P1B

(also found at: http://www.cwrl.utexas.edu/~bump/E379S3/web/Andrew/Lawrence1HCHiLite.htm)

 A Conversation with T. E. Lawrence

 All Souls College around 1600[1]                                                                                 All Souls College in 1932 (three years before T.E. Lawrence’s death)[2]

            “Ah a wondrous place, none like what I’ve seen before,” the old man said, unaware of the austere gaze of the revered architect[3] from the Buttery above.  The now disinterested supplicant of the original question was one Geoffrey Dawson,[4] then a Fellow at All Souls.  The recipient of this charitable gesture stood in distinct contrast to the young dandies and brooding fellows who filled the vestibule of English aristocracy during the earlier hours.  After the Fellow had left, the old man smiled and took a respite from his toils to let the waning sunlight warm his ruddy complexion through the glass above.  His obligation was the general upkeep of the old chapel and the imposter hall,[5] although he was unaware of any deception.  He was carefully washing the windows in the latter and would continue the job into the chapel.  He enjoyed the work, especially the last stop on the rounds.  Ignorant of the stylistic differences which any of the young academics would gladly explain, the old man nevertheless enjoyed the company of the figures that lined the walls and hid in the corners.  Saints and Kings, even the one who provided the man with a place to work,[6] all stared down with a gentle air.[7] 

            As he looked ahead through the screen,[8] he noticed a familiar outline in the front stalls.  Walking down the truncated nave,[9] he anticipated the encounter that he knew would occur as he approached the chancel.  Since starting at the college several weeks ago, the old man had become familiar with most of the regular assembly, but recently he had encountered a new face.  The stranger had taken to sitting alone in the chapel at odd hours; particularly, it seemed, when the cleaning was underway.  The old man had seen this stranger on one other occasion.  In the cloisters of the north quadrangle, the man had overheard a heated argument about some obscure political matter.[10]  The vociferous speech captivated the old man enough that he took note of the parties engaged.  One, the louder of the two, he knew to be called Dibblee.  The other, who was a bit more restrained, but seemed infinitely (*) confident, was the stranger.  Most times, the old man kept his distance from the elders at the school, as he didn’t understand (*) their rhetoric, but at this moment he felt compelled to approach the new visitor.  Perhaps it was the stranger’s self-imposed isolation or just his appearance: he was a young, dapper fellow, but he wore a wearied look, not unlike the drawn expression of the old man himself. 

            Thus it was that on this mid-summer evening the large man of lowly means approached the small man[11] of exceptional spirit.  “Sir, I don’t mean to bother, but I thought I would pay you a compliment.  You see, I heard you disputing some matter yesterday and,” at this point the man’s humility resurfaced and he faltered, “ah, well, though the other made a bigger show, you topped him in the end.”  Feeling foolish, he bowed his head and began to amble away.

He was stopped by the stranger’s restrained, almost effeminate voice,[12] “Hmm…sorry? Wait, hold on.” 

“Yes sir?”

“Come and sit for a moment,” entreated the young stranger.

“I really should be on the job.”

“No, take a short spell—I want to show you something.”

The old man’s feigned reluctance easily gave way, “Very well, how can I help?”

“I’m afraid your praise is in vain.  My arguments are gone, my faculties are stagnant.  I've argued myself out of creation: and go on living because it is the line of least resistance… and go on learning because the more one learns the less one knows, and some day I may attain perfect ignorance, that way.”[13]

“Well then that is certainly more (*) than I put in,” laughed the old man.

“Now, what I want to share.  Your work, I mean the stone and the glass—what I intend is do you appreciate your surroundings?”

“How do you mean, the statues and such?”

“Yes… and more—the chapel in particular.  Although I have lived throughout the city at various times, I have come to regard this chapel as its most venerable.  It has a subverted purpose, do you know?  It was constructed by hawks, not by doves.  It is Chichele’s homage to those who died in battle.[14]  Much of what you see is from his time.  The hammer-beam roof, the reredos,[15] even Massyngham’s statues of the Archbishop and the King[16] are all unspoiled artifacts of the fifteenth century.  The Gothic style is truly inspirational.  The asymmetry seems to inspire endless curiosity.  Do you know that as a young man I went to Arabia, to Syria and Turkey to study the castles?”

“I hadn’t a clue.  This is what your time is spent on?  I was sure that it was piety that kept you here so often,” the old man retorted, oblivious to all but the word “curiosity,” which he thought fit to describe the presence of this queer gentleman.

“No, not anymore, reality has awakened, or perhaps annihilated my spirit—I’m still not sure.  No Bible, no creed: the war has shot both out of my hands.”[17]

“The war, eh?”  The new subject piqued the old man’s curiosity.

“You’re Irish, no?” was the stranger’s reply.

Somewhat exasperated by this oblivious shift of topic, the old man responded: “Yes sir, but I haven’t been back in years.”

