The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [19]
“All I can say is you miss a lot.”
He spoke mildly.
“So I’ve often been told, sir.”
“Whom do you like, if you don’t like Trollope?”
For the moment, I could not remember the name of a single novelist, good or bad, in the whole history of literature. Who was there? Then, slowly, a few admired figures came to mind – Choderlos de Laclos – Lermontov – Svevo. … Somehow these did not have quite the right sound. The impression given was altogether too recondite, too eclectic. Seeking to nominate for favour an author not too dissimilar from Trollope in material and method of handling, at the same time in contrast with him, not only in being approved by myself – in possessing great variety and range, the Comédie Humaine suddenly suggested itself.
“There’s Balzac, sir.”
“Balzac!”
General Liddament roared the name. It was impossible to know whether Balzac had been a very good answer or a very bad one. Nothing was left to be considered between. The violence of the exclamation indicated that beyond argument. The General brought the legs of the chair down level with the floor again. He thought for a moment. Fearing cross-examination, I began to try and recall the plots of all the Balzac books, by no means a large number in relation to the whole, I had ever read. However, the next question switched discussion away from the sphere of literary criticism as such.
“Read him in French?”
“I have, sir.”
“Get along all right?”
“I’m held up with occasional technical descriptions – how to run a provincial printing press economically on borrowed money, what makes the best roofing for a sheepcote in winter, that sort of thing. I usually have a fairly good grasp of the narrative.”
The General was no longer listening.
“You must be pretty bored with your present job,” he said.
He pronounced these words deliberately, as if he had given the matter much thought. I was so surprised that, before I could make any answer or comment, he had begun to speak again; now seeming to have lost all his former interest in writers and writing.
“When’s your next leave due?”
“In a week’s time, sir.”
“It is, by God?”
I gave the exact date, unable to imagine what might be coming next.
“Go through London?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’d like a change from what you’re doing?”
“I should, sir.”
It had never struck me that General Liddament might be sufficiently interested in the individuals making up Divisional Headquarters to have noticed any such thing. Certainly, as a general, he was exceptional enough in that respect. He was also, it occurred to me, acting in contrast with Widmerpool’s often propagated doctrines regarding the individual in relation to the army. His next remark was even more staggering.
“You’ve been very patient with us here,” he said.
Again I could think of no reply. I was also not sure he was not teasing. In one sense, certainly he was; in another, he seemed to have some project in mind. This became more explicit.
“The point is,” he said, “people like you may be more useful elsewhere.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s not a personal matter.”
“No, sir.”
“We live such a short time in the world, it seems a pity not to do the jobs we’re suited for.”
These sentences were closer to Widmerpool’s views, though more sanely interpreted; their reminder that life was dust had a flavour, too, of Sergeant Harmer’s philosophy.
“I’m going to send a signal to Finn.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ever heard of Finn?”
“No, sir.”
“Finn was with me at the end of the last war – a civilian, of course – in the City in those days.”
“Yes, sir.”
General Liddament mentioned “the City” with that faint touch of awe, a lowering of the voice, somewhere between reverence and horror, that regular soldiers, even exceptional ones like himself, are apt to show for such mysterious, necromantic means of keeping alive.
“But he put up a good show when he was with us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“An excellent show.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Got a V.C.”
“I see, sir.”
“Then, after the war, Finn gave up the City. Went into the cosmetic business – in Paris.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Made a good thing out of it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now he