The Muse Among the Motors by Rudyard Kipling

‘A series of verses on motoring and motorists, in the form of parodies in the style of earlier writers’

a) Kipling was an early enthusiast for motor cars from the moment his friend, the newspaper tycoon Lord Harmsworth, arrived at his Sussex home in one in 1900. He quickly bought a very early model – in fact a soon-to-be redundant steam-powered car, a ‘Locomobile’ – and employed the first of a series of chauffeur-engineers to drive and maintain it for him.

b) Kipling’s family was very artistic and throughout the children’s childhood and youth, the whole family read poetry and plays together, especially Shakespeare. Encouraged by this cultured environment, Kipling showed a precocious ability at writing pastiches and parodies from an early age. One of his first books was a self-published collection of parodies titled Echoes, printed when he was just 19.

After the turn of the century, when the South African war was over and Kipling had settled into his new home in rural Sussex, the two interests came together in a series of light-hearted pastiches of early, medieval and romantic poetry, with Kipling copying the styles of various classic poets (Chaucer, Ben Jonson, Donne, Milton, Byron Wordsworth and so on) as if they’d written poems about motor cars.

The first 14 were published in the Daily Mail in 1904 – to which he added six more in 1919, and a further six in 1929, making 26 in total. Some are very short. None are masterpieces. Some are mildly amusing. I like his take on the alliterative four-stress line of Anglo-Saxon poetry:

The Advertisement

(In the Manner of the Earlier English)

Whether to wend through straight streets strictly,
Trimly by towns perfectly paved;
Or after office, as fitteth thy fancy,
Faring with friends far among fields;
There is none other equal in action,
Sith she is silent, nimble, unnoisome,
Lordly of leather, gaudily gilded,
Burgeoning brightly in a brass bonnet,
Certain to steer well between wains.

and his spoof of Chaucer (I particularly like the line about Paris, that is exactly the kind of thing Chaucer says about his characters):

The Justice’s Tale

(Chaucer)

WITH them there rode a lustie Engineere
Wel skilled to handel everich waie her geere,
Hee was soe wise ne man colde showe him naught
And out of Paris was hys learnynge brought.
Frontlings mid brazen wheeles and wandes he sat,
And on hys heade he bare an leathern hat.
Hee was soe certaine of his governance,
That, by the Road, he tooke everie chaunce.
For simple people and for lordlings eke
Hee wolde not bate a del but onlie squeeke
Behinde their backés on an horné hie
Until they crope into a piggestie.
He was more wood than bull in china-shoppe,
And yet for cowes and doggés wolde hee stop,
Not our of Marcie but for Preudence-sake—
Than hys dependaunce ever was hys brake.

and this one, copying Adam Lindsay Gordon who I’ve never heard of, but which has the combination of sentimental pathos and humour of the Barrack-Room Ballads and also the punchiest final line.

The Dying Chauffeur

(Adam Lindsay Gordon)

WHEEL me gently to the garage, since my car and I must part –
No more for me the record and the run.
That cursèd left-hand cylinder the doctors call my heart
Is pinking past redemption – I am done!

They’ll never strike a mixture that’ll help me pull my load.
My gears are stripped – I cannot set my brakes.
I am entered for the finals down the timeless untimed Road
To the Maker of the makers of all makes!

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Charles Carrington on Kipling’s verse (1955)

Charles Carrington’s biography of Kipling is a masterpiece, not only of privileged research (he had access to family papers and diaries which were later destroyed, as well as close advice from Kipling’s only surviving child, Elsie, b.1896) but of balance and careful judgment, and with wonderfully evocative passages of its own.

For a whole generation homesickness was reversed by Kipling’s magic spell. Englishmen felt the days of England sick and cold and the skies grey and old, heard the East a-calling, fawned on the younger nations, learned to speak the jargon of the seven seas; while, in the outposts of empire, men who read no other books recognised and approved the glimpses of their own lives in phrases from Kipling’s verse: the flying-fishes and the thunder-clouds over the Bay of Bengal, the voyage outward-bound till the old lost stars wheel back, the palm-tree bowing down beneath a low African moon, the wild tide-race that whips the harbour-mouth at Melbourne, the broom flowering above the windy town at Wellington, the islands where the anchor-chain goes rippling down through the coral-trash. (Rudyard Kipling His Life and Work by Charles Carrington, Penguin paperback edition p.398)

Carrington on Kipling’s verse

Two thirds of the way through the 600-page book, Carrington pauses his narrative to give a ten-page essay on Kipling’s verse, which is packed with insights:

The ballad

Carrington draws a direct link between Kipling and Sir Walter Scott, another writer prolific in popular verse and tales, who dominated his age. Kipling’s mother (Alice MacDonald) was Scottish, and he showed a marked fondness for Scottish characters (notable the famous engineer McAndrew) and Scots dialect.

Carrington summarises on page 413 the elements of Scott’s use of Lowland popular verse as including:

  • the free borrowing or adaptation of  his predecessors
  • stylised imagery
  • the use of incantatory repetitions
  • harmonics of words meant to be recited against the background of simple instrumental music
  • changes of sentiment indicated by changes of rhythm
  • the violent alternations of the grotesque, the horrible and the pathetic

To this list I’d add the deliberate use of older ‘poetic’ words and phrases. But whereas in Scott these are references to older Scots speech and pseudo-medievalisms, Kipling’s poems are drenched with the lexicon and rhythms of the Bible.

Influence of the Bible

Both Kipling’s parents were the children of Methodist ministers, reared in God-fearing, Bible-quoting households. In his horrible childhood in Southsea the young Kipling was tyrannised by a tub-thumping, Evangelical housewife in a household where Bible readings and hymn singing were compulsory.

This was the common fare of the great bulk of the English people in the nineteenth century – of almost all of them, it may be said, except the deracinated intellectuals. It was precisely because Kipling’s prose repeatedly echoes Biblical rhythms and turns of phrase that it was accepted and understood by a public that read the Bible, but did not read Walter Pater. (p.415)

His more serious poems were written in a didactic and sonorous style which directly derives from Hymns Ancient and Modern, ‘by far the most popular volume of verse in nineteenth century England’.

Popular tunes

But Carrington’s biggest insight into Kipling’s verse is the fact that he composed it to the rhythm of musical tunes. From his Methodist parents, from his harsh Evangelical upbringing, from weekly attendance at school chapel, Kipling knew a wide range of hymn tunes and, once he’d moved to London in 1889, he developed an enthusiasm for the London music hall, which introduced him to all the popular hits and melodies of the age – ‘The Man Who Broke The Bank At Monte Carlo’, ‘Knocked ‘Em In The Old Kent Road’ – as well as American classics from earlier in the century like ‘John Brown’s Body’, ‘Marching Through Georgia’ and so on.

Carrington here and elsewhere in the biography quotes eye-witness accounts of the way his wife, friends and visitors would see and hear Kipling humming a tune as he walked round his study or up and down the garden or along the deck of an ocean liner, humming and singing to himself and slowly forming words which matched the rhythm of the song. His wife noted in her diary ‘Ruddy was singing a new poem today…’

He would say ‘Give me a hymn-tune’ and, when someone suggested one, would go about for days humming it over, drumming it out with his fingers until words framed themselves to the tune, intent upon that and oblivious of the world, until he had finished his verse. It did not matter, for that purpose, that the song whose tune he borrowed was quite incongruous with the poem he intended; it was the rhythm he wanted and made his own. (p.321)

It is best to think of many of his poems as music hall songs, which aren’t designed to evoke sensitive emotional responses from an aesthete drawling on a divan, but are intended to be recited and even sung, to a wide audience. Like music halls songs, they adopt a character or persona and are replete with comic ‘patter’, as a music hall star might intersperse jokes and comments into a song. And, like a song, instead of evoking a range of emotions in a range of readers, they are meant to unite an audience of listeners onto one clear and forceful message.

Carrington exemplifies the relevance of the musical interpretation over a purely technical interpretation by pointing out that both Kipling’s ‘Mandalay’ and Tennyson’s ‘Locksley Hall’ are written in trochaic lines of eight feet.

Kipling

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’ lazy at the sea,
There’s a Burma girl a-settin’, and I know she thinks o’ me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
‘Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!’

Tennyson

Thro’ the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day;
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.

The rhythm of the Kipling is more emphatic, as is the break or ‘caesura’ in the middle of each line – made crystal clear by the use of a comma – because it is a song and even if we read it silently, it still rings in our heads more like a song than a poem.

Carrington notes that Kipling himself fictionalised the process of ‘adapting’ a popular song in his comic story ‘The Village That Voted The World Was Flat’, where the village is pilloried in a popular song created by its enemies which is a straight lift of the tune of ‘Here We Go Gathering Nuts In May’. The title of the story is the title of the song and fits the tune perfectly.

Carrington identifies some tunes with specific poems: ‘Mandalay’ with a contemporary waltz tune; the refrain of ‘Follow Me ‘Ome’ with the Dead March; ‘Birds of Prey’ with ‘Knocked ‘Em In the Old Kent Road’ and, strikingly, the rhythm of ‘A School Song’ with ‘Pop Goes The Weasel’!

Let us now praise famous men’ –
Men of little showing –
For their work continueth,
And their work continueth,
Broad and deep continueth,
Greater than their knowing!

Kipling’s daughter is among the many witnesses quoted as to the importance of music in the composition process and herself suggests musical bases for some poems:

R.K. usually worked in the morning, if he had anything in hand, either doing the actual writing, or pacing up and down his study humming to himself. Much of  his best known verse was written to a tune, the ‘Recessional’ to ‘Melita’, the tune usually sung to ‘Eternal Father, strong to save’; ‘Mandalay’ to an old waltz tune: and so on; this was curious as R.K. was quite unmusical. (Quoted on page 481)

The story about ‘Recessional’ fits. You can indeed fit the words of Kipling’s poem to the hymn tune:

God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Ghostly presences

Carrington’s last thought is that most of the poems can’t be easily identified with specific songs: only Kipling knew their derivation and source, and kept his secrets. But – and this makes them all the more effective – the ghosts and hints of old-time music hall songs, popular tunes or classic hymns known to millions float across the poems, underpin them, appear and disappear in their rhythms. And this deeper fugitive layer of meaning, of rhythmic and harmonic meaning, is one of the reasons why poems which, so often, ought to be trite and vulgar, in fact possess a strange and eerie power.

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Rudyard Kipling: Selected Verse edited by James Cochrane (1977)

This Penguin edition from 1977 has neither introduction nor end notes, in fact there is no editorial matter of any kind. It also contains only 119 poems, compared to 183 in the Craig Raine selection and 123 in the T.S. Eliot edition. On the face of it, the Raine edition is the best paperback selection, casting its net widest, including more of the early light verse, and more oddities and rarities: it’s the most diverse and the most entertaining.

Where this edition does score over both the others is in its layout. Each new poem starts at the top of a page. Both the other editions run one poem straight on after the previous one, so poems start mid-page or right at the bottom of a page, with maybe just one stanza visible before you have to turn over and continue. Sometimes, given that Kipling poems often comes in sets and also often have a preliminary stanza in italics before the main poem begins, this layout can lead to real confusion.

Trivial though this may sound, the layout of this Cochrane edition does actually give each poem a kind of dignity and space in which to operate. When a poem ends the rest of the page is blank. You turn over – and a new one begins. It’s much clearer and easier to read than the other two.

Partly because of this, reading this edition I noticed poems which, although they’re included in the other editions, are broken up across several pages whereas here, starting at the top of their own dedicated page, they immediately had more presence and made more impact.

And once again, the poems amazed me with Kipling’s range. I was particularly struck by The Way Through The Woods (1910). A world away from the bouncy music hall ballads or the sonorous hymns of the 1890s, it could be by the sensitive Georgian poet Edward Thomas.

