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!
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