in flanders fields and other poems-第4节

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In　our　own　tongue；　　‘slainte　filidh'。〃　　To　his　mother　he　wrote；
〃the　Latin　is　translatable　as；　‘seeing　the　star　they　rejoiced
with　exceeding　gladness'。〃　　For　the　benefit　of　those　whose　education
has　proceeded　no　further　than　the　Latin；　it　may　be　explained
that　the　two　last　words　mean；　〃Hail　to　the　poet〃。

To　the　inexperienced　there　is　something　portentous　about　an　appearance
in　print　and　something　mysterious　about　the　business　of　an　editor。
A　legend　has　already　grown　up　around　the　publication　of　〃In　Flanders　Fields〃
in　‘Punch'。　　The　truth　is；　〃that　the　poem　was　offered　in　the　usual　way
and　accepted；　that　is　all。〃　　The　usual　way　of　offering　a　piece　to　an　editor
is　to　put　it　in　an　envelope　with　a　postage　stamp　outside　to　carry　it　there；
and　a　stamp　inside　to　carry　it　back。　　Nothing　else　helps。

An　editor　is　merely　a　man　who　knows　his　right　hand　from　his　left；
good　from　evil；　having　the　honesty　of　a　kitchen　cook
who　will　not　spoil　his　confection　by　favour　for　a　friend。
Fear　of　a　foe　is　not　a　temptation；　since　editors　are　too　humble　and　harmless
to　have　any。　　There　are　of　course　certain　slight　offices
which　an　editor　can　render；　especially　to　those　whose　writings
he　does　not　intend　to　print；　but　John　McCrae　required　none　of　these。
His　work　was　finished　to　the　last　point。　　He　would　bring　his　piece　in　his　hand
and　put　it　on　the　table。　　A　wise　editor　knows　when　to　keep　his　mouth　shut；
but　now　I　am　free　to　say　that　he　never　understood　the　nicety
of　the　semi…colon；　and　his　writing　was　too　heavily　stopped。

He　was　not　of　those　who　might　say；　　take　it　or　leave　it；　but　rather；　
look　how　perfect　it　is；　and　it　was　so。　　Also　he　was　the　first　to　recognize
that　an　editor　has　some　rights　and　prejudices；　that　certain　words
make　him　sick；　that　certain　other　words　he　reserves　for　his　own　use；　
〃meticulous〃　once　a　year；　〃adscititious〃　once　in　a　life　time。
This　explains　why　editors　write　so　little。　　In　the　end；
out　of　mere　good　nature；　or　seeing　the　futility　of　it　all；
they　contribute　their　words　to　contributors　and　write　no　more。

The　volume　of　verse　as　here　printed　is　small。　　The　volume　might　be　enlarged；
it　would　not　be　improved。　　To　estimate　the　value　and　institute　a　comparison
of　those　herein　set　forth　would　be　a　congenial　but　useless　task；
which　may　well　be　left　to　those　whose　profession　it　is　to　offer　instruction
to　the　young。　　To　say　that　〃In　Flanders　Fields〃　is　not　the　best
would　involve　one　in　controversy。　　It　did　give　expression　to　a　mood
which　at　the　time　was　universal；　and　will　remain　as　a　permanent　record
when　the　mood　is　passed　away。

The　poem　was　first　called　to　my　attention　by　a　Sapper　officer；　then　Major；
now　Brigadier。　　He　brought　the　paper　in　his　hand　from　his　billet
in　Dranoutre。　　It　was　printed　on　page　468；　and　Mr。　‘Punch'　will　be　glad
to　be　told　that；　in　his　annual　index；　in　the　issue　of　December　29th；　1915；
he　has　mispelled　the　author's　name；　which　is　perhaps　the　only　mistake
he　ever　made。　　This　officer　could　himself　weave　the　sonnet　with　deft　fingers；
and　he　pointed　out　many　deep　things。　　It　is　to　the　sappers
the　army　always　goes　for　〃technical　material〃。

