Complete works of wilfre.., p.34
Complete Works of Wilfred Owen, page 34
Your Card — both sides of which gave me a special delight — came yesterday. What a fine sensation was produced by the ‘hope to hear what day to expect you’. Nevertheless I have seldom passed such agreeable days as these present. Dozens of interesting people defile before me. I spend my time ‘looking up’ friends in the town and studying French Literature. If Harold has left, I suppose you will have opened his letter and learnt that I am fixed here until Oct. 7. as Madame leaves Havre by the Chicago on the 12th. I have only one pupil at present. I have answered advertisements in Schoolmaster. French Master wanted temporarily in Birkenhead. I wonder if Father could call at Town Hall, & see Sec.
R. T. Jones? Also in Chester, apply to Lovell, Educ. Off., Town Hall.
I won’t think of coining by Havre then. Do you know Gen. St. Nav. Co. to London is cheaper than Moss Line to L’pool. and I should prefer to land in London.
Do begin a course of Rest Cure to prepare yourself for my examination of your Health! Don’t worry. The Affair Léger is ‘settled’. Your own W
I’ve received the balance from Raoul.
To Susan Owen
Address your next letters till further notice:
Wednesday, 14 October 1914 — 12 Cours St. Louis, Bordeaux
My own Mother,
The reading of your letter this morning was quite emotioning for me.
You speak so cheerfully of yourself, you say such nice things about Harold; you tell me that dear Father approves of me yet, and will be glad — I hope gladdened — to see me; and you show me Colin, pale, and crumpled-up under Homework! I was so near booking my passage at the beginning of the week! But, all at once, three or four pupils turned up, and after all my exertions in turning’em up, I thought it a pity to turn’em down again.
One is a boy who began with me at Berlitz, and who interested me by his intelligence. We grew friendly, and it was at his home that I spent the evening of my 21st birthday. His parents are both schoolteachers.
His mother is one of the most genuine good-natured Frenchwomen existing. It was through her that I got three more pupils — girls who have done five years English already; but I haven’t seen them yet.
While I am still unsettled, this good lady, Madame Berthaud, has offered me a room; but as it is for the moment occupied by a wounded soldier, I may not be able to take advantage of it. For, you know, I must leave the Lems’ next Saturday. They have a young lad coming to lodge with them for a matter of some years. He is entering Raoul’s school; & the matter had been fixed up long ago with his wealthy parents. This youth, whom I have seen and liked, is going to receive English instruction from me, twice a week. I am glad of the excuse to leave here; for, though wondrous neat and clean, my room has no writing-table, no wardrobe, no drawers, and no armchair. The window looks on the streets, giving me advantages and annoyances. From six o’clock in the morning begins a thundering and a racketing of lorrywheels on the stone causeway; and a growl of barrels rolling, and a clank of iron-rods flopping: above all of which, like a clarion on a battlefield, resounds the braying of Sieur Lem’s ass! But the day is quieter, and at 4 o’clock I can look down on the children coming from a school close by, which never fails to make me tender and poetical. Poor children, these; for the quarter is poor but not low. Indéed I never see in France any scabby-haired, mud-stockinged arabs, hoarse of voice and hard of eye, such as breed in Liverpool muds, Birmingham cinders, and London fogsmoke.
In the Jardin Public, in the afternoon, gathers another type of youngsters: a great part of them are Parisians, and very chic. It has sometimes happened that when I have been reading there, a boy has stopped his hoop and come up to me, hat in hand, just in order to talk to me. These incidents give me hope that the Léger episodes have not taken the bloom off my innocency. I don’t think I told you I have an interesting ‘protégé’ who would cost me dear if I had any help to give him. Before I left for Bagnères I encountered at the Union Chrétienne a youth of 15.