The Way Through The Woods

They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate,
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few.)
You will hear the beat of a horse’s feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods.
But there is no road through the woods.


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Rudyard Kipling: Selected Poetry edited by Craig Raine (1992)

Fifty-one years after T.S. Eliot’s selection of Kipling’s verse, with an accompanying essay, was published in 1941, the poet Craig Raine was invited to make a new selection and write a new introduction. His selection is larger (183 poems compared to Eliot’s 123) and ranges further, including much more of the early verse (a generous selection of the ‘Departmental Ditties’) and more of the ‘incidental’ poems which Kipling attached to his many short stories.

The 16-page introduction is puzzlingly diffuse, making a handful of useful points but rather buried among lengthy digressions on a range of subjects. Half way through I began to wonder whether he had some kind of bet with a friend on how many other writers (and painters and musicians) he could name drop in such a short space.

Name-dropping

Oscar Wilde’s catty criticism of Plain Tales From The Hills is quoted on page one (‘one feels as if one were under a palm tree reading life by superb flashes of vulgarity’) as is some Eliot; on page two he mentions Matthew Arnold’s famous criticism of Alexander Pope and John Dryden (he dismissed them as ‘classics of our prose’), which Eliot then reversioned in his criticism of Walt Whitman in his essay about Ezra Pound. This leads into a page extensively quoting and praising Pope’s style, before going on to a one-page analysis of a witty piece of light verse by contemporary American writer Garrison Keillor. Then there is an extended consideration of how the metres of Russian poetry (with name-checks for the poets Pushkin, Pasternak and Mayakovsky) demonstrate enormous subtlety but, alas, translate badly into English where convoluted metres and rhythms tend to be associated with comedy.

None of this really sheds much light on Kipling and feels a lot like name-dropping padding.

1. Kipling and the underdog

Wilde is mentioned early on not only to squeeze in his famous quote but to emphasise Kipling’s own early remark that he was well aware he wrote only verse – and this leads Raine to make one of the three or so substantial points which emerge from his essay:

What Wilde ruefully perceives as a limitation is precisely what Kipling knew to be his originality – the discovery for literature of the underdog… Kipling’s uncommon fascination with the common man and the common woman – his helpless underdoggedness.

Raine immediately moves on without exploring the idea any further, which is a missed opportunity. It is pretty well known that all through his career Kipling sang the praises of the forgotten and ignored soldiers, sailors, engineers and administrators who kept the vast machinery of the Empire going, who kept the peace and enforced the law and built the bridges and created the railroads and maintained the vast fleet of merchant ships which brought the luxuries of life to a pampered elite in London who made it their life’s work to mock and scorn the very people their lifestyle depended on. You can see why he was almost permanently cross, and why his criticisms of the pampered, ignorant English are sometimes so bitter.

In a way Raine’s selection speaks more clearly than this confusing introduction. Thus around page 80 of the book he includes three poems in succession which aren’t in the Eliot selection and which powerfully convey the underdog idea, the plight of the ‘few, forgotten and lonely’.

An interlude of scansion

The introduction jumps suddenly to a consideration of two lines in The Ballad of the Bolivar and rather abruptly introduces some highly technical terms from the study of scansion – telling us that one line contains a trochaic tetrameter catalectic followed by a trochaic trimeter catalectic, being:

Leaking like a lobster pot, steering like a dray

In other words, the line consists of a tetrameter of four beats, with a pause (or caesura) at the comma, and the second half is a trimeter i.e. has three beats.

Leaking like a lobster pot, steering like a dray
… /  v       /   v  /     v     / ,    /     v     /    v   /

(where the oblique stroke indicates a stressed syllable and the v indicates an unstressed syllable). If this had been the start of an extensive consideration of Kipling’s metres or how he adapted metres of Tennyson or Swinburne, this might have been illuminating – but the subject appears with this one example and just as abruptly disappears.

2. Kipling and dialect

Buried among the blizzard of names and digressions, there are some reasonably forthright statements:

Dialect is Kipling’s greatest contribution to modern literature – prose and poetry – and he is the most accomplished practitioner since Burns.

But even this insight is restricted to one sentence which is swiftly buried in a fog of references to other writers and other texts: in this instance Raine moves swiftly on to a consideration of George Orwell’s essay on Kipling, published in 1942, and itself a long review of the Eliot selection & essay, before progressing to quote from a pamphlet by the critic D.J. Enright’s about Eliot – this is a lot of distracting digression instead of simply unpacking the importance of Kipling’s use of dialect with some examples and analysis.

Virtuosity

Raine moves on to mention Kipling’s virtuosity, his astonishing fluency, which many critics and readers in his time and ours have found ‘suspect’, under the impression that poetry should somehow be ‘difficult’ and show signs of artistic ‘struggle’.

Raine gives as an example Kipling’s mastery of the difficult verse form of the sestina, in his poem ‘Sestina of the Tramp-Royal‘ – although, characteristically, even this requires a knowing reference to Elizabeth Bishop’s ‘A Miracle for Breakfast’, as a ‘perfect example’ of the form instead of an analysis of how a sestina is constructed, and how cunningly Kipling constructed this one.

3. Stravinsky and Picasso

The artificiality of this sestina’s form (the use of six lines which are reshuffled in each of the poem’s six verses) is partly concealed by Kipling’s use of dialect. It would have been useful to have a bit more about dialect, maybe a survey of the different dialects Kipling uses. Instead Raine goes on to suggest that, instead of being associated with music hall and popular forms as most people tend to, maybe ‘it would be more helpful and truer’ to classify Kipling’s poetry with the modernism of Stravinsky and Picasso, who used contemporary rags and tags of tunes and material to construct collages, cubist pictures, fractured music.

This seems, frankly, wrong.

Unsparing imagery

Having made this bold suggestion, the introduction jumps to a completely new topic, which is Kipling’s unsentimental eye for realism, for the often stomach-churning detail. Raine gives a good selection of Kipling’s vivid imagery, starting with the description of a leper in Gehazi.

The boils that shine and burrow,
The sores that slough and bleed.

Or the violent description of Matun, the beggar whose entire face was ripped off by a bear in The Truce of the Bear:

Flesh like slag in the furnace, knobbed and withered and grey –

Going on to quote other vivid descriptive phrases, like the:

  • beefy face an’ grubby ‘and [of London housemaids]
  • breech-blocks jammed with mud
  • the ten-times fingering weed
  • blanket-hidden bodies, flagless, followed by the flies
  • [on] ‘Is carcase past rebellion, but ‘is eyes inquirin’ why

He’s onto something here, several things:

  • One of the several reasons Kipling’s poetry rises above the level of ‘verse’ – beside the seriousness and intensity of the feeling – is for the sheer vividness of his imagery.
  • But the violence of these images are a continual reminder that there is a strongly aggressive strand in Kipling’s poetry which wants to sicken and disgust the reader, to appal and nauseate us with the reality of the India or war or the devastation he is describing.

Kipling’s seascapes

Raine points out Kipling’s many wonderful descriptions of the sea, painted in numerous poems with wonderful fluency, although – typically – he can’t do so without reference to another canonical writer, in this case superfluously comparing Kipling’s sea verse with James Joyce’s description of the sea at Sandymount Strand outside Dublin, in Ulysses. Well, they’re both good descriptions of the sea, but that basic level of similarity doesn’t make Kipling part of Joyce’s Modernism. There’s a wonderful poem The Bell Buoy in which a bell in a buoy at sea contrasts his lot with the other bells cast in the same foundry which have ended up in churches inland.

The beach-pools cake and skim,
The bursting spray-heads freeze,
I gather on crown and rim
The grey, grained ice of the seas,
Where, sheathed from bitt to trees,
The plunging colliers lie.
Would I barter my place for the Church’s grace?
(Shoal ! ‘Ware shoal!) Not I!

Kipling and the contemporary world

Raine says that Kipling is concerned not with poeticisms or the high-toned poetic rhetoric of his day – the flowery ‘thees’, ‘thous’ and periphrases which make the poets of the 1880s and 1890s unreadable to us now. Kipling endures because he is interested in the actual world he lives in – with its trains and cars and electric lights and steam engines. It is this unembarrassed consideration of the present, Raine asserts, which places Kipling in the company of poets like Baudelaire and Eliot, laureates of the modern city. And leads up to a repeat of his earlier point about Stravinsky and Picasso:

Kipling, then, is a modernist rather than the dated Edwardian of conventional criticism.

Raine backs this up by claiming that T.S. Eliot himself, dean of Modernist poets, used Kipling’s metres in poems like his ‘Preludes’ and ‘The Hollow Men’, before giving half a page asserting Kipling’s influence on the closing pages of Ezra Pound’s ‘Pisan Cantos’. Well a) Kipling used so many rhyme schemes, formats and rhythms that it would be difficult for any poet not to overlap with him in some places b) the chaotic formlessness of Pound’s Cantos and the gasping pitifulness of the Pisan Cantos in particular, seems to me miles away from the permanent bumptious confidence of Kipling. In fact it’s the very lack of doubt or emotional vulnerability that many people so dislike in Kipling’s poetry and stories.

Now we see the reason for the thin unconvincing comparison with Stravinsky or Picasso, and the reason for yanking Joyce into the text – they’re all to bolster Raine’s counter-intuitive argument that, far from being a stylistic and political reactionary, Kipling was in fact a radical and modernist. The argument is padded out with another extraneous comparison, this time contrasting Kipling’s descriptions of war zones with those of W.H. Auden, concluding that Kipling’s are ‘less mannered and contrived’. Well, it’s true that Auden’s are done with a kind of cosmopolitan urbanity and Kipling’s are done with the bloody-minded grittiness of the man on the spot. The lines quoted are from The Return (1903):

Towns without people, ten times took,
An’ ten times left an’ burned at last;
An’ starvin’ dogs that come to look
For owners when a column passed…
An’ the pore dead that look so old
An’ was so young an hour ago,
An’ legs tied down before they’re cold –
These are the things which make you know.

Summary

In conclusion, the three main points of Raine’s essay are that:

  1. Kipling was a master of dialect – which nobody would deny
  2. Kipling was in favour of the underdog, the unsung heroes of Empire, the suffering soldiers and sailors and engineers – again, fairly obvious
  3. Kipling was, despite all indications to the contrary, a Modernist poet – which I don’t think anybody could really accept. Was he like Stravinsky and Picasso in revolutionising the art form he worked in, leaving it irrevocably transformed for all his contemporaries and successors? No. Are his sea descriptions as good as James Joyce’s? Yes, but their aims and methods were very different, Joyce dissolving the English language while Kipling made the existing language more forceful.

The selection not the introduction

Where Raine’s introduction does succeed is in selecting snippets and excerpts which cumulatively give you a vivid feel for just how good a poet Kipling was, gifted not only with the journalist’s or political propagandist’s turn of phrase, but regularly – in poem after poem – surprising us with the acuity and precision of his word selection and phrasing. And this is made much clearer by the range and variety of Raine’s actual selection.

Contrast with Eliot’s selection

Raine points out that T.S. Eliot’s selection was made in 1941, at the darkest point of the Second World War, when all of Europe was occupied by the Nazis who had undertaken what looked likely to be a successful invasion of Russia, and therefore the establishment of a continent-wide totalitarian regime based on mass slave labour, concentration camps and genocidal extermination. Not surprising then, Raine claims that Eliot’s selection emphasises Kipling’s patriotic works, with a predominance of the ‘hymns’ and the high-flown calls to Duty.

By contrast (although he doesn’t explicitly state this anywhere) Raine’s own selection is much broader, including a larger number of more diverse poems. The bits of Kipling which Raine quotes in the introduction (when he stops referencing Arnold, Wilde, Poe, Dryden, Whitman, Pound, Auden, Bishop and so on) suggest that what particularly attracts him is Kipling’s vivid turns of phrase – not just Kipling’s brilliance at painting the contemporary world, his use of dialect or his mastery of complex forms – but his continual brilliance with the unexpected word and phrase which brings so many of the poems to life.

