24 MAY 1935, Page 12

LAWRENCE AS I KNEW I11111

By F. YEATS-BROWN

SO much has been written, and some of it so well, by the people who knew Lawrence long and intimately, that I only add my memories to those already published because they are directly concerned with The Spectator.

In 1927, when I was Assistant Editor of this journal, I wrote to Colonel Lawrence to ask him to become a contributor. To my surprise and delight I received an answer, signed T. E. S. (addressed to Miss Yeats; Brown, a title he obstinately refused to alter until we met in 1929) to say that he had read my article on Dirt Track Racing (anything to do with engines interested him to his dying day) and would be ready to review books occasionally, provided his identity was not dis- closed. Thereafter, in England and India, I kept him supplied with the latest Wells, Bennett, Huxley, D. H.

Lawrence, whatever I thought would interest him. His criticisms were extraordinarily acute, and aroused great interest. Every contribution was accompanied by a note of apology for his style, or a protest that he was being overpaid.

After my first meeting (he arrived unexpectedly from India and took tea at my flat in Adelphi Terrace House) I wrote an article, which I still have in proof, accompanied by his comments and the following notes : " Dear Shaw, Ikre's the article. If you don't give me your private consent to publish it, it will be scrapped, to my sorrow.—Y. B. 27.2.29."

" 28.2.29. Dear Y. B., I do not think it's as good as dirt tracks : and I hope you will agree to hold it up.

People won't care, perhaps, after the General Election. After all, I am vieux jeu. Sorry to appear to spoil your output : but my need is greater than yours—as the soldier did not say to Sir P. Sydney.—T. E. S."

Here, in part, is what I wrote : " It has been my fortune as a journalist to meet heroes and statesmen, and even a saint, but never a man with such a blend of qualities as that contained within this small figure in R.A.F. blue. His shyness, of course, is the first thing one notices about Aireraftman Shaw. The next is an almost inhuman reserve. He giver you the impression that he might vanish like the Cheshirt Cat, leaving nothing but his lips curved in a riddling smile.

" T. E. Shaw sat on the edge of my sofa, put his cap on the floor, brushed back his fair fine hair. At first sight he seems not a day over 25, but when you look close, the devil and angel of the Augustus John pictures are visible, and an agony in the eyes.

" It is no pose on his part when he says that he has done with the East, and is glad of it. He is not Eastern at all, either in appearance or in mental texture, but Western steel. He might do greater things in England, if the need arose, than he ever did in Arabia. [In the proof Lawrence wrote " Perhaps," and put a question mark before this sentence.] " My first thought was to urge him to write more for The Spectator, for there need be no secret now in the fact that he did in the past contribute some brilliant anonymous re- views to these columns. [Lawrence deleted the adjective.] " I can't write,' he said, twisting his hands together nervously. ' I tore up the last three or four things I did for you. You shouldn't have taken and paid for what I sent. However, your cheques have bought me a civilian suit of clothes.'

" I suppose you were quite poor,' I said. Yet von know quite well that you could make £20,000 tomorrow if you wanted.'

" I draw four bob a day : two whole pennies for every hour I live, even when I'm asleep : that's enough for me.'

" But why do you spend your time in cleaning boots and polishing tables, when you arc a master of English prose ? '

" I prefer polishing tables to pushing a pen,' he answered." [Oddly, Lawrence altered this simple sen- tence, which I feel sure he used, to I'd rather work with my hands than with my wits.' To me, this seems a reveal- ing correction : there was an occasional streak of conven- tionality, even of triteness in his style—never, .as -far .as I know in his talk—as if some psychological knot.-in his inside occasionally prevented the utterance of his swore-, bright, flashing mind.] " As to writing,' he continued, ' I tell you definitely that I can't. Wells said that The Seven Pillars was a human document, but had no pretensions to be a work of art. That's true.' " [Lawrence's marginal comment is : Yet it did try, poor thing, to be art.'] " But Wells is an admirer of yours,' I said, and added ; You are wasting your time and talents.'

"Was this an impertinence towards the man who has conducted the Arab campaign, set two Kings on their thrones, and written a masterpiece ? Shaw answered that he is no longer interested in politics or in literature, and that his work on the larger stage of the world is done. 'Lawrence is no longer living, but Shaw is quite happy."

The remainder of the article was concerned with the rumours that Shaw had worked for the Secret Service while in India. A spate of nonsense has been written about his mysterious life, both in this country and abroad. Before and during the War he was, of course, employed on secret missions. He casually mentioned to me once that he served as A.D.C. to Enver Pasha, in 1912, I think. In 1916 he was one of three officers engaged on a strange—and unsuccessful—negotiation with the Turkish Commander in Iraq. But after he had enlisted in the Air Force he devoted himself entirely to " the greatest adventure that awaits mankind," the collective and continued conquest of the air.

He hated lionizing, and silly publicity ; but being human, he was interested in portraits, even photographs of himself ; and he valued the literary opinion not only of his close friends, but of acquaintances such as myself. In 1930 he gave me The Seven Pillars of Wisdom to read, and the manuscript of his unpublished work, The Mint.

Both books contain passages as well-balanced, tense, virile, evocative as any in the English language—that September night of horror and triumph when he allowed the " grand rebellious Baba," his racing camel, to extend her stride so that he entered Deraa. quite alone—the final scenes at the conquest of Damascus—the last chapters of The Mint, where he races an aeroplane on his great motor bicycle—but neither book is of good craftsmanship throughout : in spite of the care he gave to his writing there are flaws of private mystification, jarring sentences, complications, obscurities, a straining for effect. They are the products of a fine brain under tremendous nervous tension, strained and half-starved as his body then was. They will live, because they are symbolical of the grandeur and misery of his time and because through them and in them shines the greatness of the man.

Although I was never intimate with " T. E.," I saw enough of his kindness, humour, sensitiveness, to under- stand what a wonderful friend he could be. Once I spent a long day on Dartmoor with him, while he read the proofs of Bengal Lancer. He took immense pains to help me : his advice was wise, far-seeing, and, now that I come to think of it, prophetic. Afterwards we drove about in my baby Austin, discussing everything under the sun. I have never been with a more delightful companion, nor with a talker whose mind showed so many bright facets. A year later I spent a glorious day with him on his speed boats at Southampton. Once we met at his cottage, and several times in London. To me these hours remain magnetic with his presence, but I felt in- tuitively that I wearied him. He remained kind, remote, elusive. He has left us an example of selflessness which will be long remembered ; and some magnificent prose. He was a creature set apart for unusual tasks, with terrific, "deed terrible energies pent in his small body. They flared up at a great moment. Now the fires are ex- tinguished, but they will light up a long future in England's history.