"In Flanders Fields", the piece of verse from which this little book
takes its title, first appeared in 'Punch' in the issue of December
8th, 1915. At the time I was living in Flanders at a convent in front
of Locre, in shelter of Kemmel Hill, which lies seven miles south
and slightly west of Ypres. The piece bore no signature, but it was
unmistakably from the hand of John McCrae.
From this convent of women which was the headquarters of the 6th
Canadian Field Ambulance, I wrote to John McCrae, who was then at
Boulogne, accusing him of the authorship, and furnished him with
evidence. From memory--since at the front one carries one book only--I
quoted to him another piece of his own verse, entitled "The Night
Cometh":
"Cometh the night. The wind falls low,
The trees swing slowly to and fro;
Around the church the headstones grey
Cluster, like children stray'd away,
But found again, and folded so."
It will be observed at once by reference to the text that in form the
two poems are identical. They contain the same number of lines and
feet as surely as all sonnets do. Each travels upon two rhymes with the
members of a broken couplet in widely separated refrain. To the casual
reader this much is obvious, but there are many subtleties in the verse
which made the authorship inevitable. It was a form upon which he had
worked for years, and made his own. When the moment arrived the medium
was ready. No other medium could have so well conveyed the thought.
This familiarity with his verse was not a matter of accident. For many
years I was editor of the 'University Magazine', and those who are
curious about such things may discover that one half of the poems
contained in this little book were first published upon its pages. This
magazine had its origin in McGill University, Montreal, in the year
1902. Four years later its borders were enlarged to the wider term,
and it strove to express an educated opinion upon questions immediately
concerning Canada, and to treat freely in a literary way all matters
which have to do with politics, industry, philosophy, science, and art.
To this magazine during those years John McCrae contributed all his
verse. It was therefore not unseemly that I should have written to him,
when "In Flanders Fields" appeared in 'Punch'. Amongst his papers I find
my poor letter, and many others of which something more might be made if
one were concerned merely with the literary side of his life rather than
with his life itself. Two references will be enough. Early in 1905 he
offered "The Pilgrims" for publication. I notified him of the place
assigned to it in the magazine, and added a few words of appreciation,
and after all these years it has come back to me.
The letter is dated February 9th, 1905, and reads: "I place the poem
next to my own buffoonery. It is the real stuff of poetry. How did you
make it? What have you to do with medicine? I was charmed with it:
the thought high, the image perfect, the expression complete; not too
reticent, not too full. Videntes autem stellam gavisi sunt gaudio magno
valde. In our own tongue,--'slainte filidh'." To his mother he wrote,
"the Latin is translatable as, 'seeing the star they rejoiced with
exceeding gladness'." For the benefit of those whose education has
proceeded no further than the Latin, it may be explained that the two
last words mean, "Hail to the poet".
To the inexperienced there is something portentous about an appearance
in print and something mysterious about the business of an editor.
A legend has already grown up around the publication of "In Flanders
Fields" in 'Punch'. The truth is, "that the poem was offered in the
usual way and accepted; that is all." The usual way of offering a piece
to an editor is to put it in an envelope with a postage stamp outside to
carry it there, and a stamp inside to carry it back. Nothing else helps.
An editor is merely a man who knows his right hand from his left, good
from evil, having the honesty of a kitchen cook who will not spoil his
confection by favour for a friend. Fear of a foe is not a temptation,
since editors are too humble and harmless to have any. There are of
course certain slight offices which an editor can render, especially
to those whose writings he does not intend to print, but John McCrae
required none of these. His work was finished to the last point. He
would bring his piece in his hand and put it on the table. A wise editor
knows when to keep his mouth shut; but now I am free to say that he
never understood the nicety of the semi-colon, and his writing was too
heavily stopped.
He was not of those who might say,--take it or leave it; but
rather,--look how perfect it is; and it was so. Also he was the first
to recognize that an editor has some rights and prejudices, that certain
words make him sick; that certain other words he reserves for his own
use,--"meticulous" once a year, "adscititious" once in a life time.
This explains why editors write so little. In the end, out of mere good
nature, or seeing the futility of it all, they contribute their words to
contributors and write no more.
The volume of verse as here printed is small. The volume might be
enlarged; it would not be improved. To estimate the value and institute
a comparison of those herein set forth would be a congenial but useless
task, which may well be left to those whose profession it is to offer
instruction to the young. To say that "In Flanders Fields" is not the
best would involve one in controversy. It did give expression to a mood
which at the time was universal, and will remain as a permanent record
when the mood is passed away.
The poem was first called to my attention by a Sapper officer, then
Major, now Brigadier. He brought the paper in his hand from his billet
in Dranoutre. It was printed on page 468, and Mr. 'Punch' will be glad
to be told that, in his annual index, in the issue of December 29th,
1915, he has misspelled the author's name, which is perhaps the only
mistake he ever made. This officer could himself weave the sonnet with
deft fingers, and he pointed out many deep things. It is to the sappers
the army always goes for "technical material".
