> The audience>
>pricks an intellectual ear.>
>Stravinsky quite the concert of the year.>
>Forgetting now the hullabaloo they made,>
>the audience pricks an intellectual ear.>
>Bassoons begin,>
>sonority envelopes our auditory innocence,>
>and brings to me, I must admit,>
>some drift of things omnific, seminal, and adolescent.>
>Men in boaters, far from Henley,>
>girls in pink and blue taffeta.>
>In that long summer,>
>I hunted, played cricket, but only watched tennis.>
>God was in His heaven>
>and there were sausages for breakfast.>
>And in small recruiting offices,>
>dull young men wait to inscribe in paper quires,>
>the names of the living and the dead.>
Mr Sassoon.
Yes.
I'm Siegfried.
And I'm Hamo, younger brother.
And we've both come for our fitting.
Just so, sir.
I think we should start with the shirts.
You can't have your shirts too dark, sir.
Ah, war!> A la mode!>
> I never said goodbye to him.>
>On the idle hill of summer,>
>sleepy with the flow of streams,>
>far I hear the steady drummer,>
>drumming like a noise in dreams.>
>Far and near and low and louder,>
>on the roads of Earth go by,>
>dear to friends and food for powder,>
>soldiers marching, all to die.>
>East and west in fields forgotten>
>bleach the bones of comrades slain.>
>Lovely lads and dead and rotten.>
>None that go return again.>
>Far the calling bugles hollo,>
>high the screaming fife replies.>
>*** the files of scarlet follow:>
>Woman bore me, I will rise.>
I was anxious to know what you were suffering from.
It's only trench fever, nothing fatal,
just debilitating.
I dread everything now.
The telephone...
the telegram.
There's only one thing worse
than remaining in the past, Mother,
and that's begrudging the future.
The future, without either of my sons,
is to be dreaded, not enjoyed.
> I am writing you this private letter>
>with the greatest possible regret.>
>I must inform you that it is my intention>
>to refuse to perform any further military duties.>
>I am doing this as a protest>
>against the policy of the government>
>in prolonging the war>
>by failing to state their conditions for peace.>
>I have written a statement of my reasons,>
>of which I enclose a copy.>
>I am making this statement>
>as an act of wilful defiance of military authority>
>because I believe that the war>
>is being deliberately prolonged>
>by those who have the power to end it.>
>I am a soldier>
>convinced that I am acting on behalf of soldiers.>
>I believe that the war upon which I entered>
>as a war of defence and liberation>
>has now become a war of aggression and conquest.>
>I believe that the purpose for which I and my fellow soldiers>
>entered upon this war>
>should have been made so clearly stated>
>as to have made it impossible to change them.>
>And that had this been done, the objects that actuated us>
>would now be attainable by negotiation.>
>I have seen and endured the sufferings of the troops>
>and I can no longer be a party>
>to prolong these sufferings for ends>
>which I believe to be evil and unjust.>
>I am not protesting against the conduct of the war,>
>but against the political errors>
>and insincerities for which>
>the fighting men are being sacrificed.>
>On behalf of those who are suffering now,>
>I make this protest against the deception>
>which is being practised upon them.>
>Also, I believe it may help to destroy>
>the callous complacency>
>with which the majority of those at home>
>regard the continuance of agonies>
>which they do not share>
>and which they have not enough imagination to realize.>
I suppose this was your doing.
Yes, and Eddie Marsh.
I take this very ill, Robbie.
Why did you involve Marsh?
Because he's Principal Private Secretary to Winston Churchill
and he wanted to help.
He was instrumental in getting you
a Medical Board examination instead of a court martial.
If you were found guilty at a court martial,
you could be shot.
That was a risk I was prepared to take.
But there are those who care for you
and who were not.
A court martial would have been a platform
to state my opposition to the conduct of the war,
and you have prevented me doing so.
And not only for this> Times> article
but for my statement to be read out
on the floor of the House.
You've rendered me impotent, Robbie.
You've robbed me of my dignity.
Better that than a firing squad.
That is a matter of opinion.
Don't be angry with me, Siegfried.
My intentions were honourable.
>An old cowpoke went ridin' out>
>One dark and windy day>
>Upon a ridge he rested as he went along his way>
>When all at once, a mighty herd of red-eyed cows he saw>
>A-ploughing through the ragged skies>
>And up a cloudy draw>
>Yippee-yi-ay>
>Yippee-yi-oh>
>The ghost herd in the sky>
>Their brands were still on fire>
>And their hooves were made of steel>
>Their horns were black and shiny>
>And their hot breath he could feel>
>A bolt of fear went through him>
>As they thundered through the sky>
>For he saw the riders coming hard>
>And he heard their mournful cries>
>Yippee-yi-ay>
>Yippee-yi-oh>
>Ghost riders in the sky>
>As the riders loped on by him>
>He heard one call his name>
>If you wanna save your soul from hell>
>A-riding on our range>
>Then, cowboy change your ways today>
>Or with us you will ride>
>Trying to catch the devil's herd>
>Across these endless skies>
>Yippee-yi-ay>
>Yippee-yi-oh>
>Ghost riders in the sky>
>Yippee-yi-ay>
>Yippee-yi-oh>
I'm intrinsically against any kind of conversion.
It's too much like wishful thinking.
Besides, in a poet,
it seems to imply he has
nothing interesting left to say.
I said I was only thinking about it.
Surely you're not looking for God?
That's one way of putting it.
Well, speaking as one of the spiritually-undernourished,
if you find him, make sure he's still an Englishman,
doesn't live on the wrong side of the park.
I assume that was supposed to be amusing.
Why Catholicism, Father?
Something permanent,
unchanging.
You can get that from dressage but without the guilt.
There is no need to be snide.
If all you can do is ridicule,
it would be better if you remained silent.
Better still, go outside and wait in the car.
Well, it's a long drive back to London,
so the sooner we can get started, the better.
> Siegfried,>
>what do you ask of the Church of God?>
> Faith.>
> What does faith offer you?>
>Life everlasting.>
> If you then desire to enter into life,>
>keep the commandments.>
>"Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with thy whole heart>
>"and with thy whole soul and with thy whole mind.">
Siegfried, do you renounce Satan?
I do renounce him.
And all his works?
I do renounce him.
And all his pomps?
I do renounce him.
Receive this burning light
and keep thy baptism so as to be without blame.
Keep the commandments of God,
that when the Lord shall come to the nuptials,
thou mayest meet Him
together with all the Saints in the heavenly court,
and mayest thou have eternal life for ever and ever.
Siegfried, go in peace and the Lord be with you.
