SIR WILLIAM ORPEN’S BOOK.

Hokitika Guardian, 18 June 1921, Page 4

SIR WILLIAM ORPEN’S BOOK.

A CANDID VOLUME. Sir William Orpeii, R.A., the witty and gifted Irishman who spent the best part of two years in France as official war artist, has written precisely the kind of.book about the war that anyone who has ever fallen under the spell of liis fascinating personality would have expected from him. It is packed with keen observation, drama, clear-cut portraits of men of all types, and plentifully sprinkled with audacities that must make the reader rock with laughter at their gay irresponsibility or chuckle with satisfaction at a grim thrust sent truly home.

On the purely “human” side, it is quite one of the best hooks that the war has given us, and Lord Haig’sFund, to which the author is generously presenting the whole of the profits of his work, should reap a very substantial benefit from its sale.

Apart from its very great literary merits, the book lias the additional recommendation of being lavishly illustrated with reproductions of Sir William Orpen’s fine war paintings—battle scene.;, types, and many portraits of famous soldiers and statesmen. THE MILITARY MIND. Very early in liis war experience the artist found himself up against that weird and wonderful thing the military mind as applied to routine, discipline, and small details. “After 1 had been in Amiens for about a fortnight, going out to the Somme battlefields early in the morning and coming hack when it got dark, f received a message one evening from the Press ‘Major’ to go to his chateau and ring up the ‘Colonel’ al Rollencourt, which I did. The following was the conversation as fftr as I remember: — “ ‘ls that Orpen?’ “ ‘Yes, sir.’ “ ‘Wlmt do you mean hv behaving this way?’ “ ‘What way, please, sir?’ “ ‘By noi reporting to me!’ “ ‘l’m sorry, sir, but I do not understand.’ “ ‘Don’t von know you must report to me and show me what work you have boon doing?’ “ ‘l’ve practically done nothing yet, sir.’ “ ‘Wliat have you been doing?’ “ ‘Looking round, sir.’ “ ‘Are you aware you are being paid for your services?’ “ ‘Yes, sir.’ “ ‘Well, report to me and show me your work regularly. Tell the Major to speak to me.’ ■ -The Major spoke, and I clearly heard hint say my behaviour was damnable. “This wonderful Colonel expected me to work till day and, apparently, in the evening to take what I had done and show it to him—the distance by motor to him and hack was something like 110 milps.” A “LANGUAGE” INC IDE XT. ‘ And bore is another priceless picture of the military mind at work : “I received a telegram lrom Sir Philip Sassoon, ‘Where the devil tire you? nan Philip.’ Months later ho sent me a great parcel of correspondence as to whether this telegram sent by the Private Secretary ot the Com-mander-in-Chief could he regarded as an official telegram, its language, etc. The minutes were signed by lieutenants, captains, majors, colonels, all up to the last one, which was signed by a general, and ran thus: ‘What the

a- hell are you using this disgustin ing language for, Philip?’ ” z, One feels one would like to know the -V name of that general who so brilliant[o lv put the incident into its right pers, spective. n •e THE WOFNDEI) AIRMEN, it buck was generally with Sir William (1 in all his going and comings. Surely a i. painter with a keen eye for the drama o of human life has rarely had the luck y to stumble on a stranger breakfast > s scene than that which presented itself p to his gaze in the Hotel du Rhin in .. Amiens: P “A flying pilot was pushed in by an j. observer. The pilot’s hand and arm r_ were temporarily bound up, hut blood v was dropping through. The observer had his face badly scratched and one of his legs was not quite right. They sat at a table, and the waiter brought them eggs and coffee, which they took with relish, hilt the pilot was constanty ly drooping towards his left, and the drooping always continued, till he went s crack on the floor. Then the obn server would curse him soundly and put him hack in his chair, where ho would eat again till the next fall. r When they had finished, the waiter put W a cigarette in each of their mouths and r lit thorn. After a few minutes four men walked in with two stretchers, t pu t the two breakfasters on the 3 stretchers, and walked out with them , —not a word was spoken. ’ “I found out afterwards that the , pilot had been hit in the wrist over . the lines early that morning and miss- I ed tlie direction back to his aerodrome. Getting very weak, lie landed, not - very well, outside Amiens. Tie got his wrist hound up and had asked someone i • to telophone to the aerodrome to tell them that they "were going to the

