Death of a Hero (extract 2)

Text Analysis

In connection with the main theme of the novel the significance of the excerpt lies in its moving representation of the exquisite beauty of things menaced by war. With respect to its emotional colouring, it clearly contains two distinct parts. The first is a strikingly beautiful canvas of spring as seen by two young and sensitive people in love. The emotional quality of this part is conveyed to the reader through the sudden "ecstasy of delight" these two experience at the sight of so much loveliness. This passage is followed by the author's nostalgical interposition, in which his deep feeling for English nature and art, his presentiment of the war and England's future ruin are manifested with great intensity. The subtle lyricism, the rich imagery, the musical rhythm of the description turn the landscape into a passionate rhapsody.

There are masterly touches in rich and vivid epithets. Some of these serve to set forth the abundance and the scale of the natural splendour: "grandiose scale", "innumerable bulbs", "great secular trees", "vast fans" etc. But it is the colours that are especially emphasized: "glittering green-and-gold foliage", "the stouter green of wild plants", "tender blue sky" and many others. For the greater part the epithets, or attributes denoting colour, are combined with metaphors describing the shapes of the flowers: "pale hearts" of the lilacs, "foam of white and blue blossoms". A whole cluster of metaphors is devoted to the wild daffodil: "the soft, slim yellow trumpet", "a pointed ruff of white petals", "gold head".

The richness of imagery is further developed in effective similes, in which the grass of a deeper hue is compared to an evening sky and the flowers to stars, the red tulips to bubbles of dark wine, and the large parti-coloured gold and red tulips are said to be "noble and sombre like the royal banner of Spain". Here the colouring becomes gorgeous, invoking images of splendour. The manner in which individual words are chosen and combined into units of sound and meaning is extraordinarily impressive.

The choice of words is remarkable for their sonorous quality (foliage, unfold, verdure, alert, sombre, banner etc.). The passage is particularly rich in adjectives, some of them effectively alliterating (slender, stiff stem; glittering green-and-gold foliage; lost in the lush herbs). The alliterations are mainly based on the l- and r-sounds. These features make the passage particularly musical.

The emotional colouring is made definite by words naming or expressing emotions (ecstasy of delight, sensitive, lovely, loveliness, tender).

The syntactical structure of the first part helps to create a mood of enraptured contemplation, many sentences beginning with adverbials of place: "Between the wall... and another long high wall...", "Underfoot...", "There...", "Among them...", directing our gaze and inviting the reader to enjoy all the loveliness of the sight. This, of course, brings inversion, which slightly elevates the style. There are, however, several cases where inversion is represented by the postposition of attributes: "jonquils, creamy and thick-scented", "narcissus, so alert on its long... stem". In these cases inversion is more definite, and its effect is to give a solemn ring to the whole. This is also enhanced by pauses introduced into some sentences (by the ellipsis of link-verbs or subjects) and making the rhythm of the passage more pronounced. Another feature which also produces a rhythmical effect is the arrangement of attributes in pairs ("great secular trees", "tender blue sky", "white and blue blossoms", ''firm, thick-set stem").

The refinement of learned classical allusions is also characteristic of Aldington: the description contains a curious negative simile where the flower of narcissus is said to be unlike the languid youth of the Greek legend who pined away for love of his own image in the water, and was transformed into the flower named after him. There is also an allusion to Bacon's essay Of Gardens. Lastly, there is a simile in which the double daffodil standing between two flowers of a different variety is compared to a rich merchant standing between the two young lovers of Shakespeare's Winter Tale.

The final part of the selection brings a marked change from the mood of tender delight to that of sadness and tension. Emotional words pervading the paragraph change their key; they are woe, bitterness, despair, bleak, mournful, appalling, foul, regretful.

All the sentences but one are exclamatory sentences. The author steps in and expostulates, as he does time and again in the novel, bringing forth the contrast between the peaceful beauty of nature and the bitterness, avarice and despair in the world of men.

