A Man Could Stand Up— quotes

“… that he ought presumably to be under control, which you mightn’t like!”; after that the noise burst out again and rendered the voice inaudible.

It occurred to her that probably at that minute the whole population of the world needed to be under control; she knew she herself did.

But she had no male relative that the verdict could apply to in especial. Her brother? But he was on a minesweeper. In dock at the moment. And now … safe for good! There was also an aged great uncle that she had never seen.

She had had to hitherto, independent young woman of means though she were, so as not to damage the School and Miss Wanostrocht with the Governoresses. Now … She was never going to show respect for anyone ever again.

She had been through the mill: the whole world had been through the mill! No more respect!

As she might have expected she got it in the neck immediately afterwards—for over cockiness!

She had been about to say: “Oh, Hell!” but the sudden recollection that the War had been over a quarter of an hour made her leave it at “Oh!” You would have to drop wartime phraseology! You became again a Young Lady.

Peace, too, has its Defence of the Realm Acts.

Nevertheless, she has been thinking of the man who had once insulted her as the Bear, whom she would have to fight again! But with warm generosity she said:

… After the War, then, and when his money was exhausted he was not fit for the Salon of Lady Macmaster—the only Lady to have a Salon in London.

It was what you called kicking down your ladder!

Obviously it had to be done. There were such a lot of these bothering War heroes that if you let them all into your Salon it would cease to be a Salon, particularly if you were under obligations to them!

But Miss Wanostrocht had begun one of her own long sentences.

Their voices went on together, like trains dragging along ballast⁠—disagreeably.

Miss Wanostrocht’s organ, however, won out with the words:

It was all right to call seventy-fives or the implements of the horse artillery “guns”; they were mobile and toy-like. But those immense things were cannons; the sullen muzzles always elevated.

Sullen, like cathedral dignitaries or butlers.

The thickness of barrel compared to the bore appeared enormous as they pointed at the moon, or Paris, or Nova Scotia.

Down below, the picks continued their sinister confidences in each other’s ears. … It was really like that. Like children in the corner of a schoolroom whispering nasty comments about their masters, one to the other. … Girls, for choice. …

Chop, chop, chop, a pick whispered.

Chop? another asked in an undertone. The first said Chopchopchop. Then Chup. … And a silence of irregular duration. … Like what happens when you listen to typewriting and the young woman has to stop to put in another page. …

“Well, you can do that here. With discretion. I did it just now. …”

“You, sir.⁠ ⁠… You’re a law hunto yourself!”

It was the most considerable shock that Tietjens received in the course of his military career. And the most considerable reward.

they were in holes, in tunnels, behind sackcloth curtains, carrying on … carrying on some sort of life: conversing, breathing, desiring. But completely mysterious, in the mass. Now and then you got a glimpse of a passionate desire:

“A man could stand up on a bleedin’ ill!”

; now and then you got—though you knew that they watched you eternally and knew the minutest gestures of your sleep—you got some sort of indication as to how they regarded you: “You are a law unto yourself!”

And Tietjens knew that the C.O. knew it; and he half suspected that the C.O. knew that he, Tietjens, knew it. … And that the Pals and the Other Ranks also knew: that, in fact, everyone knew that everyone knew.

It was like a nightmare game of bridge with all hands exposed and all the players ready to snatch pistols from their hip-pockets.

…

He was in a beastly hole. But decency demanded that he shouldn’t act in panic. He had a mechanical, normal panic that made him divest himself of money.

Gentlemen don’t earn money. Gentlemen, as a matter of fact, don’t do anything. They exist. Perfuming the air like Madonna lilies.

Money comes into them as air through petals and foliage. Thus the world is made better and brighter. And, of course, thus political life can be kept clean! … So you can’t make money.

That made him still more of a bore. His face would be distorted like that of a wildcat in front of its kittens’ hole in a stone wall. But he became the submissive subordinate. Suddenly! Without rhyme or reason!

Tiring people! Without manners!⁠ ⁠… They would presumably run the world now. It would be a tiresome world.

Mckechnie, however, was saluting. He held a sealed envelope, rather small and crumpled, as if from long carrying. He was talking in a controlled voice after permission asked. He desired Tietjens to observe that the seal on the envelope was unbroken.

