{"id":1260,"date":"2014-10-21T16:39:22","date_gmt":"2014-10-21T16:39:22","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/?p=1260"},"modified":"2015-03-15T13:02:09","modified_gmt":"2015-03-15T17:02:09","slug":"rupert-brookes-death-burial","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/rupert-brookes-death-burial\/","title":{"rendered":"Rupert Brooke\u2019s Death And Burial"},"content":{"rendered":"

Based on the Log of the French Hospital Ship DUGUAY-TROUIN: Translated from the French of J. Perdriel-Vaissi\u00e8res by Vincent O\u2019Sullivan<\/em><\/p>\n

April twenty-second, 1915.<\/em>In the roadstead of Trebouki: This is the first halt on the expedition to the East. \u00a0After the noisy coaling-station of Alexandria, we have now before our eyes the starkness of a marble island. \u00a0Lying about us are the Savoie<\/em>, the Ville-de-Carthage<\/em>, the Vinh-Long<\/em>, which form the first line of bearing of the French expeditionary force; and also the battleships Canopus<\/em>, Prince George<\/em>, and Prince Edward<\/em>, the advance line of the supporting squadron of the British.<\/p>\n

We have not heard artillery since we were in the North Sea amid the roaring of the battle of Yser. \u00a0Here the vividness of the mild April morning, the light like a scarf about the hill-tops, the bay like an enclosed lake\u2013all breathe peace.<\/p>\n

A cutter puts off from the Prince George<\/em>; it comes toward us and draws alongside. \u00a0They have brought on a stretcher a man who is ill of some malady, for there are no wounded here yet.<\/p>\n

It is a lieutenant on General Hamilton\u2019s staff. \u00a0His face is bloodless; he gazes with large blue eyes which have still a good deal of life in them; he has an eruption on the lip. \u00a0An officer, a friend of his, tall and fair, with the air of an English gentleman, is by his side. \u00a0This is Lieutenant Asquith, son of the Prime Minister.<\/p>\n

Here, in a little white cabin in the round-house, the whole medical staff is mobilised for the single patient. \u00a0But is it not too late?<\/p>\n

Wireless messages come in: \u201cWhat is the news?\u201d General Hamilton and Mr. Winston Churchill are worrying; all England is interested in the condition of this young man. \u00a0He is worse; the dreadful poison is doing its work. \u00a0How did the accident\u2013this appalling and stupid accident\u2013happen?<\/p>\n

It was yesterday. \u00a0He had gone ashore on the marble island where scarcely anything grows but sweet-smelling shrubs. \u00a0He makes his way through the holly-bushes, the sage-brush and balsam and storax, following a mysterious clue which he takes to be the thread of his loftiest dreams, and which is without doubt the thread of his fate\u2013terrible black thread\u2013the last thread. \u00a0He comes to that glade you may see on the far side where there is a little water, some olive trees, a silvery corner where the breeze trembles. \u00a0Here the poet rests. \u00a0Then\u2013Oh, yes, indeed, it was the ultimate dream!\u2013then a little grey fly, quite unnoticeable (here in the Orient within a month we shall have patches of flies everywhere), the tiny fly stung him just near the lip. \u00a0A fly? \u00a0A bee out of the darkness attracted by the honey of words. \u00a0Rupert Brooke has a malignant ulcer.<\/p>\n

The wireless is inquiring again. \u00a0Reply: He is worse.<\/p>\n

Does he still see this white cabin where they are trying rather hopelessly to neutralize the poison? \u00a0Is he still aware of the taste of sunlight, of salt, the balsam taste of the islands which the soft breeze carries to him through the open port?<\/p>\n

Still, full light sustains the blue tent of sky at the zenith, but upon him night has already fallen\u2013night upon that eminent head, night upon that <\/em>brain!….Rupert Brooke has become unconscious.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n

April twenty-third.<\/em><\/p>\n

It is just 4.46 in the afternoon. \u00a0A quartermaster knocks at the Captain\u2019s door. \u00a0With his hand at the salute he says quite calmly,\u2013for out there in Flanders last winter he got used to delivering such messages:<\/p>\n

\u201cCaptain, the English lieutenant is dead.\u201d<\/p>\n

For him, you see, it is a man like another. \u00a0And we live in times when the death of a man is a very small matter.<\/p>\n

Never did face seem paler on the bed of death. \u00a0Is it because of that black mark on the lip? \u00a0Or is it that the Eastern light beats more pitilessly on the skin of this man from the North? \u00a0Everybody is silent. \u00a0Then a voice says:<\/p>\n

