Poet

GOODBYE TO ALL THAT--Robert Graves --Cape & Smith ($3).

Not because it is getting to be the fashion for young men to write their autobiographies but because he wants to get rid of a ghost, Poet Robert von Ranke Graves has tried to say goodbye to all that has happened to him so far.

Born at Wimbledon, England, in 1895, Graves had English, Irish and German blood in him. On the distaff side he was related to the Saxon von Rankes, several of whom fought in the German army during the War. One of his English ancestors and namesakes invented "Graves' disease." His father was a school inspector, and wrote poetry. When he told his children stories he never began, "Once upon a time,'' but ''And so the old gardener blew his nose on a red pocket handkerchief." At 14 Graves went to Charterhouse, famed English public school. He was clumsy, ignorant, independent; he did not get along well. If he had not discovered an aptitude for boxing, he would probably have had a worse time. Graves has some harsh things to say about the English public schools. "For every one born homosexual there are at least ten permanent pseudo-homosexuals made by the public school system."

When war was declared Graves enlisted almost at once, got a commission in the famed line regiment, Royal Welch Fusiliers, which had fought at Lexington and Bunker Hill: the only blot on its scutcheon was the surrender at Yorktown. In the Royal Welch the atmosphere was much the same as at Charterhouse: the regular officers resented and despised "outsiders." but discipline was perfect, morale high; they were pretty fighters.

The first corpse Lieut. Graves saw in France was the body of a soldier suicide. Says he: there was a good deal of shooting in the War that never got into the newspapers. Two young miners hated their sergeant and decided to kill him. Later they reported to the adjutant: "'We've come to report, sir, that we are very sorry but we've shot our company sergeant-major.' The adjutant said: 'Good heavens how did that happen?' They answered: 'It was an accident, sir . . . we mistook him for our platoon sergeant.' So they were both shot by a firing squad of their own company." In Bethune Graves saw queues of 150 men lined up before the army brothel. "Each woman served nearly a battalion of men every week for as long as she lasted."

New types of gas-mask were always being issued. One kind was known in Graves' battalion as "the goggle-eyed b--r with the tit." Graves' nose had been broken boxing, so he had to have an operation while on leave in order to breathe through the mask. In July, 1916, he was so severely wounded in the lung by a shell that he was reported dead, and the colonel wrote a letter of condolence to his mother. Later, in England, he had difficulty cashing cheques because of his illegal vitality.

Graves had great sympathy for conscientious objectors. Lytton Strachey, says Graves, was one, and when he was called for examination, chose to stand on his scruples rather than his obvious physical disability. When asked: "What would you do if you saw a German soldier trying to violate your sister?" he replied, "with an air of noble virtue: 'I would try to get between them.' "

In January 1918, Graves married Nancy Nicholson, daughter of Painter William Nicholson. The wedding-cake icing was of plaster, on account of the shortage of sugar. The War over, Captain Graves and his wife (who still called herself by her maiden name) lived first at Harlech; then on Boar's Hill, outside Oxford, where they tried the disastrous experiment of keeping a shop; then at Islip, a village the other side of Oxford. Four children were born in these years. At Islip the parson made the great mistake of asking Hero Graves to read some of his poetry to the congregation. Hero Graves obliged by reading some of the ghastliest of Poets Wilfred Owen's, Siegfried Sassoon's war verses; scandalized the flock. In May, 1929, Graves and his wife separated.

Graves thus sums up the life he has left behind him : "I have never mastered any musical instrument, starved, committed civil murder, found buried treasure, engaged in unnatural vice, slept with a prostitute, or seen a corpse that has died a natural death. On the other hand, I have ridden on a locomotive, won a prize at the Olympic games . . . been examined by the police on suspicion of attempted murder . . . had a statue of myself erected in my lifetime in a London park, and learned to tell the truth -- nearly."

Poet Graves writes his poetry strugglingly; he has never written a poem in less than three drafts or more than 35. Most of his books have not sold well, but one of his latest, a prose account of his friend Aircraftman Shaw (Lawrence and the Arabian Adventure), sold 10,000 copies in one week. Other books: Fairies and Fusiliers, On English Poetry, Country Sentiment, My Head, My Head, Lars Porsena, or the Future of Swearing and Improper Language.

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