, ‘Rhin’ for breakfast and would they - send for them there?” A wonderful story of British pluck. And Sir William gives many such. None of them, however, is more remarkable than the story of “lorn and Fred” (Pago 84) which alone is worth the price of the book. But there are also touches of real pathos. With Joffroy, a very good ! French artist, who had lost a leg right

j up to his trunk early in the war, Sir : William used to swim in the evening ! in the water near Aveluy. Once after i bathing, “as we were driving back to Amiens in the car, Joffroy stretched out his arms and said: ‘Orpeti, I feel like a young Greek god!’ And after a pause added: ‘But only a fragment, you know, only a fragment.’ ” “THE DAILY MAIL” IN ] On the Somme in the summer of 1917 j ho found that ; “Even Albert, that very uninteresting little town, looked almost beautiful and cheerful. Flowers grew by the sides of the streets; roses were abundant in what were once back gardens; a hut was up at the corner by the cathedral and the Daily Mail was sold there every evening at four o’clock.” ! He gives some interesting little vignettes of the wur correspondents at

work. Here, for instance, is one of Sir William Beach Thomas whose despatches to the Daily Mail were followed with such eager interest:

“In my mind now I pan look clearly , from my room across the courtyard and . can see Beach Thomas by his open j window, in his shirt sleeves, writing like fury at some terrific tale for The Daily Mail. It seemed strange his writing this stuff, this mikl-eyed, countryloving dreamer ; hut lie knew his job.”

FOCH AT WORK

Marshal Foch came to' him at seven j o’clock in the morning to sit for his ( portrait. ! “He sat like a lamb, except that j his pipe upset him. It seemed that some of his English friends thought he aws smoking too many cigars, and they had given him a pipe and tobacco and asked him to try and smoke it instead. But up to that date the Marshal was not a star at pipe smoking. • • • “During all the time lie was sitting great battles were going on and the Germans were being driven bac\. News was brought to him about every ten minutes. If it was good, lie would - sav, ‘Bon!’ If it was had, he just made a strange noise by forcing an through his lips. • • • , f “I remember one morning (the Marginal did not know I understood any French at all) a general came m and snt with him, and the Marshal, veil quietlv, gave him times, dates, places where battles would he fought up to the end of December 1918, naming the French, British, and American divisions, and so forth, which would be used in each. When I got hack to the mission, I wrote down some dates an places I remembered, but told no o , and. as far as I could judae, everything went exactly as he said it would till about the middle of October, when, the lioclie really got on the run. Then things went quicker than he expected “It seemed amazing, the calmness of that old chateau at Bon Bon, yet wires from that old country house were 001 ' veving messages of blood and hell to millions of men. Wlmt most the I.U man have felt! The responsihil.ty of it all-hidden in the brain behind thos l>d, thoughtful even. Apparently, his only worry was -M. PM*- B* face would wrinkle op in anger « that That, and if anyone was late tor a meal. Otherwise he appeared to me to he the most mentally calm and complete thing I had ever come across. THE “FROCKS.” Si,- William Orpen’s comments on the ere at personalities of the Reace Conference, which lie painted, nr e extremely frank to say the least of them. A these men seemed to him very- small personalities in comparison with th lighting men. “they appeared to think so muchtoo much —of their own personal importance, searching all the time 01 popularity, each little one for himself strange little things. President Wise,, made a great hit in the Press with his smile. He was pleased at that, and after this lie never failed to let you se 0 all his hack tooth. Lloyd George grew hair down his .hack, T presume from Mr Asquith’s load. Paderewski—well, he was always a made-up job. In short from mv window-seat it was easy to see how self-important the majority oi all these little “black frocks” thought themselves. It was all like an opera boiiffo, after the people I had seen known and painted during the war; and these, as the days went by, seemed to he gradually becoming more and more forgotten. It seemed impossible, but it was true. The lighting man, alive, and those wlto fought and died-all- the people who made Hie Peace Conference possible, were being forgotten and the frocks remained supreme. One was almost forced to think that the ‘frocks’ won the war. M did this,’ ‘I did that,’ they all screamed, hut the silent soldier mail never said a word, yet he must have thought a lot.” COLONEL HOUSE.

| When that distinguished American, 1 Colonel House—“a charming man, very calm, very sure of himself, yet modest ’ —sat for Sir William Or pen, lie asked him if he had painted President Wilson. Sir William replied, “No.” ‘He then asked me if I was going to do so, and T replied': “No, that the President had refused to sit. He said. “Refuse?” T said; “Tes; he hasn’t got the time.” ‘What damned rot!” said the Colonel, “he’s got a damned sight more time than T have. "What day would you like him to come and sit?” T named a day, and the Colonel said: “Right! I’ll see that he’s here,” and he did.” Assuredly this is a hook worth haying. L.R.M.