Hanover Browsing
David Garnett's Compilation of the Letters of Lawrence of Arabia Reveals a "Unique Personality and a Born Romantic"
BY FAR the most enthralling book I have read since I last wrote is The Letters of T. E. Lawrence ofArabia, edited by David Garnett, and published by Jonathan Cape, Lawrence's London publishers. (The American edition will be published in early March by Doubleday, Doran.) Mr. Garnett has compiled letters which fill nearly 900 pages. These begin when Lawrence was a young archaeologist and end with a telegram he sent to Henry Williamson. This telegram was the last thing he wrote, for a few minutes later he was fatally injured. This was in May 1935.
It is quite true that Lawrence remains an enigma. It is also true that these letters reveal him better than anything else that he ever wrote. He was not like other men; that is, not quite like them. Instead of making a million dollars from the fame acquired in the Arab Revolt he never made a cent from it. Such a procedure is unheard of. Was it a pose? Some thought so. I prefer to give Lawrence the benefit of the doubt. He was a man of principle, and sometimes his principles took odd turns. For many years after the War he was content to earn less than a dollar a day from the British Army (the King's shilling), and he hid his identity under other names such as Ross and Shaw. He contemplated taking the job of a night watchman after his discharge from the air force. He did not choose to take the path that Lindbergh took. Many men hate the strange, and Lawrence has always had his detractors. After reading most every- thing about him; after reading all that he has written; after talking to some of his friends (Edward Garnett, C. E. Green- wood, Henry Williamson, and Cunninghame Graham): I have come to the conclusion that he was the one authentic genius to emerge from the First World War. Everything points to this: his ability as a military strategist; his eccentric character; his knowledge; his ability as a writer; his enigmatic, twisted and convoluted personality.
In spite of his hiding away Lawrence was quite conscious of his position in contemporary English history. He is described by a lot who knew him as impish. A Puck in uniform. He was on intimate terms with the great and the near great. Closest perhaps to D. G. Hogarth, Charles M. Doughty, E. M. Forster, Edward Garnett, Thomas Hardy, Frederick Manning; but he also hobnobbed with Lady Astor, Bernard Shaw, Sir this and Lord that. All the time he was a private in the rear ranks. It didn't make sense and doesn't to-day. Consequently he embarrassed the War Office, the officers of the R. A. F., as well as all the Colonel Blimps who are always writing letters to the Times.
He was an astute literary critic. He was this because he had a fine mind, was discriminating, had taste plus a classical back- ground. In one of his letters I was amused to read, in describing my study of Cunninghame Graham, "It is a disappointing book. Anything about the old Don should have been written with swagger." And so on. I might say that a lot of books get the same treatment. He sweated over his own writing, and disparaged his master- piece Seven Pillars of Wisdom, not so much a book of history as a personal revelation to be compared with Rousseau's Confessions.
His translation of the Odyssey gives that old chestnut a life which is little short of electrical. There are some good letters to Bruce Rogers, who designed the book, in the volume under discussion. After doing the drab duties of the army camp Lawrence would lay in his bunk and translate a few more lines of the Odyssey. Was there ever such a private before?
There is also a great deal said in these letters about The Mint. This is his un- published book about the Royal Air Force. Once in the rooms of Edward Garnett in Chelsea, London, I read parts of this in Lawrence's original manuscript. Someday I hope to read it all. It will create a sensation when published though not for reasons commonly given.
Lack of space cuts off further comment but I cannot recommend this book with- out using too many superlatives. I can only say you will miss a great deal of illuminating history, you will miss the revelation of a unique personality, a born romantic, if you pass it by. I shall re-read it as soon as possible.
