It's easy to forget when reading the many great novels written in the 1920s that
they were written in the aftermath of a great and terrible schism. Their main
characters are often young men returned from the war, and even if the narrative
isn’t explicit about their experiences, they are haunted by what they’d seen in
the trenches.
Think of Jay Gatsby (in Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby), who
commanded the Lewis machine guns of the ninth machine gun battalion and was
decorated for valor for his participation in the Marne and the Argonne. Think of shell-shocked
Septimus Warren Smith (in Virginia Woolf’s Mrs
Dalloway) who hallucinates about his friend and commanding officer Evans
who’d been killed in Italy just before the Armistice. And think
of Christopher Tietjens (in Ford Madox Ford’s Parade’s End), unable to forget the
young boy whose eye was shot out as Tietjens was trying to carry him to safety.
His soon-to-be lover, Valentine Wannop, suddenly understands that he had been
through hell. “Hitherto, she had thought of the War as physical suffering only;
now she saw it only as mental torture. Immense miles and miles of anguish in
darkened minds.”
In
Lady Chatterley’s Lover, D.H. Lawrence
shows how the aftermath of those four years of unimaginable suffering affects
everyone, even those who had never set foot on the front line. Sir Clifford
Chatterley is shipped home “smashed” in 1918 to his young wife Constance. He is
confined to a motorized wheelchair, the lower half of his body destroyed, with
no chance for either himself or his wife of a sexual life or of children. It is
a novel notorious for its frankness about female sexuality, but it is also
masterful in its depiction of a general sense of disaffection and ennui, and
the pointlessness of existence left over from the great slaughter. In observing
the intellectual chatter of her husband and his friends, Constance begins to understand the damage
that has been done to her entire generation:
“...It was the bruise of the war that had been
in abeyance, slowly rising to the surface and creating the great ache of
unrest, and stupor of discontent. The bruise was deep, deep, deep... the bruise
of the false inhuman war. It would take many years for the living blood of
generations to dissolve the vast black clot of bruised blood, deep inside their
souls and bodies. And it would need a new hope.”
“All the great words, it
seemed to Connie, were cancelled for her generation: love, joy, happiness,
home, mother, father, husband, all these great dynamic words were half dead
now, and dying from day to day. Home was a place you lived in, love was a thing
you didn’t fool yourself about, joy was a word you applied to a good
Charleston, happiness was a term of hypocrisy used to bluff other people, a
father was an individual who enjoyed his own existence, a husband was a man you
lived with and kept going in spirits. As for sex, the last of the great words,
it was just a cocktail term for an excitement that bucked you up for a while,
then left you more raggy than ever. Frayed! It was as if the very material you
were made of was cheap stuff, and was fraying out to nothing. All that really
remained was a stubborn stoicism; and in that there was a certain pleasure. In
the very experience of the nothingness of life, phase after phase, étape after étape,
there was a certain grisly satisfaction. So that’s that!”
Unfortunately that wasn’t
that. There was another conflagration still to come, and yet more millions of
people around the world would be killed or have their lives and bodies smashed
and broken. Constance was right when she foresaw that it would take “the living
blood of generations” to diffuse the deep, deep bloody bruise of those two
wars.
Amazing quotes from D.H. Lawrence. They capture the profound losses caused by WWI. Very insightful as to the effect of the war on the personalities and dreams of a generation. Lovely post, Fiona! Beth
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