The first thing he said to me was that he loved Song and Music above all things; and straightway began to sing! Now his eyes, and indeed his whole countenance were the most romantically beautiful I had ever beheld. So remembered him, and having his card, looked him up on my return. I found his house in a shabby quarter. And I found his household in tears and sighing. His father was dying. Some weeks before his employer had reduced his little pittance owing to the war. The good man was so upset, that he contracted jaundice and such complications as a result of his contrariety of spirit. Now he is dead. The mother is a good soul, all heart, and, as I have seen her, never out of tears. Arriving at the moment I did, she vows I was sent by the good God. I was indeed able to do some small services; and have now won her affection, even as her son has mine. She begs and implores me to be a Counsellor to her sons. ‘Oh, my dear young Sir! Give them your Advice: look after them: warn them: be their friend... Oh the poor, dears, left like this fatherless, oh! oh! oh!...”
And that was the moment when I began to realize better the seamy side of Madame Léger’s cap: if you understand me. Indeed, I hope you understand the rest of this incoherent effusion: for on reading it over I scarcely make much sense of it myself. But so long as I am as wise in policy as I have proved I can be, you will let me dream and scribble as idiotically as I like!
There was no mention of Mary in your last. I hope she is mentally alive: and should like some sign of it. Let her write soon!
Ever your loving (Wilfred
To Susan Owen
(Late) October 1914 Chez Veuve Martin, 31 rue Desfourniels, Bordeaux
Dearest of Mothers,
Your loving letters never end without a prayer for my happiness. Let mine begin with the assurance that they are answered: (I mean the prayers, not the letters.) If not greatly happier than I was this time last year, I am infinitely more comfortable. And the feeling that I am under obligations to no man, is as sweet as it is new. For the moment I have neither schoolmaster nor taskmaster, neither patron nor boss. I have slain — so far as I am concerned four tyrants: first, Timpany, who taxed his subjects with grievous work; next Lightbourn, a bullying boss; next Wigan, who essayed to dominate one’s entire being; next Aumont, unmercifully grinding, being goaded by avarice.
These men are not my enemies (except perhaps the last); but they are not the masters I feel called to serve. Indeed, though I look up and down the world, I see no man whom I could serve without a suffocated feeling of captivity. This may turn out fortunate after all....
For the moment, my decision to throw myself on the world and live by my wits, has proved happy. I confess that, when I wrote putting off my return, I knew only two certain pupils, who would have brought me in a revenue of eight francs a week! But the pain I had to put off seeing you yet a little while pricked me so that I did a rare thing, I made an effort. And now I have every expectation of prospering — in the manner of our old friend in the Tale of Two Cities, the husband of Lucie Manette, (forget his name) who gave lessons in Soho: and was offered the backward urchins of his friends to instruct. All my pupils are children, (thanks be); except the Viscount, who is nineteen. He is not the son of the General, but his nephew. I like him quite well; and shall finish by a friendship, I foresee. The Consul, who sent me round to these people, spoke of a sort of supervision of the young spark on my part:
Guide, — Philosopher, and — Friend sort of thing. His lordship is notably flighty, according to his aunt whom I interviewed first. Probably I showed too young for this business. Indeed I hinted I couldn’t be bothered with his morals unless well paid. So twice a week I resort to his room — on a fourth story — and give a two hour lesson which just covers my total expenses for that day (5f.) In virtue of this, I have taken a handsome room: twice the rent of the last. But as all rents have risen lately, the difference is less real. I spent a good part of three days, hunting for a den. I nearly put up in a garret, at 15 francs. The Lems found the hole: near them: in a poky lane, behind the docks: view of thousands of roofs. Attracted by the romance of a real garret with whitewashed walls and’ a prospect of chimney-stacks I actually went to engage it: but the proprietor being out, the Lems made up a bed for one night more; and next day I found it would be necessary for me to have a room to receive people. For that purpose my choice is well fitted: — fine old house — looking on a little square — out of reach of tram-noises, but two minutes from trams — my rooms form a corner — a great window each way — room well carpeted — four armchairs — Louis XV (genuine) bureau — Louis XV Wardrobe — second wardrobe with mirrors modern, Louis XVI, — bed and night-table to match — fine marble fireplace —
thirty (supportable) pictures — and — a piano, Out of tune, but with-out tone. A Dressing Room leads out of the Chamber: no lack of mirrors and shelves & cupboards — and even a gas-jet is fixed up for my hot-water. This window faces east as every dressing room should, and is blessed with a delightful morning sun. Suppose I help your imagination with a few lines —
The rest of the story is occupied by my widow-landlady, whose son is at the war. She takes care of me in a manner that would gratify you.