The　poem；　he　explained；　consists　of　thirteen　lines　in　iambic　tetrameter
and　two　lines　of　two　iambics　each；　in　all；　one　line　more
than　the　sonnet's　count。　　There　are　two　rhymes　only；　since　the　short　lines
must　be　considered　blank；　and　are；　in　fact；　identical。　　But　it　is
a　difficult　mode。　　It　is　true；　he　allowed；　that　the　octet　of　the　sonnet
has　only　two　rhymes；　but　these　recur　only　four　times；
and　the　liberty　of　the　sestet　tempers　its　despotism；　
which　I　thought　a　pretty　phrase。　　He　pointed　out　the　dangers　inherent
in　a　restricted　rhyme；　and　cited　the　case　of　Browning；　the　great　rhymster；
who　was　prone　to　resort　to　any　rhyme；　and　frequently　ended　in　absurdity；
finding　it　easier　to　make　a　new　verse　than　to　make　an　end。

At　great　length　　but　the　December　evenings　in　Flanders　are　long；
how　long；　O　Lord！　　this　Sapper　officer　demonstrated　the　skill
with　which　the　rhymes　are　chosen。　　They　are　vocalized。
Consonant　endings　would　spoil　the　whole　effect。　　They　reiterate　O　and　I；
not　the　O　of　pain　and　the　Ay　of　assent；　but　the　O　of　wonder；　of　hope；
of　aspiration；　and　the　I　of　personal　pride；　of　jealous　immortality；
of　the　Ego　against　the　Universe。　　They　are；　he　went　on　to　expound；
a　recurrence　of　the　ancient　question：　　〃How　are　the　dead　raised；
and　with　what　body　do　they　come？〃　　〃How　shall　I　bear　my　light　across？〃
and　of　the　defiant　cry：　　〃If　Christ　be　not　raised；　then　is　our　faith　vain。〃


The　theme　has　three　phases：　　the　first　a　calm；　a　deadly　calm；
opening　statement　in　five　lines；　the　second　in　four　lines；
an　explanation；　a　regret；　a　reiteration　of　the　first；　the　third；
without　preliminary　crescendo；　breaking　out　into　passionate　adjuration
in　vivid　metaphor；　a　poignant　appeal　which　is　at　once　a　blessing　and　a　curse。
In　the　closing　line　is　a　satisfying　return　to　the　first　phase；　
and　the　thing　is　done。　　One　is　so　often　reminded　of　the　poverty
of　men's　invention；　their　best　being　so　incomplete；　their　greatest
so　trivial；　that　one　welcomes　what　　this　Sapper　officer　surmised　
may　become　a　new　and　fixed　mode　of　expression　in　verse。

As　to　the　theme　itself　　I　am　using　his　words：　　what　is　his　is　mine；
what　is　mine　is　his　　the　interest　is　universal。　　The　dead；　still　conscious；
fallen　in　a　noble　cause；　see　their　graves　overblown　in　a　riot　of　poppy　bloom。
The　poppy　is　the　emblem　of　sleep。　　The　dead　desire　to　sleep　undisturbed；
but　yet　curiously　take　an　interest　in　passing　events。　　They　regret
that　they　have　not　been　permitted　to　live　out　their　life　to　its　normal　end。
They　call　on　the　living　to　finish　their　task；　else　they　shall　not　sink
into　that　complete　repose　which　they　desire；　in　spite　of　the　balm
of　the　poppy。　　Formalists　may　protest　that　the　poet　is　not　sincere；
since　it　is　the　seed　and　not　the　flower　that　produces　sleep。
They　might　as　well　object　that　the　poet　has　no　right　to　impersonate　the　dead。
We　common　folk　know　better。　　We　know　that　in　personating　the　dear　dead；
and　calling　in　bell…like　tones　on　the　inarticulate　living；
the　poet　shall　be　enabled　to　break　the　lightnings　of　the　Beast；
and　thereby　he；　being　himself；　alas！　dead；　yet　speaketh；　and　shall　speak；
to　ones　and　twos　and　a　host。　　As　it　is　written　in　resonant　bronze：
VIVOS　。　VOCO　。　MORTUOS　。　PLANGO　。　FULGURA　。　FRANGO：
words　cast　by　this　officer　upon　a　church　bell　which　still　rings
in　far　away　Orwell　in　memory　of　his　father　　and　of　mine。

