by Diana Cooper
Breceles
August 16
I did not hear of you from Tuesday at Ashby (which I counted as Monday in London) till Friday, and against all reasoning I thought you dead and my joy dead with you. I woke, as I foretold you I would, at first dawn, and by nine I was crying. The smoke-grimed vault of Paddington at eleven seemed, as William met me with one fluttering letter, suddenly a pleasaunce, shining with peace and light. A sad letter but very beautiful, my darling. What a strange impulse to unglove the dead hand. You could only have done it alone, and I wonder how you told them you had done it, or why you told them, or perhaps you never did. It makes a great impression on me. I have thought of it all day.
Rutland Hospital
August 20
It’s all true what is said about love—the ennobling power of it. Tonight as I drove home alone my thoughts were of my nightly happy duty—this duty, the first I have ever found to be a fine pleasure and an unselfish one too in its search for expression and words to give you satisfaction. This evening I feared a little to have nothing to tell save the twice-told, 1000th-told tale of devotion. The fear was a proof of zeal to please you. All my home life has been a wish to please authorities (supported by a benefit to be derived from the success of it) and only through deception was it achieved. How serene, in contrast, is the belief that the nearer my utterance is to truth, the more joy will it breed. When before has one framed truth or striven for a more convincing way of declaring it?
At three I ticked off poor poor C. and took a train (standing in outrageous heat) to Wallington, forty minutes away. He met me at the station, greyer and older and cruelly stained in outlook by solitary confinement. I was shocked at his state, and in answer to my questions he admitted that the internment was indefinite. Incredible. He offered me a graveyard or a public park as a resting and talking place. I grasped at the churchyard, so we sat there for an hour on a mouldering heap with great beauty of surroundings. We strolled into the church and I was struck by many symbols denoting taste and ill-advised sentiment of whoever is in command there. There were several inscriptions to the fallen, briefly and most beautifully constructed and chiselled into the wall itself, as I have seen only at Mells, and also I noticed that in the middle of the choirstall was a wreath perpetually renewed, and on the seat a cassock and now crumpled surplice in memory of a soldier choirboy. I wondered how long with luck it would stay there, and the sad day when it must be removed, if any who knew him still lived, and it flashed into my mind too how excruciatingly funny if in ten years, when the old men must fight and the young choirboys in the fullness of time are called up, and when all the choir have paid the debt to patriotism, how dramatic, how funny, to see a real choir invisible, invisible to all but their empty garments. O dangerous precedent!
Rutland Hospital
August 22
The days I have dreaded almost most are upon us. Your letter of the 9th came on the 22nd, together with one of so much love and tenderness written on the 20th that it frightened me more than any warning. I have not known what to do with my easeless self, telephoning unceasingly to Osbert for news, which he never had, and lunching with him. Bed all the afternoon in despair, and up at seven to go and meet K. Every means of locomotion is on strike, so for ten minutes I wrestled with a man in the pub to take me to Victoria. At last he consented on condition of high payment and instant dismissal. Suddenly half-way down St James’s he stopped and asked me if I was the young lady who went rowing with the officer on the Serpentine some months ago and gave him some sweets for his children. Then I started crying and he said he’d wait up for either of us all night, and I poured out my misery of fear to him, relieved to find anyone to whom I could. K. never came, though I waited for two trainfuls of uproariously happy people. It was a cruel disappointment, for she might have heard some news. I feel so certain that the Guards are in, though Osbert clings to the chance that the Third Army is all we have heard to suggest it, but I have your love letter. I went down to Mulberry Walk for an hour and found Alan engrossed in his typed anthology of London, dedicated elaborately to Viola, Diana and Duff (another rain of tears).
Wilton Park, Beaconsfield
August 25
When I put out my light last night after writing, all command of thought vanished, a surging mind vanquished my hope of sleep, and a realisation that I had neglected any formation of plans, for eventualities. I thought of you desperately, maybe mortally ill in France, and how my coming to you should be accomplished. I had to settle everything then—my first step, who I should make my appeal to? A. J. Balfour? Cowans?‡‡‡ Beaverbrook? A threat of suicide if they opposed, and how it should convincingly be phrased; my luggage and what it should include—V.A.D.s clothes, officers’ khaki, in case. Whose? Frankie de Tuyll’s in London and my size. Money—easily asked of Max—£50. My letter to Mother—all the wording of a frank and total confession, not to be sent till I was entrained. I know (and still know) they cannot keep me from you. Then finally my finding you. It all possessed me too much. A turbulence, not to be quieted by sitting at the open window, or smoking, or will-power, racked me. Seven struck before I slept, and today I have felt a trial to my companions though a little calmed by a morning and evening anonymous enquiry to the War Office.
Perhaps this may be all a prophecy. I calculate you went in on the 21st and that by now bad news would have sought me out, but how vague are one’s conjectures. It’s all imponderable. My darling, I write these silly papers about myself, when I should be encouraging you and praising you and convincing you of my courage and belief and hope in you. No one but you among the fighting millions is thought of so continuously or adored more.
B.E.F.
