The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [39]
“Sit down, Jenkins,” he said.
He spoke quietly, almost whispered. I sat down. He began to fumble among his papers.
“I had a note from your Divisional Commander,” he said. “Where is it? Draw that chair a bit nearer. I’m rather deaf in this ear. How is General Liddament?”
“Very well, sir.”
“Knocking the Division into shape?”
“That’s it, sir.”
“Territorial Division, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’ll get a Corps soon.”
“You think so, sir?”
Major Finn nodded He seemed a little embarrassed about something. Although he gave out an extraordinary sense of his own physical strength and endurance, there was also something mild, gentle, almost undecided, about his manner.
“You know why you’ve been sent here?” he asked.
“It was explained, sir.”
He lowered his eyes to what I now saw was my translation. He began to read it to himself, his lips moving faintly. After a line or two of doing this, it became clear to We what the answer was going to be. The only question that remained was how long the agony would be drawn out. Major Finn read the whole of my version through to himself: then, rather nobly, read it through again. This was either to give dramatic effect, or to rouse himself t0 the required state of tension for making an unwelcome announcement. Those, at least, were the reasons that occurred to me at the time, because he must almost certainly have gone through the piece when the captain had first brought it to him. I appreciated the gesture, which indicated he was doing the best he could for me, including not sparing himself. When he came to the end for the second time, he looked across the desk, and, shaking his head, sighed and smiled.
“Well…” he said.
I was silent.
“Won’t do, I’m afraid.”
“No, sir?”
“Not as your written French stands.”
He took up a pencil and tapped it on the desk.
“We’d have liked to have you…”
“Yes, sir.”
“Masham agrees.”
“Masham” I took to be the I. Corps captain.
“But this translation …”
He spoke for a second as if I might have intended a deliberate insult to himself and his uniform by the botch I had made of it, but that he was prepared magnanimously to overlook that. Then, as if regretting what might have appeared momentary unkindness, in spite of my behaviour, he rose and shook hands again, gazing into the middle distance of the room. The vision to be seen there was certainly one of total failure.
“… not sufficiently accurate.”
“No, sir.”
“You understand me?”
“Of course, sir.”
“A pity.”
We stared at each other.
“Otherwise I think you would have done us well.”
Major Finn paused. He appeared to consider this hypothesis for a long time. There did not seem much more to be said. I hoped the interview would end as quickly as possible.
“Perfectly suitable …” he repeated.
His voice was far away now. There was another long pause. Then a thought struck him. His face lighted up.
“Perhaps it’s only written French you’re shaky in.”
He wrinkled his broad, ivory-coloured forehead.
“Now let us postulate the 9th Regiment of Colonial Infantry are on the point of mutiny,” he said. “They may be prepared to abandon Vichy and come over to the Allies. How would you harangue them?”
“In French, sir?”
“Yes, in French.”
He spoke eagerly, as if he expected something enjoyably dramatic.
“I’m afraid I should have to fall back on English, sir.”
His face fell again.
“I feared that,” he said.
Failure was certainly total. I had been given a second chance, had equally bogged it. Major Finn stroked the enormous bumpy contours of his nose.
“Look here,” he said, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll make a note of your name.”
“Yes, sir?”
“There may be certain changes taking place in the near future. Not here, elsewhere. But don’t count on it. That’s best I can say. I don’t question anything General Liddament suggests. It’s just the language.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He smiled.
“You’re on leave, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wouldn’t mind some leave myself/’
“No, sir?”
“And my respects to General Liddament.