Two old Queens
Christopher Hawtree
Edith Sitwell ended her bad-tempered autobiography with a macabre image: 'Then all will be over, bar the shouting and the worms.' Much shouting has indeed taken place; her posthumous presence is as vivid as her living one. Mr Elborn cannot have been pleased that his biography was delayed, eventually appearing a few months after the slightly longer one by Victoria Glendinning. Boswell was anxious about the six lives of Johnson that were published while he dallied; they survive only in his acerbic footnotes. Unfortunately Mr Elborn is not a Boswell. Nevertheless, while his approach is less scholarly than Mrs Glendinning's, his more exuberant manner provides a better read. This is marred by the presumption of some ignorance in the reader: even an American who buys a book about Edith Sitwell does not need to be told, for example, that Lord David Cecil is `a famous biographer and critic', that Horizon was a 'wartime arts magazine' or that Arthur Waley was well-known for translating from the Chinese. As if this were not enough, Mr Elborn provides an Appen- dix of potted biographies. Sir Sacheverell Sitwell gives an encomium on the jacket, but the familiarity of calling him `Sachie' throughout is out of place in a formal
biography. Certainly both books are preferable to John Pearson's crass compil- ation, Facades.
Edith Sitwell's final image of worms reminds one of the two sides of her life: more happily, it echoes the 'universal devouring worm' of her magnificent 'Gold Coast Customs'; unfortunately it was also the sort of appellation she gave to those writers who managed, all too easily, to arouse her ire — something which intens- ified when she realised that she was in the wrong, so that her plagiarism in Aspects of Modern Poetry is now remembered rather than quietly forgotten. It is extraordinary that she went to such lengths over matters of little importance; Noel Coward's squib in London Calling is far from being his best work, but it should not have caused a 40-year rift. The frequent, posthumous rehearsing of these squabbles is wearying, for they were all too often conducted with abuse rather than wit. (Much her best com- ments, because they were funny, were about the Jaeger schools of poetry). Although both biographies give one new sympathy for the undeniably sad parts of her life, it is easy to be alienated by these petulant trivialities.
At its best, her poetry is not trivial, but manages to convey much with a sense of fun and liveliness. It is for this that she should be remembered. Her prose, how- ever, is rather clogged, only Alexander Pope being of interest now and mainly for its 'notable correction of false 19th-century ideas', in George Sherburn's phrase. Her poetic reputation was in eclipse while she was turning out such books and it was only with the dreadful events of the second war that she regained the ascendancy that was to last until her death. These poems seem hollow today; a monotony replaced the diverse quality of the Twenties whose range included the inspired nonsense of 'Aubade', the elegant 'Colonel Fantock' and the savagery of 'Gold Coast Customs'. Although it does not attempt the apocalyp- tic, 'Façade' is more moving than 'Still Falls the Rain'.
One has the impression that in her life- time Edith Sitwell was surrounded by a minefield to be crossed by critics only at their peril. The recent biographies have defused this, revealing the woman at the centre: she is not the Plantaganent of her fantasy, nor possessed of a 'nose longer than an ant-eater's' as Lytton Strachey saw her; it is her friend William Plomer's com- ment that rings most true. It is missed by both biographers. 'Isn't she exactly like Max Miller?' he asked Roy Fuller. It is in this humorous, human way that she is best thought of, and a larger collection of her letters should emphasise this one day.
The Sitwells were giving a private dance But Wyndham Lewis disguised as the maid Was putting cascara in the still lemonade.
These lines by Auden come from 'A Happy New Year', published only once in the Thirties, and now hidden at the back of The English Auden. Edith Sitwell was not pleased by the changes that cane over English poetry in this decade, so much so that she dismissed interest in Auden as 'sheer nonsense'. Professor Mendelson's book is ample evidence that such a view is wayward; its bulk is an indication of the problems that have come to surround the work.
Edward Mendelson has obviously read Auden innumerable times. While it was in- evitable that his editions of the poetry should be muddled by Auden having revis- ed frequently, as was his prerogative, it is a pity that Early Auden is similarly confus- ing. This commentary on the work to 1939 is often illuminating, refreshingly wide- ranging but not graceful. John Fuller is far more lucid in his Reader's Guide.
Professor Mendelson is concerned with the apparent conflict between a private and a public Auden, and it is the merit of his book that the private side is seen aS the more 'heroic'. Although important at the time, Auden's political comments can now be seen as part of a larger juggling with ideas. Indeed Early Auden convinces one that these evolved, rather than suddenly changed into a return to Christianity. Rightly, then, a central place is given to 'A Summer Night 1933' in which Auden describes an enveloping mystical ex- perience. However, these effectively simple lines Forests of green have done complete The day's activity; my feet Point to the rising moon are duly glossed as 'selenotropic'.,That is to make Auden more difficult than he need be. These difficulties do not always resolve themselves (Walter Allen gives an amusing account of how a misprint — cusions gained currency); such a case is the sonnet `Love had him fast ...': even the later addi- tion of a title, 'Meiosis', does not make total sense of this conceit of a sperm cell's progress. (Aldous Huxley's 'Fifth Philosopher's Song' is rather better). Pro- fessor Mendelson can be very good, as in his analysis of 'Lullaby% his conclusion that 'this is the first English poem in which a lover proclaims, in moral terms and during a night of love, his own faithlessness' is surely right. The complexities have pro- bably escaped its many anthologisers.
Early Auden, by its accumulation of details, gives the lie to the notion that Auden was a journalist. Auden's 'land- scape' was his view of things. A. Alvarez's silly remark, 'if Pope is on one side of Auden, Alistair Cooke is on the other' can only apply to the poet's imitators. Although Professor Mendelson misses some of Auden's fun (he quickly passes over 'Miss Gee'), it is good to be sent back to the poetry at a time when Auden's life has become as familiar as Edith Sitwell's. A lot of explanation can be a dangerous thing, as any reader of Yeats's A Vision knows, but Auden's talent was such that he can get away with it.
Previous page
