Britain, Albion, England.
That name tingels with emotion, in Walter´s in consciousness. A country that had produced some of the most impressive names in literature, from Shakespeare to Tennyson and all the lakeside poets, romantic alleys and country cottages, and green nature glowing in the tradition of romantic poetry, which Walter knew by heart, like Shelley, whose lines echoed glowed deep in his heart, and gave rhythm to his march, in line with the others, as he sometimes recited in a low voice.
The moor is dark beneath the moon,
Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beams
Duty and delecetion guide thee back to solitude
Watch the dim shades, as like ghosts they, go and come,
And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.
And sometimes in the evening someone whistling and smoking a cigarette asked,
"Blythe, quote us something, if only to pass the time." And then Walter looked around, shadowy figures of men, around him and quoted whatever came to mind; nature poems, wild war descriptions, Longfellow, Tennyson, or romantic atmosphere of Shelley, Clare, Keats, E. , or Hardy, but for some reason never his own production, as Walter kept his poems, like his heart, closed.
The village of Sutton Veny, in Wlitshire, Salisbury was picture perfect. Full of typical English country houses, with gardens, and widing country lanes, and inner tensions, and cliques of village life. There were barracs for troops, the high command, and amusements, pubs, two of them, in fact. The local church The Evangelist, was a real masterpiece, designed by one of the most famous architects of the Victorian era, J. , and the carved oak lecter was magnificent.
During that Autum of 1915 often in the evenings Walter had sat there, quietly gathering his thoughts, when the news of Bulgaria, lined in with Germany, or when the news of defeat in Venizelos came, or when Serbia was run over. All the while the local rector, Arthur Sewell, attended to his duties, and sometimes they discussed the differences between Presbyterianism and the Anglican faith, theology gave a perfect momentary oblivion, but complete oblivion was extremely difficult to achieve, for the changing situation was talked about among troops wherever there were soldiers, there was speculation, and impatience, to Paris, to taste the glow of the big city, and the bustle of the streets, and pleasure, a intent desire to get to the front line.
The initial training that had been in Kingsport over the summer, in between of Gallipoli setbacks, and Russian slumps of Eastern Front had been just a pale idea of what the reality of CEF was. Several CEF troops had been merged into alredy existing troops, or battalions, or had been disbanded into purely reserve forces. The already famous 1st Canadian division, had been trained here, on the plains of Salisbry.
Over the past few months, Walter had noticed that he had adapted surprisingly well to his current duty as a solider first. It was a different reality, made up of tents, digging, and drills, of marching, and shooting. Walter now, along with others used slang, it was useful shorthand, of communications between the men, from various backrounds, and sometimes it and humor lightened the gruelling practicies; crawling among wet earth, when it was raining, as it often was.
Letters and carepagages from Canada, that came quite often, from Ingelside, candies, shortbread, letters, newsy also came from Redmond, and Walter smiled with delight, because the letters from his sister and Alice strongly brought out the atmosphere of Redmond, the narrow sandy corridors, the maples and oaks, the silence of the libraries, and the peace of Primrose Hollow.
Delighted, Walter discovered that Alice had moved into Primrose Hollow, for her second year of Redmod as there was room, as one of the girls, had dropped out. Di and Alice´s pagages were filled with homemade jam, and notebooks, and pens, and Dorian´s letters were filled with jolly, or regally sarcastic notions of various news from Perennial. One of them were that Di had been accepted as part of the magazine's editorial board, and she was given the honor of writing columns, albeit on social issues. And Dorian calmly noted that Di wrote in a sharp, observant style, and that the editor-in-chief was extremely pleased with Di's input and skills. Dorian's packages sometimes also had marvelous treats, all niked from kitchen of Gardiner Hall; jars of preserved small apples with sugar, and sometimes even real chocolate, and small bottle of real colonge, its fresh, slightly lingering scent that brought Dorian so vividly in Walter´s mind.
Suddenly, Walter´s dreamy contemplation was interrupted when a senior officer ordered "Private Blythe. Go to the small training yard, now." Walter saluted, and turned and went, hastily wondering what could be waiting for him there, maybe some more exercise, digging, or something else. A small sense of moth-like dread coiled around Walter´s heart.