By　this　time　the　little　room　was　cold。　　For　some　reason　the　guns　had　awakened
in　the　Salient。　　An　Indian　trooper　who　had　just　come　up；
and　did　not　yet　know　the　orders；　blew　〃Lights　out〃；　　on　a　cavalry　trumpet。
The　sappers　work　by　night。　　The　officer　turned　and　went　his　way
to　his　accursed　trenches；　leaving　the　verse　with　me。

John　McCrae　witnessed　only　once　the　raw　earth　of　Flanders　hide　its　shame
in　the　warm　scarlet　glory　of　the　poppy。　　Others　have　watched
this　resurrection　of　the　flowers　in　four　successive　seasons；
a　fresh　miracle　every　time　it　occurs。　　Also　they　have　observed
the　rows　of　crosses　lengthen；　the　torch　thrown；　caught；　and　carried
to　victory。　　The　dead　may　sleep。　　We　have　not　broken　faith　with　them。

It　is　little　wonder　then　that　〃In　Flanders　Fields〃　has　become
the　poem　of　the　army。　　The　soldiers　have　learned　it　with　their　hearts；
which　is　quite　a　different　thing　from　committing　it　to　memory。
It　circulates；　as　a　song　should　circulate；　by　the　living　word　of　mouth；
not　by　printed　characters。　　That　is　the　true　test　of　poetry；　
its　insistence　on　making　itself　learnt　by　heart。　　The　army　has　varied
the　text；　but　each　variation　only　serves　to　reveal　more　clearly
the　mind　of　the　maker。　　The　army　says；　〃AMONG　the　crosses〃；
〃felt　dawn　AND　sunset　glow〃；　〃LIVED　and　were　loved〃。　　The　army　may　be　right：
it　usually　is。

Nor　has　any　piece　of　verse　in　recent　years　been　more　widely　known
in　the　civilian　world。　　It　was　used　on　every　platform　from　which　men
were　being　adjured　to　adventure　their　lives　or　their　riches
in　the　great　trial　through　which　the　present　generation　has　passed。
Many　〃replies〃　have　been　made。　　The　best　I　have　seen　was　written
in　the　‘New　York　Evening　Post'。　　None　but　those　who　were　prepared　to　die
before　Vimy　Ridge　that　early　April　day　of　1916　will　ever　feel　fully
the　great　truth　of　Mr。　Lillard's　opening　lines；　as　they　speak
for　all　Americans：
　　
　　　〃Rest　ye　in　peace；　ye　Flanders　dead。
　　　　The　fight　that　ye　so　bravely　led
　　　　　　　　　　We've　taken　up。〃
　　
They　did　　and　bravely。　　They　heard　the　cry　　〃If　ye　break　faith；
we　shall　not　sleep。〃




　　II

With　the　Guns



If　there　was　nothing　remarkable　about　the　publication　of　〃In　Flanders　Fields〃；
there　was　something　momentous　in　the　moment　of　writing　it。　　And　yet
it　was　a　sure　instinct　which　prompted　the　writer　to　send　it　to　‘Punch'。
A　rational　man　wishes　to　know　the　news　of　the　world　in　which　he　lives；
and　if　he　is　interested　in　life；　he　is　eager　to　know　how　men　feel
and　comport　themselves　amongst　the　events　which　are　passing。
For　this　purpose　‘Punch'　is　the　great　newspaper　of　the　world；
and　these　lines　describe　better　than　any　other　how　men　felt
in　that　great　moment。

It　was　in