bout de papier, Vol. 6, No. 4 (1989), pp. 14–15
External’s early archives yield such amazing gems! Readers of bout de papier may remember, for example, my yarn (in Vol. 5, No. 3) about the unbelievable correspondence in the middle of World War II between the Canadian Legation in Washington, ie. Mike Pearson, and the State Department concerning the baseball game between those harrassed organizations. Now let me relate another — this time early postwar — oddity to be found in our files.
The Canadian Government of the day had decreed that “permission will not be granted to civilian Canadian nationals in the service of the Canadian Government abroad or to Department of External Affairs personnel, whether at home or abroad, to accept foreign decorations either for war service or otherwise, except for distinguished services in the saving of life”. Under the wartime leadership of the truly great Under-Secretaries, Norman Robertson and Hume Wrong and, at the lower level of Mike Pearson and Hugh Keenleyside, External personnel had endured great personal sacrifices as their contribution to the war effort.
And there was Alfred Rive. He had been severely wounded during the First World War (losing one eye), and he had toiled tirelessly for External throughout World War II on prisoner of war and interned Canadian problems. He was given his first Head of Post assignment in 1946 as — by his own admission – the Not So Very High Commissioner to New Zealand. When, in Wellington, he received notification of the Government’s ukase forbidding acceptance of decorations, he was inspired to write — of all things – a touching poem of lament, which he sent to Under-Secretary Mike Pearson. I subsequently served under Alfred Rive for three years in Dublin — his next post after a long sojourn in Wellington – and never knew a kinder or gentler soul in External. But I never suspected that he had a talent for poetry nor, for that matter, the sense of humour which inspired these verses which he sent to Mike Pearson:
November 25th, 1946
Attention: L.B. Pearson, Esq., O.B.E.
Sir, I have the honour to
Acknowledge your dictations,
In your despatch two fifty-six,
Concerning decorations.
When first I was an F.S.O
“Third Sec.” the designation’s,
I thought “Some day my chest will show
Some simple decorations.”
As “Second Sec.” I carried on,
More work and more vexations,
Sustained by thoughts that to be won
Were various decorations.
The years went by, I was a “First”.
I had no more vacations.
My high ambition still I nursed –
Some rows of decorations.
As Counsellor I counselled well
And hid my palpitations.
“How near” I thought, “no one can tell –
Those glamorous decorations.”
And so, as slow I struggled through
External’s permutations,
I saw myself in distant view
Bedecked with decorations.
Through thick and thin, as near or far
Were my perambulations,
I hitched my wagon to a star
And other decorations.
But as I neared the goal apace,
And told all my relations,
External sent a blunt ukase
“You’ll get no decorations.
“We’ll put you in no Honours List
With flattering citations.
We think your name will not be missed
No stars — no decorations!”
“Nor will it help you to ally
With foreign delegations.
The rigid rule will still apply
No stars — no decorations!”
I have the honour, Sir to be
(Quite without be rations,
C.M., C.B., O.B.E.,
Or other decorations)
Your very humble (sir, that’s me)
Accept felicitations,
Obedient servant, (you’ll agree)
Bereft of decorations,
(Sgd.) Alfred Rive
Not very High Commissioner
Receipt of these lines moved Mr. Pearson to send the following reply:
Ottawa, 5th February, 1947
Dear Alfred:
1am deeply moved by your poetic lament in your unnumbered despatch of November 25th, in which you revealed your bitter disappointment at being deprived of decorations.
I wracked my brains trying to compose a suitable reply but with no success, so at Hume’s suggestion I called upon the poetic talent of the East Block, with the offer of a bottle of whiskey as a bait for the best poetic rejoinder to your tale of frustrated ambition.
The results were most successful and as all the entries were of such excellence, I have decided to send you the lot. The prize was awarded to Stuart Hemsley for the first poem in the attached collection, but it was difficult to choose and you may prefer one of the others. The authors initials are given in each case. I should perhaps warn you that this whole collection, together with your original poem, has been circulated to all our missions, so you may well be assailed with verse from all corners of the globe. I am not sure whether this action will put an end to versification by Heads of Missions or whether it will start a flood of poetry which we will be unable to stop.
I also enclose a copy of a letter from Hume suggesting some verses for inclusion in the reply, which, however, were not followed up by the poets. We did not insist that your “rhyming scheme and damned reiteration” should be followed and Terry MacDermot is the only one who stuck to it closely.
Yours sincerely, L.B. Pearson
As you might not expect, the Department, and Alfred Rive, were deluged with verse from every quarter of the globe (although the file yields nothing from the Department’s most distinguished poets, Doug Le Pan and Robert Ford). With uncharacteristic restraint, I will confine myself to providing below only one poetic reply, viz. the Bottle-of-Scotch prize winner submitted by Stuart Hemsley:
Ottawa, January 18, 1947
Reply to Alfred Rive, Esq., O.S.C.
Sir,
With a sense of deep emotion
I approach your rhymed lament;
or i never had a notor That vou crave embellishment
Longed to make a clanging entry
With be-medalled foreign gentry.
Though a rose, you blushed unheeded,
Fruitless always was your quest
Of the medal sorely needed
For your Diplomatic chest.
Not a ribbon on his sternum!
Though he strive, he may not earn’em.
May not? Hold! ’tis when they’re broken
By exception rules are prove-
’d. Let’s design some little token;
Let’s get Alfred in the groove!
Beat the cymbal, sound the clarion!
Pin a medal where there’s nary ’un!
Something neat — not like the whopper
That your foreign envoy wears;
But more suited to the proper
Corps of High Commissionaires.
Something for our dignitaori,
On his mission to the Maori.
So I cooked a neat Submission,
Cooked it, Alfred, just for you;
Rectifying past omission,
“Twas the least that I could do.
Movd by Council’s Topmost Genie!
Passed, and signed by Arnold Heeney!
Thus by awful dispensation,
Compensating years of loss,
Fitting is your decoration;—
Order of the Southern Cross.
Take your Cross and either wear it,
Or, in silence, grin and bear it.
I have, Sir, the dubious honour to be,
Lester B. Pearson, O.B.E.
(for Stuart Hemsley)
Mr. Pearson then concluded this episode in the poetic life of External Affairs by sending the following letter to Hume Wrong, who was by then Canada’s Ambassador in Washington.
Ottawa, 5th February 1947
Dear Hume:
Your suggestion in your letter of January 3rd that a bottle of whiskey should be offered for the best reply in verse to Alfred Rive’s poetic lament has revealed a wealth of poetic talent in the East Block.
The results have been so cheering that I decided to circulate the whole collection in the attached sheets. The prize was awarded to Mr. Hemsley, but only after much critical consideration. The other competitors were compensated, however, as Stuart held a party in Ronnie Macdonnell’s office and the honours were shared by all the poets.
Sidney Pierce took exception to your remark that he might show “unexpected gifts” and sent me the following message on receiving notice of the competition:
“Please advise the Under-Secretary that I shall compete in the competition and please convev to him the following:-
Hume Wrong, our representative
To Uncle Sam’s great nation,
Suspects my “unexpected Gift”
At rhythmical creation.
I urge that L.B. (Mike) have this
In officers implanted:-
“Your own gifts you may unexpect
But others’ take for granted.”
I trust that the circulation of these poems will not create a new flood of poetry from our missions abroad. We may have started something that we will be unable to stop.
Yours sincerely, L.B. Pearson
View the original scanned pages →
Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 6, No. 4 (1989), pp. 14–15. Read the rest of this issue →
