By David F. Beer
Rupert Brooke
3 August 1887— 23 April 1915
Rupert Brooke as a New Officer |
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. Sonnet 5, 1914
Rupert Brooke should have died a different death.
He was
admired and loved by so many, idolized and adored for his poetry and good
looks, and often placed on a pedestal worthy of a Greek god. The Irish poet W
B. Yeats called him “the most handsome man in Britain". His poems published
under the title 1914 and Other Poems
included a photo of him with bare shoulders and flowing hair, designed to make
many a woman (and man) sigh. His six ‘1914’ sonnets, written a few months
before he died, included his best-known one, “The Soldier". This poem was read from the pulpit by Dean
Inge in St. Paul’s on Easter Sunday 1915, with the comment that “such
enthusiasm of a pure and elevated patriotism had never found a nobler expression". When both poem and comment were repeated in The
Times, Rupert Brooke’s image as Britain’s ideal handsome young warrior was
sealed. A week or so later he was dead.
To conform
to his image Brooke should have died heroically, perhaps leading his men in
overtaking an impossible enemy gun emplacement or as the last man standing as
their trench gave way to overwhelming odds. Instead, Rupert Brooke died on his
way to Gallipoli aboard a French hospital ship anchored off the island of
Skyros. He had been taken there from the transport ship Grantully Castle due to the severe swelling of an infected mosquito
bite on his lip, and the official cause of death was septicemia, or blood
poisoning. His friends buried him in an
olive grove on Skyros.
This tragic
but scarcely heroic death nevertheless not only brought grief and mourning to
his many admirers, but also gave birth to a mythos which quickly grew up around
Rupert Brooke. His early wartime poems were found to express exactly what the
public wanted to hear as the war began: idealism, patriotic fervor, and
romantic sacrifice. As the first of the war poets, Brooke was seen in the words
of Bernard Bergonzi, author of Heroes’
Twilight, as “a quintessential young Englishman; one of the fairest of the
nation’s sons; a ritual sacrifice offered as evidence of the justice of the
cause for which England fought”. (p. 41)
Brooke was born in 1887 into
a privileged family and was adored by his mother. He attended Rugby where he
became a head prefect and captain of the rugby team. At Cambridge University he
studied Classics and moved in intellectual circles. In spite of some active
homosexual leanings he became temporarily engaged to one woman and later had a
turbulent love affair with another. He was increasingly infatuated with
socialism and paganism, showed signs of some emotional instability, and on
occasion came close to a nervous breakdown. He became increasingly
narcissistic, even petulant, but his looks often saved him. One friend declared
of Brooke that “This is exactly what Adonis must have looked like in the eyes
of Aphrodite". He traveled to America and the South Seas and spent a year in
Germany trying to learn
German, but when war broke out in August 1914 he enlisted in the Royal Naval
Reserve and saw some brief action at Antwerp in October 1914. With the start of
the Gallipoli offensive he transferred to the Hood Battalion and was shipped
out. He died on St George’s Day, 23 April 23 1915.
His first
book of poems, simply entitled Poems, had
been published in London in 1911. Although
showing some promise, Brooke remained noted more for his good looks than for
his poetry. While in Germany however, in 1912, he wrote "The Old Vicarage,
Grantchester", which later became one of his best-known works. It’s a long poem
of a homesick exile which concludes with this couplet:
“Stands the Church clock at ten to three?
And is there honey still for tea?”
Apart from ‘Grantchester,’
much of Brooke’s poetry was considered somewhat lacking in skill and maturity.
He himself admitted that the five sonnets that finally gave him his fame were
“in the rough…five camp-children". Yet they were the opening poems in 1914 and Other Poems, published by his
friend Edward Marsh and rushed into
print a month after his death, eventually selling some 250,000 copies. The five
sonnets, which soon became famous, are as follows: 1. "Peace" (Now, God be thanked Who has
matched us with His hour); 2. "Safety" (Dear! Of all happy in the hour, most
blest); 3. "The Dead" (Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead); 4. "The Dead" (These hearts were woven of human joys and cares); and 5. "The Soldier"—quoted
in full above. All five are well worth reading, both for the sentiment
expressed and for an understanding of why Brooke was so popular and adored in
the opening months of the war. Had he lived longer and experienced some of the
horrors other war poets did, it’s likely that he would have come to see the war
as they did. A Rupert Brooke in 1918
might also have regretted the welcoming words he had written on the outbreak of
war in 1914:
Now God be thanked Who has matched us with his Hour,
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping… ("Peace" ll. 1-4)
The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke
was published in 1915,
with the sonnets finally in their rightful chronological position following his
early poems. The book was issued again in 1920, 1924, 1932, and as recently as
2008, with The Complete Poems of Rupert
Brooke appearing in 1932. Several excellent
biographies have been written, including Paul Delaney’s Fatal Glamour: The Life of Rupert Brooke, published in March of this year. As
with Diana, Princess of Wales, the legend still lives, and an active Rupert Brooke Society exists
in the UK (www.rupertbrooke.com). The society organizes
tours to Brooke’s grave on Skyros and to the old vicarage at Grantchester. Today they will be visiting Skyros.
Each soldier should have a poet assigned to them or perhaps a poet in each squad. That person, with words so appropriate for the time, would and could express the emotions that so many could not express. Just think how many less cases of Post traumatic stress could be avoided by just one or two conversations from and with the resident poet. What an ideal life soldiering could become.
ReplyDeleteIf Rupert Brooke had lived, and seen the sea stained red 100 yards out from W beach, there is no reason to think that his poetry would have been any less realistic than Wilfred Owens'. These are some of the last lines that he wrote:
ReplyDeleteI strayed about the deck, an hour, tonight
Under a cloudy moonless sky; and peeped
In at the windows, watched my friends at table,
Or playing cards, or standing in the doorway,
Or coming out into the darkness. Still,
No one could see me
I would have thought of them
Heedless, within a week of battle – in pity,
Pride in their strength and in the weight and firmness
And linked beauty of bodies, and pity that
This gay machine of splendour 'ld soon be broken,
Thought little of, pashed, scattered....
Only, always,
I could but see them – against the lamplight, pass
Like coloured shadows, thinner than filmy glass,
Slight bubbles, fainter than the wave's faint light,
That broke to phosphorous out in the night,
Perishing things and strange ghosts – soon to die
To other ghosts – this one, or that, or I.
April 1915.