“Catholic?” queried the young gentleman.

“What’s your concern with that?” the old man now snarled defensively.

“Hmmm…,” the stranger seemed to drift off again, but blinked and replied, “in England then?”

“What?  Oh no sir, across the ocean in America, I left a son out west… in Texas actually, do you know of it?”

“I am Irish as well,” the stranger conveniently divulged.

“Are you?  Must be of a good name to have made a place here… what is it?”

“My name?  My name is for my friends[18] and besides, what does the supremely unimportant detail of a name[19] mean to you?  My name means nothing[20] and my stock is not what you might imagine.[21]”  Caught off guard, the old man knew better than to exacerbate the situation.  “I am sorry that I offended you.  I really must be off,” he said.  Nonchalantly regaining his composure, the stranger implored, “No, stay—I will be off shortly, but I have a great deal on my mind and would very much appreciate someone to lend an ear.” 

During any rational hour, the old man would never have purposely prolonged such a predicament; but seeing as he had begun the conversation and that the anonymous stranger sought to continue the lecture, he conceded. 

The stranger continued, “I like so much being left alone that I tend to leave other people alone, too,[22] but I feel a kindred spirit in your presence.  Though you may detect a hint of aristocracy, I concede that it is not in my nature, nor my blood.  I only use it when necessary” 

Perplexed, and a bit disconcerted by this revelation, the old man ventured, “That is a strange way to go about your affairs.  If I had any such place, I would’ve had no reason go overseas.”

“What has brought you back?”

“Ah, I have returned with the wife to care for her family, illness and old age, you know? But I am sending back what I can to my boy.  He’s a sharp lad and I hope to get him a proper education.  He reminds me a bit of you, always alone, brooding away.  It’s all I ever catch him doing,” the old man replied wistfully.  He was glad to have found an opportunity to interject his own affairs.

“A thinking man causes the least destruction…  I’m afraid, although I reserve my thoughts for myself, I freely dispense with my actions.  All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible. This I did.”[23]

“That is quite some speech, though it is wasted on my weak mind.”  Searching for something to say, the old man reverted to: “You seem a bit distressed.  Is it the family perhaps? Or is it a woman?”

“Alas, no—I am satisfied in those capacities.[24]  But if you wonder what I am doing? Well, so do I, in truth. Day seems to dawn, sun to shine, evenings to follow, and then I sleep. What I have done, what I am going to do puzzle and bewilder me. Have you ever seen a leaf fallen from your tree in autumn and been really puzzled about it? That's the feeling.”[25]

Now thoroughly confused but anxious to goad the young man on, the old man attempted to interpret the conceit, “Fallen leaves, yes, but that is about the whole of it.” Shaking his head, “I say you make some use of your tongue.”

“Do you like it?  I am practicing; I think I shall use it in my writing.”[26]

The young stranger continued, “I am undertaking a novel, though it has been exceedingly difficult thus far.  I’m afraid that it’s destined to fail.  Nothing is written,[27] alas.”

“A story, eh? An adventure of some sort?”  With this reply the old man struck the right chord. 

His young companion exclaimed, “Yes, precisely!  But it is my adventure, my story.”

“Your story, eh?  What story?”

“A journey, an unfathomable exploration—that is all.”

“Pray tell a bit more; you can’t keep a man going on like that.”

“There is no more to tell now, anyhow.”  The young man’s speech slowed, “My time in the service, in the desert.”

“In the desert you say?  Why on earth were you sent there?  I’ll say an adventure.”

“No, I chose to go there and I will go again,” the stranger replied defiantly.

The old man now found a bit of passion, “What!  Leave the country for that Hades and then again, now with such standing in a place like this, to want to go back?  I say, you are peculiar.”

“I don’t ask you to understand, nor to pass judgment.”  The stranger got increasingly excited, “Although I have found comfort here over the years, I don’t feel like I belong.  The desert is clean, not like England.  England is a fat country, with fat people!  But I am different.[28]  I have a great hunger for desolate places[29] and the Bedouin are a beautiful people, my people, for I gave them their freedom.”[30]

“Very well, I suppose I have heard my share.  You are a curious man if you permit me saying so.  I am afraid I have overstepped my bounds in all of this.”

“No bother, why worry?”[31] was the young man’s casual reply.

“Then I shall shake your hand and be done with it.”  But as the old man sought to conclude the night’s irregular discourse with a mundane social gesture, the stranger abruptly retracted.

The old man heard the stranger mutter, “If only one might never come nearer to people than in the street.”[32]

The old man was astute enough to recognize the shift in the stranger’s demeanor, but having survived a long life and having laughed off many worse tragedies than a disagreeable gentleman, he had developed a protective indifference.  He shuffled back down the nave to let the stranger be; he would take care of what else was left to be done before addressing the chapel. 