1 a.m., August 23
Had no moment to write. Am safe, well and happy. Have no moment now. Telephone to Mother to say all is well. I have been wonderfully lucky for two days, and three letters from you ten minutes ago crowned my luck. I adore you. Don’t worry. Probably shan’t be able to write tomorrow. The Germans are charming and always surrender.
B.E.F.
August 25
I have so much to say, so much to tell you, so much to thank you for, so many lovely letters to answer and their beauty to comment on, that I feel like St John when he completed his Gospel in despair of ever writing all he had to say.
I am going to shirk telling you of the first day of the battle by sending you the rough copy of the official report I had to send in.§§§ Please don’t show this to anyone except in great and safe confidence. I fear it may not convey much to you. There was, you know, from the start at 5 a.m. until about 10.30 a thick mist. One couldn’t see a yard. Captain Fryer is Wine Red.
The second day we remained where we were in boiling sun under heavy shellfire suffering from thirst. I have been thirsty all my life but never quite so thirsty as that. We thought to be relieved that night and lived on the hope. But as night came on we learned, first that we were not to be relieved, and then that we were to make another attack at 4 a.m. My platoon of thirty was then reduced to ten, and at the last minute as we were forming up for the attack I discovered that my serjeant was blind-drunk—a dreadful moment. And it was followed by the most glorious of my life. A full moon, a star to guide us, a long line of cheering men, an artillery barrage as beautiful as any fireworks creeping on before us, a feeling of wild and savage joy. It is a picture that will hang in my gallery for ever and will come next in value to three or four dozen in which you figure. The whole battalion won their objective under the scheduled time. I was the first of my Company in the German trench. I boast like a Gascon but it was what the old poets said war was, and what the new poets say it isn’t.
And then, darling, but this is a secret—I am covered with glory. When first I realised this, the Commanding Officer speaking to me in terms that made my head swim, my one thought was that the Chevalier de Boufflers had thought by obtaining military glory to render himself in the world’s eye worthier of Madame de Sobran. And I wondered how a medal would weigh i
n Her Grace’s scales—lighter than a leaf, I feared—certainly lighter than a strawberry leaf. Personally I am as proud as a peacock, though I have an affectation of modesty that is very deceptive.
Darling, I haven’t begun to write to you to tell you what I want to say, to thank you for letters and books and lovely pictures, but I want this letter to go tonight and I rather want now to go and listen to the band and gossip about the battle, so I will go on tomorrow.
B.E.F.
August 26
Half my ease at coming out of the battle was spoilt and still is spoilt by the thought that you are probably still worrying. I do hope you may have been able to get some news before you get my letter, which I fear is not with you as I write. And I am sure that the last one I wrote you before the battle must have alarmed you as it was written a little on the farewell note. I meant it to be a paean not a vale but the wrong note crept in. Forgive me.
B.E.F.
August 27
The incident of the taxi-driver is so beautiful that it must have lightened that dark day. Bless his kind grateful heart and remembering eyes. That was the day you cried waiting for me at the flat. Cast your secrets upon the Serpentine and you shall find them after many days.
Now I am waiting for a horse to carry me to Details. So if the battalion does go in again, which is possible, I shan’t go with them. I confess very reluctantly to the faintest tinge of regret should this occur. I have come to be a little—only a very little—sentimental about my platoon, and don’t quite like to think of the ten survivors going back to the battle without me. As we were coming out on Saturday evening, marching peacefully and very slowly over these quiet uplands where men didn’t dare show themselves three days before, lit by a perfect sunset, the tired men crooning popular songs as they went, the Commanding Officer and the Brigadier rode by. And I heard the Commanding Officer say: “That’s Duff.” The Brigadier came up and praised me till I blushed and sweated. He said that the whole Brigade had done marvellously but that my platoon had simply shone. I wished so then that you could share my content that moment, for my happiness was marred by knowing that you were probably miserable.
Don’t, darling, repeat to anyone all the boastful stories which my vanity makes me tell you. It is not my vanity only but my desire to make you share all my joy.
B.E.F.
August 28
Another cry of anxiety written on the 23rd. Poor pretty bird, I am glad you thought I should not fail. I have just read the Commanding Officer’s report of the battle. It is mainly unintelligible but ends up:
Outstanding features of the Attack.
(1) The splendid leading of No. 10 Platoon by Lieut. Duff Cooper.
(2) Cooperation of No. 10 Platoon and No. 1 Coy. [Wine Red’s] in taking strongly held enemy position without the assistance of artillery barrage and tanks and in broad daylight.
(3) The importance of a second water-bottle.
I alas only had one.
B.E.F.
August 29
Here comes the post. Is there one from you? I wait.
Oh, the excitement of the slow distribution—a cross-eyed man clumsily fingering the thin envelopes, gazing doubtfully at the officers, who go on reading, writing, playing patience, hiding their anxiety. One letter for me and that from you, darling. Oh faithful heart.
B.E.F.
August 30
My poor little Bushey friend, Gerard Brassey, has been killed. I am very sorry. He did so hate being a soldier and wanted so much to have fun and had so little.