The Feudal Spirit was broken. Perhaps it would therefore be harmful to Trench Warfare. It used to be comfortable and cosy. You fought beside men from your own hamlet under the leadership of the parson’s son. Perhaps that was not good for you?

At any rate, as at present arranged, dying was a lonely affair.

He, Tietjens, and little Aranjuex there, if something hit them would die—a Yorkshire territorial magnate’s son and the son of, positively, an Oporto Protestant minister, if you can imagine such a thing!—the dissimilar souls winging their way to heaven side by side.

A familiar noise said: “We … e … e … ry!”

Shells always appeared tired of life. As if after a long, long journey they said: “Weary!”

Very much prolonging the e sound. Then “Whack!” when they burst.

He thought he suddenly understood.

For the Lincolnshire Sergeant-Major the word Peace meant that a man could stand up on a hill. For him it meant someone to talk to.

They were undoubtedly beginning to feel the strain—mental and in their materials. So that if you had to be in these beastly places it was probably better to be in our trenches than theirs. Our war material was pretty good!

This was the war of attrition.⁠ ⁠… A mug’s game!

A mug’s game as far as killing men was concerned, but not an uninteresting occupation if you considered it as a struggle of various minds spread all over the broad landscape in the sunlight.

The beastly Huns! They stood between him and Valentine Wannop. If they would go home he could be sitting talking to her for whole afternoons. That was what a young woman was for.

You seduced a young woman in order to be able to finish your talks with her.

You could not do that without living with her. You could not live with her without seducing her; but that was the byproduct. The point is that you can’t otherwise talk. You can’t finish talks at street corners; in museums; even in drawing-rooms.

You have to wait together—for a week, for a year, for a lifetime, before the final intimate conversation may be attained … and exhausted. So that. …

That in effect was love. It struck him as astonishing.

The word was so little in his vocabulary. … Love, ambition, the desire for wealth. They were things he had never known of as existing—as capable of existing within him.

That was imbecile really.

Larks cannot sing in unison. They make a heartless noise like that produced by the rubbing of two corks one on the other.

… There came into his mind an image. Years ago: years and years ago: probably after having watched that gunner torment the fat Hun, because it had been below Max Redoubt. … The sun was now for certain shining on Bemerton!

Aranjuez’s face had a wrapt expression—like that of a man composing poetry. Long dollops of liquid mud surrounded them in the air. Like black pancakes being tossed. He thought: “Thank God I did not write to her. We are being blown up!”

The earth turned like a weary hippopotamus.

It settled down slowly over the face of Lance-Corporal Duckett who lay on his side, and went on in a slow wave.

They were slimy and disagreeable. He was short in the wind. He heaved back. The boy came up a little. He was certainly fainting. He gave no assistance. The slime was filthy.

It was a condemnation of a civilisation that he, Tietjens, possessed of enormous physical strength, should never have needed to use it before.

He looked like a collection of meal-sacks; but, at least, he could tear a pack of cards in half. If only his lungs weren’t …

Coming into the Square was like being suddenly dead, it was so silent and so still to one so lately jostled by the innumerable crowd and deafened by unceasing shouts.

The shouting had continued for so long that it had assumed the appearance of being a solid and unvarying thing: like life. So the silence appeared like Death; and now she had death in her heart.

“I’m going to sell this thing. … Stay here.” He had produced a latchkey. He was panting fiercely beside her. Up the steps. He was beside her. Beside her. Beside her.

It was infinitely sad to be beside this madman. It was infinitely glad.

Because if he had been sane she would not have been beside him. She could be beside him for long spaces of time if he were mad. Perhaps he did not recognise her!

It was the armistice. It was Armistice Day. She had forgotten it. She was to be cloistered on Armistice Day! Ah, not cloistered! Not cloistered there. My beloved is mine and I am his! But she might as well close the door!

She closed the door as delicately as if she were kissing him on the lips.

It was a symbol. It was Armistice Day. She ought to go away; instead she had shut the door on … Not on Armistice Day! What was it like to be … changed!

… And he needed his woman. And her mother was forcing him to abstain from his woman! That was what was terrible. He had suffered mental torture and now his pity was being worked on to make him abstain from the woman that could atone.

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. That remained. Men might stand up on hills, but the mental torture could not be expelled.