\u201cEngland has lost her greatest poet.\u201d<\/p>\n

Orders come in while the coffin is being prepared. \u00a0We are to sail tonight. \u00a0The hour draws near for a demonstration in force against the straits. \u00a0We must hurry. \u00a0Come on; close down the coffin.<\/p>\n

O pale, pale, English face that no one will look on ever again! \u00a0Face of passion, of dreams, and of torment! \u00a0Poetry not of the world, but of beyond the world, dwelling so early on the other side.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cDo they still whisper, the old weary cries,<\/p>\n

Mid youth and song, feasting and carnival,<\/p>\n

Through laughter, through the roses, as of old,<\/p>\n

Comes Death, on shadowy and relentless feet,<\/p>\n

Death, unappeasable by prayer or gold;<\/p>\n

Death is the end, the end!\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The coffin is placed on the poop and covered with the English flag. \u00a0Sixteen palms decorate this improvised chapel. \u00a0The officers of Duguay-Trouin <\/em>lay on the coffin a bunch of flowers, the best they could get\u2013wild flowers stolen from the bees of the island and tied with the French colours.<\/p>\n

At the foot of the coffin stands a sailor presenting arms. \u00a0Lieutenant Asquith, who has not left his friend for a moment, is at the side of the bier with some other English officers.<\/p>\n

A brief twilight. \u00a0The night falls.<\/p>\n

From the Canopus <\/em>the English commander signals: \u201cMake haste.\u201d \u00a0As there is no time to engrave a brass plate, the Lieutenant asks for a cauterizing iron. \u00a0Then by the light of the lamps, which are like a wreath of watchlights, he sears on the oak plank itself these letters:<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n

RUPERT BROOKE<\/em><\/p>\n

A sharp whistle is heard: \u201cAll hands on deck.\u201d \u00a0The ship\u2019s company lines up with bared heads to pay the last honours.<\/p>\n

A launch takes the boat which carries the coffin in tow. \u00a0Other boats put off from the warships.<\/p>\n

There are many of them, and they glide over the water like a holiday procession, like those gigs which set off at evening from the ships of the Mediterranean squadron to go to the Corso. \u00a0Towards what Cythera are cadenced all these oars? \u00a0Music sounds as they pass; the huge ships one after another send them gusts of harmony, but the airs are solemn and low. \u00a0The night is soft with a sheen of moon, bestarred. \u00a0The perfume of the isle drifts through the night, becoming stronger and stronger. \u00a0The boats in line steer towards a little cove. \u00a0A hue like pearl floats on the water.<\/p>\n

At the landing place several English officers are waiting and a guard of honour. \u00a0Twelve Australian giants, splendid-looking men in service uniforms, come forward. \u00a0They wear broad-brimmed felt hats, cartridge belts, and fastened round their waists are the cords which will be used to lower the coffin into the grave.<\/p>\n

The chaplain has slipped a surplice over his uniform.<\/p>\n

Here is a gently sloping valley. \u00a0It is hard to tell whether there have ever been paths: if so, they have left no trace. \u00a0The ground is marble; underneath these loose oxidized stones are royal foundations\u2013pillars or statues ready to spring forth from the gleaming hillside. \u00a0Accordingly the vegetation is sparse\u2013brushwood, little holly-bushes shadowy like ghosts. \u00a0The Australians make slow headway. \u00a0A meagre light is shed about them by lanterns and torches which illumine one step and leave the next in darkness. \u00a0Sometimes they slip, half stumble, and can not help jolting their burden. \u00a0The marble pebbles turn under their feet. \u00a0The brambles hide pitfalls. \u00a0Their heavy laced boots press the aromatic shrubs. \u00a0A bewitching odour, a mingling of pepper and musk, rises like incense. \u00a0The wan moonlight lingers on the end of the procession where the torches flicker no more. \u00a0Their flames trail away in ruddy and smoky tresses which the night hastens to cover with her silverine purity.<\/p>\n

Not a village, not a house, not a road. \u00a0We keep on marching\u2013two miles perhaps. \u00a0Here is the place!<\/p>\n

Silence.<\/p>\n

Some olive trees in a more fertile hollow; the breeze is half asleep between their leaves. \u00a0At their foot a grave has been dug.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cIf I should die think only this of me:<\/p>\n

That there\u2019s some corner of a foreign field<\/p>\n

That is for ever England.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n

O conquering heart! \u00a0Through what malign fate art thou given pause in this place on the eve of battle, before the sacramental spilling of thy blood? \u00a0True Englishman, strong in pride, who came hither, as in old days Achilles when he hid at the court of Lycomedes, to await a glorious and violent taking off\u2013Rupert Brooke, who carried within thee a homesickness for immortality, \u201csets they star, O heart, forever?\u201d<\/p>\n

