Sewanee Review

—London, 2015

I used to come from Sheffield to get warm. I took the train on Friday afternoon— a “weekend break”—departing in a storm or bitter cold, at least. I would cocoon

myself a while in my hotel—a nap, perhaps—have tea, or get a glass of wine. Then I’d go walking. No need for a map. At times the air could be almost benign.

It’s still my favorite London neighborhood: Great Russell Street at Bloomsbury, Coptic Street, where history, letters, art are understood. Again, it’s winter; this time, though, there’s sleet,

with whipping wind that chills you to the bone. We went to the Museum first, of course: sarcophagi and the Rosetta Stone, Apollo’s giant foot, Selene’s horse,

the Bassae frieze. They’re wonderful, but wore us out. Since then we’ve taken tours, half-price (few others on the bus today—the more enjoyable thereby), and had a slice

of Englishness; as Dr. Johnson said, when London’s pleasures can no longer hold a man, he’s tired of life, as good as dead. But now Pat’s stiff and weary, and we’re cold. [End Page 384]

No matter—there’s Great Russell Street! The sign of the Museum Tavern! “Might you stop right here, dear driver?” Then, as if by some design, there’s an obstruction. “All right, luv.” Oh, cheer!—

light, warmth, an empty table, and a bar of ancient wood. We’re in our element, preserved together by some prescient star, both logophiles, with mutual consent,

and still in love, that strange, if worn, conceit— old actors, barely known, on history’s stage, time’s artifacts arranged around our feet proclaiming the enduring worth of age.

He’d lived already through four accidents, none minor: Le Bourget, where Lindbergh found the world awaiting him; the sea off France (he nearly drowned); the Libyan desert, past Benghazi, where his friend Prévost and he— dehydrated, burnt, starved, and close to death— were succored by a Bedouin he called “Man,” the quintessential, nameless rescuer;

and Guatemala, on his way to claim a prize in Chile. He’d been mobilized in ’39 and wished to fly again despite his age—not foolish heroism, but the desire to act for France, to live by acting. Bodies are an instrument, a means. Saint-Ex was stationed in the north. By late May ’40 almost all was lost, [End Page 385]

the Germans having overrun the east, the Lowlands, and much else. He was assigned to do reconnaissance, a futile task, since what he learned would be of little use. The roads were clogged with Flanders refugees and others; Panzers rolled through villages, and German anti-aircraft ruled the skies. He flew through flak as in a childhood game

he’d played with others, running through light rain, attempting to avoid the drops, and earn thereby a young boy’s knighthood. He recalled long walks in woods—the sheltering trees, soft grass. “I’m simply strolling, in the evening air.” Then he remembered Paula, from Tyrol, a family governess, who used to put thick compresses of arnica on sprains

and bruises. “Paula, I shall shortly need your arnica, quite badly.” Flak continued. How serene the clouds appeared, how neat and garden-like the earth below, transformed by motion and perspective!—all concealing mortal danger. He’d become a tool that went beyond himself, like men who make discoveries or those who tend

the sick, or someone rushing into fire to save his son. —Saint-Ex’s string would not run out till ’44. Although the plane was hit and crippled, flying low to take last photographs, he did not crash, and got his crew back safely. Exiled in New York, after France fell, he wrote The Little Prince. “Essential things are hidden for the eyes.” [End Page 386]

A Dublin girl, of Dutch extraction, keen in wit, and beautiful, Vanessa fell in love at once with Dr. Swift, not yet the Dean, but eminent and—when he wished— a magnet. She was young, but...