In ranging wider than Eliot, Raine’s collection includes more of the precocious juvenilia and Departmental Ditties (published when Kipling was just 21) which Eliot consciously excludes. Raine includes more of the broadly comic and satiric poems and ‘trivia’, like his pastiches of classic English poets writing about motor cars which, one feels, were beneath Eliot’s notice.

Right from the first pages, Raine’s selection is more fun than Eliot’s.

The early poems showcase how astonishingly fluent Kipling was even as a teenager, and how this fluency was directed, to begin with, into poems written to entertain and fill up the daily newspaper he worked on. For example, the witty and cynical The Post That Fitted written when he was just 20. Instead of comparisons with Pope or Auden, it would have been really useful to have this early work set in the context of contemporary Victorian light verse and/or the Gilbert and Sullivan light comic operas (which we know were popular in Kipling’s school from his Stalky and Co. stories). A very early poem like Way Down the Ravi River in its gruesome humour reminds me of Lewis Carroll or Edward Lear. Forget the accusations of racism and sexism – what we want to know is who was he influenced by, who was he competing with, where did he pinch his ideas from – and then the amazing way his deeper, more assured gift slowly emerged from the jungle of ephemeral entertainments to become, at its peak, the prophetic voice of the greatest Empire the world has ever seen. It’s an incredible story!

Notes and biography

Unlike Eliot’s selection, this edition has editorial footnotes at the end. Not many, but they are welcome. Eventually, as the era of Empire recedes over the horizon, Kipling’s poetry will need a full textual apparatus, beginning with a potted biography. Maybe both Eliot and Raine assume that the outlines of Kipling’s life – the toddler years in India, public school in England, working as a journalist back in India, arriving in 1890s London afire with ambition, the years in Vermont, America where he wrote the Jungle Books, the close involvement in the Boer War (travelling to South Africa to help set up a newspaper for the troops), and then the long second half of his life happily settled in rural Sussex, with the great disaster of the First World War which transformed his poetry and prose – are well enough known not to need describing, or linking to the changing interests of his poetry.

But I don’t think they are, and Kipling’s poetry awaits an edition which will clearly explain the life, his fundamental aesthetic and political beliefs, and then relate this to the full body of work. Both the Eliot and Raine essays are interesting and insightful, but neither is anything like definitive.

Two sample poems

The Return is written in the style of one of the Barrack-Room Ballads from the early 1890s but in fact describes the feelings of a soldier returning from South Africa after the end of the Boer War (May 1902) and how difficult he finds it settling back into cramped, dirty, foggy London after the wide open spaces of the African veldt.

The Return

PEACE is declared, and I return
To ‘Ackneystadt, but not the same;
Things ‘ave transpired which made me learn
The size and meanin’ of the game.
I did no more than others did,
I don’t know where the change began;
I started as a average kid,
I finished as a thinkin’ man.

If England was what England seems
An’ not the England of our dreams,
But only putty, brass, an’ paint,
‘Ow quick we’d drop ‘er! But she ain’t!

Before my gappin’ mouth could speak
I ‘eard it in my comrade’s tone;
I saw it on my neighbour’s cheek
Before I felt it flush my own.
An’ last it come to me – not pride,
Nor yet conceit, but on the ‘ole
(If such a term may be applied),
The makin’s of a bloomin’ soul.

Rivers at night that cluck an’ jeer,
Plains which the moonshine turns to sea,
Mountains that never let you near,
An’ stars to all eternity;
An’ the quick-breathin’ dark that fills
The ‘ollows of the wilderness,
When the wind worries through the ‘ills –
These may ‘ave taught me more or less.

Towns without people, ten times took,
An’ ten times left an’ burned at last;
An’ starvin’ dogs that come to look
For owners when a column passed;
An’ quiet, ‘omesick talks between
Men, met by night, you never knew
Until – ‘is face – by shellfire seen –
Once – an’ struck off. They taught me, too.

The day’s lay-out – the mornin’ sun
Beneath your ‘at-brim as you sight;
The dinner-‘ush from noon till one,
An’ the full roar that lasts till night;
An’ the pore dead that look so old
An’ was so young an hour ago,
An’ legs tied down before they’re cold –
These are the things which make you know.

Also Time runnin’ into years –
A thousand Places left be’ind –
An’ Men from both two ’emispheres
Discussin’ things of every kind;
So much more near than I ‘ad known,
So much more great than I ‘ad guessed –
An’ me, like all the rest, alone –
But reachin’ out to all the rest!

So ‘ath it come to me – not pride,
Nor yet conceit, but on the ‘ole
(If such a term may be applied),
The makin’s of a bloomin’ soul.
But now, discharged, I fall away
To do with little things again….
Gawd, ‘oo knows all I cannot say,
Look after me in Thamesfontein!

If England was what England seems
An’ not the England of our dreams,
But only putty, brass, an’ paint,
‘Ow quick we’d chuck ‘er! But she ain’t!

Just as Kipling modified our reading of his stories by placing poems before and after them as oblique commentary, so even within poems he uses the possibilities of verse and chorus to create all kinds of dynamics. The refrain, in italics, comments quite harshly on the nature of England – the reference to putty, brass and paint is to the cheap fixtures of a music hall or theatre – and contrasts it with ‘the England of our dreams’ which – rather forlornly, I think – the speaker hopes England really is.

But all the imaginative force has gone into some of the wonderful moments of a soldier’s life in South Africa which the main verses capture so vividly.

The Harp Song of the Danish Women is in an unusual metre for Kipling, an obvious attempt to convey the simple power of Anglo-Saxon or of Norse poetry. Maybe it’s not a great poem but, as always, it’s well made and interesting. It was published in Puck of Pook’s Hill to accompany the story about medieval knights who are captured by Vikings and taken on a wild adventure south to Africa. As usual, it doesn’t comment on the events of the story directly, but conveys an atmosphere or backdrop which deepens its impact.

The Harp Song of the Danish Women

What is a woman that you forsake her,
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,
To go with the old grey Widow-maker?

She has no house to lay a guest in—
But one chill bed for all to rest in,
That the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in.

She has no strong white arms to fold you,
But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you—
Out on the rocks where the tide has rolled you.

Yet, when the signs of summer thicken,
And the ice breaks, and the birch-buds quicken,
Yearly you turn from our side, and sicken—

Sicken again for the shouts and the slaughters.
You steal away to the lapping waters,
And look at your ship in her winter-quarters.

You forget our mirth, and talk at the tables,
The kine in the shed and the horse in the stables—
To pitch her sides and go over her cables.

Then you drive out where the storm-clouds swallow,
And the sound of your oar-blades, falling hollow,
Is all we have left through the months to follow.

Ah, what is Woman that you forsake her,
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,
To go with the old grey Widow-maker ?


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A Choice of Kipling’s Verse by T.S. Eliot (1941)

Kipling… is the most inscrutable of authors. An immense gift for using words, an amazing curiosity and power of observation with his mind and with all his senses, the mask of the entertainer, and beyond that a queer gift of second sight, of transmitting messages from elsewhere, a gift so disconcerting when we are made aware of it that thenceforth we are never sure when it is not present: all this makes Kipling a writer impossible wholly to understand and quite impossible to belittle.

There are a number of paperback selections of Kipling’s poetry in print, which all include a more or less similar selection from the 350 or so poems he published, certainly all including the 20 or 30 greatest hits. This selection, for example, includes 123 poems – but what really distinguishes it is the magisterial introductory essay by the dean of Modern poetry, Thomas Stearns Eliot.

It’s a long and densely argued essay that is sometimes difficult to follow, but it is packed with fascinating insights.

Poetry and prose inseparable Kipling’s verse and prose are inseparable halves of the same achievement. ‘We must finally judge him, not separately as a poet and as a writer of prose fiction, but as the inventor of a mixed form.’ This is certainly the case in the volumes I’ve read recently, in the stories from Puck of Pook’s Hill onwards through to Debits and Credits, where every story is introduced or followed by a poem which comments on the characters and actions, shedding new light, modifying, deepening or perplexing our response.

Common criticisms

Eliot lists the common criticisms of Kipling:

Superficial jingles Most critics have to defend modern poetry from charges of obscurity; the critic writing about Kipling has to defend him from charges of ‘excessive lucidity’. We have to defend Kipling against the charge of being a journalist, writing for the lowest common denominator, against the charge that he wrote catchy superficial ‘jingles’. And yet there is no doubt that real deeps of poetry are sounded in many of his poems.

Topicality A further obstacle is Kipling’s poems’ topicality. So many of them are written a) for very specific occasions and b) from a political point of view which hardly anyone sympathises with nowadays. Personally, I have found occasional and political poetry to be an acquired taste. When I was young I liked emotional or rhetorical or dramatic poetry which spoke to my emotions. It was only in middle age that I tried Dryden again and realised, to my surprise that, once I fully understood the political background to his satires, I enjoyed their craft and wit and appropriateness. Same with Kipling. And in fact, as Eliot points out, the gift of being able to write really good occasional verse – i.e. verse directly speaking to a current event – and to do it to order, ‘is a very rare gift indeed’.

Similarly, both good epigrams and good hymns are very rare, and Kipling produced fine examples of both.

Imperialism Kipling thought the British Empire was a good thing. He thought the British had a unique ability to rule other peoples wisely and fairly. (And a comparison with the alternatives – with the Belgian or French or Spanish or Portuguese or German empires of the period – does tend to support this view; let alone a comparison with the alternatives of the Nazi Empire and the Soviet Empire, which grew up between the wars.)

But, contrary to the uninformed view that he is a prophet of Empire, his early stories are almost entirely satires on the greed, stupidity and snobbery of the British; throughout his prose runs blistering criticism of British politicians; and stories and poems alike from the Boer War onwards lament in graphic terms England’s failure to live up to her own best ideals.

The most notoriously imperial poems are less hymns to any kind of racial or cultural superiority, but rather calls to duty and responsibility. He explicitly condemns the mercantile parties (in Britain and America) who used the high ideals of empire as a fig leaf for rapacious exploitation.

Racism I find Kipling’s casual contempt for some Indian natives (as for many of the women) in his early stories revolting. But there is a good deal of evidence that he was in fact surprisingly tolerant for his time. The prime exhibit is Kim, his best book and one of the best English fictions to come out of the Raj, in which all the most sympathetic and real characters are Indian: the Lama, Mahbub Ali, Hurree Chunder Mookerjee and the widow. One of his most famous poems is Gunga Din in which the Indian is, quite simply, declared a better man than the narrator. He treats the multiple religions of India with equal respect or satire, depending on the context.

Kipling wrote a lot and his attitudes – or the attitudes of his narrators and characters – are mixed and contradictory. But one consistent worldview that the white man, the Englishman, is always and everywhere innately superior to the inferior races – is not there in his writings. He believed that white Western culture had a responsibility to bring the benefits of civilisation – law, schools, hospitals, railways, roads – to the developing world, and so spoke about the White Man’s Burden to do all this – and lamented the resentful ingratitude of the recipients, and the relentless criticism of anti-imperialists at home. But:

a) The era of empires and colonies is over – India and Pakistan will soon have been completely independent for 70 years – and so Kipling’s views have receded to become just the most forcefully expressed of a whole range of opinion from a period which historians can investigate and the literary reader can imaginatively inhabit, as I inhabit the mind of a 17th century French Catholic courtier when I read Racine or a medieval monk when I read Chaucer.

b) Throughout the month that I’ve been soaking myself in Kipling – with his relentless rhetoric about the responsibility of the ‘White Man’ to help the rest of the world – I have also been opening newspapers and hearing on the radio relentless calls for ‘the West’ to intervene in the bombing of Aleppo or do more about the refugee crisis, or intervene in Yemeni civil war. If you replace ‘white man’ in his poems with ‘the West’ you’ll see that a lot of the same paternalistic attitude lives on, even in self-proclaimed liberals and anti-imperialists: there is still the assumption that we in ‘the West’ must do something, are somehow responsible, somehow have magic powers to sort out the world’s troubles which (it is implied) the poor benighted inhabitants of Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Somalia and all the rest of them lack.