The grave is opened at this very place where doubtless thy last poem\u2013the final poem too beautiful to be written\u2013sang in harmony with the high-pulsed rhythm of thy blood. \u00a0Lieutenant Asquith comes forward: he thinks the grave is too small. Who shall know the measure of a great man? \u00a0He goes down into the grave and takes the lugubrious spade himself, and with only the aid of another officer digs the ground, like a brother unwilling to leave anyone else the last pieties for him he loved.<\/p>\n

The chaplain has ended his prayer. \u00a0An order is given. \u00a0Three volleys roll through the mountains, rending the air with abrupt claps which are tossed from one elevation to another, echoing. \u00a0Thereupon the silent night becomes mysteriously alive. \u00a0The owls cry out, scared, and little bells, any number of little bells, tinkle all around. \u00a0They come from the drowsy flocks which are frightened, from the sheep and goats suddenly awakened in terror and rushing away headlong through the sweet-scented brushwood. \u00a0It is the passing-bell for Orpheus on the necks of innocent and untamed animals, whose invisible bells sweep lightly over the invisible bushes.<\/p>\n

And then it is silence again; and it shall always be silence.<\/p>\n

Tomorrow the ships will weigh anchor. \u00a0After just touching at Moudros and Tenedos they will engage in the heroic enterprise of the Dardanelles, and for many a day those who followed the poet to the grave will hardly have time to recall under a deluge of fire the lonely mound lost in solitary Scyros. \u00a0Nevertheless<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cThere shall be<\/p>\n

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed:<\/p>\n

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,<\/p>\n

Gave once her flowers to love, her ways to roam,<\/p>\n

A body of England\u2019s, breathing English air,<\/p>\n

Washed by rivers, blest by suns of home.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

How can we help picturing the Muse with silken curls seated in that little dell, her feet resting on the marble soil of the island, her elbow on her knee, her chin held in the palm of her fragile hand\u2013the pale and spiritual Muse of England.<\/p>\n

She is watchful and she meditates. \u00a0This is not the first time she has known the Grecian land; she has already bent over another genius there. \u00a0It will soon be a hundred years since Byron died of cholera at Missolonghi. \u00a0Flaming with Romanticism in action, he had come to pluck Greece in her agony from the throttling hand of the oppressor. \u00a0Today it is once more against the Turk we must do battle, and behind the Turk a redoubtable and prepared Barbarism\u2013the modern onrush of Attila.<\/p>\n

To Brooke, as to Byron, the poet\u2019s laurel seemed a slight thing, thought alone unsatisfying. \u00a0What he needed was the khaki uniform and a revolver at his belt, which alas! he never had a chance to fire off.<\/p>\n

And so the Muse lingers there, for it is a propitiatory altar. \u00a0Here lies the first Englishman fallen by the roadside, the chosen victim, the hostage offered to malevolent fate, the libation.<\/p>\n

She watches; she waits. \u00a0Mornings will follow in the odorous deserted place, the sun will shift the strip of shade cast by the small olive trees, winter storms will beat about the island, and it will be by rare chance that some goatherd clad in skins climbs the hill and passes there, or some fisherman in whose basket gleams the silver-bellied fish.<\/p>\n

The Muse watches, and the obscure colloquy in which she is absorbed alters her immemorial presence little by little.<\/p>\n

When the great war is over, those who go to seek the cherished ashes of the poet will see arise beneath the olive trees of Scyros a glorious countenance they have not yet seen. \u00a0Liberty sprang from Byron\u2019s grave; O Rupert Brooke, look forth with us and see Victory arise from thine!<\/p>\n

THE END<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Based on the Log of the French Hospital Ship DUGUAY-TROUIN.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":1262,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[100],"tags":[101,102],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nTraveltainted | Rupert Brooke\u2019s Death And Burial - Turtle Point Press Magazine \/ TPPM<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/rupert-brookes-death-burial\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Traveltainted | Rupert Brooke\u2019s Death And Burial - Turtle Point Press Magazine \/ TPPM\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Based on the Log of the French Hospital Ship DUGUAY-TROUIN.\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/rupert-brookes-death-burial\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"Turtle Point Press Magazine \/ TPPM\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2014-10-21T16:39:22+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2015-03-15T17:02:09+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/wp-content\/uploads\/2014\/10\/implacable.jpg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"900\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"623\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"Ruth\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"Ruth\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"10 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/rupert-brookes-death-burial\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/rupert-brookes-death-burial\/\",\"name\":\"Traveltainted | Rupert Brooke\u2019s Death And Burial - 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