On returning to the chapel some half an hour later, the old man found that the stranger was still in his place; although he appeared to be asleep, in a pronounced slouch with his arms akimbo.  He thought to himself how this whole experience had become an unwelcome disruption of his otherwise pleasant evening chores. 

“Lord, what have I done to be dealt with such?” he sighed.

Nonetheless, he set the ladder and got to work on the windows.  He worked quickly, as it was getting late now, but he tried also to stay as quiet as possible.  Several minutes later, absorbed in his own world, the old man forgot his prerequisite and began to hum softly as he bent and stretched.  He was suddenly startled by a meek voice, now familiar, and nearly fell from his position. 

Getting his bearings, he turned and called out, “Eh, what’s that now?” 

But the stalls were empty. 

From the other direction came the restrained utterance, “Ned, the name is Ned.”[33]

“Oh very well then Ned, I am afraid I woke you—I should have thought better.”

“No, I wasn’t asleep.  At night others' minds are switched off, and that gives my thoughts longer range.”[34]

“Ah well, if you say,” the old man said as his surprised expression softened into a smile.

Beneath the calm, although easily excitable, persona of this young man, Ned to his friends and Lawrence to the rest of the world, lay a collection of extraordinary, many would argue impossible, memories which he proceeded to record in his first literary work Seven Pillars of Wisdom.[35] 

Lawrence was a man divided between two hemispheres.  From the age of eight onward, Lawrence kept Oxford as his home in the west.  As a student at City of Oxford High School for Boys, an undergraduate at Jesus College, a postgraduate at Magdalen, and finally a Fellow at All Souls, Lawrence knew the city well and the city was honored to have known him.  Although he spent time there frequently during the course of his life, Lawrence was by no means a typical Oxford scholar.  He led an itinerant lifestyle; he was always short on money and time; and he seems to have never been able to forget the desert.  However, he did spend his last moments in Oxford[36] and he left a fascinating legacy for future students.

Yet Oxford is full of ghosts and Lawrence’s legacy is just one of many.  It could be argued that his exploits do not deserve the same reverence as the theologians and poets that preceded him.  Lawrence was undoubtedly inspired by the history of places; he spent his life exploring the relics of past empires.  But his insecurities about his diplomatic past and his literary aspirations suggest that perhaps he was also oppressed by the great specters that watched from Oxford. 

How does a place such as Oxford achieve such a magnanimous aura?  Does it invariably come with the passage of time and does it require an exclusive and inspired body of scholars?  Does the age reflected by the architecture and the sense of permanence imbued in the stone nurture the soul of a place?  The University of Texas is obviously in need of some further spiritual development.  How will the UT student of today feel when she returns?  Will she fondly recollect her experiences; will the places she remembers on campus become permanent fixtures; will the spirits of the people that inspired her survive?  There is a remarkable history at this University, but it seems to be largely unknown.  It is the responsibility of the present and future generations of students, faculty, and regents not only to remember the abstractions, but also to preserve the monuments of this history.    

                                                                                         All Souls College Architectural History[37]

                                                                                                                                   UT Campus Master Plan[38]

                                                                             UT Campus in 1898[39]

(Word Count: 2564 – 143 + 395 = 2816)

Bibliography

Brown, Malcom.  The Letters of T.E. Lawrence.  Oxford University Press: Oxford, 1988.

Chapman, Richard.  Contemporary Authors Online: T. E. Lawrence.  Gale, 2003.

Colvin, Howard and Simmons, J. S. G.  All Souls: An Oxford College and its Buildings, The Chichele Lectures.  Oxford University Press: Oxford, 1989.

Garnett, David.  The Letters of T.E. Lawrence.  Doubleday, Doran, and Company: New York, 1989.

Lawrence, T.E.  Seven Pillars of Wisdom.  Garden City Publishing Company: New York, 1935.

Lawrence, T.E.  T.E. Lawrence to his Biographers: Robert Graves and Liddell Hart.  Doubleday: New York, 1963.

Lawrence, T.E.  The Mint.  Penguin Classics: London, 1973.

Lawrence of Arabia.  Produced by Sam Spiegel and directed by David Lean.  RCA/Columbia Pictures, 1962.

Hutchinson, F. E.  Medieval Glass at All Souls College.  Faber and Faber: London, 1949.

Mousa, Suleiman.  T.E. Lawrence: An Arab View.  Oxford University Press: London, 1966.

Tabachnick, Stephen E.  The T.E. Lawrence Puzzle.  The University of Georgia Press: Athens, 1984.

A. W. Lawrence.  T. E. Lawrence by his Friends.  Doubleday, Doran & Company: New York, 1937.

“T.E. Lawrence: The Legend and the Man.”  An exhibition held In the Bodleian Library, 12 September to 26 November 1988, to mark the centenary of the birth of Thomas Edward Lawrence, “Lawrence of Arabia.”  Bodleian Library: Oxford, 1988.