In other words, although all right-thinking contemporary liberals decry Kipling’s patronising racism, or the paternalistic implications of his belief that the ‘White Man’ has some kind of responsibility to guide and help and save the rest of the world, I am struck by how much the same attitude of paternalism is alive and kicking in the same liberal minds.

Anyway, you only have to compare Kipling’s thoroughly articulated view that the White Man’s burden is to help and raise up the peoples he finds himself set over, with something like the Nazi doctrine of the innate superiority of the Aryan race, which saw every example of every other race as genetically inferior and only fit to be used as slaves or to carry out live experiments on – to realise the difference. Set against the Nazis, Kipling’s work overflows with sympathy for all types of native peoples – Muslims, Sikhs, Hindus, Buddhists – and with numerous narratives where the ‘native’ turns out to be the equal of or, quite often, a better person than the struggling white man.

Professionalism Eliot draws attention to Kipling’s professionalism – an aspect of his work which I also find admirable:

No writer has ever cared more for the craft of words than Kipling… We can only say that Kipling’s craftsmanship is more reliable than that of some greater poets, and that there is hardly any poem, even in the collected works, in which he fails to do what he has set out to do.

As Eliot points out, quite a few of the stories, particularly the later stories, refer to art and, specifically, to the redeeming element of craft, craftsmanship, the skill and dedication involved in making something. In this respect Kipling is more like the engineers he venerated – building useable structures for specific purposes – than the lyric poet of popular mythology, wanly waiting on inspiration from the Muse. (As Eliot points out, for both Dryden and Kipling, ‘wisdom has the primacy over inspiration’.)

Lack of psychology But this very facility lends itself to a further criticism, that it was in some sense too easy for Kipling; or, put another way, that his verse never feels as if it comes from the kind of psychological depths or offers the kind of personal, intimate or psychological insights which the post-Romantic reader is used to. We like to feel that a writer is in some sense compelled to write what and how he did. Eliot contrasts Kipling with Yeats, whose career included all kinds of compulsions – political, personal, social, romantic – and is often compelling because of it. Almost all Yeats’s poetry is lyrical in the sense that it is designed to arouse feeling. Kipling is the opposite. He is more like Dryden; both writers used poetry ‘to convey a simple forceful statement, rather than a musical pattern of emotional overtones’. His poetry might arise out of some particularly effective statement, but it is statement first and foremost, with almost no emotion or psychology.

In this respect, then, the objectivity of the ballad form suits the objectivity of his approach. For no other writer of comparable stature is there less sense of ‘this inner compulsion’, less sense that he had to write what he wrote. The majority of Kipling’s output derives from skilful craft and a facility in writing in all kinds of forms, a kind of impersonality, which many modern readers of poetry don’t find sympathetic.

Kipling is the most elusive of subjects: no writer has been more reticent about himself, or given fewer openings for curiosity.

Many types of literary criticism are essentially biographical in that they set out to show how an author developed, working with changing material and experiences, learning how to shape and deploy them over the course of their career etc. But this entire critical approach doesn’t work for Kipling, who is skilled and adept right from the start, who shows equal and astonishing fluency with whatever he turns his hand to, and whose oeuvre shows next to no personal or biographical content. The opposite.

Ballads This craftsmanship is exemplified in the form most identified with Kipling. Eliot dwells at length on the fact that Kipling wrote ballads – he wrote in more forms than the symmetrical rhyming ballad, but he was always driven by what Eliot calls ‘the ballad motive’. Eliot gives a brief history of the ballad, pointing out that a good ballad can appeal to both the uneducated and the highly educated, and then going on to praise Kipling’s mastery of the form:

  • ‘a consummate gift of word, phrase and rhythm’
  • ‘the variety of form which Kipling manages to devise for his ballads is remarkable: each is distinct, and perfectly fitted to the content and mood which the poem has to convey’

Eliot goes on to make the distinction between poets like himself, whose aim is to make something which will be and, as an evocative object, evoke a range of responses in different readers; and Kipling’s poems which are designed to act – designed to elicit exactly the same response in all its readers.

Poetry or verse? Eliot tackles the tricky subject of whether Kipling’s work is verse or poetry. I think he’s saying that most of it is verse (hence the title of this book), but that ‘poetry’ frequently arises within it.

With Kipling you cannot draw a line beyond which some of the verse becomes ‘poetry’; … the poetry when it comes, owes the gravity of its impact to being something over and above the bargain, something more than the writer undertook to give you.

Possessed Eliot makes the point that, completely contrary to his reputation as a blustering racist imperialist, there are in fact strange, really strange and eerie depths, hints of terrible psychological experiences, found in much of his work. (I’ve commented on this uncanny element in my review of a collection of his ghost and horror stories – Strange Tales – which in fact, far from depicting heroic chaps running a gleamingly efficient Empire, give a consistent sense of very ordinary men stretched to the limit by difficult work in impossible conditions and teetering on the verge of complete nervous and psychological collapse.)

But it isn’t just stress and collapse. Quite regularly something deeper, a sense of strange historical or even mythical depths, stirs in his work.

At times Kipling is not merely possessed of penetration, but also ‘possessed’ of a kind of second sight.

Hence Eliot is able to say that in a hymn-like poem written for a very public occasion, like Recessional:

Something breaks through from a deeper level than that of the mind of the conscious observer of political and social affairs –  something which has the true prophetic inspiration.

Verse or poetry?

Put simply, Kipling was capable of fluently writing verse for all occasions, which generally eschews all psychology, and certainly all autobiographical content, in order to put into objective ballad formats the catchy formulation of popular or common sentiments; but his sheer facility of phrasing and rhythm often lends this ‘verse’ a kind of depth which justifies the name of ‘poetry’.

I have been using the term ‘verse’ with his own authority, because that is what he called it himself. There is poetry in it; but when he writes verse that is not poetry it is not because he has tried to write poetry and failed. He had another purpose, and one to which he adhered with integrity.

Towards the end of the essay Eliot returns to the question.

What fundamentally differentiates his ‘verse’ from ‘poetry’ is the subordination of musical interest… There is a harmonics of poetry which is not merely beyond their range – it would interfere with their intention.

In other words Kipling wasn’t trying to write poetry, he was aiming at verse and he did write a good deal of truly great verse – but from that verse, from time to time, both true deep memorable poetry emerges, and also profound prophetic truths are articulated.

Five sample poems

I’ve selected five Kipling poems designed to give a sense of his variety of style, mood and subject matter: an example of the Ballad-Room Ballads which were such a popular success in the early 1890s demonstrates the young man’s bumptious good humour; one of the many poems which reveals the eerie, science-fiction-ish, visionary side of Kipling’s imagination; his most famous ‘hymn, with its Biblical imagery and refrain; an eerie moving poem about the Great War; and a compressed, bitter epigram from the same conflict.

1. Fuzzy-Wuzzy (1890)

A tribute to the bravery of the Sudanese warriors who the British Army faced in their campaign against the forces of ‘the Mahdi’ in the Sudan in 1884-85, in the Army’s march south to rescue General Gordon and his Egyptian garrison besieged in Khartoum. It includes a list of recent British military defeats, is a tribute to the superior fighting qualities of the black man, all told in high good humour as Kipling enjoys deploying outrageous rhymes and rhythms, an enjoyment which is still infectious.

We’ve fought with many men acrost the seas,
An’ some of ’em was brave an’ some was not:
The Paythan an’ the Zulu an’ Burmese;
But the Fuzzy was the finest o’ the lot.
We never got a ha’porth’s change of ‘im:
‘E squatted in the scrub an’ ‘ocked our ‘orses,
‘E cut our sentries up at Suakim,
An’ ‘e played the cat an’ banjo with our forces.
So ‘ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your ‘ome in the Soudan;
You’re a pore benighted ‘eathen but a first-class fightin’ man;
We gives you your certificate, an’ if you want it signed
We’ll come an’ ‘ave a romp with you whenever you’re inclined.

We took our chanst among the Khyber ‘ills,
The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,
The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills,
An’ a Zulu impi dished us up in style:
But all we ever got from such as they
Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller;
We ‘eld our bloomin’ own, the papers say,
But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us ‘oller.
Then ‘ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ the missis and the kid;
Our orders was to break you, an’ of course we went an’ did.
We sloshed you with Martinis, an’ it wasn’t ‘ardly fair;
But for all the odds agin’ you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you broke the square.

‘E ‘asn’t got no papers of ‘is own,
‘E ‘asn’t got no medals nor rewards,
So we must certify the skill ‘e’s shown
In usin’ of ‘is long two-‘anded swords:
When ‘e’s ‘oppin’ in an’ out among the bush
With ‘is coffin-‘eaded shield an’ shovel-spear,
An ‘appy day with Fuzzy on the rush
Will last an ‘ealthy Tommy for a year.
So ‘ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ your friends which are no more,
If we ‘adn’t lost some messmates we would ‘elp you to deplore.
But give an’ take’s the gospel, an’ we’ll call the bargain fair,
For if you ‘ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square!

‘E rushes at the smoke when we let drive,
An’, before we know, ‘e’s ‘ackin’ at our ‘ead;
‘E’s all ‘ot sand an’ ginger when alive,
An’ ‘e’s generally shammin’ when ‘e’s dead.
‘E’s a daisy, ‘e’s a ducky, ‘e’s a lamb!
‘E’s a injia-rubber idiot on the spree,
‘E’s the on’y thing that doesn’t give a damn
For a Regiment o’ British Infantree!
So ‘ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your ‘ome in the Soudan;
You’re a pore benighted ‘eathen but a first-class fightin’ man;
An’ ‘ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your ‘ayrick ‘ead of ‘air —
You big black boundin’ beggar — for you broke a British square!

2. The Deep-Sea Cables (1893)

Part of a longer sequence Kipling called A Song of the English which describes various aspects of British naval and maritime supremacy. It describes the advent of cables laid on the ocean beds to carry telegraphic messages. At a stroke the continents of the world were united and messages which used to take months to travel from India or Australia to London could now be sent almost instantaneously. Hence the line ‘they have killed their father Time’. The poem is both an example of Kipling’s obsession with new technology, and his ability to make that technology glamorous and romantic; and at the same time hints at the occasional weirdness of his imagination, broaching on the territory of H.G.Wells or Conan Doyle’s tales of the uncanny.

The wrecks dissolve above us; their dust drops down from afar—
Down to the dark, to the utter dark, where the blind white sea-snakes are.
There is no sound, no echo of sound, in the deserts of the deep,
Or the great grey level plains of ooze where the shell-burred cables creep.

Here in the womb of the world—here on the tie-ribs of earth
Words, and the words of men, flicker and flutter and beat—
Warning, sorrow and gain, salutation and mirth –
For a Power troubles the Still that has neither voice nor feet.

They have wakened the timeless Things; they have killed their father Time
Joining hands in the gloom, a league from the last of the sun.
Hush! Men talk to-day o’er the waste of the ultimate slime,
And a new Word runs between: whispering, ‘Let us be one!’