The good soul, for what reason I know not, often asks if my mother and father won’t come and stay with me: and as much as sends you the message that she would be glad to put you up. If only you had the energy to come over...!
I must run out now to a Lecture. Courses (free) are now started every evening in Raoul’s College. I get up early and couch me late; but between the arrangement of my room; my lessons; my visits on & by friends; my interesting books, I don’t seem to be able to succeed in Correspondence! But as for losing any modicum of desire to get home... what possessed you (to speak plainly) to pen that imagination???
Your very own, Wilfred I had Harold’s telegram: ‘Not Calling Rochelle’ before your P.C. I really think I should have started off to see him, and feel so disappointed.
To Susan Owen
Friday, 6 November 1914 — Bordeaux
My dearest Mother,
Many things of interest were to be found in your last envelopeful; but what most impressed me was the confession to perpetual headache.
It. gives to me as much uneasiness as it gives you unease. Such a state of things should be given its right name Disease, and should be treated as such. I know not what druggeries you are given, nor what semblances of rests you take, but if one thing more than another seems to me probable to clear your dear head of these distempers and infesting dreams, it would be a radical displacement of yourself, a voyage into France, bag-and-baggage into a new atmosphere, and a fresh mentality.
Suppose I returned here after Chistmas, would you come? Raoul has hinted something about your having certain intentions of staying with him! What is this, pray?
I have written a card to Oliver. But I don’t think I could bear to live in Cambridge except in one capacity alone... yet. However, let us hear all possible about it.
And so you say Talking fatigues you to the point of irritation. I suspect it is the Talk and the Talkers that are to blame. For me, I never took such pleasure in Conversation as at this present time. The French put such an astonishing intelligence and elegance into their Causeries, that these equal, and supplant even, Novel-Reading. I speak now of the French represented by Tailhade, and the friends of Monsieur Léger.
While, more’s the pity, I think of such English representatives of Conversation as old Mrs. Williams, waddling round to waste your afternoons; or else of that loud-protesting Protestant Miss Kent: or else of that meek handmaiden of the Lord, Mrs. Fordham, whispering prophecies, scandal, visions, prayers and shop-prices world-without-end.
If this gives you a headache I feel a wicked satisfaction to know it. It ought to. To think that you are in ear-shot of Mrs.... What commerce hast thou with these folk? I think with sorrow of your isolation in the human world. For upon my word, if you secretly deem that your sister-in-law is living an animal life, I secretly suspect your sister of vegetating. Who shall blame ‘em? The mineral state is perhaps the most preferable, after all.
But, like a Poet, thou hast thy own Creations to comfort thee, and may we, thy Works, follow thee with more consolations than the creations of art.
In any case you are less isolate than I.
I begin to suffer a hunger for Intimity. At bottom, it is that I ought to be in love anil am not. Though I have abundance of acquaintance, and a thousand times more friends here than in England, (since out of the Family, I have not one in England) I lack any touch of tenderness. I ache in soul, as my bones might ache after a night spent on a cold, stone floor.
You ask about my pulsations. Now, only today I had a severe attack of palpitation: this way: in a populous street suddenly I saw bearing down on me a hard, hunting-cruel Face: Aumont! His expression alone was enough to terrify, but when that expression was worn by the very eyes one wanted to avoid... For it was the face of Sherlock Holmes gone to the bad. There is one of my ‘neighbours’ whom I hate as myself.
There are not two: and that one is Maurice Aumont. One thing I may thank him for, and that is for providing me with a visual impression of the avaricious brothers in Isabella. But he didn’t recognize me, and no wonder, I am so much changed since the day of my emancipation.
And my nerves were soon after caressed by the meeting with no less than six other faces, which were all fair in their way, and kindling with smiles. One was Master Pierre Berthaud, who bore the aspect of ‘snatching a fearful joy’ (as Gray put it) in being out of bounds. He just had time to caution me not to remember having seen him in town, and vanished on his mysterious errand. Another was Thouverez, Colin’s non-correspondent; whom I have not seen for months.
