The Voice

by Rupert Brooke (1887-1915) (The Life & Selected Works of Rupert Brooke by John Frayn Turner, Pen and Sword Military)

Safe in the magic of my woods
I lay, and watched the dying light.
Faint in the pale high solitudes,
And washed with rain and veiled by night,

Silver and blue and green were showing.
And the dark woods grew darker still;
And birds were hushed; and peace was growing;
And quietness crept up the hill;

And no wind was blowing . . .

And I knew
That this was the hour of knowing,
And the night and the woods and you
Were one together, and I should find
Soon in the silence the hidden key
Of all that had hurt and puzzled me —
Why you were you, and the night was kind,
And the woods were part of the heart of me.

And there I waited breathlessly,
Alone; and slowly the holy three,
The three that I loved, together grew
One, in the hour of knowing,
Night, and the woods, and you —

And suddenly
There was an uproar in my woods,
The noise of a fool in mock distress,
Crashing and laughing and blindly going,
Of ignorant feet and a swishing dress,
And a Voice profaning the solitudes.

The spell was broken, the key denied me,
And at length your flat clear voice beside me
Mouthed cheerful clear flat platitudes.
You came and quacked beside me in the wood.
You said, ‘The view from here is very good!’
You said, ‘It’s nice to be alone a bit!’
And, ‘How the days are drawing out!’ you said.
You said, ‘The sunset’s pretty, isn’t it?’

By God! I wish — I wish that you were dead! April 1909

What can I say? He was young and unguarded when he wrote that last line; it’s a thought that is normally better kept to oneself. While wishing death on another human being is extreme, noise does funny things to people; neighbours have been known to kill one another over noise, and persistent or interruptive noise, the kind that prevents any continuous cognitive thought process, can make a person genuinely ill if they have not already succumbed to a murderous impulse.

Imagine a thoughtful (not to say poetic) young man awaiting the object of his affection in a place that delights him; the woods at dusk. We can picture him lying among the trees and observing “the pale high solitudes” which are nothing in themselves, but the space, it seems, where the silver and green of the leaves is seen against the fading blue of the sky. He feels safe, here, and makes a point of it; we are lulled by his introspection. Anticipation of his assignation has blended with his appreciation of the solitude, “the night and the woods and you/ Were one together”. Yet solitude requires one to remain alone; interruption can provoke only resentment. He is setting himself up for inevitable disillusionment.

We are also made to wonder if something happened between the poet and his lady, something that puzzled and hurt him; he hopes to find “the key” to what that was, “this was the hour of knowing” he says, as if he expects his bewilderment to evaporate in the gathering dusk, leaving only clarity and understanding. He wants to know “Why you were you”. He goes on to tell us how this person is one of the three things he loves most, the others being the night and the woods.

The reality of a situation is often not as bad as we imagine it will be if we fear it. But it can be far worse when it doesn’t fit our preconceived idea of an occasion that we have imagined will be a triumph, or emotionally fulfilling in some way. Expectations of a demanding kind are rarely met.

When the woman he awaits comes crashing through the undergrowth, making “The noise of a fool in mock distress”, she is not the creature the poet imagined communing with in this sacred place. She tramples his sensibilities. He uses words that render her crass and graceless, her “Voice profaning the solitudes”. How can she not see what is around her and be sensitive to it? This is her crime. “The spell was broken, the key denied me” — he was never going to work her out now, and whatever had hurt and puzzled him was possibly the tip of her inconsiderate iceberg.

Rupert Brooke did not live long enough to write much poetry; he died of an illness while on his way to Gallipoli during the First World War on April 23, 1915. So his poetry is that of someone young and passionate, idealistic in many ways, open to disillusionment.

“You came and quacked beside me in the wood,” he says ungallantly, and since we know that the noise of a duck is a harsh, grating sound, we understand that he considers the woman’s voice and “platitudes” to be just as ugly. Perhaps this is discriminatory against ducks, but let’s be perfectly frank, one wouldn’t want to be serenaded by a duck.

The poet repeats the words that come out of the woman’s mouth, which are banal at best, and display her total ignorance of any sensitivity towards his mood or their environment. Of course, one might argue that the poet, looking down on her from the lofty reaches of his own sense of superiority, is inconsiderate of the fact that she has not had time to absorb her surroundings and be affected by them as he has — although I suspect she would be immune.

The woman jars on him; her voice, her platitudes, her clumsy blundering through the delicate fabric of the poet’s musings, are so unforgivable to him that he wishes her dead.

Our mind is the most private place we can go to; that’s where we form our character and nurture the essence of ourselves. The relative silence of the countryside, or the background noises of the city, become a backdrop for our thoughts. But specific noise such as a loud (quacking) voice, someone else’s choice of music, a jackhammer or a wailing child intrude so that we cannot think. If we do not wish to see something, we can simply close our eyes, but not to hear is difficult. If we don’t have earplugs, then other people’s racket is something we cannot escape from unless we remove ourselves.

The poet, however, can no doubt extricate himself from any further contact with the thoughtless young lady, and for this he is fortunate. But it doesn’t stop him expressing his sentiments. After all, this is his poem and he can say what he wants.

frieda.hughes@thetimes.co.uk

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