>The fool hath said in his heart there is no God.>
>You will be drawn up in your feelings>
>above understanding>
>to the radiance of divine darkness>
>that transcends all being.>
>Christ, receive my soul>
>and release me from the imprisonment of doubt.>
>And grant me peace.>
> I'm quite appalled by what you've done.>
>I can only hope your CO in Liverpool>
>will ignore your letter.>
>I'm terrified that you will be put under arrest.>
We read your statement, Lieutenant, with some alarm.
You may sit if you wish, Lieutenant.
Thank you, sir.
Why did you make it?
I wanted to state my position
regarding the conduct of the war.
It is not your place to question
how the war is being prosecuted.
Your duty lies in obeying orders.
Duty?
That word covers a multitude of sins.
In the face of such slaughter,
one cannot simply order one's conscience.
One can do better than that.
One can ignore it.
That reply was so disgraceful, you ought to be in politics.
That was impertinent, Lieutenant.
Are you pro-German?
No. I'm pro-human.
We are not here to discuss humanity,
that is religion's sphere of operations.
And what of morality?
Morality is a luxury
that we can only afford during peace time.
I would be very grateful if you would take
that offensive tone out of your voice.
Voices raised in anger only perpetuates war.
And passive resistance only invites defeat.
I simply cannot remain silent
in the face of such casualties.
Someone must, should be brought to book.
The casualties, young man,
are a matter for the Imperial General Staff.
And your statement, indeed your entire attitude,
is both offensive
and detrimental to military discipline.
My colleague is quite right.
It is not your place to question your superiors,
much less to imply that they are not honourable.
Perhaps, sir, if you, if any of you
were to visit the front,
then you might at least spare a thought
for the many bereaved families and the pain they suffer.
You are out of order, sir!
I thought that was the very reason
for my being brought before you.
This has gone far enough.
Yes, of course.
Yes, I agree.
Myself and my fellow officers
feel that your mind is still in chaos
and that you are unfit to be trusted with men's lives.
It is therefore the Board's decision
that you should be sent to a hospital
for nervous diseases in Scotland.
>We therefore order you to report immediately>
>to Craiglockhart, in Edinburgh.>
Good morning, Lieutenant.
You may leave your coat and luggage here.
A porter will take them up to your room.
> Name?>
>Sassoon, Siegfried.>
> Rank?>
>- Second Lieutenant. - Age?>
> 30.>
>Years of complete service?>
> Two years, eleven months.>
>Completed months>
>with Field Force?>
> Thirteen months.>
Disease?
I've had some sort of breakdown.
Nervous debility?
Yes, I believe that's what they call it.
Enter it as neurasthenia, Matron.
As we came in, sir, I noticed several men
with blue dots on their faces.
Morphine.
Morphine?
The dots denote that they've had their doses,
so that they are given no more until the appropriate time.
Who will be treating this man?
- Doctor Rivers. - Rivers' office is next door.
I think it would be polite if you introduced yourself.
Yes, sir.
And in your room,
you will find an armband.
It is to be worn at all times,
especially outside the hospital grounds.
It is to show that you are a serving soldier in hospital
and not a conscientious objector.
We wouldn't want you to be attacked
in Princes Street, now, would we?
Which arm shall I wear it on, sir?
The pleasure of that choice, Lieutenant,
is entirely yours.
Your room is on the upper floor
at the end of the corridor.
Dismissed.
Hmm?
Sassoon, Siegfried, Lieutenant.
Your burgeoning fame precedes you.
I enjoyed> The Old Huntsman >very much.
You may not know,
but we have a house magazine,> The Hydra.>
I'm sure it would welcome a contribution from you.
Well, I'll, erm,
try to write something light and amusing.
Oh, there's no need to go that far.
You have an appointment to see me at 10:30 in the morning.
Dear Mother,
have arrived in Dottyville.
Wish you were here.
Good morning, Doctor.
Good morning, Sassoon.
Please, sit down. We're quite relaxed here.
Although we do seem to go through
rather too many chief medical officers,
some are more flexible than others.
Then they're replaced by someone
who wants everything to be as taut as Aldershot.
Then they too are replaced.
And what's your persuasion?
Oh, I prefer a certain measure of laxity.
One can't be at attention forever,
it plays havoc with the nerves.
From the, er, little I know of your method of treatment here,
I understand that from whatever I say
you can deduce whether or not
my grandmother was a dipsomaniac.
Was she?
Alas, no, no.
Just a sweet sherry at Christmas and on birthdays.
Well done, your grandmother.
She didn't know what she wasn't missing.
Well, just tell me whatever it is you want me to do,
and I'll comply with your wishes.
It isn't a question of what I want.
It's a question of what you think you need.
Am I to start? Or do you?
Is there anything you feel you wish to say?
What I feel cannot be talked away or soothed into silence.
Why?
Too many have died.
Too much has been destroyed.
There can be an easement of pain.
A move towards acceptance.
Pain is not the only terror.
There are many more.
Can you name them?
If I could name them, they would cease to be terrors.
That's a very elegant way of avoiding an answer.
All evasions are elegant.
Think of politics.
I've always thought that politicians
were too stupid to be subtle.
Perhaps they're just too subtle to be inelegant.
Are you a good soldier?
Passable.
I was a poor marksman.
I never knew which eye to shut.
I understand you were awarded the MC.
Yes.
It's supposed to signify gallantry.
Bravery is only cowardice in extremis.
At the root of bravery lies terror
and the fear of fear.
But you were conspicuous by your courage.
Why did you discard the Military Cross?
Disgust at my own dwindling standards
and the men I felt I had betrayed.
It was nothing short of duplicity.
And yet the men under your command
held you in the highest esteem, I'm told.
And I them.
They seemed to me to be all
that was good and true in this world.
Are you searching for truth?
Isn't everyone?
And if you find it,
what then?
Peace of mind, contentment.
No longer yearning for what's been lost.
>Loveliest of trees>
>The cherry now>
>Is hung with bloom>
>Along the bough>
>And stands about>
>The woodland ride>
>Wearing white>
>For Eastertide>
Come in.
Lieutenant Sassoon?
Yes.
I'm Wilfred Owen.
There was howling last night.
Like a wolf.
Strictly speaking, wolves ululate.
But howling will do.
Now, don't make light of it like that, Doctor, please.
That isn't what I'm doing.
I'm merely keeping it in perspective.
I'm sorry if I sounded uncaring.
His screams were terrible.
Worse than an animal.
Such anguish in them.
Why do all the worst terrors come at night?
The night is, I think,
like the unconscious.
Waiting all day so that it can steal over you in the dark.
You make it sound almost benign.
Perhaps it is.
I believe Wilfred Owen
introduced himself to you the other day.
Yes.
He seems so gentle.
Feel rather protective of him.
Does that protectiveness hide something deeper?
Yes.
All my friendships do.
But I've never allowed my emotions to mar or spoil them,
I remain passive.
It's how I cope.
You never act on impulse?
No, never.
I'm unable to take risks.
It's the hero in me.
Why not?
Too afraid,
too inhibited.
Shamed by an inner corruption.
Or perhaps it's simply because of...
What's the phrase?
"The love that dare not speak its name."
You are not alone in that respect.
Frankly, Doctor, I'm surprised.
Why?
The world is full of anomalies.
Well, speaking as one anomaly to another,
how do you cope with the law?
I adopt a less than honest respect for it.
So evasion is not confined solely to second lieutenants?
No, it affects all ranks.
I trust after this disclosure, you will be discreet.
Discretion is my middle name.
Well, it's better than Ethel anyway.
One assumes these theatricals have some deeper purpose.
Well, sir, I think they help to give
some sort of ease away from the front line.
I doubt that.
Should the enemy perceive
that the British Army is always preparing for a tango,
the war is lost.
Besides, the spectacle of men
dancing with men is never palatable.
I had always thought such creatures
went into the library
with their service revolvers and did the decent thing.
And how is your treatment progressing, Lieutenant?
Oh, it has its unique moments, sir.
Well, let us hope these unique moments
coalesce enough to get you back to active service,
fighting fit, as it were.
Doesn't that rather depend, sir,
on what's fit to fight for?
But perhaps I'm just being syndromatic.
Or is that a lapsus linguae?
I beg your pardon?
Lapsus linguae, sir.
Slip of the tongue.
I know what it means, Lieutenant.
The rest of us may be unable
to read> Beowulf >in the original,
but we're not all complete Philistines.
Of course not, sir.
Carry on.
> Halitosis!>
>Halitosis!>
Your first poem in> Hydra.>
Long live the editor!
I am the editor.
Hooray for nepotism!
And what do you think of my verse, Siegfried?
It seemed a little too dependent
on 19th century models.
You make it sound like
>The Courtship of Miles Standish.>
Oh, God, no. Nothing's ever as bad as that.
But you do find my work derivative?
While I was at Clare,
I wasted far too much time reading Swinburne.
It was very bad for my adjectives.
You have to speak directly, not with another's voice.
Look, at first, everyone's work is derivative.
We all have to start somewhere.
At Cambridge, apart from Swinburne,
I did nothing except read William Morris in a punt
and staggered through> Maud.>
Perhaps, er, my latest effort
will please you.
It's called> Disabled.>
It's magnificent.
It pierces the heart.
What a gift you have.
I have been passed
by the Medical Board as fit for active service.
When do you rejoin your regiment?
December.
Just before Christmas.
Oh.
> There was I waiting at the church>
>Waiting at the church Waiting at the church>
>When I found he left me in the lurch>
>Lord, how it did upset me>
>All at once he sent me round a note>
>Here's the very note>
>This is what he wrote>
>"Can't get away to marry you today>
>"My wife won't let me">
>There was I>
>Waiting at the church>
>Waiting at the church Waiting at the church>
>When I found he left me in the lurch>
>Lord, how it did upset me>
>All at once he sent me round a note>
>Here's the very note>
>This is what he wrote>
>"Can't get away to marry you today>
>"My wife won't let me">
What is it, Siegfried?
Nothing.
Wilfred's about to return to duty.
I know.
What will you do?
Nothing.
I will not do anything to make the parting even more painful.
I'd give everything I possess
to have him stay just one more hour.
One more minute.
Quick to tears, slow to love.
You know, when I first met him,
he had a slight stammer.
And spoke, I thought, with a grammar school accent.
How could I be such a snob?
He really is a lovely man.
And I think the greater poet.
What about your poetry?
It's egotism, really.
That seems a little harsh.
Truth often is.
I have no idea why I come here.
It's really done no good at all, this.
Think of it as a cleansing of the soul.
Why do you have to put it so beautifully?
Will you stay just for a few more moments?
Yes.
Whenever you're ready, sir.
> Wilfred was killed>
>just a week before the war ended.>
>What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?>
>Only the monstrous anger of the guns.>
>Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle>
>can patter out their hasty orisons.>
>No mockeries for them from prayers or bells,>
>nor any voice of mourning,>
>save the choir's.>
>The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells>
>and bugles calling for them from sad shires.>
>What candles may be held to speed them all?>
>Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes>
>shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.>
>The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall,>
>their flowers, the tenderness of silent minds,>
>and each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.>
The woman posing, who appears to be wearing a spinnaker
is Lady Ottoline Morrell.
More hair than self-restraint, but definitely nobody's fool.
She looks as though
she hasn't heard a joke since the Boer War.
For Ottoline, the Boer War was the joke.
Ottoline.
May we pause for a moment, Dorothy,
-before rigor mortis sets in? -Of course, Ottoline.
Who is this extremely beautiful young man, Robbie?
Sassoon, Siegfried.
It sounds Wagnerian.
It's just Home Counties, I'm afraid.
So you are not a keeper of the flame at Bayreuth?
No, no, I'm afraid not.
What are your musical tastes then?
Er, Ravel, Albeniz, Chausson. Scriabin, if I must.
Cesar Franck, when I'm in the mood.
And Bartok?
Oh, no. Never Bartok, no.
His music always sounds to me
like a lunatic playing the xylophone.
Vice versa.
I once heard Paderewski play Bartok at Tunbridge Wells,
but I found it rather disappointing.
Well, what did you expect, Robbie?
It was Tunbridge Wells.
Come into the main house and have tea.
May I join you, Ottoline?
Of course. Dorothy,
you are not a servant, but an honourable.
Now come along, Mr Bassoon,
and tell me what you really have against Mr Bartok.
Not a great deal. I just don't like his music.
> Oh, a word into your shell-like,>
>she'll ask you to stay the night.>
>She always asks attractive young men to stay the night.>
>So lock your bedroom door>
>or wear something very, very severe.>
I thought that I might be more interesting than cocoa.
I'm afraid I prefer cocoa.
Sleep badly.
> ****ie. Curse the Wood! It's time to go.>
> O Christ, what's the good?>
>We'll never take it, and it's always raining.>
> They snipe like hell!>
>O ****ie, don't go out!>
> I fell asleep.>
>Next morning, he was dead.>
>And some slight wound lay smiling on the bed.>
Ivor Novello...
of> Keep The Home-Fires Burning >fame.
Hmm, yes.
That loathsome little tune.
Ah, he always writes at the top of his voice,
but we must try to be charitable.
Ah, Sybil, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.
Ragtime indeed.
Yes, I know.
But Mr Novello plays it so well, it's almost music.
Besides, at the moment, he's appearing in the West End
in a very successful play called> The Rat.>
I know.
Someone asked me if it was autobiographical,
but I said I wasn't sure.
One day, Robbie, you will go too far.
Oh, one day, Sybil, we will all go too far.
Thank you for coming, Mr Sassoon.
We're all very eager to hear your recitation.
Thank you, Lady Colefax.
Ladies and gentlemen, pray silence for
one of our greatest poets, Mr Siegfried Sassoon.
When I'm among a blaze of lights,
with tawdry music and cigars
and women dawdling through delights
and officers in ****tail bars,
sometimes I think of garden nights
and elm trees nodding at the stars.
I dream of a small fire-lit room.
Yellow candles burning straight,
and glowing pictures in the gloom,
and kindly books that hold me late.
Of things like these I choose to think
when I can never be alone.
And then someone says, "Another drink,"
and turns my living heart to stone.
Hmm.
Thank you, Mr Sassoon.
That was very touching.
We both thank you, Sybil,
and now go and rejoin Lady Cunard
before she starts launching something.
And to think he once played the triangle so beautifully.
What a waste.
> I seem to be the victim of a cruel jest>
>It dogs my footsteps with the girl I love the best>
>She's just the sweetest thing that I have ever known>
>And yet we never get the chance to be alone>
>My car will meet her and her mother comes, too>
>It's a two-seater Still her mother comes, too>
>At Ciro's when I am free at dinner, supper or tea>
>She loves to shimmy with me>
>And her mother does, too>
>We buy her trousseau And her mother comes, too>
>Asked not to do so Still her mother comes, too>
>She simply can't take a snub I go and sulk at the club>
>Then have a bath and a rub And her brother comes, too>
>To golf we started And her mother came, too>
>Three bags I carted>
>When her mother came, too>
>She fainted just off the tee>
>My darling whispered to me>
>"Jack dear, at last we are free">
>But her mother came, too>
He is considered very beautiful.
Look at those shoulders.
Yeah, and look at his.
Are we leaving, Ivor?
No, precious.
I'm anxious to meet our distinguished guest,
Mr Sassoon.
I'm eager to have your advice on my next musical.
I'm thinking of writing in terza rima.
That's near Naples, isn't it?
Oh, dear Robbie,
whose silences are always
so much more eloquent than speech.
Robbie will give you a paw to guide you home, Glen.
>- C'est la vie.
>C'est la guerre.>
I think he's still in love with you.
The main drawback with love
is that it descends, all too quickly,
into possessiveness.
That really is a bore.
What shall I do with these?
Oh, they're for you.
Hamo died so far away.
While I have his sword, I still have him.
We never grieved properly for him, Mother.
Before grief, there's anger.
> I watch you on your constant way,>
>in selfless duty long grown grey.>
>and to myself,>
>I say that I have lived my life to learn>
>how lives like your unasking earn.>
>Aureoles that guide and burn>
>in heart's remembrance>
>when the proud who snared the suffrage of the crowd>
>are dumb and dusty browed.>
>For you live onward in my thought>
>because you have not sought rewards that can be bought.>
>And so when I remember you,>
>I think of all things rich and true>
>that I have reaped and wrought.>
Thank God you survived.
Good night, darling.
Good night, Mother.
>Give me your hand, my brother.>
>Search my face.>
>Look in these eyes lest I should think of shame.>
>For we have made an end of all things base.>
>We are returning by the road we came.>
>Your lot is with the ghosts of soldiers dead,>
>and I am in the field where men must fight.>
>But in the gloom, I see your laurelled head>
>and through your victory I shall win the light.>
>Sleep in heavenly peace>
3,500 copies of >Counter-Attack> sold.
Your fame is spreading, Siegfried.
Like a virus?
Oh, don't be contrary.
So I wake up famous.
Like Byron.
And I believe you've been overwhelmed
by visits from all the great and the good.
Mmm.
Massine, Lydia Lopokova, Keynes,
Winston Churchill and mother.
Even "boy actor" Noel Coward.
Have I left anyone out?
The Pope.
That's right, Siegfried, think small.
How did you find Mr Churchill?
Imperial.
And Mr Coward?
Gushing.
What would you have done if Royalty had paid a call?
Oh, well, then I'd have tried to curtsey
from a sitting position.
Speaking of Royalty, I've come with a command
from Her Majesty Edith Sitwell.
You are to attend a performance
at Carlyle Square
of her> Entertainment-Façade.>
Poetry, by Edith. Music, Willie Walton.
I've gone to a great deal of trouble
to get this so don't let me down.
If you don't attend, La Sitwell
has threatened to come to your flat
at Half Moon Street
and hum the whole of> Tannhauser> to you.
You have been warned.
Oh, I, er...
Ottoline Morell popped in
and wished to be remembered to you.
How was she?
Let's just say I've always found lime green
a very unforgiving colour.
Poor Ottoline.
She'll go to her grave overdressed.
I'm looking forward to meeting your mother.
What?
I said I was looking forward to meeting your mother.
All mothers, good or bad
are always fascinating.
I tried to set fire to mine once,
but she was all asbestos.
Oh, do come on!
We shall never get down to Kent at this rate.
Oh, and I found this for you on the floor.
Oh, it'll be from Robbie Ross.
Why are you so antipathetic towards him?
Because I resent the way that he speaks to me.
Like he's always putting me in my place.
You know, the only problem with knowing one's place
is that other people never seem to know theirs.
He's acerbic, I grant you, but he's never malign,
and as a friend, very steadfast.
Robbie Ross took some considerable risk
when he publicly supported Oscar Wilde.
He's been hounded ever since by Lord Alfred Douglas.
Oh, please, Bosie was always vindictive.
Robbie should have known that from the beginning.
He's really only got himself to blame.
That's really unfair.
His loyalty to Wilde was exemplary.
All right, all right. Robbie's a saint.
Now, how about we drop the subject?
Oh, that's a very fine sword.
It was my brother's.
Hmm.
He was killed at Gallipoli.
Oh, God.
What is it?
It's the first performance of> Façade,>
and I was supposed to go to it.
Well, where's it being performed?
Some private performance in Carlyle Square.
Chelsea.
Well, even if we drove like the wind,
we should never make it.
Robbie will be furious.
And so will Edith Sitwell.
It's being given to a very select audience.
I'm sure she'll understand once you explain
why you weren't able to be there.
Oh, no, I don't think so, Mother.
Edith can be a very captious woman.
She isn't a woman.
She's an animated meringue.
And those teeth.
Don't be horrible, Ivor.
She suffers, I believe, from a complaint
known as receding gums.
She's so autocratic,
I'm surprised she gave them permission to.
Oh, well, come along then.
Might as well see if we can catch some of it.
I'm sorry to have to rush off like this, Mother.
It doesn't matter.
Is he just another one of your pretty boys?
No, it's deeper than that, much deeper.
You don't like him, do you, Mother?
He's amusing, but unpleasant.
It's his eyes. I think they're cruel.
Good night, Mother.
Good night, Siegfried.
You never came.
Please forgive me, Edith.
I shall try.
I'm entirely to blame.
We visited my mother in Kent and I simply
lost all sense of time.
- We? - Mmm.
Myself and Ivor Novello.
A man at the cheaper end of poetry.
I do hope you can forgive me, Edith,
for I am mortified by my thoughtlessness.
How was the work received?
They tittered.
Tittered?
Tittered.
I overheard someone say, in the most odious manner,
"It's this sort of thing
"that makes one glad to be semi-conscious."
- I was deeply wounded. - Hmm.
My poetry has wonderful assonances and dissonances.
I use words for their colour,
not merely for what they are supposed to mean.
Great art may sometimes be so ahead of its time, Edith,
that its initial reception
can be considered a> succès d'estime.>
Think of Stravinsky.
But I do not wish to think of Stravinsky.
We are performing> Façade >at the Aeolian Hall next week.
I shall expect you there.
Of course, Edith.
I shall come with the speed of a thousand gazelles.
No need for hyperbole, Siegfried.
A taxi will do.
In the early springtime after their tea,
through the young fields of the springing Bohea,
Jemima, Jocasta, Dinah and Deb
walked with their father Sir Joshua Jebb.
An admiral red whose only notion,
a butterfly poised on a pigtailed ocean
is of the peruked sea whose swell
breaks on the flowerless rocks of Hell.
For Hell is just as properly proper,
as Greenwich, or as Bath, or Joppa!
Oh, Christ!
I have to go backstage.
Rather you than me.
Ah.
The prodigal.
Well, Edith, you've done it again.
All the fine young cannibals.
You make it sound like a raiding party.
Isn't it?
Stephen Tennant.
I am...
Yes, we already know who you are, Stephen.
But who is this absolute dream
in oyster grey silk?
Hester Gatty.
Lady Gatty's daughter?
Yes.
She once invited you to Carlton House Terrace.
But you hardly noticed me.
Then I apologize for my lack of taste.
We're great admirers of your poetry, Siegfried.
Before you take offence, Ivor, we like your work, too.
Careful, Stephen,
that was almost enthusiasm.
Perhaps they will play one of your charming songs,
Mr Novello, and then we can dance to it.
I can't tempt Stephen, though.
Why not?
Because I only do the valeta and only when pressed.
I do love dancing.
So do I.
Come on, then.
Whoo!
I didn't know great poets did the Charleston.
I didn't know the Charleston did that to *** young things.
I think everyone should be ***, don't you?
Only in the wider sense.
And this young man is...
Alexander Fenton.
Doesn't it sound as though
it should have a title in front of it?
Sir Alexander Fenton.
For his services to the theatre.
Well, that hasn't happened yet.
It will, Ivor.
It will.
I hardly see you these days, Ivor.
How are you?
Horizontally speaking.
Oh, busy, old thing.
Very, very busy.
Still gathering lilacs?
You could say that.
Well, when you've exhausted botany,
you might consider moving
into the field of blood sports.
I'm told that the men who indulge in them
are very, very rugged.
Isn't that so, Mr Sassoon?
You know, I think that's what
I'm going to miss most about you, Glen,
your quaint sense of humour.
And how have you been passing your time?
Seeing lots of musical theatre.
Mmm, such as?
>Rose-Marie,> very enjoyable.
Yes, but so Rudolph Friml-ly.
But it is by Rudolph Friml.
It was a joke, Siegfried.
And how about tonight?
>Lady, Be Good!>
Gershwin, an unsurpassed genius.
Oh, we really mustn't keep you then, Glen.
You have to admit it,
Gershwin is an exceptional talent.
I don't have to admit anything.
What's wrong?
We're leaving.
But I thought you wanted supper.
I'm no longer hungry!
Name, sir?
Mr Sassoon.
Sassoon, you say.
-Yes. -Oh.
Hmm.
Would you mind spelling it for me, please, sir?
S-A-S-S-O-O-N.
Hmm.
I'm afraid you're not on the list, sir.
Well, I'm going up anyway.
Telephone me in a couple of days, won't you?
I practically had to force my way in
past the stage doorman.
Hmm. You were lucky.
He's been told to shoot anyone not on my list.
Why wasn't I on the list?
Oh, for Christ's sake!
Look, it's been a long run, Siegfried.
I am tired. I am exhausted.
-You still want supper? -Yes!
I'm surprised to see Fenton here.
Why?
I know lots of people.
-Fenton is just another... -Admirer.
...fan.
You both seemed to me to be very friendly
after so short an acquaintance.
Now, I get the distinct impression
that I am being grilled.
And that a storm in an egg cup is brewing.
I'm sorry, I don't mean to be petty, but I am...
I am very jealous of you.
Yes, well, affairs are always messy.
Who can know the secrets of a human heart?
Usually the people who don't have one.
Oh, my, my, hasn't it gone chilly in here?
But I love you.
Yes,
you've said.
Ivor.
Let me pass.
I'm sorry, sir. I can't let you go up.
Why?
Mr Novello never sees anyone after a matinee.
Well, would you please inform Mr Novello
that I've booked a table for 8 PM?
And I'll be expecting him for dinner!
Yes, sir.
Thank you.
Is there someone else?
There's always someone else.
How do you justify your behaviour?
By asking myself questions
to which I already know the answers.
And when all is said and done,
my career comes before anyone or anything.
And my work
is as popular as I am.
There is a school of thought that regards musical theatre
as a second-rate means of expression.
Before you judge other people's work, Siegfried,
I would make sure your own is above criticism.
- What does that mean? - Just this,
that since 1918, your poetry has gone
from the sublime to the meticulous.
And tell me, Mr Novello,
what did you do during the war?
I gave my talent to my country.
I boosted morale by playing every theatre in the land!
Oh, weren't you the lucky one!
We had the Somme and you had Rhyl!
Well, I see no point in prolonging
this unpleasant conversation.
No.
Oh, no. After what's been said,
I don't expect you to foot the bill as well.
Oh, always the gentleman, eh, Siegfried?
It's better than being a cad.
I suspect this is goodbye then.
>Au revoir >might have been kinder.
Please don't undermine yourself, Siegfried.
That's what friends are for.
If you wish to see me again, I'll be at my flat.
Well, at least that's more original
than going home to mother.
Snap.
May I sit down?
Yes, of course.
Do you still dine here?
-Of course. -Why?
Let's just say I like the trips down memory lane.
What next?
Well, I suppose, in a bad melodrama, I'd kill myself.
And in a really bad melodrama, you kill Ivor.
Seriously, are you all right?
The moment passes, but the hurt remains.
And I was supposed to go and visit my mother
and now I've missed the train.
Drive down, why don't you?
I have no car. I can't drive.
I was going to motor down to the coast.
Why don't I give you a lift?
That would be very kind of you.
Where does she live?
Kent.
Then let's get going.
I have absolutely no idea where we are.
Although I, erm,
don't possess the wit to woo,
may I see you again?
I live in Margate.
Oh.
Pity Margate is so far away.
It's not at the moment.
What about Ivor?
Oh.
Ivor's already been to Margate.
> At dawn, the ridge emerges massed and dun>
>in wild purple of the glow'ring sun,>
>smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke>
>that shroud the menacing scarred slope.>
>And, one by one,>
>tanks creep and topple forward to the wire.>
>The barrage roars and lifts.>
>Then, clumsily bowed with bombs>
>and guns and battle-gear,>
>men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire.>
>Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear,>
>they leave their trenches, going over the top,>
>while time ticks blank and busy on their wrists,>
>and hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists,>
>flounders in the mud.>
>O Jesus, make it stop.>
We have a guest.
Oh, he's not a guest.
He's an afterthought.
This is my life partner, Bobby Andrews.
Bobby, Siegfried. Siegfried, Bobby.
Well, don't look so shocked.
Love has nothing to do with monogamy.
Or are you the faithful type?
I suppose I must be.
If you want fidelity, Siegfried, buy a pet.
You kept very quiet about this.
Well, that's because I didn't want anyone else
to shake him down from the tree.
You really are a *******, aren't you?
I do my best.
Now you must excuse us.
We have a casserole waiting.
Oh.
Where shall I put your key?
Back on the floor.
I can't face tea before 11 AM.
Drink it, you misery.
I don't do this for everyone, you know.
I'm the invalid, remember?
Like Chekhov.
Oh, what should I do about my hair?
Have you considered topiary?
I think I might dye it.
Or I could leave it in its natural colour.
When I'm sunburnt, it looks like spun gold.
I'll be with you in a moment.
It's Glen Byam Shaw.
Isn't that good news?
Siggy will be down in a trice.
He's suitably undressed.
We've just been talking about you.
So I hope your ears were burning,
all three of them.
Is Stephen naturally unpleasant
or does he take private tuition?
I heard that!
You were supposed to.
Siggy! Siggy!
I'm sorry.
What can I say?
There's nothing to say.
It's one of the inconveniences of the shadow life we lead.
Friends may come, friends may go.
Enemies are always faithful.
How is Ivor?
I have no idea. I don't see him any more.
Did you know about Bobby?
Yes.
You might have warned me.
I didn't want to seem vindictive.
Sour grapes and all that.
I wanted to tell you personally
that I'm planning to marry.
She's an actress and a good sort,
I think, and we're very fond of each other.
When did you decide?
Some months ago.
You should give a thought to it, too.
No, if the intention wasn't pure,
I don't think I could go through it.
Purity is like virginity.
As soon as you touch it, it becomes corrupt.
I hope you both will be very happy.
Thank you, Siegfried.
I shall do my best.
What's the matter? TB?
You should have told me.
Why?
There's nothing you can do about it.
I could have taken you somewhere,
to a warmer, drier climate.
That rules out Frinton then.
Is there somewhere we can go to help you?
Yes.
I've been there before.
In Germany.
Haus Hirt in Bavaria.
All cow bells, lederhosen and very, very thick thighs.
So idyllic, you'll want to scream.
But the German men... Gorgeous!
I wonder what the collective noun for them is.
Oh, don't look so glum, Siggy.
I'm not about to join the Hitler Youth.
Yes. Who is it?
> Hello, Siegfried, it's Alexander.>
>Is Stephen there?>
>-Hello? >-Don't call here again.
It was Fenton.
I don't like this at all.
We bumped into each other on Piccadilly the other day.
We had a harmless drink and I gave him your number.
Don't do it again!
If that were a request, I might consider it.
If it's an order, I'll make a point of disobeying it.
What did Glen want?
He's getting married.
The ultimate capitulation.
I'm sure they'll be very happy.
She's probably as mediocre as he is.
You'll be doing it next.
Thought I'd try my hand at some watercolours.
-Hmm. -Landscapes and things.
It's the Magritte in me.
This is not a pipe.
Rene will be pleased.
How would you describe your style?
Erratic.
But then I'm giving this to a friend
whom I really detest.
You don't remember me at all, do you?
The spa?
Ivor Novello? Stephen Tennant?
Oh, yes, of course.
Yes.
The oyster grey silk.
You're supposed to remember me, not the dress.
Before I met you for the first time, I'd always thought
you'd be either mercurial or dark.
And what am I, dark or mercurial?
Oh, neither.
You're more opaque, I think.
So what brings you down here?
I... I should like to say the picturesque,
but it wouldn't be true.
I came down in the hope of seeing you again.
I used the painting as a ploy.
Oh.
Well, I'm touched.
No one's ever used subterfuge before in order to see me.
It's the modern thing, liberated woman and all that.
It would be very pleasant if you invited me to lunch.
It would be very pleasant if you accepted.
You really are very lovely.
May I kiss you?
You don't have to ask.
I've never had an affair with a woman.
Only men.
Stephen told me all I needed to know.
All my life, I feel as though
I've been waiting for a catastrophe to happen.
Well, that's optimism for you.
My whole future could depend on you.
You must redeem my life for me, Hester.
That sounds like some sort of proposal.
If I was selfish enough, I'd ask you to marry me.
If I were foolish enough,
I'd accept.
Oh, I look 500 years old.
Some say I am beautiful.
And, as an aesthete,
I feel that beauty is eternal.
We see it in the eyes of those who love us.
Although my mother thinks
that my eyes are like cold seawater.
My buttocks and my shoulders are very well-shaped.
But my best feature is the beauty of my hands.
Almond milk and lemon creams are perfect for them,
and one must never laugh too much.
It coarsens one's face,
especially if the laughter is gleeful.
Stephen, how can you be so narcissistic?
It is my defence against nihilism and the vulgar.
You cannot conduct a life in that way.
Course one can.
My life is my art.
Yours isn't a life, it's barely a hobby.
That was an ugly thing to say.
I know sometimes it's better to be kind than honest,
but you are frittering your life away
in pomades and powder.
And if you don't believe me,
ask someone with more sense and less love.
You've made your antipathy to me very obvious.
I don't need a second opinion.
I'm going to Salisbury for the weekend.
Edith Oliver has found me
a cottage to rent in Teffont Magna.
I thought we could spend weekends there.
Will you come?
I, too, have had an invitation.
From whom?