I have to signal the loss of two pupils. The Viscount de Maud’huy is going to England this week. I had a note this morning telling me of this new plan, & in which he hopes to meet me over there. In reply I opened the bars of Mahim’s gates to him! For he is a fellow of some fellowship for me. My land-lady cut out the enclosed (punctuation sign) and begged me to send it to de Maud’huy ‘with felicitations’. Good soul. So I send it to you in case she find it in my waste-paper basket. Och! I forgot you may not make head or tail of it. How droll! I lose also the Russian Pupil, gone to Pau, travelling in the same carriage as my landlady who went down that day to see her soldier-son, ill in hospital.
I heard that Tailhade, together with Anatole France, is shouldering a rifle! Now I may be led into enlisting when I get home: so familiarise yourself with the idea! It is a sad sign if I do: for it means that I shall consider the continuation of my life of no use to England. And if once my fears are roused for the perpetuity and supremacy of my mothertongue, in the world — I would not hesitate, as I hesitate now — to enlist.
To have the Photographs, so real and fresh, and naïf as they are, is a high pleasure for me. I think you look never so sweet. I like the attitude of Colin, and feel a special admiration for his Right Hand and there end my compliments. Mary is so stiff, though the self-effacement of the left-arm is characteristic enough (remainder missing)
To Susan Owen
Wednesday, 2 December (1914) — Bordeaux
My own dear Mother,
You must now know all about the sinking of the English coal-boat Prima off Cape Cantifer, and how the crew were given ten minutes to get off into a ‘whaleboat’; from which they were picked up by another collier.
I believe this is the third boat sunk in the Channel by German submarines. And I don’t know how many in the Atlantic. No wonder you disquiet yourself about Harold. I should look for nothing in the papers but Atlantic shipping news; if I wasn’t watching the Channel, and practising swimming exercises. Madame Léger, who meant to start back just at present, is not venturing yet.
Now what am I to do?
I have upset my digestion by imagining to myself that after all... after all and after so long, so very long, I shan’t, shan’t be with you for Christmas!
On Saturday I consulted my Insurance-Agent-pupil who was quite settled that the Irish Sea is mined; but that the Channel ought to be safe. So I passed a happy Sunday, saying to myself: ‘Three Weeks Today... etc.’ Then I got that fright; and everybody’s saying— ‘Of course, you won’t start now.’
I may.
I haven’t bought my ticket; but I have given notice to leave my Room. It isn’t, however, let, and I have asked for a few days grace.
I was considering going round to the Consul one afternoon (Monday) when I was handed a card from a Miss Patterson, sister of the Vice-
Consul, asking if I was ‘still at this address as a lady wishes someone to coach her nephews nr. Bordeaux.’ I trotted round to the Vice-Consul’s rooms yesterday. Found them ‘having tea’ brother and sister together: as English as English could be. She a lengthy, young lady, neck as long as a lamp-post, blond-hair, blond as dead palm-leaves. (I am sorry to say it but Miss Patterson is ridiculously English). She gives lessons of some sort to these kids, of which there are four. They were born in China where their father remains. The aunt who takes charge of them said by the Pattersons to be a ‘charming Irish woman, of old family’ is not satisfied with the education of the two elder boys who are at some Bx. School, and very much wants an Englishman to take them in hand.
That was all Patterson could tell me. So this afternoon I took the tram that carries one to Mérignac in some twenty minutes. I arrived at nightfall at ‘the Chalet’. I found Miss de la Touche (the Aunt) out. Two boys of ten or nine were there, English thoroughbreds. We debated a bit as to when I should come again: till finally I was led by the Bonne to ‘Mademoiselle’ whoever she may be. ‘Mademoiselle’ was lying in bed, being infirm and after a few apologetic words in French, addressed me in un-English English. I am no wiser about the nature of the lessons, or the number, or the terms; but, although, the people are not apparently rich, they will have to make it jolly advantageous for me, if I stay for ‘em. And Miss Patterson says the boys are thick as all English boys:
