers fairly similar territory. Who had the idea first? It may well be that Gardner was influenced not so much by Deighton as by Douglas Reeman. Badge of Glory by Reeman was published in 1982 and was the first in his sequence of Blackwood family novels, a family who all served in the Royal Marines. Gardner himself was an ex-marine.

The first volume makes more of the historical angle than the later ones do. Starting before the first world war, we see the origins of what became MI5, MI6 and GCHQ. The complex plot involves German spies in England and Ireland, as well as British spies in Germany, during the naval arms race of this time. In his London house, Giles Railton, the patriarch, has a den, from which he oversees the operations of his espionage network. There is a cabinet containing his huge collection of model soldiers from all eras, with which he replays the great battles of history. His son Caspar is badly wounded in the war. By the end we have learnt that not all the Railtons are loyal to Britain. Giles is revealed to have become a convert to communism, out of guilt at the advantages of the class he was born into. A postscript set in 1935 reveals that his son Ramillies, who went missing in Germany in the war, has become a Russian KGB officer.

The second volume moves forward in time and is set in the late 1940s and early 1950s. It is largely concerned with a retrospective investigation into the betrayal and rounding-up of a French resistance group during the second world war. This has some resemblance to the Klaus Barbie affair, although he is not mentioned by name. Caspar’s role in all this now comes into question. His nephew Donald Railton, known as Naldo, becomes a leading character. There is a lot of action on the streets of  early cold war Berlin, convincingly rendered.

We get the “origin story” of Herbie Kruger, who had already featured in another series of books by Gardner. Here, he is a streetwise young Berliner and keen student of English who is recruited by British intelligence. He is devoted to the works of Gustav Mahler. He is a significant character in the third book, too, by which time he has risen through the ranks and is based in London. We suspect that his colourful, not quite correct use of English might be a deliberate ruse to wind up his superiors.

The third volume, which starts in 1964, is perhaps the best. Caspar is now dead, but his connection to the Russian double agent known as “Alex” is under investigation, so once more Naldo must find out if his uncle was a traitor. Anthony Blunt features here, and “Alex” is the code name of the real-life Russian double agent Oleg Penkovsky.

If the first world war spy games of the first volume inevitably recall John Buchan and Somerset Maugham, the two later volumes read a bit like a slightly less realistic version of John Le Carré. It has to be said that Gardner did not really leave his own distinctive stamp on the genre. He was though a highly professional and competent thriller writer, with a polished prose style, a fertile imagination and a knack of fitting his plots to real world events. This was what made him such an inspired choice to step into Ian Fleming’s footsteps.

He had a knack for coming up with good “alternative history” ideas. Here, the Kennedy assassination is cleverly connected to the American role in the fall of the Vietnamese government, prior to the war there. In the first volume, he offers a quite plausible explanation as to why people with all the advantages, such as the Railtons, might have become traitors.

And the Railtons do have all the advantages. They are a landed family of long standing. Their connection with the world of spying goes way back. “They’re mentioned in the bloody history books. One of them was a go-between for Anthony Standen, Walsingham’s agent. Sixteenth-century stuff.”  They all share a fondness for quoting from Shakespeare.

By this third volume, the Railtons have begun to be disillusioned with the secret world. “Why do we do it, Naldo asked himself now. . .then was shocked to realise he was repeating one of his father’s comments on the trade. ’God knows why we do it. The politicians treat us like dirt; the military have trouble in believing us; the general public think of us as superannuated adventurers, while the novelists make a killing from presenting us as candyfloss killers’.”

His colleague Gus Keane is much clearer about his motives. “Ok, why do we do it? Because we believe in freedom of thought, of speech and of movement. Here we can criticise the government in public; here we can read what we like and more or less print and say what we like. Try doing that in a totalitarian state – Communist or Fascist.”

But for Naldo: “Everything my family has ever done has been devious. . . This whole bloody country makes you like that, and when we all become a sort of United States of Europe, we’ll be more devious than ever.”

The book ends in 1989 with the revelation that an IRA plot to attack the handover of Hong Kong to the Chinese has been foiled, bringing the whole story full circle.

The Belfry by Laurence Binyon

Like most people, I suppose, I knew Laurence Binyon for the famous lines from his 1914 poem For the Fallen: “They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old/Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn/At the going down of the sun and in the morning/We will remember them.”

The poem below is in a rather different vein and is completely new to me. I found it in Walter de la Mare’s wonderful anthology Come Hither, which has been a source of inspiration to me for some time now, as it’s full of exactly the sort of poetry I like. The Belfry is rather reminiscent of the style of de la Mare’s own poetry, I feel. It really comes to life if you read it aloud. I don’t know exactly when it was written.

I think it also appeals to me, partly because I too had the childhood experience of climbing up inside an ancient church tower.

 

The Belfry

Dark is the stair, and humid the old walls
Wherein it winds, on worn stones, up the tower.
Only by loophole chinks at intervals
Pierces the late glow of this August hour.