3. Recessional (1897)

Written for Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee, readers at the time and ever since have been struck by the absence of Pomp and Glory and rejoicing and jubilation. The opposite: the poem is a gloomy pessimistic vision of the way all empires fade and die and so the British Empire will, too. It is a sober call to duty and righteousness. It is on the basis of this solemn incantation that Eliot describes Kipling as ‘a great hymn writer’ – ‘Something breaks through from a deeper level than that of the mind of the conscious observer of political and social affairs – something which has the true prophetic inspiration.’

God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies;
The Captains and the Kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Far-called, our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard,
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding, calls not Thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word—
Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord!

4. Gethsemane (1914-18)

Eliot says he doesn’t understand this poem. I see it as remarkably simple, in fact the simplicity of rhyme scheme, the short lines, the repetitive words all contribute to its haunting limpidity. The soldier going up the line towards the trenches pauses with his troop and officer for a rest, and bitterly prays that the cup – i.e. his death, his doom, his fate – will pass from him i.e. be avoided. But it isn’t. He is gassed. Compare and contrast with the long bouncy rhythms and good humour of Fuzzy Wuzzy, with the grand rolling phrases of Recessional, the eerie visionariness of the Sea Cables, and you begin to see Kipling’s variety and virtuosity. He could write poems for all occasions, for all moods – and they are not just good but brilliant.

The Garden called Gethsemane
In Picardy it was,
And there the people came to see
The English soldiers pass.
We used to pass—we used to pass
Or halt, as it might be,
And ship our masks in case of gas
Beyond Gethsemane.

The Garden called Gethsemane,
It held a pretty lass,
But all the time she talked to me
I prayed my cup might pass.
The officer sat on the chair,
The men lay on the grass,
And all the time we halted there
I prayed my cup might pass.

It didn’t pass—it didn’t pass –
It didn’t pass from me.
I drank it when we met the gas
Beyond Gethsemane!

5. Epitaph of War

Eliot writes: ‘Good epigrams in English are very rare; and the great hymn writer is very rare. Both are extremely objective types of verse: they can and should be charged with intense feeling, but it must be a feeling that is completely shared.’ Kipling had the inspired idea during and after the Great War to use the extremely short, abbreviated format of epigrams found in the Green Anthology as models for very short poems commemorating aspects of the conflict. Hence:

Common Form

If any question why we died,
Tell them, because our fathers lied.

Conclusion

Although not a totally coherent piece of prose (given its occasionally rambling and repetitious structure), Eliot’s 30-page essay on Kipling nonetheless contains more ideas and insights into his verse than anything else I’ve read.


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Robert Louis Stevenson: A Biography by Claire Harman (2005)

Relevance of biography for Stevenson

Normally I don’t like biographies of writers, since they take you away from the hard-earned riches of the fictional text, and drag you back down into the everyday world of contracts and illnesses, of gossip and hearsay.

Thus Harman spends some pages trying to decide whether Stevenson’s penis entered the vagina of his older, married friend, Miss Sitwell, or whether the penis of his friend Sidney Colvin had already had that pleasure – or whether neither penis gained entry until Colvin and Sitwell married years later. This concern about who ‘became lovers’ with whom, exactly when and where, is precisely the kind of Hello magazine tittle-tattle I despise, and so I skipped these parts.

But a biography of Stevenson is worth reading because his published writings are so scattered and diverse – plays, poems, ballads, fables, ghost stories, horror stories, short stories, novellas, children’s adventures, adult tales, essays, reviews, appreciations of other writers, travel books – as to be difficult to reconcile and grasp as a complete oeuvre. It helps a lot to make sense of Stevenson’s output to understand the shape of his life and why he produced what he did, when.

An account of his life is necessary to show a) how all the different writings fit together b) what his own attitude towards them was; crucially, for me, how his thoughts about style and approach changed, evolved, or were deployed, for different texts.

Harman’s biography

There have been half a dozen biographies of Stevenson, from the circumspect one by his cousin Graham Balfour in 1901 to Frank McLynn’s magnum opus in 1994. Harman’s is the most recent one and takes advantage of the availability of more manuscript material, and especially the eight volumes of the Yale edition of Stevenson’s letters, which were published in the mid-1990s.

The main ideas which emerge are:

Stevenson the Unfinisher

  • Stevenson wrote a phenomenal amount, some thirty published books as well as scores of short stories and hosts of essays, as well as thousands of letters. This is why the Tusitala edition of his complete works amounts to an impressive 35 volumes.
  • BUT he was a chronic beginner of stories which he never finished. He was a starter not a finisher. Harman describes some stories he wrote for his school magazine, all of which ended with the phrase To be completed… and none of them ever were, and neither were scores of other plans. He was a great maker of lists of projects, Harman details the plans he made at one point at university: plans for thirteen plays, umpteen essays, long epic poems – ideas spurted out of him endlessly.
  • A complete guide to his prose works lists over 300 projects of which only some 30 were ever published. A biography of Hazlitt, a massive history of his own family, various plays, books of essays… the biography is littered with abandoned projects and ideas…

So Stevenson was the possessor of a striking fecundity, but a troubled fecundity, and this sheds immediate light on the works I’ve been reading towards the end of his career:

  • The Bottle Imp intended as just one of a volume of supernatural tales the rest of which were never written
  • Weir of Hermiston unfinished
  • St Ives unfinished.

It also sheds light on the speed and hastiness of many of his finished works, which often seem thrown together, written at tremendous speed, before the afflatus and inspiration fade and he abandons them.

Sometimes the speed is somehow captured in the text itself as energy and excitement – hence Treasure Island, Kidnapped.

Sometimes it isn’t transmuted into the text which feels more like a list of incidents than a narrative which engages and transports you, as with The Black Arrow.

And in his three collaborations with his step-son Lloyd Osbourne, the Osbourne factor amounts to a tremendous slowing down of Stevenson’s usual pell-mell effect – most notable in the grindingly slow first half of The Wrecker, which takes an age to get into gear and move towards the fast-moving and violent climax.

Doubles

Like everyone else who’s ever written about Stevenson, Harman is entranced by the really blindingly obvious idea of ‘doubles’ in his fiction, taking the duality which is blindingly central to Jekyll and Hyde and then detecting it in other ‘double’ stories, like Deacon Brodie or Ballantrae and so on. Of course it’s there to some extent, but an obsessive focus on it obscures the many many other aspects, themes and elements of his work.

Rebellion against parents

His father and his father before him were engineers, members of what became known as ‘the lighthouse Stevensons’, the dynasty which built many of the lighthouses around the notoriously dangerous Scottish coast. Stevenson was a rarity in the extended family, in being an only son, and his father made every effort to force him into the family business, making Stevenson study engineering for three years, touring the lighthouses his family had built and studying the ports and harbours where new ones were planned.

He remained a flop as an engineer, unable to tell one type of wood from another, incapable of the mathematics and physics required, but the extensive travel around the Scottish coast, meeting and staying with poor peasants in remote locations, stood him in very good stead when it came to writing his Scottish fictions.

Bohemian pose

The biography gives a fascinating account of Stevenson’s life as a very reluctant engineering student in dank and foggy Edinburgh, and his student-y predilection for roughing it in low-life pubs and brothels, sitting in the corner of smoky taverns while prostitutes plied their trade and dockers argued and fought. He and his friends were living La Vie Boheme before the term was coined and Stevenson is thought to have slept with one or more of the prostitutes he knew, experimented with hashish, and been a devotee of the debauched poetry of Charles Baudelaire. This taste for low life, again, stood him in good stead when he moved on to Paris, when he imagined life among bandits and outlaws and pirates for his adventure books, when he found himself among emigrants and cowboys in America, and then in his final guise, as friend and defender of South Sea Islanders against the incompetent colonial authorities.

Sick and well

Though always extremely thin and weedy in his young manhood, Stevenson was nonetheless extremely active, playing the gay blade at the artists’ colony in Barbizon, northern France, restlessly pacing up and down rooms, his feverish eyes drinking in his surroundings and his mind pouring forth an endless stream of repartee and humour. He is sent to the south of France and Switzerland to try and cure his lung disorders, but it is far from clear what he actually had. Was it TB or some form of syphilis?

The ill health seems to crystallise during the arduous journey across the Atlantic and then by train across America in 1879. By the time he arrives at Fanny Osbourne’s house he was really unwell, and it was during his stay in California that he experienced his first bad haemorrhage.

At some level, being accepted by Fanny – 10 years his elder – coincided with his official advent to the condition of invalid; somehow their relationship skipped the ‘lovers’ stage directly to ‘mother’ and ‘invalid’, and there it was to stay until his death.

The elusive masterpiece

Harman makes the point that right up to his death (in 1894, aged just 44) Stevenson’s friends and fans were hoping against hope that he would finally deliver The Masterpiece that would cement his place as a Master of English Literature. His precocious essays and stories promised so much, it was hard for everyone, including the man himself, to accept that he just couldn’t produce the kind of solid, consistent, three-volume novel typical of Dickens, Eliot, George Meredith. But he couldn’t and he didn’t. Instead, Stevenson’s oeuvre is a) extremely scattered b) littered with unfinished projects.

Worse than the non-arrival of The Masterpiece, was the way that his entire output from the South Seas was viewed by many as a calamitous abandonment of a conventional career. Instead of a bigger better Kidnapped or Ballantrae his fans were subjected to a pamphlet defending a missionary who worked with lepers, a series of rather boring letters to his friend Sidney Colvin, the long travel book In The South Seas which, unlike his other short witty travelogues, was long and weighed down with pages of local history and culture which quickly became boring. The few fictions seemed desperately diverse and unfocused: was The Bottle Imp the beginning of a series of fables setting a kind of Arabian Nights fantasy in Tahiti? And what to make of the short novel The Ebb-Tide which combined grotesque levels of violence with what seemed to be a sustained attack on Western civilisation in a fiction in which almost every white character is despicable.

Against this backdrop Harman makes the interesting point that the unfinished novel Weir of Hermiston, when it was finally published, was greeted with relief by Stevenson’s fans because it was so obviously a return to the Scottish setting of some of his greatest works and showed, without any doubt, a significant progress in psychological portrayal of character.

Thus Hermiston was enshrined as the pinnacle of his achievement – which involved ignoring the long potboiler, St Ives, which Stevenson had brought much closer to completion but is a regrettable reversion to the smash-bang-wallop style of earlier shockers – and, much worse, I think, involved downplaying or just ignoring the South Sea fictions, The Beach of Falesá and The Ebb-Tide, which are, I think, masterpieces of a completely new realistic-but-grotesque style, something new in his writing and immensely promising.

What I’ve learned

From this time round reading Stevenson, the main findings have been:

1. The travel books are brilliant. I thought they’d be dry and dusty and irrelevant, but they turn out to be short, punchy, engaging, funny and full of fascinating and vivid character studies, as well as providing a fascinating experiment in autobiography in instalments.

2. Stevenson’s emigration to the South Pacific led to a typical explosion of writing in all sorts of genres – travelogue, local history, cultural analysis, essays, pamphlets, letters to the press, letters home to friends, parables and fables. But head and shoulders above them stand the two longer fictions – The Beach of Falesá and The Ebb-Tide – which I wish someone had recommended to me years ago, and I think are among his greatest achievements.


