1916 Letter 2
Jan. 5th. 1916.
Bless your heart – my dearest of Mothers – what a lot of trouble we are with our habits – I have just been reading over your letter of Nov. 28 [with] good advice regarding letters.
I am some kind of a fool – a good many perhaps – but any letters of mine that are handed in for censoring in this unit, are perfectly innocuous.
There are several ways of getting letters home and we all save our letters till some one is going – so don’t worry.
There seemed to be an epidemic of letter writing from Lemnos a couple of months ago – everyone was complaining that their letters had been published. Capt. Johnson one day at tea showed me a letter from some one in Peterboro, in which the writer said she had read a letter from me in a town paper describing "our stay in Cairo" and as I’ve never seen Cairo I couldn’t understand it, and wrote to you about it. However it must have been from some one else with Queen's as they are in Cairo.
I’m not writing many letters these days – it’s too big a risk to take – for people are so news crazy they can’t resist the temptation of showing that they have a little "ground floor information" to use a favourite expression of one of our sisters. They can’t seem to understand that no matter what one tells – by word of mouth – it never does any harm but the minute a single statement is given to a paper it is never unsaid.
In this unit alone we have people from one end of Canada to the other and practically every paper of any account comes to some one.
I can laugh over my scare now as it turns out to have been nothing at all – but I didn’t want it to happen again. Any way it’s such bad taste publishing letters – most of my letters as you may have noticed of late have been posted in England.
It was a mistake writing to Jessie J. but she sent me a box of taffy and I thought I ought to.
In reading your letter you ask about the [Sterno] stone. Yes it arrived and the [tins] of solid alcohol – I gave them to two officers who are much like Eric and have a passion for cooking. They had nothing to do it on – having lost their kits at Suvla. It was great to have it to give to them.
Heaps of things come that we don’t need now ourselves so we pass them on, for if we had to move suddenly we couldn’t take them with us.
I got such a fright when reading your description of the Minstrel show. The girls were also talking to me and in my efforts to read my eye fell on the sentence "I had a terrible accident last week. I was going up a step ladder, and fell and I hung by my feet for three hours etc." that was enough for me. I nearly passed away and scared the girls nearly into fits. Then I got the right connection and wasn’t I thankful. So I drew a word picture of you – and the length of ladder it would need for you to hang from – to get them over their shock.
We all know each other’s families by name even unto the third and fourth generations, and when the mail comes in you say "There’s a letter from Alex for you Mae", etc., etc.
I am enclosing 4 Sonnets by Rupert Brooke – they are priceless gems – and the best things written concerning the war. Myra and I like "The Soldier" best. It was to be his own Epitaph – in case he were killed, and fills one’s mind with the most wonderful thoughts – that left alone one could never express.
Brooke joined the R.N.U.R. as a Sub. Lieut. when war broke out, was in the Antwerp Exped. and then was sent to the Dardanelles last February.
He died of sunstroke in the Aegean Sea probably and most likely in Mudros Bay – and is said to be buried in Lemnos. We have never been able to find out where. An English sister says it is just over here in Portianno – but that does not seem probable as there were no hospitals or troops in West Mudros in April. It is more likely that it is in East Mudros – and we must go over before we go.
It is hard to get over there for though it takes less than an hour. There is only a ferry two small fighters and the day must be very still if one is to be enjoy the trip.
The Sonnet – "Peace" is exquisite too, isn’t it?
To-day’s edition to the "Rumours of Wars" is that we are going back to England. And now that it seems a possibility – we are rather keen to go. But it is better to leave things to Fate and not try any moves on your own.
It is just tea time now so I will end this for to-day.
With much love,
yours always.
Helen
The pen is perfect. Thanks awfully. Keep any clippings about Rupert Brooke and send them to us.
H.
Peace –
Now God be thanked who matched us with this hour
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping
With hand made sure-clear eye and sharpened power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary
Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,
And half men, with their dirty songs and dreary
And all the little emptiness of love!
Oh! We who have known shame, we have found release there
Where there’s no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing hearts’ long peace there
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
The Dead.
Blow out, you Bugles, over the Rich Dead!
There’s none of these so lonely and poor of old,
But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
These laid the world away; poured on the red
Sweet view of youth; gave up the years to be
Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene,
That men call age; and those who would have been
Their sons, they gave, their immortality.
Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us. for our dearth,
Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain
Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,
And paid his subjects with a royal wage;
And we have come into our heritage.
The Dead.
These hearts were women of human joys and cares,
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness, Dawn was theirs,
And sunset, and the colours of the earth,
These had seen movement, and heard music;
Known
Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.
There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies all day. And after,
Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the night.
The Soldier –
If I should die, think only this of me;
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England, There shall be
In that rich earth – a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave once her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by sun of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under the English heaven.
Four sonnets by Rupert Brooke.
Dear Mother –
Can you use this? I bought it in a weak moment. I do not know whether the plate doilies were ever sent. The Maltese doesn’t know – says his wife if a fool. Anyway they aren’t’ paid for – so don’t worry but let me know if you get them.
Helen