Two truant children climb the stairway dark,
With joined hands, half in glee and half in fear,
The boy mounts brisk, the girl hangs back to hark
If the gruff sexton their light footstep hear.

Dazzled at last they gain the belfry-room.
Barred rays through shutters hover across the floor
Dancing in dust; so fresh they come from gloom
That breathless they pause wondering at the door.

How hushed it is! What smell of timbers old
From cobwebbed beams! The warm light here and there
Edging a darkness, sleeps in pools of gold,
Or weaves fantastic shadows through the air.

How motionless the huge bell! Straight and stiff,
Ropes through the floor rise to the rafters dim.
The shadowy round of metal hangs, as if
No force could ever lift its gleamy rim.

A child’s awe, a child’s wonder, who shall trace
What dumb thoughts on its waxen softness write
In such a spell-brimmed, time-forgotten place,
Bright in that strangeness of approaching night?

As these two gaze, their fingers tighter press;
For suddenly the slow bell upward heaves
Its vast mouth, the cords quiver at the stress,
And ere the heart prepare, the ear receives

Full on its delicate sense the plangent stroke
Of violent, iron, reverberating sound.
As if the tower in all its stones awoke,
Deep echoes tremble, again in clangour drowned,

That starts without a whir of frighted wings
And holds these young hearts shaken, hushed, and thrilled,
Like frail reeds in a rushing stream, like strings
Of music, or like trees with tempest filled,

And rolls in wide waves out o’er the lone land,
Tone following tone toward the far-setting sun,
Till where in fields long-shadowed reapers stand
Bowed heads look up, and lo, the day is done. . . .

 

 

 

Fragile reputations

Some years ago, I bought a book by Eric Ambler in a secondhand bookshop in the Charing Cross Road. It was an American paperback and at the counter, the proprietor smiled approvingly and said “hard to get hold of these days, Ambler”.  He seemed to be a forgotten figure then, out of print and out of favour.

How times change. In 2009, Penguin started to re-issue his novels, the 1930s ones on which his reputation rests. Ambler went on writing into the 1970s, but none of his later books really made the same impact as the earlier ones. The covers featured black and white photos at first, but these were soon replaced with images that resembled the colourful travel posters of the inter-war years.

Ambler’s stories of a troubled Europe on the brink of war seemed to resonate again in the world of mass migration, Putin and Trump. They felt strangely contemporary as the world started to look less secure and settled than it had done. The passage of time brought them back into circulation and today you can read many favourable comments online. If anything, he has gone from being underrated to slightly overrated.

Compare this with the case of Angus Wilson. Angus who, you may ask. He wrote basically realistic novels of English social life with a touch of mordant humour. In the 1950s and 1960s, he was a big figure in the world of serious fiction, up there with Kingsley Amis and William Golding. He taught at the then new University of East Anglia, setting up the creative writing course there. By the 1970s though, his reputation was in decline.

A TV adaption of Anglo Saxon Attitudes, perhaps his best book, got his novels back into print, but they soon disappeared again. If he was remembered at all, it was as an awful warning of the fragility of a seemingly secure literary reputation. There was an idea that his name had been erased in some way by the rising popularity of the younger novelist, A N Wilson.

Can this be true? J G Farrell had the same initials as J G Ballard, yet no-one ever seemed to confuse them. Farrell died in 1979, and his three major novels of the decline of the British Empire have never been out of print. His reputation has grown steadily and The Singapore Grip is due on TV soon.

Perhaps it’s to do with a kind of clarity about what sort of books a writer’s works are, what we might call marketability, I suppose, that feeling that we know what we are in for. For example, if you were recommending Ambler to a friend, you could say something along the lines of “Graham Greeneish, film noirish, early spy fiction, the English Dashiell Hammett” and your friend might have an idea what to expect.

It’s rather more difficult to sum up the fiction of Angus Wilson in this way. and also difficult to imagine what changes in the world could create new interest in his writing.

It’s a tricky business, trying to second guess the ruthless test of time. When the biography of William Golding came out in 2009, the publishers felt the need to subtitle it “the man who wrote Lord of the Flies”. I would have thought that was a fact known to anyone who went to school in the UK after the year 1960, but perhaps not.

The Coombe by Edward Thomas

I don’t know what brought this one to mind again; perhaps walking in the woods, as I have done so often recently, listening to the birds singing. It’s one of Edward Thomas’ earliest poems, from 1914, I believe.

 

The Coombe

The Combe was ever dark, ancient and dark.
Its mouth is stopped with bramble, thorn, and briar;
And no one scrambles over the sliding chalk
By beech and yew and perishing juniper
Down the half precipices of its sides, with roots
And rabbit holes for steps. The sun of Winter,
The moon of Summer, and all the singing birds
Except the missel-thrush that loves juniper,
Are quite shut out. But far more ancient and dark
The Combe looks since they killed the badger there,
Dug him out and gave him to the hounds,
That most ancient Briton of English beasts.