Memoirs of a Foxhunting Man

Memoirs of a Foxhunting Man

By Siegfried Sassoon.

Table of Contents

1. Titlepage
2. Imprint
3. Prefatory Note
4. Memoirs of a Foxhunting Man
   1. I: Early Days
      1. I
      2. II
      3. III
      4. IV
      5. V
      6. VI
      7. VII
   2. II: The Flower Show Match
      1. I
      2. II
      3. III
   3. III: A Fresh Start
      1. I
      2. II
      3. III
      4. IV
      5. V
   4. IV: A Day with the Potford
      1. I
      2. II
      3. III
   5. V: At the Rectory
      1. I
      2. II
      3. III
      4. IV
   6. VI: The Colonel’s Cup
      1. I
      2. II
      3. III
      4. IV
   7. VII: Denis Milden as Master
      1. I
      2. II
      3. III
      4. IV
   8. VIII: Migration to the Midlands
      1. I
      2. II
      3. III
      4. IV
   9. IX: In the Army
      1. I
      2. II
      3. III
      4. IV
   10. X: At the Front
       1. I
       2. II
       3. III
       4. IV
       5. V
       6. VI
5. Colophon
6. Uncopyright

Imprint

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Prefatory Note

I have been asked to write an explanatory preface to these Memoirs, on the occasion of their first appearance in a single volume. The first volume was begun in October 1926 and completed eighteen months later. The second volume was begun in December 1928 and completed in April 1930. The third volume, completed in January 1936, was written in four months. These details are all I can offer the reader of this volume. From the first word to the last I have tried to make these Memoirs explain themselves as they go along. No further explanations are possible, or, in my opinion, necessary.

S. S.

Memoirs of a Foxhunting Man

I

Early Days

I

My childhood was a queer and not altogether happy one. Circumstances conspired to make me shy and solitary. My father and mother died before I was capable of remembering them. I was an only child, entrusted to the care of an unmarried aunt who lived quietly in the country. My aunt was no longer young when I began to live in her comfortable, old-fashioned house with its large, untidy garden. She had settled down to her local interests, seldom had anyone to stay with her, and rarely left home. She was fond of her two Persian cats, busied herself sensibly with her garden, and was charitably interested in the old and rheumatic inhabitants of the village. Beyond this, the radius of her activities extended no further than the eight or ten miles which she could cover in a four-wheeled dogcart driven by Tom Dixon, the groom. The rest of the world was what she described as “beyond calling distance.”

Dixon was a smart young man who would have preferred a livelier situation. It was he who persuaded my aunt to buy me my first pony. I was then nine years old.

My aunt had an unexplained prejudice against sending me to school. So I remained at home until I was twelve⁠—inefficiently tutored by a retired elementary schoolmaster, a gentle, semi-clerical old person who arrived every morning, taught me a limited supply of Latin, and bowled lobs to me on the lawn. His name (which I have not thought of for I don’t know how many years) was Mr. Star.

Apart from my aunt’s efforts to bring me up nicely, my early education was exclusively controlled by Mr. Star and Dixon, who supplemented Mr. Star’s lobs with his more intimidating overarm bowling, and never lost sight of his intention to make a sportsman of me. For the vaguely apologetic old tutor in his black tailcoat I felt a tolerant affection. But it was Dixon who taught me to ride, and my admiration for him was unqualified. And since he was what I afterwards learnt to call “a perfect gentleman’s servant,” he never allowed me to forget my position as “a little gentleman”: he always knew exactly when to become discreetly respectful. In fact, he “knew his place.”

I have said that my childhood was not altogether a happy one. This must have been caused by the absence of companions of my own age. My Aunt Evelyn⁠—who was full of common sense and liked people (children included) to be practical in their habits and behaviour⁠—used to complain to Mr. Star that I was too fond of mooning aimlessly about by myself. On my eighth birthday she gave me a butterfly-net and a fretwork saw, but these suggestions were unfruitful. Now and again she took me to a children’s party given by one of the local gentry: at such functions I was awkward and uncomfortable, and something usually happened which increased my sense of inferiority to the other children, who