From Dream House to Comfort Cottage. . .

Some of you may recall the poet Robert William Service, who is buried in the village of Lancieux, Brittany, near Dinard and Saint Lunaire. One of his most charming poems is called "The Three Bares" in which an outhouse suffers an unfortunate explosion. (I encourage you to read the poem... it is quite entertaining) In "The Three Bares" Service refers to an outhouse as a "Palace of Necessity", and also as a "comfort-cot", short I suppose for "comfort cottage".
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In any case, I have shown quite a few examples of some of my dream houses in earlier posts. But until now I have not gone into any really intimate details about those dreamed of dwellings. Time to change that. . .
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The problem with most of my dream houses is that they have been abandoned for so long that they no longer have working plumbing. And therefore other solutions are needed to provide for some of man and womankind's more elementary needs. The photo here shows the palace of necessity behind one such abode. Unlike the one in Service's poem, this is only a lowly one-seater. What really confounds and intrigues me here, however, is what on earth is there a ladder in there for ? ? ? If it is for climbing down into the pit below the seat, I'm not sure I want to know any more. Did any of you see Slumdog Millionaire ? ? ? Reminds me of the comfort cottage out on the end of the pier there. . . :-)
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Rhymes of a Rolling Stone. . .

A ways down below here somewhere I posted a couple of color pictures of Robert Service's tomb and home, but had forgotten I'd also done some black and white images that day, back when I was still shooting Kodak Tri-X 400. Robert William Service's poems deserve a large scale revival, he was a bright shining star in the world of poetry. This is the house in Lancieux, France where he lived at the end of his life.

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I was wondering if the tombstone artist who chiseled the message on Service's headstone may have been challenged by English or whether Service really wrote this line as such ; the last line which says : "For Wake Again" doesn't seem grammatically correct. . . but whatever the case, may you rest in peace, Mr Service. . .

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I'm not sure what the story behind this memorial message on the Service family tomb may be, looks like an infant daughter must have passed away very young. . . will have to track down a biography.

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Robert William Service Home & Tomb

Robert Service (January 16, 1874 to September 11, 1958) was arguably one of the greatest poets ever to ply the English language and plum the depths of human experience to produce pure gems of densely woven verse. And I consider it criminal that his work was not taught in any of the schools I ever attended, or at least in none of the classes I participated in. I had to wait until I was in my early 20's to discover him entirely by chance by hearing one of his poems set to music by Country Joe McDonald, who became famous, among other accomplishments, for his "Fish Cheer" at Woodstock which started with, "Gimmee an F !" His album "War, War, War" was composed of several Service poems set to music, among the most haunting of which were "The Man From Athabaska" and "The March of the Dead". I soon found a 1916 edition of a collection of Robert Service poems titled "Rhymes of a Red Cross Man", containing poems about his experiences in France in the First World War close to the front lines, working as an ambulance driver and war correspondant. I soon found other books by Service ; "Rhymes of a Rolling Stone", "The Spell of the Yukon", and "Ballads of a Cheechako", all full of the most marvelous poetry imaginable, rich in images of pure wonder.
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He married a French woman and spent the last years of his life living in a house in Lancieux, Brittany, France, pictured here. I made the pilgrimage to his home, and his tomb, pictured below, in the late 1990's, taking these pictures, in case you may not be able to get to Lancieux anytime soon, and wanted to see where Service will spend eternity... and have included one of his poems below... in tribute and respectfully...
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And under this marble tomb,
He has returned to Earth's sweet womb...
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The Mourners by Robert William Service
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I look into the aching womb of night;
I look across the mist that masks the dead;
The moon is tired and gives but little light,
The stars have gone to bed.
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The earth is sick and seems to breathe with pain;
A lost wind whimpers in a mangled tree;
I do not see the foul, corpse-cluttered plain,
The dead I do not see.
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The slain I would not see . . . and so I lift
My eyes from out the shambles where they lie;
When lo! a million woman-faces drift
Like pale leaves through the sky.
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The cheeks of some are channelled deep with tears;
But some are tearless, with wild eyes that stare
Into the shadow of the coming years
Of fathomless despair.
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And some are young, and some are very old;
And some are rich, some poor beyond belief;
Yet all are strangely like, set in the mould
Of everlasting grief.
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They fill the vast of Heaven, face on face;
And then I see one weeping with the rest,
Whose eyes beseech me for a moment's space. . . .
Oh eyes I love the best!Nay, I but dream.
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The sky is all forlorn,
And there's the plain of battle writhing red:
God pity them, the women-folk who mourn!
How happy are the dead!
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Robert William Service