Rain had stopped, and the air was lightly foggy, with small light clouds gleaming in the sky.
The training yard was flat, in one corner there were wet sandbags, and barbed wire, and a shooting range. A group of men stood there, they were Canadians, from the tang of their speech. One of the men turned, towards him. The light shone on his lieutenant's uniform, and on his buttons.
Walter squinted.
Then the familiar teasing voice echoed across muddy yard, "Oh holy cats! I was sure you would recognize me! I'll now have to pay my card game debt to a few for my men now. "
Startled, Walter looked in disbelief at the lieutenant standing few feet in front of him. It was Ken. This was not a dream mirage, after all. His features were clear, olive-tinted and there were small hint of stubble in his cheeks, and Walter´s memory of him Ken was always clear shaven. But his dark gray eyes were gleaming, with the same old sense of Ken-ness, as ever. There was a delicate shade of gloom in him now, it was a stress of command.
Automatically, Walter saluted and Ken said, "At ease, Private, you do not have ever to salute me. First, go change dry clothes, as you are shivering. Cataract rushes from man to man, as you know, almost like a French clap. I'll be waiting for you, we can go to a local pub, to have a pint or two, as there is evening leave now. How that sounds, Lord Poet?"
As Ken grinned at him, Walter smiled openly in response, and there was fluttering feeling, in his heart, that he did not want to examine too closely a fierce sting of gladness.
The Bell, was half full of CEFs and locals throwing darts, and drinking ale. The interior of the pub was homely. All dark wood, and the windows were lightly open. The air smelled of malt, and tobacco.
Walter looked around curiously, for he hadn't been here before, though he had heard a lot about the place, as most of the men spent their free time here. A shiny bar counter, lamps in the ceiling, tables and chairs, and locals, a slight chatter floated by and in the corner was a bumpy piano, and a bookshelf that seemed to hold games, chess, and checkers.
The red-haired man standing behind the bar nodded at Ken, and soon Ken brought a tray of drinks at their table. One small pint, and two glasses of some water-like substance, Walter hoped it, would be water and not something stronger. Ken sat down in their cornertable, across Walter hummed, and delcaired gayly "Let´s drink to meetings, for the unexpected ones in life all add to the life´s joys!"
They did not talk about the war, the situation in the Western Front, in the autumn months, had been bleak, with the third battle of Artois, Second Battle of Champange, or the losses at Loose.
With his catlike grin, Ken leaned back and crossed his arms, in his familiar style, and for a moment the air around the table smelled of sandalwood, so Ken had not changed his colonge even in these strident times, somehow that small, familiar detail brought Walter immense comfort that was bittersweet some strange way. Walter noted that locals glanced at Ken, admiration in their gazes, of his uniform, and bearing, or were they? Or were they looking at him instead of Ken.
Despite his apparent relaxation, Ken was constantly observing his surroundings. All that former satiny smooth charm, of Ken were now tapered into gleaming sharpness of bearing and vibrancy, that had an edge of it now, like a polished blade. Walter was feeling flushed, so he slowly drink his ale, it was not his taste, too bitter, so Walter grimaced, as he looked up from his ale pint.
Ken looked sympathetic and chuckled gently saying, "Sorry, Walt, I did not think. I will be a right back, with something more suitable for your tastes."Effortlessly Ken dodged the other patrons, and soon he came back to their table, with a small pint, and Ken with amusement clear in his voice said " Walter, here is a shandy for you."
Relucently Walter tasted it and it was still bitter, but not so bad as the other had been, somehow lemony and light. In fast succesion Ken had polished Walter´s undrunk ale. Then Ken said, "That old scarf of mine, really suits you. Just as I had hoped it might." And feeling somewhat shy, under Ken´s intent regard, Walter twiddled with the scarf, it´s silk were soft as a caress, under his touch as always. Walter looked silently at Ken as he was drinking his ale. There was a distant look in his gray eyes, and when the pint was empty Ken took a familiar sleek box from his pocket and opened it, they were cigarettes, some english brand or other. The swirls of hazy smoke covered Ken's face in the shadows.