Related links

A Stevenson bibliography

1878
An Inland Voyage – An immensely entertaining, witty and thoughtful account of Stevenson’s trip by canoe, with a friend, along the canals of Belgium and south into France, observing rural life and types along the way.
1879
Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes – More gritty than the Voyage, the Travels record 12 days walking with a recalcitrant donkey through south-central France in a book which has moments of freewheeling nature worship but comes to be dominated by Stevenson’s interest in the bloody Protestant revolt which took place in the region a century earlier.
1881
Virginibus Puerisque and Other Papers – Essays including: Virginibus Puerisque i-iv including ‘On Falling in Love’, Crabbed Age and Youth, An Apology for Idlers, Ordered South, Aes Triplex, El Dorado, The English Admirals, Some Portraits by Raeburn, Child’s Play, Walking Tours, Pan’s Pipes, A Plea for Gas Lamp.
1882
The Old and New Pacific Capitals – Essays on the climate and history of Monterey and San Francisco.
Familiar Studies of Men and Books – Essays on: Victor Hugo’s Romances, Some Aspects of Robert Burns, The Gospel According to Walt Whitman, Henry David Thoreau: His Character and Opinions, Yoshida-Torajiro, François Villon, Student, Poet, Housebreaker, Charles of Orleans, Samuel Pepys, John Knox and his Relations to Women.
New Arabian Nights – A sequence of thinly-linked and not too impressive short stories.
1883
Treasure Island – One of the most famous adventure stories of all time. Andrew Lang says it single-handedly established the financial viability of a new type of short, action-packed story and inaugurated a golden age of adventure yarns from the likes of Arthur Conan Doyle and Henry Rider Haggard.
The Silverado Squatters – Another travel book, following immediately after the Atlantic crossing described in An Amateur Emigrant and the trans-America train journey described in The Open Plains, this one describes Stevenson and new wife Fanny’s honeymoon in an abandoned mining camp high on the flanks of Mount St Helena, north of San Francisco.
1885
Prince Otto – An action romance set in the imaginary Germanic state of Grünewald.
More New Arabian Nights: The Dynamiter – co-written with Fanny Van De Grift Stevenson
A Child’s Garden of Verses Classic volume of children’s poetry.
1886
The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde – One of the most famous fictions of all time about an Edinburgh scientist who devises a potion which releases his unconscious urges, his animal self, an alter ego which threatens to take over his personality.
Kidnapped – Gripping historical novel about young David Balfour plunged into a series of adventures in the aftermath of the Jacobite Rising of 1745.
1887
The Merry Men and Other Tales and Fables – Six short stories: The Merry Men, Will O’ the Mill, Markheim, Thrawn Janet, Olalla, The Treasure of Franchard.
On the Choice of a Profession – An essay.
Underwoods (poetry)
Ticonderoga: A Legend of the West Highlands (poetry)
1888
The Black Arrow: A Tale of the Two Roses – Historical adventure novel set during the Wars of the Roses as young Master Richard Shelton escapes from his wicked ‘uncle’ and rescues the girl he loves, young Joanna Sedley.
1889
The Master of Ballantrae – Two brothers end up on opposite sides of Bonny Prince Charlie’s rebellion of 1745, the Master being the one who goes into exile and adventures in America and India before returning to haunt the stay-at-home brother, until both are driven to a macabre and gruesome fate in the New World.
The Wrong Box – Comic novel mostly written by his step-son Lloyd Osbourne, but revised by Stevenson.
1890
Father Damien: an Open Letter to the Rev. Dr. Hyde of Honolulu Stevenson’s angry defence of Father Damien, Catholic priest to the leper colony on the island of Molokai, against a detractor.
1891
The Bottle Imp – Short story (collected in Island Nights’ Entertainments) about a magic bottle and the love of two South Sea island natives.
Ballads – poems
1892
The Wrecker (co-written with Lloyd Osbourne) – An immensely long rambling narrative telling the life story of American Loudon Dodds, from his days as a failed art student in Paris, to his business ventures with brash Jim Pinkerton in San Francisco, to the long puzzling case of the shipwrecked Flying Scud whose mystery dominates the second half of the book and, in the final pages, reveals a gruesome and bloody tragedy at sea.
The Beach of Falesá – (collected in Island Nights’ Entertainments) A powerful short story about a rough white trader and the harsh revenge he takes on the fellow trader who tries to get him expelled from the island.
A Footnote to History, Eight Years of Trouble in Samoa – factual history
Across the Plains – Travelogue following straight on from The Amateur Emigrant (which describes RLS’s 1879 journey by steamship from Glasgow to New York) and describes his ongoing journey by train from New York to California.
1893
The Isle of Voices – Short story (collected in Island Nights’ Entertainments) about a lazy South Sea islander who falls foul of his father-in-law who is a warlock with magic powers.
Catriona, aka David Balfour – A sequel to Kidnapped.
Island Nights’ Entertainments (aka South Sea Tales) – Contains the three stories referred to above.
1894
The Ebb-Tide – A novella, the third collaboration with Lloyd Osbourne, describing the ill-fated trip of three beach bums at the ends of their tethers, who unexpectedly get the opportunity to crew a schooner, plan to steal and sell it, but then meet their nemesis in the shape of a supernaturally powerful white trader.
—-December 1894 Stevenson dies, aged 44, on the South Sea Island of Vailima—-
1895
Vailima Letters – 44 letters Stevenson wrote to his friend Sidney Colvin, who published them with a preface and epilogue.
The Amateur Emigrant – A short intense account of Stevenson’s journey across the Atlantic in 1879, with descriptions of the squalid conditions of ‘steerage’ class passengers and reflections on the condition and character of the British working classes.
1896
Weir of Hermiston – Unfinished at Stevenson’s death, this fragment of nine chapters describes the childhood and young manhood of Archie Weir, sensitive son of the hanging judge old Adam Weir, how his father removes him from Edinburgh University for his subversive views and exiles him to the country estate of Hermiston where he falls in love with a local beauty, Christina Elliott – at which point a student acquaintance comes to stay, who it is hinted will become Archie’s bitter love rival – and the manuscript breaks off. Contains much mature and insightful portrayal of its characters especially, for the first time in Stevenson’s fiction, of its women characters.
In the South Seas – A collection of articles and essays describing Stevenson’s travels in the Pacific islands.
Songs of Travel and Other Verses – Poetry.
Records of A Family of Engineers – A personal history of his own family of lighthouse-building engineers, unfinished at his death.
1897
St. Ives: being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England – A long novel which Stevenson had almost completed and was finished after his death by Arthur Quiller-Couch.

2005
Robert Louis Stevenson: A Biography by Claire Harman

King Harald’s Saga

This is a relatively short and straightforward read in an excellent, fluent translation by Magnus Magnusson and Hermann Pálsson. It was published in 1966, 900 years after the events of the Great Year it describes, for this is the life story of King Harald Sigurdsson, known as Hardrada (hard ruler), the Norwegian king who invaded the north of England in late summer 1066 before being brought to battle, defeated and killed by Harold Godwinsson, King Harold II of England, at the Battle of Stamford Bridge; the ill-fated Harold who then had to force-march his army south to confront that other invasion, from the Norman pretender William the Bastard, where things didn’t turn out quite so well.

King Harald’s saga is significantly different from the 15 or so sagas I’ve read hitherto for the following reasons:

  • authored all the so-called Family sagas are anonymous – Harald’s is by a known and famous medieval author and historian, Snorri Sturlason
  • poetry all the other sagas include poetry and several of them are about famous poets (Egil Skallagrimsson, Gunnlaug Wormtongue) – but the historian Snorri uses poetry as  evidence, carefully assessing what it tells us about the events it records
  • excerpt all the Family sagas are self-contained (though some key characters appear in more than one saga) – Harald’s is an excerpt from a much longer work, the Heimskringla, which is some 850 pages long
  • linear the Family sagas, although they concern the deeds of actual historical people, are consciously shaped and moulded for artistic affect – Harald’s saga, being an almost year-by-year account of his career, is much more linear
  • interference we often know nothing more about the heroes of the Family sagas than their saga tells us and, given the artistic intention of the text, it is satisfying and sufficient to accept the narrative at face value – whereas King Harald is a major player in the events of the dramatic year of 1066 which are taught to all schoolchildren, and so his character – and this text – is slightly swamped by our outside knowledge from numerous other sources.

Snorri Sturlason

One of the key figures in the creative upsurge which led to the explosion of saga-writing in Iceland during the 12th and 13th centuries is historian, Snorri Sturlason (c.1179-1241) was an astonishing renaissance man, poet and historian, politician, chieftain and lawyer. It is to Snorri that we owe one of the two key texts about Norse mythology, the Prose Edda. This long text exists as a primer on poetic technique, leading up to a long section about the different stanzas and methods available to Icelandic poets, for which the opening section about the Norse myths was only intended as a kind of background briefing, but which is now an invaluable source – the only source – we have for many of the tales of the Norse gods.

As if this wasn’t enough of an achievement, he is also famous, in Norway, for having written the definitive history of the kings of Norway, from the earliest mythical times up to around the time of his birth, 1177, the Heimskringla.

The Heimskringla

This vast text is a comprehensive history of the kings of Norway from the mists of prehistory and the doings of Odin and Loki, through to factually accurate accounts of the kings who ruled just before Snorri’s birth. It is divided into 16 chapters which are, in style and structure, very like sagas. By far the longest is the saga of St Olaf, taking up two thirds of the total.

But unlike the Family sagas, Snorri’s long text is very aware of the problems of historical technique, of weighing and comparing sources, of choosing which version of events to follow, and so on. Snorri explicitly addresses these in his preface and in other places. Maybe the most striking aspect of the book is the very strong reliance on poetry.

Poetry

Over 90 verses of skaldic poetry are quoted in the saga, there’s a verse on every page, and most of them are credited to named individuals since the kings of Norway had a special fondness for keeping poets around them to sing their praises and Harald was no exception. I liked this verse by Bolverk Arnorsson:

Bleak showers lashed the dark prows
Hard along the coastline;
Iron-shielded vessels
Flaunted colourful rigging.
The great prince saw ahead
The copper roofs of Byzantium;
His swan-breasted ships swept
Towards the tall-towered city.

Interference

The Magnusson translation is wonderful, no problems there. It has a really useful introduction, good maps, invaluable family trees and potted biographies of almost everyone mentioned in the text. In addition there are ample footnotes on every page, so that many pages are more note than text. And it’s here the a teeny-tiny problem emerges because at key cruxes of Harald’s biography – his time with the Varangian Guard in Consntantinople, in his wars against Svein Ulfsson, king of Denmark, and Earl Hakon Ivarsson, nomadic chieftain, and in the detail of his final campaign against Harold Godwinsson in England – the notes intrude into the text to give really detailed explanations of the complicated genealogical and political connections between the main characters, and this

  • swamps the text you’re reading ie after two pages of notes on just what Harold Godwinsson promised Duke William of Normandy, it’s difficult to rejoin the narrative in the same frame of mind
  • undermines the text because, unfortunately, it turns out the saga is plain wrong in many of its factual claims

The notes, in places, become a kind of anti-text which is actively warring against the saga, undermining its facts and interpretation. This doesn’t happen in the Family sagas which are much more like, say, the tragedies of Shakespeare in that they use historical figures but are obviously crafted to produce dramatic twists and confrontations. Snorri, also, creates dramatic moments in this tale, but they are continually undermined by the scientific tone of the footnotes. In a nutshell, the first time you read it, skip the notes, just read the narrative for the speed and excitement of the story.

Summary

The story opens when Harald is 15 and fighting alongside his half-brother, King Olaf, at the Battle of Stiklestad in 1030. Olaf loses and is killed and Harald flees east to Sweden. From there he journeys south-east through Russia, stopping to impress King Jaroslav before carrying on down to Constantinople to join the Varangian Guard, the elite band of mercenaries mostly from Scandinavia who served the emperor directly. He fights for the Byzantines in Greece, Sicily, then in the Holy Land where he makes pilgrimage to the shrines. Back in Constantinople he asks to return home, is refused and thrown in prison, is released by a miracle and takes part in some kind of uprising against the emperor in which he is said to have personally put out the emperor’s eyes. He and his fellow Scands escape across the Black Sea and back upriver to Russia, collect the loot they’d been stashing with King Jaroslav, and return to Norway.