A German prince whom I think you more than know.
Philip of Hesse, yes.
And one of Edith Sitwell's proteges.
A concert pianist called Tchelitchew.
Very Cyrillic, very Russian and very divine.
And where are you going to?
Paris first.
Then we'll motor down to Bavaria so I can recuperate
from life.
After Bavaria, they're going to go on to Venice.
Philip told me that he once
tried to make love in a gondola,
but that there wasn't enough privacy.
Stability.
Oh.
So it was with you, was it? You sly old thing.
This all seems very sudden.
Yes, it does, doesn't it?
But then, that's my life.
All go.
Older than God, but without any of the influence.
Am I welcome, Hester?
Come in and see.
Siegfried.
Stephen.
How dreadful we all look.
But I still have beautiful hands, I think.
I'll make some tea.
I suppose you've heard of Ivor's death.
Yes.
They say the funeral attracted a thousand people.
Probably made up mostly by all the people he slept with.
I still have a soft spot for Ivor's work, though.
All those tortured princesses and lovers
who have no money, but plenty of *** appeal.
His work was always sentimental nonsense.
He cheapened everything he touched.
I've always thought his particular kind of mawkishness
was a kind of catharsis
for the dimmer members among us.
That's because you have never known
the difference between the two.
We can't all possess your purity of thought.
It isn't a question of purity,
but of discernment.
And you were never very good at discernment.
That was rather too acerbic.
Mordant would be the more accurate word.
Are you still very angry?
What do you expect?
You ended our relationship
with a letter from your doctor.
How was I supposed to feel?
Still clearly very hurt, I see.
I had hoped that you might have been
a little more forgiving.
If I had treated you the way in which you treated me,
how forgiving would you be?
Besides, when the parade's gone by,
you have to have enough sense to realize
that you are no longer a part of it.
I'm trying to apologize.
You're 30 years too late!
Can't we still be friends?
No.
You once meant so much. Now you mean so little.
-Sieg... -Don't trivialise it
by saying something glib.
Can I see you again? In London perhaps?
No!
I rarely go to London now.
And how is George?
Young.
Thriving.
He's like all children.
He has the worst aspects of both his parents.
How about his parents' virtues?
He's cursed with those as well.
I am...
very lonely, Siggy.
Is it agony?
One does hope so.
George has an independent mind,
which sometimes shocks Siegfried.
It isn't independence, it's wilfulness.
Who's died?
All of us.
George, the pipe was not a good idea.
Looks as if it's smoking you.
Old silver tongue.
We could do without the smoke.
Tea, darling?
No, thank you, Mother.
Thank you for the tea.
George will see you out.
- Goodbye. - Goodbye.
Charming as ever.
But there's still malice at the edge of his voice,
as there always was.
Sometimes, Siegfried, it's more humane
to be kind than to be honest.
He constantly goaded my jealousy.
It was like being killed by degrees.
He once told me he thought you were matchless.
We are unique only to the people who really loathe us.
> Will you come to dinner tonight at Mother's?>
She'd have invited God if she thought He'd come.
I'm uncomfortable with all that distinction.
I'm not at all an intellectual,
I have a very cumbersome mind.
Oh, please come.
Max Beerbohm said he might drop in for a drink.
Hmm.
Then I shall come.
Just to hear Max's delectable gossip.
You know, he, er...
he once described TS Elliot as
"Poor old Tom who sits there ironically
"analysing an empty sardine tin."
Well, you better get your skates on,
and I better get my glad rags out of mothballs.
Now don't miss me too much, all right?
Bye!
Goodbye, darlings!
No welcome?
No bunting?
Not even, "You're looking frightfully well, Stephen."
Am I going to get the silent treatment?
Or are we going to conduct the rest of this conversation
entirely in Braille?
Beware the wrath of a patient man.
Who said that?
Confucius, I think.
On one of his better days.
Well, if you're going to get all profound on me,
perhaps you could throw in >Ol' Man River> as a bonus.
How was Bavaria?
Bavarian.
Did your companion stay long?
Long enough.
And what did you do, Stephen?
Apart from cough?
I... Ooh, what's the phrase?
I lived life to the full.
-All three of you? -Yes.
It's called troilism, I believe.
-Or an orgy. -Yes.
That's probably more accurate, but I won't go into detail.
You know how discreet I am in these matters.
My spies tell me you've been seeing a lot of Hester Gatty.
Hester Gatty's been seeing a lot of me.
I'm beginning to see the light.
A new, secretive you.
Surely you're not jealous?
Of course not.
Now we can all be girls together.
Like Roedean.
Have you slept with her?
No.
Our relationship is as deep as it is decorous.
I've even bought myself some passion-killing pyjamas.
Are you going to marry her?
Yes, I think I probably shall.
You'll make a vile partner, Siggy.
Perhaps, but then I have been taught by a master.
You'll be taking a great risk.
I'll be taking the same risk I took with you.
Couldn't be much worse. May even be better.
I can see years ahead for both of you.
Filled with passionless silences
and compulsory cocoa at bedtime.
Oh, by the way,
as we intend to be living in the country,
I'll be giving up the lease on this flat.
I didn't want to leave you in the dark unnecessarily.
But once we've found a house, you'll have to move out.
That sounds almost like a threat.
It almost is.
So you're going to throw baby's
little body out into the cold, cold snow?
No, not immediately, no.
We'll wait for warmer weather.
Can I get you anything before I leave?
No.
I'll write once I get to Scotland.
I said I'll write once...
I heard you. I'm trying to listen to the radio.
-Shall I phone? -No!
What time's your train, Mother?
Not for an hour.
We've got plenty of time to get to the station.
I'll come back for you later.
> Remember, marry in haste,>
>repent at leisure.>
I was shocked when you got married
and for exactly the same reason.
And now it's my turn to be shocked.
I have given you all a bit of a surprise, haven't I?
-Who's officiating? -Er, Canon ***.
Ah.
Oh, I'm sorry, Lawrence, have you met Glen Byam Shaw?
Glen this is TE Lawrence.
Of Arabia?
Not recently.
Are you sure you know what you're doing?
I think so.
In the end, we few,
we happy few are always exogamous.
Christ, what does that mean?
To marry outside of one's tribe or group.
Do you specialise in using words no one understands?
Yes. It's my revenge on people
who don't know what exogamous means.
Have you chosen any music?
No.
Oh, I'm disappointed.
I thought we'd get something English and dismal.
What are you doing here?
Hester invited me.
I'm her maid of honour.
The vows that you are about to take
are to be made in the presence of God,
who is the judge of all
and knows all the secrets of our hearts.
Therefore, if either of you know any reason
why you may not lawfully marry,
you must declare it now.
How are you?
Just very tired.
Is there anything I can get you?