Outside, the flickering sun shone brightly, the rain had stopped and the road was dry. The puddles glistened like molten silver when the light hit them. The autumn wind ruffled the leaves from the tree, but Walter didn't recognize the variety, he was never very good at natural sciences, it was Jem's,( plants) and Carl Meredith's, (all kinds of bugs, and birds) patch. He only knew that the view was beautiful, and touchingly comforting, it was good to know that there were still places in the world, villages that had not yet been touched by the raging war. Walter thought of French countryside, and the destroyed, smashed cottages, in Picardy and Flanders, and closed his eyes with a shiver.
Then without warning, warm, long-fingered hand touched his wrist and Walter started, and opened his eyes. Ken looked at him, calmly, a little distantly and then he smiled and said "We're a long way from home, aren't we?"
Walter just nodded and before he could answer, all around them, the CEF soldiers started chanting, It´s a long way to Tipperary, then as Walter looked, one of the soldiers had gone to the piano and started playing a familiar, well-known variety tune, which had several rather bold variations of the words. Ken grinned, and sang with the others. In the end, the song ended with cheers and general banter, the mood in the pub was high after the unlooked for performance, and the pianist-soldier was offered at least one round, by his comrades in arms.
Suddenly Ken´s whispering voice, broke Walter´s silent contenplation of the pub patrons. " Walter, before my troops had been shipped out of Kingsport. I went to Ingelside, and the end result of that visit was that if the stars are favorable, I will return to your sister."
"Rilla my Rilla?" Walter's voice wasn't questioning, and not stating, it just was, filled with utter surety, but then again he had his sisters final confidance in the twilight shade of Rainbow Valley, in that last evening to guide him. Rilla did not say much, but what she did not say spoke louder than words could have to him in that one moment.
And Ken's response was just a quick, light nod, and an enlightened bright gaze, and softly Ken said, "Little Jims in her arms, the boy's blond hair radiating halo-like against her dress. Her reddish hair with curls, tied almost up, twined with pearls. At that moment, your sister reminded me of a painting on the wall of my mother's study that I loved watching as a child."
The rousing cries of pub-crowd around them shimmered into nothingness, in the face of the intent regard of Ken´s eyes, as he asked in confidental tone, "What about you, Walt? Did you leave anyone behind? I know we've talked about this before and you've denied all the love talk, but there's always sweet Alice." Walter, noticing that his fingers were shaking, finished his pint of shandy in one gulp, and brushing back, few inky strands of hair that had fallen to his forehead, as he said in a light voice, "Thank God I didn't leave behind a broken heart. The girls were brave when it was time to say goodbye, not a tear."
"Which girls?" Ken inquired curiously, a smile flickering across his face. Walter frowned and said "Mary Vance, Rilla, and Una Meredith, and naturally also, Mum, and Rosemary Meredith were there."What about fair Alice?" Ken inquired mischievously.
Walter shook his head and said "No, because Lowbridge is too far from Glen, but our farewell was," Walter's voice broke as he remembered the calm, controlled, slightly veiled look in Alice's eyes as they stood in the church, the honeyed light shining around her, and the promise she had made.
Ken's impatient voice intruded on Walter's consciousness, "It must have been quite a farewell if you run out of sentences." Walter smiled distantly and said in soft voice
"It was, it truly was."
In direct response, Ken whistled sharply, a satisfied, and a bit smug smile was on his face. Walter didn't understand at all why Ken was in such a joyful mood, perhaps it was the ale, as Ms. Cornelia had often said in defense of temperance movement that that beer made some men even more crazy, blithe, or buffoons, and the women, especially certain wives, had their own crosses to carry, without the men drinking, or some such thing.
The rest of that evening were a bit blur to Walter, as a few of Ken's men, (under his command) had joined their table. Hours passed, and the drinks flowed.
At one point after drinking that one clear drink that looked like water and tasted like juniper berries, Walter had gone to the piano and started playing, some mixture of Elgar, soothing ballads, Like to the Damask Rose, A song of Autum, and more frevent stuff, The Chariots of Lord, and A War Song, he had only vague, fragmentary recolections afterwards, but Ken´s presece were hazily clear in all of them.
And then, soon after that evening, in late November Ken and his men were gone, perhaps to some another village. But, Ken had left behind a a letter. It was written with a barest touch of military slang, it was twined by Ken's way of looking at the world, the certain grace and innate elegance of form and structure.
Dear Walter!