I first came across Robert William Service while still a student over 25 years ago when I found that several of his poems had been set to music on a solo album produced in 1971 by Country Joe McDonald (of Country Joe and the Fish who played at Woodstock) called "War, War, War". Finding that album inpired me to pick up a copy of the book by Service titled "Rhymes of a Red Cross Man" containing poems based on his experiences during World War One when he was an ambulance driver in France. The book is dedicated to his brother Albert Service who was killed in France in 1916. He is also famous for his poems about life during the gold rush years in western Canada, contained in "The Spell of the Yukon". His poems make for spellbinding reading, if you haven't discovered Robert Service yet... don't wait any longer. He is buried in the small village of Lancieux in Brittany, France, well worth the pilgrimage trip if you are out that way.
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Years later in a stack of old vinyl record albums in a used music shop near Philadelphia I found what must be a relatively rare piece which is a record of Robert Service reading some of his later poems. This image is scanned from the cover of that album, I don't know who did the photo so I can't give credit where credit is due. Hearing Service reciting his poetry is exquisite, for me this disc is worth its weight in gold. My favorite piece on it is called "The Three Bares", and for your pleasure it is re-produced below... with all possible respect for Robert Service and his descendants, I honestly don't know if any copyrights are still in effect or whether his poems have entered the public domain...
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The Three Bares ................by Robert William Service
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Ma tried to wash her garden slacks but couldn't get 'em clean
And so she thought she'd soak 'em in a bucket o' benzine.
It worked all right. She wrung 'em out then wondered what she'd do
With all that bucket load of high explosive residue.
She knew that it was dangerous to scatter it around,
For Grandpa liked to throw his lighted matches on the ground.
Somehow she didn't dare to pour it down the kitchen sink,
And what the heck to do with it, poor Ma jest couldn't think.
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Then Nature seemed to give the clue, as down the garden lot
She spied the edifice that graced a solitary spot,
Their Palace of Necessity, the family joy and pride,
Enshrined in morning-glory vine, with graded seats inside;
Jest like that cabin Goldylocks found occupied by three,
But in this case B-E-A-R was spelt B-A-R-E----
A tiny seat for Baby Bare, a medium for Ma,
A full-sized section sacred to the Bare of Grandpapa.
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Well, Ma was mighty glad to get that worry off her mind,
And hefting up the bucket so combustibly inclined,
She hurried down the garden to that refuge so discreet,
And dumped the liquid menace safely through the centre seat.
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Next morning old Grandpa arose; he made a hearty meal,
And sniffed the air and said: 'By Gosh! how full of beans I feel.
Darned if I ain't as fresh as paint; my joy will be complete
With jest a quiet session on the usual morning seat;
To smoke me pipe an' meditate, an' maybe write a pome,
For that's the time when bits o' rhyme gits jiggin' in me dome.'
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He sat down on that special seat slicked shiny by his age,
And looking like Walt Whitman, jest a silver-whiskered sage,
He filled his corn-cob to the brim and tapped it snugly down,
And chuckled: 'Of a perfect day I reckon this the crown.'
He lit the weed, it soothed his need, it was so soft and sweet:
And then he dropped the lighted match clean through the middle seat.
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His little grand-child Rosyleen cried from the kichen door:
'Oh, Ma, come quick; there's sompin wrong; I heared a dreffel roar;
Oh, Ma, I see a sheet of flame; it's rising high and higher...
Oh, Mummy dear, I sadly fear our comfort-cot's caught fire.'
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Poor Ma was thrilled with horror at them words o' Rosyleen.
She thought of Grandpa's matches and that bucket of benzine;
So down the garden geared on high, she ran with all her power,
For regular was Grandpa, and she knew it was his hour.
Then graspin' gaspin' Rosyleen she peered into the fire,
A roarin' soarin' furnace now, perchance old Grandpa's pyre....
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But as them twain expressed their pain they heard a hearty cheer----
Behold the old rapscallion squattinn' in the duck pond near,
His silver whiskers singed away, a gosh-almighty wreck,
Wi' half a yard o' toilet seat entwined about his neck....
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He cried: 'Say, folks, oh, did ye hear the big blow-out I made?
It scared me stiff - I hope you-uns was not too much afraid?
But now I best be crawlin' out o' this dog-gasted wet....
For what I aim to figger out is----WHAT THE HECK I ET?'
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