Have you thought of a name?
No.
I thought we might call him George.
Yes.
My whole future depends on him.
You once said that about me.
Do you want to hold him?
>...with homes that are rented>
>So I have invented my own>
>Darling, this place is a lover's oasis>
>Where life's weary chase is unknown...>
I'm very happy.
And this is the reason.
>Cosy to hide in>
>To live side by side in>
>Don't let it abide in my dream>
>Picture me upon your knee>
>Just tea for two and two for tea>
>Just me for you and you for me>
>Alone>
>Nobody near us to see us or hear us>
>No friends or relations on weekend vacations>
>We won't have it known, dear>
>That we own a telephone, dear>
>Day will break and I'll awake>
>And start to bake a sugar cake>
>For you to take for all the boys to see>
>We will raise a family>
>A boy for you, a girl for me>
>Oh, can't you see>
>How happy we would be?>
>How beautifully blue the sky.>
>The glass is rising very high.>
>Continue fine I hope it may.>
>And yet it rained but yesterday.>
>Tomorrow, it may pour again.>
>I hear the country needs some rain.>
>I stood with the dead.>
> Come down from Heaven to meet me>
>when my breath chokes.>
>And through drumming shafts of stifling death>
>I stumble towards escape,>
>to find the door opening on morn>
>where I may breathe once more>
>clear ****-crow airs>
>across some valley dim with whispering trees.>
>While dawn along the rim of night's horizon>
>flows in lakes of fire,>
>come down from Heaven's bright hill,>
>my song's desire.>
>Belov'd and faithful,>
>teach my soul to wake in glades deep-ranked>
>with flowers that gleam>
>and shake and flock your paths with wonder.>
>In your gaze, show me,>
>the vanquished vigil of my days.>
>Mute in that golden silence hung with green,>
>come down from Heaven and bring me in your eyes>
>remembrance of all beauty that has been.>
>And stillness from the pools of Paradise.>
> Rising,>
>rising the voices of the muffled dead.>
Are you going to keep this silence up
for the rest of the day?
Look, I brought you down to London
because I was worried about you!
-I'm fine. -No, you're not!
There was no food in the house! No heating!
And you were sitting there in the dark
like a Protestant bishop!
-I can manage! -No, you can't!
If you're going to sulk, I'm going upstairs.
Turn that rubbish off!
I'll do as I like! It's my house!
-It's my music! -That isn't music!
It's commercially grotesque noise
made by stupid people for stupid people!
Oh, don't be so bigoted!
> The official numbers>
>of those killed in the First World War.>
>The United Kingdom and its colonies:>
>1,225,914.>
>France: 1,697,798.>
>Germany: 2,476,897.>
>Austria-Hungary: 1,567,202.>
>Russia: 3,311,251...>
> These are the statistics of catastrophe.>
>Yet from Prime to Compline, life goes slowly on.>
Are you thinking great thoughts?
No.
Just sitting here being petty.
Trying to understand the enigma of other people.
So many have died.
Too many.
Most people live for the moment.
You live for eternity.
-Don't say that. -Why not?
Because I'm afraid I might believe it.
I would have liked to have been recognised, though.
In some significant way for my work.
Eliot got the Order of Merit and the Nobel Prize.
I've had to make do with the Queen's Award for Poetry.
But Sir Siegfried Sassoon, it would have been nice.
-Despite all the sibilants. -Oh, Father.
How can you be seduced by all that Ruritanian nonsense?
The greatest argument against
Damehoods and Knighthoods is...
Just look at the people who've got them.
Why do you hate the modern world, Father?
Because it's younger than I am.
Well, you've got to bathe and change.
We're going to the theatre, remember?
Do I have to?
Yes, you promised.
Besides, it's a witty and elegant score.
Even you might enjoy it.
I'm sorry I shouted.
It's... So am I.
Peace?
Peace.
>My mother said I never should>
>Play with the young man in the wood>
>If I did, she would say>
>"Naughty little girl to disobey">
>I'm a typically English rose>
>But born of typically English stock>
>With a typically Anglo-Saxon family tree>
>I received my education from a typically English way>
>In a typically English girl's academy>
>I play typically English tennis>
>At a typically English club>
>With my typically English feelings for fair play>
>I eat typically English crumpets>
>With my typically English tea>
>At the end of every typically English day>
>Father is a typically English colonel>
>Home is a typically English county town>
>Mummy and I play typically English patients>
>As the typically English rain is pouring down>
>With a typically English spaniel>
>Who likes typically English walks>
>Cause there's typically English trees>
>Upon the heath>
>And if anyone asked me>
>How I like this typically English life>
>I am fed up to my typically English tea>
Shall we take a cab?
No, I'll walk home.
Are you sure?
It's getting very chilly.
I'd rather walk.
> Perhaps my latest effort will please you.>
>It's called> Disabled.
I'll come and get you.
Thank you.
> He sat in a wheeled chair,>
>waiting for dark>
>and shivered in his ghastly suit of grey, legless,>
>sewn short at elbow.>
>Through the park,>
>voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn.>
>Voices of play and pleasure after day.>
>Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.>
>About this time,>
>town used to swing so ***>
>when glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,>
>and girls glanced lovelier>
>as the air grew dim in the old times,>
>before we threw away his knees.>
>Now he will never feel again how slim girls' waists are>
>or how warm their subtle hands.>
>All of them touch him like some queer disease.>
>There was an artist silly for his face,>
>for it was younger than his youth, last year.>
>Now he is old, his back will never brace.>
>He's lost his colour very far from here.>
>Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,>
>and half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race.>
>And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.>
>One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,>
>after the matches carried shoulder-high.>
>It was after football when he'd drunk a peg,>
>he thought he'd better join.>
>He wonders why.>
>Someone had said he'd looked a god in kilts.>
>That's why.>
>And maybe, too, to please his Meg.>
>Aye, that was it,>
>to please the giddy jilts, he'd asked to join.>
>He didn't have to beg.>
>Smiling they wrote his lie:>
>aged 19 years.>
>Germans he scarcely thought of, all their guilt,>
>and Austria's, did not move him.>
>And no fears of fear came yet.>
>He thought of jewelled hilts>
>for daggers in plaid socks, of smart salutes,>
>and care of arms, and leave, and pay arrears,>
esprit de corps, >and hints for young recruits.>
>And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.>
>Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer goal.>
>Only a solemn man who brought him fruits thanked him.>
>And then inquired about his soul.>
>Now he will spend a few sick years in institutes>
>and do what things the rules consider wise,>
>and take whatever pity they may dole.>
>Tonight he noticed how women's eyes>
>passed from him to the strong men who were whole.>
>How cold and late it is.>
>Why don't they come and put him into bed?>
>Why don't they come?>