The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [18]
There the matter rested. Outside the barn I had a longish talk with Mantle about his situation. By the time I returned to the house, everyone appeared to have gone to bed; at least the room in which we had eaten seemed at first deserted, although the oil lamp had not been extinguished. It had, however, been moved from the dinner table to the dresser standing on the right of the fireplace. Then, as I crossed the room to make for a flight of stairs on the far side I saw General Liddament himself had not yet retired to his bedroom. He was sitting on a kitchen chair, his feet resting on another, while he read from a small blue book that had the air of being a pocket edition of some classic. As I passed he looked up.
“Good night, sir.”
“How goes the Defence Platoon?”
“All right, sir. Guards correct. Hay to sleep on.”
“Latrines?”
“Dug two lots, sir.”
“Down wind?”
“Both down wind, sir.”
The General nodded approvingly. He was rightly keen on sanitary discipline. His manner showed he retained the unusually good mood of before dinner. There could be no doubt the day’s triumph over the Blue Force had pleased him. Then, suddenly, he raised the book he had been reading in the air, holding it at arm’s length above his head. For a moment I thought he was going to hurl it at me. Instead, he waved the small volume backwards and forwards, its ribbon marker flying at one end.
“Book reader, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What do you think of Trollope?”
“Never found him easy to read, sir.”
The last time I had discussed books with a general had been with General Conyers, a much older man than General Liddament, one whose interests were known to range from psychoanalysis to comparative religion; and in many other directions too. Long experience of the world of courts and camps had given General Conyers easy tolerance for the opinions of others, literary as much as anything else. General Liddament, on the other hand, seemed to share none of that indulgence for those who did not equally enjoy his favourite authors. My answer had an incisive effect. He kicked the second chair away from him with such violence that it fell to the ground with a great clatter. Then he put his feet to the floor, screwing round his own chair so that he faced me.
“You’ve never found Trollope easy to read?”
“No, sir.”
He was clearly unable to credit my words. This was an unhappy situation. There was a long pause while he glared at me.
“Why not?” he asked at last.
He spoke very sternly. I tried to think of an answer. From the past, a few worn shreds of long-forgotten literary criticism were just pliant enough to be patched hurriedly together in substitute for a more suitable garment to cover the dialectic nakedness of the statement just made.
“… the style … certain repetitive tricks of phrasing … psychology often unconvincing … sometimes downright dishonest in treating of individual relationships … women don’t analyse their own predicaments as there represented … in fact, the author does more thinking than feeling … of course, possessor of enormous narrative gifts … marshalling material … all that amounting to genius … certain sense of character, even if stylised … and naturally as a picture of the times …”
“Rubbish,” said General Liddament.
He sounded very angry indeed. All the good humour brought about by the defeat of the Blue Force had been dissipated by a thoughtless expression of literary prejudice on my own part. It might have been wiser to have passed some noncommittal judgment. Possibly I should be put under arrest for holding such mutinous views. The General thought for a long time, perhaps pondering that question. Then he picked up the second chair from the floor where it had fallen on its side. He set it, carefully, quietly, at the right distance and angle in relation to himself. Once more he placed his feet on the seat. Giving a great sigh, he tilted back his own chair until its joints gave a loud crack. This physical relaxation seemed to infuse him with a greater, quite unexpected composure.