The moment when I saw you in that small yard, how strange the moment was, amid all the barb-wire and damp sacks, there you were. Slender private in kahki, soaking wet, but your eyes, I knew them instantly, the shade of them, like precious diamond, so utterly clear, but somehow still veiled from all of us. What kind of mysteries you are seeing I wonder? Images of marvels past, of future victories, crocks of gold, after end of Rainbows?
You are like a bright ray in the midst of this mud and soreness, that you too, know intimately. Sometimes there is no space to breathe, or sometimes even to think, as people, other men, our comrades, are everywhere, but I do my bit, as you do too, we are all tiny specks of this huge machine of War, even here in Blighty.
I´m sorry, about those pints, and gin.
You truly do not know how to hold your drink, but the Elgar and Novello pieces were quite wonderful, as was your piano playing too. How did you know that the folk here love Elgar? The whole pub sang along when you played.
The most important thing is this. Remember to write, not only letters, to Alice, or to Ingelside, but poetry too. You are so very talented, use what you are going to witness, over there. As that one Elgar piece you played described,
Hear the whiz of the shot as it flies,
Hear the rush of the shell in the skies,
Hear the bayonet's clash, ringing bright,
See the flash of the steel as they fight,
Hear the conqueror's shout !
As the foe's put to rout !
Hear the cry of despair
That is rending the air
Modern war is by no means as romantic as that, wild and gallant, but we will probably soon know what it will be like for our part. It means a lot to me, old chum, that we met here, even though this is not Paris, if you go there, at somepoint, you must visit Momartre.
All the best, as ever, and always
yours,
Ken
With a dreamy smile Walter folded Ken's letter into his pocket, and turned, and looked at the view spreading in front of him, the moonlight embroidering mysterious shadows on the trampled and frozen grass, and in a low whisper he uttered, Shelley
The cloud of shadows of midnight possess their own repose
which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee ere-
while, thy remebecance and repetance and deep musings are not free
from music of two voices and the light of one sweet smile.
And Walter thought of his evenings with starry misty shrouded gloom with Alice and Tadzio, and then, he took pen and paper in front of him, and crouching on a ammunition box he began to write, though not a poem, not yet, but a letter, early Christmas letter, home to Ingelside.
One morning, the mood in Walter's section of the camp was more heated than usual, the conversations were almost deafening, and in half curious way Walter asked from a passing soldier, "Why is everyone in a frenzy?"
The soldier, looked at Walter for a long time, and finally he answered, "Well, private at 9.00 this morning came a telegram saying that we are soonish, being moved, to the capital of the Frogs."
For a moment, Walter didn't quite understand what the other soldier had said, and then, his knees almost gave out. Paris, a city of light and love, and he, Walter Cutbert Blythe, was finally going there. All the famous landmarks, the culture, art and liteature, the food, and desserts, and wine. And in wisftul way, he wanted to find out if, french Madeleine-pastry, would hold candle to Una´s creations.
Standing on guard duty, a week or so later, Walter looked out over the sea of tents, into the bluish, metallic gray sky, and for almost a brief moment he could see on the horizon, the dim shadow of the Eiffel and Notre Dame.
Walter dreamed of Parisian boulevards, and the light of the Seine, and softly, almost silently he uttered a verses by Rimbaud, and then Verlaine. And suddenly behind him came a whisper, quoting Verlaine's next verse, from Chanson d'automne (Autum Song)
Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l'heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure;
Walter turned, and met the gaze of that pianist soldier, from the pub. A small flicker of a smile was visible in the dark green eyes, though the pale features, with golden hair, were otherwise serious and shrouded, in the darkness as he said,"Private Blythe, time for a shift change. You recite poetry well, although, if I may say so, your accent needs a little polish. I happen to love those poems too." As Walter passed another soldier, and feeling curious, he glanced at the name tag, it read .
Few hours, later, in time of evensong, at the tents, Walter closed his eyes as he remembered his early training in Kingsport. There was one person, in the crowd, slender dark-haired Acadian, with curly flowing hair, and sometimes, not often, in the night Walter glanced wistfully at him, fleeting half-glance.