Another contrast, brought about, is between the "bleak sky" and the "bleak race" of England and her beautiful flowers and poets. The final pathetic rhetorical question is whether the prospective conqueror would "think regretfully and tenderly of the flowers and the poets". Also, the presentiment of England's final ruin is worded as one more classical quotation. The phrase: "fuit Ilium" is from Virgil's Aeneidethe whole line being: "Fuimus Troes, fuit Ilium" which is the Latin for "We were Troyans: Troy was", implying that it is now no more.

The sharp contrasts, as well as the emphasis laid on the effect the transitory moment produces upon the heroes' senses, the refined metaphorical imagery comparing things in nature to man-made objects of luxury, -- all these combine to bring Aldington's word-painting close to the Impressionist school.

The lyrical intensity of Aldington's descriptions largely depends on the combination of the direct imagistic method, i. e. presenting things in a series of images almost physically palpable and real - with the author's own comments, bitter or sad.

R. Aldington

The Death of a Hero (extract 3)

George spent the first few days of August wandering about London, taking buses, and buying innumerable editions of newspapers. London seemed perfectly calm and as usual, and yet there was something feverish about it. Perhaps it was George's own feverishness exteriorised; perhaps it was the unwonted number of special editions, with shouting newsboys in unusual places handing out copies as fast as they could to little groups of impatient people. His memories of those days were confused, and he couldn't remember the chronological order of events. Two or three scenes stood out vividly in his mind - all the rest became a blur, the outlines obliterated by more dreadful scenes.

He remembered dining with Elizabeth and some other friends in a private suite of the Berkeley as the guests of a wealthy American. The talk kept running on the possibility of war, and the positions of England and America. George still clung to the great illusion that wars between the highly industrialised countries were impossible. He elaborated this view to the American man, who agreed, and said that Wall Street and Threadneedle Street between them could stop the universe.

``If there is a war,'' said George, ``it will be a sort of impersonal, natural calamity, like a plague or an earthquake. But I think that in their own interests all the governments will combine to avert it, or at least limit it to Austria and Servia.''

``But don't you think the Germans are spoiling for a war?'' said another Englishman.

``I don't know, I simply don't know. What does any of us know? The governments don't tell us what they're doing or planning. We're completely in the dark. We can make surmises, but we don't know.''

``It's probably got to come sooner or later. The world's too small to hold an expanding Germany and a non-contracting British Empire.''

``The irresistible force and the immovable mass. . . . But it's not a question of England and Germany, but of Austria and Servia.''

``Oh, the murder of the Archduke's just a pretext - probably arranged beforehand.''

``But by which side? I can't see the situation as a stage scene, with villains on one side and noble-minded fellows on the other. If the Archduke's murder was the result of an intrigue, as you suggest, it was a damned despicable one. Now, either the various governments are all despicable intriguers ready to stoop to any crime and duplicity to attain their ends, in which case we shall certainly have a war, if they want it; or they're more or less decent and human men like ourselves, in which case they'll do anything to avert it. We can do nothing. We're impotent. They've got the power and the information. We haven't...''

The white-gloved, immaculate Austrian waiters were silently handing and removing plates. George noticed one of them, a young man with close-cropped golden hair and a sensitive face. Probably a student from Vienna or Prague, a poor man who had chosen waiting as a means of earning his living while studying English. They both were about the same age and height. George suddenly realised that he and the waiter were potential enemies! How absurd, how utterly absurd! . . .

After dinner they sat about and smoked. George took his chair over to the open window and looked down on the lights and movement of Piccadilly. The noise of the traffic was lulled by the height to a long continuous rumble. The placards of the evening papers along the railings beside the Ritz were sensational and bellicose. The party dropped the subject of a possible great war after deciding that there wouldn't be one, there couldn't. George, who had great faith in Mr. Bobbe's political acumen, glanced through his last article, and took great comfort from the fact that Bobbe said there wasn't going to be a war. It was all a scare, a stock-market ramp. . .

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 963