Siegfried Sassoon - The First Complete Biography of One of Our Greatest War Poets. John S Roberts

felt that I ought to set to work on a tremendous poem full of prophetic sublimity, spiritual aspiration, and human tragedy and that I needed to start my life all over again and give up everything except being noble and uplifting. I felt that my recent existence had been philistine and one-sided.

      The move to London, he hoped, would provide the antidote. If his poetry was to achieve anything, then contact with the world beyond the ‘sentinel pines’ on the Weald’s horizon was crucial. As an earnest of this fresh start he left all his books behind, taking only his Oxford Dictionary. On arriving in London he bought a folio of Gray’s poems. The rooms, modest in size, were situated at the noisy end of Gray’s Inn. This intrusive rumbling of traffic along Theobald’s Road did not deter Sassoon, as he had made clear to Marsh: ‘I shall certainly take the rooms, noise and all, I hope there will be noise of poetry in my head which will drown all other sounds.’

      Sincere, as he undoubtedly was, about making a fresh start, he failed to keep to a routine in his new surroundings which would facilitate the writing of vibrant verse. But it was a liberation. Theresa, though doubting the wisdom or necessity of the move, came to inspect the place. Her approval, if guarded, was another worry out of the way. Conscious of the need to be a man about town, Sassoon acquired the necessary symbols of rolled umbrella, a bowler and a top hat, together with full evening suit. The outward appearance, however, did little to rekindle the muse and, instead of being the poet, Sassoon became a tourist.

      Riding on the top of a London bus or walking nonchalantly through the streets, he filled his days with diversions. He was lonely. Marsh, busy with his political duties during the day and his social round in the evening, was rarely available. The Gosses were abroad and the expected social connections were non-existent. Wandering around London Zoo, Sassoon came unexpectedly on Helen Wirgman, herself as lonely as he felt. Their mutual situation, though unexpressed, provided the opportunity to renew their friendship with occasional concert and theatre visits, as well as Wirgie coming to tea in Raymond Buildings. Such visits could be a strain, as Wirgie was easily upset by an incautious remark or even an innocent one, but he always felt indebted to her and distressed by her circumstances.

      Norman Loder and some friends from the Atherstone descended on London to sell horses at Tattersalls, including one of Sassoon’s, which saddened him. Sauntering in St James’s he met his old housemaster from Marlborough, Mr Gould. Such encounters did nothing to alleviate his sense of isolation which was deepened when, on attending the theatre or a performance by the Russian Ballet, he envied the exuberant friendships of the young people as they set off from the theatre to some dinner-party. Beyond the detail is the portrait of Sassoon the outsider, uncertain, awkward. He had reverted to the diffidence that marked his arrival into the world of the public school; at 28 years of age, he was still on the defensive.

      Eddie Marsh invited him to breakfast with Rupert Brooke and W. H. Davies at Number 5, Raymond Buildings. Davies, loquacious but limited, was someone with whom Sassoon felt comfortable. His evocation of the countryside and gentle descriptions of the seasons were reminiscent of John Clare. Of the group of poets gathered under Eddie Marsh’s wing, Davies was the odd man out in terms of birth and breeding – Welsh, working-class and poor. In appearance he was dark, swarthy and unkempt, so different from the blond, blue-eyed Brooke, who dressed with studied casualness. Davies was flannel but Brooke was gossamer. Sassoon liked Davies; his admiration he reserved for the younger poet in whose presence he felt a sense of inadequacy and underachievement. He had read Brooke’s work without understanding it: ‘My unagile intellect was confused by his metaphysical cleverness.’ Brooke was a successful poet, confident of his talent and self-possessed. He had travelled, garnered experience, involved himself in politics, while Sassoon had buried himself in rural Kent and struggled. Brooke’s knowledge and assessment of other poets were expressed with assurance, while Sassoon had to grope around for something to say. Creating a right and good impression was all-important to Sassoon. On taking his leave, descending the staircase to the echo of the clicking lock, he knew what a feeble impression he had left on Brooke. ‘When bidding me goodbye his demeanour implied that as far as he was concerned there was no apparent reason why we should ever meet again. He may even have breathed a sigh of relief at having got rid of me at last.’

      Walking the short distance to his own rooms, Sassoon contemplated another situation which he found difficult to handle – his financial affairs. The cost of renting and decorating the rooms, together with other impetuous expenditure, had resulted in a significant overdraft. Mr Lousada once again shook his head in both disapproval and refusal of further advances of the quarterly allowance. Sassoon, only halfway through the year, was reconsidering his man-about-town adventure. Dire though the situation was, it did not deter him from buying tickets to hear Chaliapin and the Russian Opera. He did make the concession of opting for the upper gallery, but on the two occasions Helen Wirgman accompanied him, he booked the grand circle. ‘These operas were a romantic discovery which appealed to my imagination more than any dramatic performance I had hitherto experienced.’ Thus he consoled himself as he took the enforced return journey to Weirleigh.

      He was despondent that money, or the lack of it, had curtailed his new, if undirected existence. While he lived free of charge at Weirleigh, the financial position would recover but the recovery of poetic inspiration seemed a forlorn hope. Meanwhile he played the music of the Russian Opera on the piano and revelled in the memory. The reverie was only disturbed by the constant talk and newspaper reports of war with Germany. In the last days of July rumours strengthened and people prepared for mobilisation. If war came and if, as the reports said, volunteers would be needed to swell the ranks, Sassoon was prepared to enlist. Although only half-believing that war, even at that late stage, was a possibility, he took a medical test and waited. Returning from a cycling trip to Rye, he ruminated on the beauty of the Weald, the place of his childhood imaginings and sporting adventures. What did all this have to do with war, he pondered. And what kind of war would it be? Would the Germans come marching down the Hastings road as the Normans had done in 1066?

      Lit by departing day was the length and breadth of the Weald, and the message of those friendly miles was a single chord of emotion vibrating backward across the years to my earliest rememberings. Uplifted by this awareness, I knew that here was something deeply loved, something which the unmeasurable timelessness of childhood had made my own. The years of my youth were going down for ever in the weltering, western gold, and the future would take me far from that sunset-embered horizon. Beyond the night was my new beginning. The Weald had been the world of my youngness, and while I gazed across it now I felt prepared to do whatever I could to defend it. And after all, dying for one’s native land was believed to be the most glorious thing one could possibly do!