The poem, he explained, consists of thirteen lines in iambic tetrameter
and two lines of two iambics each; in all, one line more than the
sonnet's count. There are two rhymes only, since the short lines must
be considered blank, and are, in fact, identical. But it is a difficult
mode. It is true, he allowed, that the octet of the sonnet has only two
rhymes, but these recur only four times, and the liberty of the sestet
tempers its despotism,--which I thought a pretty phrase. He pointed
out the dangers inherent in a restricted rhyme, and cited the case of
Browning, the great rhymster, who was prone to resort to any rhyme, and
frequently ended in absurdity, finding it easier to make a new verse
than to make an end.
At great length--but the December evenings in Flanders are long, how
long, O Lord!--this Sapper officer demonstrated the skill with which the
rhymes are chosen. They are vocalized. Consonant endings would spoil the
whole effect. They reiterate O and I, not the O of pain and the Ay
of assent, but the O of wonder, of hope, of aspiration; and the I of
personal pride, of jealous immortality, of the Ego against the Universe.
They are, he went on to expound, a recurrence of the ancient question:
"How are the dead raised, and with what body do they come?" "How shall I
bear my light across?" and of the defiant cry: "If Christ be not raised,
then is our faith vain."
The theme has three phases: the first a calm, a deadly calm, opening
statement in five lines; the second in four lines, an explanation,
a regret, a reiteration of the first; the third, without preliminary
crescendo, breaking out into passionate adjuration in vivid metaphor, a
poignant appeal which is at once a blessing and a curse. In the closing
line is a satisfying return to the first phase,--and the thing is done.
One is so often reminded of the poverty of men's invention, their
best being so incomplete, their greatest so trivial, that one welcomes
what--this Sapper officer surmised--may become a new and fixed mode of
expression in verse.
As to the theme itself--I am using his words: what is his is mine; what
is mine is his--the interest is universal. The dead, still conscious,
fallen in a noble cause, see their graves overblown in a riot of poppy
bloom. The poppy is the emblem of sleep. The dead desire to sleep
undisturbed, but yet curiously take an interest in passing events. They
regret that they have not been permitted to live out their life to its
normal end. They call on the living to finish their task, else they
shall not sink into that complete repose which they desire, in spite
of the balm of the poppy. Formalists may protest that the poet is not
sincere, since it is the seed and not the flower that produces sleep.
They might as well object that the poet has no right to impersonate the
dead. We common folk know better. We know that in personating the dear
dead, and calling in bell-like tones on the inarticulate living, the
poet shall be enabled to break the lightnings of the Beast, and thereby
he, being himself, alas! dead, yet speaketh; and shall speak, to ones
and twos and a host. As it is written in resonant bronze: VIVOS . VOCO
. MORTUOS . PLANGO . FULGURA . FRANGO: words cast by this officer upon
a church bell which still rings in far away Orwell in memory of his
father--and of mine.
By this time the little room was cold. For some reason the guns had
awakened in the Salient. An Indian trooper who had just come up, and did
not yet know the orders, blew "Lights out",--on a cavalry trumpet.
The sappers work by night. The officer turned and went his way to his
accursed trenches, leaving the verse with me.
John McCrae witnessed only once the raw earth of Flanders hide its
shame in the warm scarlet glory of the poppy. Others have watched this
resurrection of the flowers in four successive seasons, a fresh miracle
every time it occurs. Also they have observed the rows of crosses
lengthen, the torch thrown, caught, and carried to victory. The dead may
sleep. We have not broken faith with them.
It is little wonder then that "In Flanders Fields" has become the poem
of the army. The soldiers have learned it with their hearts, which is
quite a different thing from committing it to memory. It circulates,
as a song should circulate, by the living word of mouth, not by printed
characters. That is the true test of poetry,--its insistence on making
itself learnt by heart. The army has varied the text; but each variation
only serves to reveal more clearly the mind of the maker. The army
says, "AMONG the crosses"; "felt dawn AND sunset glow"; "LIVED and were
loved". The army may be right: it usually is.
Nor has any piece of verse in recent years been more widely known in the
civilian world. It was used on every platform from which men were being
adjured to adventure their lives or their riches in the great trial
through which the present generation has passed. Many "replies" have
been made. The best I have seen was written in the 'New York Evening
Post'. None but those who were prepared to die before Vimy Ridge that
early April day of 1916 will ever feel fully the great truth of Mr.
Lillard's opening lines, as they speak for all Americans:
"Rest ye in peace, ye Flanders dead.
The fight that ye so bravely led
We've taken up."
They did--and bravely. They heard the cry--"If ye break faith, we shall
not sleep."