In D. H. Lawrence’s 1923 novel Kangaroo, his main character Richard Lovat Somers realises that the Britain he once knew had ended in 1915 –
Awful years—’16, ’17, ’18, ’19—the years when the damage was done. The years when the world lost its real manhood. Not for lack of courage to face death. Plenty of superb courage to face death. But no courage in any man to face his own isolated soul, and abide by its decision. Easier to sacrifice oneself. So much easier!
It was in 1915 the old world ended. In the winter 1915-1916 the spirit of the old London collapsed; the city, in some way, perished, perished from being a heart of the world, and became a vortex of broken passions, lusts, hopes, fears, and horrors. The integrity of London collapsed, and the genuine debasement began, the unspeakable baseness of the press and the public voice, the reign of that bloated ignominy, John Bull.
No man who has really consciously lived through this can believe again absolutely in democracy. No man who has heard reiterated in thousands of tones from all the common people, during the crucial years of the war: “I believe in John Bull. Give me John Bull,” can ever believe that in any crisis a people can govern itself, or is ever fit to govern itself. During the crucial years of the war, the people chose, and chose Bottomleyism*. Bottom enough.
The well-bred, really cultured classes were on the whole passive resisters. They shirked their duty. It is the business of people who really know better to fight tooth and nail to keep up a standard, to hold control of authority. Laisser-aller is as guilty as the actual, stinking mongrelism it gives place to.
It was in mid-winter 1915 that Somers and Harriet went down to Cornwall. The spirit of the war—the spirit of collapse and of human ignominy, had not travelled so far yet. It came in advancing waves.
We hear so much of the bravery and horrors at the front. Brave the men were, all honour to them. It was at home the world was lost. We hear too little of the collapse of the proud human spirit at home, the triumph of sordid, rampant, raging meanness. “The bite of a jackal is blood-poisoning and mortification.” And at home stayed all the jackals, middle-aged, male and female jackals. And they bit us all. And blood-poisoning and mortification set in.
We should never have let the jackals loose, and patted them on the head. They were feeding on our death all the while.
D. H. Lawrence - Kangaroo (1923)
6 comments:
I wonder whether this girl has caught the Manchester Mussolini spot on.
https://archive.is/2Gc2S
dearieme - she probably has caught the Manchester Mussolini spot on, he does seem to fancy himself. It explains why he appears to think his words are part of his appeal - nobody genuine can laugh at the things he says.
But was it really like this in 1915? Can we trust the judgement of this author, or is it concocted literary woo? Anyone would think Horatio Bottomly was the first figure to make such an appearance on the British scene. I rather think equivalents could be found in previous eras, Bonnie Prince Charlie, or John Wesley spring to my mind.
Tammly - he did live through it and seems to have been through some pretty oafish coercion during forced conscription procedures in Derby. Conscription is at the back of it, the idea that in the end the State can simply take away any freedom citizens thought they had. Lawrence saw this as a permanent change in the relationship between government and governed.
Having read copiously about both wars, one thing stands out for me is that very few of the Generals were prepared to say, I am not going to put my men at risk like that and try an alternative way. It was the tank which really began the end of trench warfare. In the second war, Montgomery refused to move at Alamein until he considered that he had sufficient troops and guns to push forward. Similarly after D day, I think it was the general commanding the Canadian forces who modified the Priest self propelled gun to carry men over open ground who pushed the Germans back without excessive loss of his men.
John - one of our short walks takes us past the Matlock war memorial where it it is very noticeable how the number of WWI names outnumbers the number of WWII names. From the WWI names, all the young men of some families may have lost their lives - at the time the Matlock population would have been much smaller than it is now. A very sobering memorial, but they all are.
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