One evening he found that the Acadian looked back at him, and there was sliver of smile in his features, just a twist of lips, no more, but that was enough. After that there were mutual and polite distance, that was sometimes breached with swift looks, and nods, but no talking, as there was no need. Walter knew now, that he was not alone, even in the army, as there were others too, men shrouded in darkness, like him.
October – November 1915, Glen
Ingelside's kitchen smelled of delicacies as Rilla, Susan and Anne all prepared packages for the boys, to Jem, and Walter. One week ago, Rilla had received Walter's latest letter, and the sweet lass had told Gertrude a little about its contents with red, glowing cheeks. And then a sudden dreamy look had come into Rilla's starry hazel eyes, and she had gone humming, a waltz-tune, to bathe Jims.
A cold wind whispered in the slumbering corners of Ingelside´s garden and there was a pale moon in the sky. Gertrude Oliver was sitting alone in her room. Her cold hands were clenched into the hem of her skirt. In the mirror there was a flickering image of a dark-haired woman, and annoyed Gertrude got up and covered the mirror with a thin muslin cloth, for she wanted to concentrate and not look at her exhausted form. She pondered, for there was a certain episode that had troubled her peace of mind for few months, and now with some effort recalled the night when Walter was at Ingelside, and he was playing the piano, before he left to England.
Moved by his music, Gertrude had stood slowly and with a impulse she could not control, she bowed down and given a swift light sister's kiss on Walter's cheek. Walter stiffened and looked up, into Gertrude's eyes, there had been a deep, primitive anxiety in Walter's eyes.
It came from her touch, the unprepairdness of it, and feeling embarrassed Gertrude had taken, a step back. The young man had been crouched over the piano, and his whole being, had then radiated unspeakable tension. Gertrude remembered tales of classical Greece, and her heart seemed to squeeze into a cold lump. Perhaps I'm wrong, she thought, for Rosamond's poems are proof of the opposite, and they are exceedingly beautiful. Then, as if carried by a cold whisper, Gertrude remembered the rumors in Lowbridge. Gertrude hadn't paid attention to the rumors, as she had enough to do in her own daily life, with her Rob on the front, and with her in charge of the school. But then, she remembered the pink letters Walter had written, quite openly, the blood colored ink on the petal pink paper. The envelope had some name that was from the literature, some, foppish decadent, Wildean name, and when Rosemary Meredith had inquired to whom he wrote, Walter had said in a light airy tone, "a certain friend, in Redmond."
Gertrude wrapped herself in her dark blue shawl, and thought I'm wrong, I have to be. Walter can't, will not be. That kind. I don't want to think about that possibility. Everyone always says I have a morbid imagination, well now it's proven. I don't think about that anymore.
Determinedly Gertrude went downstairs and helped prepare the treats, but she shuddered when Anne mused aloud "Walter is such a sensitive artistic soul, and his letters from Redmond were fun to read, especially after that one concert in last Autum, when he met one of his new companions. Strangely enough, Walter did not wrote his last name, but he did say his first name, as I remember it was Dorian. "
"Oh, like in Wilde's novel," Rilla inquired. Anne laughed brightly and said "After all, I didn't give any of you a name that was inspired by literature." Susan snorted as she closed the oven door, "Well in Upper Glen there is the Drews. Bertie Shakespeare, if I recall correctly all of Rilla's siblings in the Rainbow Valley days were ahead of him in literature. That reminds me that though Ms. Drew's kitchen was always in terrible shape, did I, Ms. Doctor Dear ever tell the story about her dish towels and the Thanksgiving goose?"
At the Manse, Una Meredith, dusted the piano, and with a light enchanting, sparkling Dvorak, perfect music for a November evening echoed through the Manse. Una played the Měsíčku na nebi hlubokém, from Rusalka, with a dreamy smile on her lips.
From open window flicering moonlight created lacy patterns around the score of notes. At the door of livingroom a basket full of Bruce's socks on her arm, Rosemary Meredith watched as Una played and sung, with careless, loving ease.
Una's hair comb seemed to have absorbed moonlight, for it sparkled faintly. And Rosemary made a bargain with God, as the wistful, lingerinly romantic verse, came one final time.
Illuminate him from far away
and tell him, tell him who is waiting for him.
If his human soul is really dreaming of me,
may the memory awaken him!
Moon, don't disappear,
don't disappear!