The middle part of the saga details Harald’s numerous confrontations, battles, negotiations, treaties with and double crosses of King Magnus of Denmark (his nephew), his successor King Svein Ulfsson, and the slippery chieftain  Earl Hakon Ivarsson who fights first for one side then for the other then against both. It is a confusing picture made more so by the tangled skein of intermarriages among the royal families of Norway, Sweden and Denmark and the endless squabbles about who promised who which kingdom when they died.

Thus, in around 1038, King Magnus of Norway had made a pact with King Hardacnut of Denmark (son of Cnut the Great who actually ruled England from 1016-1035) that if either of them died childless the other would inherit their realm. Hardacnut died childless in 1042 and so Magnus claimed Denmark. But since  Hardacnut’s father had been king of England, Magnus also claimed the English throne. When Edward the Confessor had himself crowned English king after Hardacnut’s death, Magnus had planned to invade England only to be distracted by war with rebellious chieftains nearer home. When Magnus died in 1047 Harald considered that he’d inherited England along with Denmark. Edward negotiated with his both Harald and William of Normandy throughout the 1050s and managed to keep both at bay. But after his death in January 1066 both William of Normandy and Harald of Denmark considered themselves cheated of the kingdom when Harold Godwinsson got himself crowned, and they both set out to invade and conquer the land they thought rightfully theirs.

And that account not only partly explains the reason for Harald’s invasion, but gives a good flavour of how the fictional or artistic aspect of the saga, the creation of telling vignettes and insightful dialogue, is unfortunately swamped in the great sea of factual prose which is required to explicate these complicated events.

Harald sails Norway with 300 ships and maybe 6,000 men, lands on the Yorkshire coast, wins a battle at Fulford near York and is recovering with his men when the huge army Harold Godwinsson has raised attacks. The slaughter takes place in three terrible waves and leaves a battlefield glutted with corpses and Harald dead, killed by an arrow. Only 20 or so ships suffice to take the survivors back to Norway, and the memory of the slaughter more or less ends Scandinavian ambitions to invade let alone rule England.

In its last few chapters the saga has an obituary of Harald with a 13th century assessment of his strengths and weaknesses.  His old adversary Svein of Denmark gathers forces to invade Norway yet again, but wiser heads prevail to defuse the threat and preserve the peace, and Harald is succeeded by his sons Magnus (d.1069) and Olaf (d.1093) who preside over a long preiod of much-deserved peace.

Related links

The Battle of Stamford bridge, 1870, by Peter Nicolai Arbo (Wikimedia Commons)

The Battle of Stamford bridge with Harald getting shot in the neck, 1870, by Peter Nicolai Arbo (Wikimedia Commons)

Other sagas

Zbigniew Herbert: Selected Poems (1968)

Poetry is best encountered like a complete stranger who starts talking to you on the Tube, in the sauna, at the school gates, who in fifteen minutes adds something completely unexpected to your day, a new thought, a new insight, a new sensation – and then vanishes.

I picked up this old volume for £1 at the Salvation Army bookstand and read it on the train home.

Herbert (1924-98) was the outstanding Polish poet of the 20th century. After fighting in the Polish resistance he became a subtle dissident against the communist regime.  The short introduction is by Al Alvarez and neatly pulls out the political nature of Herbert’s work. ‘Most of Herbert’s work is concerned with reasons for not being convinced.’ After such a holocaust of an upbringing, what was there to believe in? His poetry ‘is political by virtue of being permanently and warily in opposition’. An admirable stance.

Herbert’s verse is classic, precise, ironic, characterised by a scientific detachment. Romantic styles and forms, rhyme and lushness and rhetoric, have all been burned away by the Nazi atrocities and decades of communist oppression, along with punctuation, capital letters, all the rest.

There are just phrases, lines, each trying to be as honest as possible.

The pebble
is a perfect creature

equal to itself
mindful of its limits

filled exactly
with a pebbly meaning

with a scent which does not remind one of anything
does not frighten anything away does not arouse desire

its ardour and coldness
are just and full of dignity

I feel a heavy remorse
when I hold it in my hand
and its noble body
is permeated by false warmth

– Pebbles cannot be tamed
to the end they will look at us
with a calm and very clear eye

You can see how Ted Hughes was influenced by the unsentimental objectivity of these East European poets, who he helped to publish and publicise. He has a poem about a pebble turning red in the heat of the sun which I must track down…

But it’s not all about natural objects. This volume has a series of prose poems which combine the feel of European folk story retold for the era of the fridge and the party functionary.

From Mythology

First there was a god of night and tempest, a black idol without eyes, before whom they leapt, naked and smeared with blood. Later on, in the times of the republic, there were many gods with wives, children, creaking beds, and harmlessly exploding thunderbolts. At the end only superstitious neurotics carried in their pockets little statues of salt, representing the god of irony. There was no greater god at that time.

Then came the barbarians. They too valued highly the little god of irony. They would crush it under their heels and add it to their dishes.

The crisp translations are a collaboration by the just-as-famous Polish poet Czeslaw Milosz and Canadian diplomat Peter Dale Scott. ‘Permanently and warily in opposition.’

Related links

The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer (1400)

In a second hand shop in Shrewsbury I picked up David Wright’s 1985 verse translation of the Canterbury Tales, published by Oxford University Press (1985 neatly being some 500 years after the first manuscripts of the tales began circulating). With a short introduction and hardly any notes, it is an edition intended to be read and enjoyed and I found it very readable and very enjoyable.

One April Geoffrey is staying at the Tabard pub in Southwark (presumably on or near the current Borough High Street) when a miscellaneous party of pilgrims arrives, 29 in all. They have arranged for the host of the Tabard, Harry Bailly, to accompany them to Canterbury. By the end of the evening Geoffrey is firm friends with the party and, the next morning, they invite him to accompany them. The Host proposes to while away the time of the journey with a competition – they’ll each tell two tales on the way there, two on the way back, and the winner gets a dinner paid for be everyone else!

‘Whoever best acquits himself, and tells
The most amusing and instructive tale,
Shall have a dinner, paid for by us all…’

29 + Geoffrey = 30 x 4 = this plan, if carried out would have resulted in 120 tales. In the event Geoffrey got nowhere near this goal; we have only 21 tales scattered into half a dozen different ‘groups’ or fragments of manuscript,  several incomplete, several quite clearly allocated to the wrong teller – in other words the Tales are radically unfinished. But we can still enjoy the 20 we have and, as it is, these twenty plus the connecting passages or ‘introductions’ to each speaker, easily fill a 400-page paperback.

The prologue to the Canterbury Tales lists the pilgrims with a brief description of each:

  1. the Knight
  2. his son, the Squire
  3. his servant, the Yeoman, dressed like a forester
  4. a Prioress, Madame Eglantine
  5. the nun’s priest
  6. the nun’s second priest
  7. the nun’s third priest
  8. another nun
  9. a merry, worldly Monk
  10. Hubert, the worldly Friar
  11. a Merchant
  12. a poor Oxford Scholar
  13. a knowledgeable Sergeant-at-Law, or Man of Law
  14. a Franklin ie a country gentleman
  15. a Haberdasher
  16. a Weaver
  17. a Carpenter
  18. a Dyer
  19. a Tapestry-Maker
  20. their Cook, Roger Hodge of Ware
  21. a Sea Captain
  22. a Doctor/Physician, greedy for gold
  23. the Wife of Bath, a businesswoman in cloth, fat, five times married
  24. a good honest poor village Priest
  25. the priest’s brother, an honest Ploughman
  26. Oswald the Reeve, an estate manager, skinny and mean, from Norfolk
  27. Robyn the Miller, massive and strong, a wrestler and loudmouth who plays the bagpipes
  28. a Pardoner from Charing Cross who sells indulgences
  29. a Summoner who enforces religious law eg on adultery and fornication, and is randy, greedy and corrupt
  30. a Manciple, like a bursar, who buys supplies for colleges
  31. the Narrator, Geoffrey
  32. our Host, Harry Bailly

There are 83 manuscripts of the tales, none complete, all varying, from variant details like individual words, to large variations such as the order of the stories appear in. This Wikipedia article explains the numbering of the fragments. It will be observed that David Wright’s order is not the classical one: he goes Fragments I, II, VII, III, IV, V, VI, VIII, IX, X.

1. The Knight’s Tale – very long, 2,250 lines: in ancient Greece cousins Palamon and Arcite barely survive Duke Theseus of Athens’ devastation of Thebes (prompted because weeping widows complained their husbands haven’t been buried by beastly Creon), are imprisoned and from their prison window both see and are smitten in love with Theseus’ sister, the beautiful Emily. There follow sundry adventures ie Arcite is released from prison but returns to serve Emily’s household in disguise; Palamon is finally released through intervention of a friend of Theseus’s but overhears Arcite singing Emily’s praises in the woods and attacks him Duke Theseus and his entourage just happen to arrive at that moment, part the fighting cousins and tells them to gather 100 men each for a mighty tournament, and builds a vast arena. In the lovely structured way of medieval literature they each pray to their intercessor: Palamon to Venus for her love, Emily to Diana to stay chaste, Arcite to Mars for victory. Palamon and Arcite fight valiantly until Palamon is wounded by one of Arcite’s men and dragged form the arena. As Arcite rides towards the dais to claim his bride a fiend out of hell erupts from the earth, frightens his horse and unseats him; crushed, mortally injured, he tells Emily to marry Palamon as he genuinely loves her.

The Knight’s Tale inaugurates the central theme of LOVE in the Tales. Also a number of moral dilemmas – the cousins fighting, who has precedence, should one submit, who should Emily choose – etc, which indicate that these fictions were meant to prompt discussion and debate in the audience who heard them.

2. The Miller’s Tale – the Host wants the Monk to speak next but the amiable anarchy of the Tales is established when Robyn the Miller, completely plastered, interrupts and insists on telling his tale: Fly Nicholas the lodger devises a scheme to fornicate with beautiful Alison, wife of John the old carpenter: he tells the carpenter the Flood is coming so he hangs three baths from the ceiling packed with provisions ready to float away. That night they get in their baths and when John falls asleep Nicholas and Alison climb down and go to bed. However Alison has another admirer, the dapper parish clerk Absalon. He picks that very night to climb a ladder to the little privy window of her bedroom and beg a kiss: she sticks her bottom out and Absalon kisses her arse; as he descends wondering why she has a beard she hears Alison and Nicholas giggling and, flying into a fury, goes gets a red hot poker for the early rising blacksmith: He whispers to Alison but this time it is Nicholas who sticks his bottom out the window and is rewarded by having the poker rammed between his buttocks; he screams, John wakes up and cuts the ropes crashing his bath to the ground, inciting the neighbours to come crowding in where Nicholas suavely tells everyone the carpenter has gone raving mad.

The Miller’s tale is an ironic and vulgar response to the knight’s courtly love; it uses tropes common in continental literature such as deep learning misdirected to scandalous ends and the ‘misdirected kiss’, and is obviously a variatoin on the central theme of Love, Married Love.

3. The Reeve’s Tale – the skinny, dry, abstemious reeve or estate manager: as a carpenter he is offended by the miller’s tale about a carpenter who is cuckolded so he promptly tells a story about a miller, nicknamed Show-off Simkin, in the village of Trumpington outside Cambridge who takes a noble wife and is very jealous of her and of his beautiful 18 year olf daughter. Two students, John and Alan, visit him with corn to see if he’ll swindle them but the wife frees their horse who rampages off across fields and by the time they’ve captured him it’s late and they stay the night. Through various farcical contrivances the students manage to sleep with the daughter and the wife before giving the game away and, in the uproar, also stealing the pie the miller had made with the corn he stole for them. Comprehensive humiliation.

Chaucer’s texts are stuffed to the gunwales with proverbs, saws, apothegms, texts and sayings. It is as if the stories, as if the medieval mind, is strung from them, is made up of them – rather as our minds are saturated with truisms about the Information Age, the Environment, Welfare Spongers, Immigrants, the Recession etc etc etc most of which will turn out to be equally untrue.