This has been a bad day, for the post didn’t come till 5.30 and all the afternoon was spent in waiting. I had a letter from Mother enclosing your telegram to her. Very odd about the War Office—I can hardly believe it. She, bless her heart, has had no anxiety at all. As I never told her I was going to the battle she hadn’t presumed that I was. So with her my policy worked admirably. But I won’t do it again with you, darling. We have got to get up early tomorrow to do a sham battle. It is really too silly to ask us to do it within a week of a real one.
Rutland Hospital
August 27
The light of everything is changed with a letter from you this morning. I am mad with relief and pleasure. I did not write yesterday because K. arrived at last, and I lay talking with her till 5.30 this morning. Today comes, too, horrible news of Lance Page’s death—the entire tragedy to my poor old Podgie. The imagination fails to encompass but in the huge selfishness of my happiness I cannot think of it.
Will write tonight. Your scribble of safety, I must tell you, is in the style of a demented man. Is it “shock”?
Rutland Hospital
August 30
If you had told me of a heart grey and shaking with dread of pain, or of stabbing men that they might not ask for help, I would love you no less, nor am I in any way astonished—well, yes, I am a little surprised in Fortune’s attitude, knowing her hostility to me. You have blamed me for having so little belief in the capacity of those I love, and yet I was as sure of you in this respect as I might be of the sun’s shining, so all my jubilance has gone to join yours and I soar above tragedy today in thinking of your delight and sudden tyranny over people’s opinion of you. I see you as a tried Mars and would rejoice in Vulcan’s net.
I cannot cease to read your letters and account. I know the direction of the Shropshires’ steps and the Tanks’ civility and the general early tone of derelicts. I had, strangely enough, had such a vivid picture of a railway-backgrounded action. Did I write to you to that effect? I love the C.O. for pointing you out as “Duff.” I love to think of your men’s pride in you as you reached the guns. I love to think that even strangers will admire you as I do, and I dread to think of your disappointment if it all gets forgotten, as many such things have, without ribbons for your love’s hair to proclaim your bravery.
Tell me truly any succeeding and belated appreciations and commendations. Write like a peacock of Gascony. It delights me. I told K. and Venetia and A. under seal of secrecy. Why should it not be known if you are not quoted as informer? Tell me when I may brag.
Viceregal Lodge, Dublin
August 31
I cannot put your success out of my head, I’m glad to say. All day wrapped round with travelling contretemps, I felt willing and civil and ready to irradiate my happiness to others. So you see, my dearest, what a crown you are to me and how my credit must rise and fall with your fortunes.
A dreary journey with Mother and Kakoo and no Wade, for she is holidaying, and I miss her most terribly, apart from her help technically. I love her pleasure in handing your letters and her silent loving company. There is a wicked change in this house from last year—no comforts, no royal flair, no lace sheets, worse no fires or stationery in the bedrooms. The same curtsey at the door though, and tonight an enjoyable dinner next Harry Chaplin, who, after getting me to read him the menu aloud, a merely sensual wish since he was out for two helpings of every dish though they’d been tripe and blubbers, embarked on eye-witnessed descriptions of the American Civil War. On my other side was a man name of Barrie who had been on duty at the Viceregal the night of the Phoenix Park murders, so you will see from this I was well out of the nursery.
Viceregal Lodge
September 1
Talking after dinner to the new Under Secretary’s wife, a dowdy-looking middle-class soul, who had she been English must have been Mrs Page or Mrs Lloyd George, but being Irish and with a brogue like Maire O’Neill answered my description of the Phoenix Park fornications with “And isn’t it a fine thing to ignore the public?”
Viceregal Lodge
September 3
I have had a true grievance. I got a letter tonight dated 30th and my last reached London Thursday and was of the 26th, so either the mails have gone crazy or it is true that you have been bewildered and puffed by pride out of touch with me, and very soon your deeds will be forgotten, and more than probably never recognised, and you’ll regret the forfeit of a fraction of my love. My bl
essed, I forgive you, and really today I feel so sad about Brassey, who loved you so. Poor little thing, with a life spent in preparation alone.
Viceregal Lodge
September 6
Your mother wrote this morning enclosing a letter from Streatfeild.¶¶¶ It’s all very great and fine for us all. Strange that such an eventuality never occurred to me before. I set no value on the hope so didn’t hope, and yet now it seems this is what’s made me happiest since you left. Such luck (forgive me, darling) is so seldom touchable by us that our whole strength of hope is negatively directed, and “not death” is all our prayer.
Perhaps I put your triumph too much on luck. I really in my heart think it is all your due, but in a strange kind of defence for the others I find myself declaring for chance. In valour weren’t they all Herculeses? But they had little to flaunt.
Viceregal Lodge
September 7
To my other neighbour I couldn’t help drawing a little diagram on the clean cloth of your heroism, without names and asking what it might fetch. He said a V.C. simply and quietly, but then admitted that so much depended on how important it was on the battle effects, and more on how it was represented by the C.O. It was perhaps silly, but such fun for me. If only dear General French were still C. in C. there’d be no question, for he pronounces lastly on each deed, and with me and Ghastly Moore to show him truth, your fame should have excelled. As it is, the Guard is a modest Guard, and so you’ll hear no more about it. An M.C. isn’t dusty though.