The English critics and the English reading public made a great rumpus over T. E. White's The Sword in the Stone, Putnam's, New York. The American publicand critics were more circumspect about the book. It deals with a mythical English kingdom before King Arthur took over the throne of England. It is a pure fantasy wherein the leading character, through the wisdom of Merlin, becomes in turn a falcon, a fish, an owl, and so on, and who sees life through their eyes and brains. Robin Hood, witches, dragons, knights, animals, birds play their part, and the book has been compared to Alicein Wonderland and The Wind in theWillows. I think it can stand on its own feet. I enjoyed it thoroughly though I don't think it great. If you like it read Mr. White's previous volume: EnglandHave My Bones.
For fast American stuff: Read the longsleep, published by Knopf, and hailed by him as the successor to The Thin Man and The Postman Always Rings Twice. It is an excellent thriller.
William Faulkner's latest book deserves the adjective used by the cinemactor Mischa Auer in "You Can't Take It with You."
Bill Lyons '37 sent me an advance copy of an Australian novel entitled Salute toFreedom, by Eric Lowe, and published by Reynal and Hitchcock. This is one of the best novels I have read for a long time. It must be the best novel written by an Australian since Frederick Manning, of blessed memory, wrote The Middle Partsof Fortune (of which T. E. Lawrence has a good deal to say in his letters). Mr. Lowe's novel gives a powerful description of life on an Australian cattle ranch be- fore, during, and after the War. There is a brief description of the Australian forces in Egypt and at Gallipoli, and the book ends with the death of the hero in Spain before the Rebels' executioner's machine guns. The book is the life story of Robin Stewart from 1902 to our own day. It is a book for men. There are descriptions of hunting, cattle ranching, polo playing, war, mountain climbing, love making, and so on. Hundred of Australian types flit through the pages. The book has a be- ginning, middle, and an end. Its unity is preserved through the life of the central character who deserved a better fate than to be shot down by Italian machine guns in Spain, but his dying gesture, which many of us may yet have to make, is a salute to freedom, without which men shrivel up and die. Strongly recommended.
Dorothea Orr, wife of Paul Bowerman 'l9, has written a most charming, and elucidating book about a little-known corner of Europe: Jugoslavia. After reading it I felt I knew a lot more about the intrigues of the Croats and the Slovenes, and of the sinister atmosphere which pervades those countries now darkened by the shadow of Italy or Germany. Not only do I feel like thanking God for the Atlantic Ocean, but I am also willing to dig into my jeans for $1.98 toward a bigger and better American navy and air force. I am afraid that for awhile I shall be on the side Of the jingoists. I do not want to share the fate of the rabbit before the kindly, lying eyes of the boa constrictor. Miss Orr's book was published by Funk and Wagnall's in 1936.
Through the kindness of Paul Sample '2O, Resident Artist, I got a beautifully printed little book entitled Cantigny: ACorner of the War, by Captain Jeremiah M. Evarts, formerly of Windsor, Vermont. This is privately printed and probably is difficult to obtain, but it fits in beautifully with my war collection. General Bullard writes of this (and accurately): "A moving, vivid, true picture of what men feel, how they act, what passes in their minds and hearts, living, fighting and dying in the trenches in the most awful war of all time." (The War of 1914-1918.) Mr. Evarts commanded the Fourth Platoon, "E" Company, 18th Infantry, of the First Division, and describes here some of the incidents of the American's attack on Cantigny during April and May, 1918. The short stories are simply and artlessly done, and herein lies their strength. It is unfortunate, I think, that a wider public will not know these stories. It is possible that Mr. Evarts felt too personally about them to spray them before the eyes of all. I can understand his feelings.
Hester Pine in Beer for the Kitten (Farrar and Rinehart) has tried to write a smart novel about a small college faculty. As far as I'm concerned she misses fire badly, and Quincy College (which has a graduating class of 140) has little resemblance to any college that I happen to know, and I have known three fairly in- timately. She is too smart for her own good, and the novel lacks interest, is practically pointless, and the people are little more than caricatures. Sex, of course, rears its charming head.
PROFESSOR OF COMPARATIVE LITERATURE