4. The Cooks’ Tale starts to be about a gadabout London apprentice who is eventually kicked out by his master and goes live with a fellow young man and wide boy when it abruptly ends after only 58 lines.

5. The Man of Law’s prologue goes on at surprising length about Chaucer and his works, praising his Legend of Good Women, before commencing the Man of Law’s Tale – the long trial of Constance, daughter of the Christian Roman Emperor who is sent to marry the Sultan of Syria but he is murdered along with all her entourage by the wicked mother-in-law and Constance is set adrift in a boat which floats for years right out of the Mediterranean and to the coast of Northumbria where she is rescued by the pagan governor and converts first his wife, Hermengyld and then him before a randy knight tries to seduce her: she refuses: he murders Hermengyld and frames her with the bloody knife; however God strikes down the guilty knight as a result of which king Alla marries Constance and converts  but goes off to fight the Scots; in his absence Alla’s wicked mother forges letters telling the governor to set her adrift in a boat again and she (and her son) drift right back to Italy where they are rescued by a senator and brought to court where the Emperor realises she is his daughter and where Alla happens to be on pilgrimage and recognises his wife and daughter. All good.

The long-suffering woman true to her Christian faith despite all trials is a commonplace of the time: apparently there is a ‘Constance Cycle’ of interlinked stories about the same figure. Looked at structurally you begin to realise the women are fixed structural points, like hinges, around which various men carry out their various plans (whether ‘noble’ like the feuding cousins or ‘low’ like Fly Nicholas and the Cambridge students); and yet in this tale Constance is undoubtedly the heroine and the main instigators of action are the two wicked mothers-in-law.

6. The Sea Captain’s Tale, like the miller’s and reeve’s is about adultery. A merchant of St Denis has a pretty wife and an old friend a monk. He loans the monk 100 francs; the monk pays it to the wife to have sex with her while the merchant is away; when he goes to reclaim the loan the monk tells her he’s  repaid the wife; the merchant is a bit cross with the wife for not telling him of the repayment but she has sex with him and makes him happy. It is a satire on the circulation of money and sex.

7. The Host thanks the Captain and invites the Prioress to tell a tale. The Prioress’s Tale is a horrifying example of raw medieval anti-semitism. In Asia in a city with a Jewish quarter a little boy goes about singing the praises of the Virgin Mary. Satan incites the Jews to kill him and they hire an assassin who slits the boy’s throat and throws him in the cesspit. However he keeps on singing and attracts rescuers to him. They arrest, torture and execute the Jews responsible. Then the abbot removes the pearl under the boy’s tongue and he ceases singing and dies and is laid in a holy sepulchre.

The blood libel of the Jews was widespread in the Middle Ages. It starts in the new testament written by Greeks threatened by and antagonistic to Jews and we all know where it led. Jews had been expelled from England in 1290 (not to be readmitted until Oliver Cromwell in 1656) and so their remoteness made them even easier to vilify. The tale also uses the very widespread theme of a miracle of the Virgin Mary but it is hard to register the fact – the anti-semitism associates the Virgin Mary with the most evil wickedness in European history.

8. Chaucer’s Tale of Sir Topaz – Chaucer presents himself as a plump bumbler and his tale of Sir Thopas is told in a series of verses with an elaborate rhyme-scheme which he never uses anywhere else. The high flown language describes the birth and breeding of Sir Topaz and how he dreams of the elf-queen and sets off to find her in Fairy Land but is immediately waylaid by the giant Sir Olifaunt (‘Elephant’). Topaz returns to town to put on his armour, the description of which is long and boring, and at t his point the Host interrupts to say he can’t bear such awful stuff. Give us another thing. At which Chaucer commences a long work in prose.

9. Chaucer’s Tale of Sir Melibee – Melibee who is away one day when three enemies break into his house, beat his wife Dame Prudence, and attack his daughter, leaving her for dead. The tale becomes a long debate between Melibee and his wife on what actions to take and how to seek redress from his enemies. His wife, as her name suggests, counsels prudence and chides him for his rash opinions. The discussion uses many proverbs and quotes from learned authorities and the Bible as each make their points.

a) Dame Prudence is a woman discussing the role of the wife within marriage in a similar way to the Wife of Bath and the wife in The Shipman’s Tale. b) It is really very long and, for many critics, some kind of joke and a revenge on the Host for stopping him in the middle of Sir Topaz: then again, the Host claims to have enjoyed it, and wanted something with doctrine in it.

The Host says he wishes his wife were as wise and restrained as Melibee’s Prudence. He turns to the Monk and says he’s a fine figure of a man who could please many women by copulating with them; let’s have his tale. The Monk takes this in good part then explains to everyone what a tragedy and that his ‘tale’ will be a series of short verse descriptions of men brought low by Destiny. 

10. The Monk’s Tale – the fates of 17 worthies from antiquity are described in an elaborate verse form (an eight-line stanza rhyming ababbcbc) – eg Satan, Adam, Hercules, Nebuchadnezzar – for 775 lines until the Knight interrupts him, saying it’s boring.

11. So the Host asks for the Nun’s Priest tale: it is a comic fabliau or animal story, of Chanticleer the cockerel and his favourite hen, Pertelote. Chanticleer dreams he is being attacked by a red dog; he tells his wife Pertelote and this leads to a comically learned debate between the two about the validity of dreams, mentioning various high authorities including Boethius, Cato, Cicero, Macrobius and the stories of Daniel and Joseph from the Bible. The comedy is in two talking animals debating with such learning. Chanticleer says dreams are meaningless and ignores it but a month later the fox Reynard sidles out of the bushes and asks Chanticleer to close his eyes and crow for him; the moment he does he grabs him in his mouth and runs off, followed by all the farmyard in a hullabaloo; but Chanticleer has the last laugh, he asks the fox a question and when the fox replies ie opens  his mouth, flies free and up into a tree where he refuses all the fox’s kind invitations to come down again.

Chaucer satirises animals having learned discussions; but he doesn’t satirise learning as such. We now know almost everything considered knowledge in the Middle Ages was wrong.

12. The Wife of Bath has the longest prologue in the book in which she recalls her five husbands and the tactics she used to keep them under control ie falsely accusing them of accusing her of all kinds of crimes, getting them to apologise, and then owning them. The Wife of Bath’s tale is about a knight from the time of King Arthur who rapes a maiden and is about to be executed when Queen Guinevere intervenes and says he can live if, within a year and a day, he can answer the question: What does a woman want? He travels all over the country and gets hundreds of contradictory answers: only an ugly old crone tells him the correct answer, Women want mastery over their men. The knight saves  his life but is forced to marry the crone, named Alison. When she asks whether he’d prefer her old and faithful or young & beautiful but flighty, he knight gives in and says, Do what you think is best ie resigns his mastery to her: whereupon she transforms into a beautiful young woman.

At the conclusion of her tale the Friar and the Summoner bicker, vowing to get revenge by telling critical stories about each other’s professions.

13. The Friar’s Tale – the friar depicts a greedy unscrupulous summoner riding to blackmail a poor widow, when he falls in with a pleasant yeoman and they become fast friends. When the yeoman reveals he is a fiend from hell the summoner is unconcerned. When they come across a carter damning his horses to hellfire when they can’t get out of the mud, the summoner asks why the fiend doesn’t take them; because he doesn’t mean it, is the reply. When the summoner threatens the widow she damns him to hell unless he repents his bullying; he doesn’t; the widow meant it; and so with no ceremony the fiend takes the summoner off to hell.

The summoner is livid. He retells the friar who has a vision of hell and can’t see any friars there until Satan lifts up his tale to reveal 20,000 friars living up his arse.

14. The Summoner’s Tale – laugh out loud funny, this is the tale of a corrupt and unscrupulous friar who picks on a poor widower and his daughter, trying to bully him into coughing up cash: driven to paroxysms of anger the old man makes the friar promise to distribute his gift equally between all 12 friars in his college; then gets the friar to put his hand down between his buttocks; and does a big fart. Not only is the friar outraged but goes to the lord of the manor to complain and finds his insult turned into a learned debate as the lord, his wife and various servants debate just how to divide a fart equally. Eventually Jankyn the servant comes up with a solution.

Group E (Fragment IV)

15. The Oxford Scholar’s Tale aka the Clerk’s Tale – the long story, divided into six parts and, Chaucer admits, copied from Petrarch, of the constancy and devotion to her husband of the peasant girl Griselda who is plucked from cowherd obscurity to marry the marquis, Walter, who is driven by perverse determination to test her by taking away her two beautiful children and then publicly rejecting her for a younger model. Throughout Griselda remains patient and dutiful and Walter relents, takes her back as wife, reunites her with her children.

A picture of Chaucer as a pilgrim from the Ellesmere Manuscript of the Canterbury Tales. In the middle of the page are the words: "Heere Bigynneth Chaucers Tale of Melibee"

A picture of Chaucer as a pilgrim from the Ellesmere Manuscript of the Canterbury Tales. In the middle of the page are the words: “Heere Bigynneth Chaucers Tale of Melibee”

A Shropshire Lad by AE Housman(1896)

The Classics professor Alfred Edward Housman surprised his students and colleagues when, in 1896, he published a collection of 63 short lyric poems which his publisher persuaded him to title A Shropshire Lad. Tennyson was responsible for the view that poetry should be pure and lyrical, flying far above the sordid realities of Victorian England. His acolyte Francis Palgrave produced a Golden Treasury of English Verse (1861) which selected with care only the purest of thin, high, quavering lyrical poetry from the previous 450 years of hugely varied verse and poetry.

The poems in A Shropshire Lad continue down that narrowing avenue, producing short, rhyming verse which aspires to a purity untainted by real-life diction or attitudes or events or activities, instead creating a set of bloodless variations on half a dozen stock sentimental themes: the soldier going off to war; handsome young men doomed to die young because they are different, either through suicide or fighting or being hanged for crimes of passion: in short, the narcissistic mentality of an angsty 15-year old.

All this is set in a largely fictional Shropshire of the mind, an imaginary, a Platonic Form of an English rural county which, however, has been taken over by Thomas Hardy and is populated by lads (18-21) who woo lasses who are either reluctant or die young and are carried to the churchyard where they join the other restless souls underground, at which the lads leave their depressing lives to take the Queen’s shilling and go fight in one of the Empire’s countless little wars, or stay at home to become bad ‘uns, to murder or rob and swing for it (Housman is morbidly obsessed with hanging).

The extreme purity of the vocabulary, the idealised English landscape and the teenage sentimentality of the thoughts made it a surprise bestseller. I was interested to learn from the Wikipedia article that the Boer War had an impact on its sales and influence, that “Housman’s nostalgic depiction of rural life and young men’s early deaths struck a chord with English readers”. Of course this chord was to ring even louder during and after the vastly more terrible slaughter of the Great War, and established Housman’s thin pallid verse as a coffee-table favourite.

Poem XL

Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.

Why, the sceptical reader is tempted to ask, can you not go there again? Oh because I can’t, I am doomed, I am a lost soul, oh can’t you see, oh growing up is sooo hard. Surely it is not only the rural setting which represents an escape from the urban life most of us lead, but the essentially adolescent sentiments of the verse which represent a Hollyoaks-style escape from the complex problems of adult life, careers, money, wives and children, which underpin its enduring appeal.

Various of the 63 lyrics have been set by various composers, most notably George Butterworth, Vaughan Williams and Ivor Gurney. For my money the Butterworth settings are head and shoulders above the others; with his music these pallid lyrics achieve a depth and resonance the words alone lack made all the more poignant by the knowledge that Butterworth himself was killed in the Great War and so his songs about doomed young men have a horrible irony.

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