Dance to the Music of Time, Volume 3

by Anthony Powell

  ‘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.

  ‘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 greater 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 VC.’

  ‘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’s come back here with the Free French.’

  ‘I see, sir.’

  ‘I understand Finn’s looking for suitable officers for the work he’s doing. I suggest you drop in on him during your leave. Give him my compliments. Robin will issue you with an instruction when we get back to base.’

  ‘Robin’ was Greening, the ADC.

  ‘Shall I mention this to the DAAG, sir?’

  General Liddament thought for a moment. For a split second he looked as if he were going to smile. However, his mouth finally remained at its usual enigmatically set position when in repose.

  ‘Keep it under your hat—keep it under your hat—just as well to keep it under your hat.’

  Before I could thank him, or in
deed any more might be said between us, the door of the room opened violently. Brigadier Hawkins, Commanding the Divisional artillery, came in almost at a run. Tall, lean, energetic, the CRA was the officer Widmerpool had commended for ‘knowing how to behave when speaking on the telephone’, in contrast with Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson. Widmerpool was right about that. Brigadier Hawkins, who had seen to it the Gunner Mess was the best run in the Division, was one of the few members of its staff who set about his duties with the ‘gaiety’, which, according to Dicky Umfraville, Marshal Lyautey regarded as the first requirement of an officer. Both Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson and Colonel Pedlar had to be admitted to fall unequivocally short in that respect. Not so, in his peculiar way, the General, whose old friend the Brigadier was said to be.

  ‘Glad to find you still up, sir,’ he said. ‘Sorry to disturb you at this hour, but you should see a report at once they’ve just brought in. I thought I’d come myself, to cut out a lot of chat. The Blue Force we thought encircled is moving men in driblets across the canal.’

  General Liddament once more kicked away the chair from his feet, sending it sliding across the room. He picked up a map-case lying beside him, and began to clear a space on the table, littered with a pipe, tobacco, other odds and ends. Trollope—I could not see which novel he had been reading—he slipped into the thigh pocket of his battle-dress. Brigadier Hawkins began to outline the situation. I made a move to retire from their conference together.

  ‘Wait . . .’ shouted the General.

  He scribbled some notes on a pad, then pointed towards me with his finger.

  ‘Wake Robin,’ he said. ‘Tell him to come down at once—before dressing. Then go and alert the Defence Platoon to move forthwith.’

  I went quickly up the stairs to Greening’s room. He was asleep. I shook him until he was more or less awake. Greening was used to that sort of thing. He jumped out of bed as if it were a positive pleasure to put an end to sleep, be on the move again. I gave him the General’s orders, then returned to the Defence Platoon in the loft. They were considerably less willing than Greening to be disturbed. In fact there was a lot of grousing. Not long after that the Movement Order was issued. Advance Headquarters set off to a new location. This was the kind of thing General Liddament thoroughly enjoyed, unexpected circumstances that required immediate action. Possibly, in its minuscule way, my own case had suggested itself to him in some such terms.

  ‘They do never want us to have no sleep,’ said Sergeant-Major Harmer, ‘but at least it’s all on the way home.’

  The Blue Force was held in check before the time limits of the exercise ran out. In short, the battle was won. It was nearly morning when Advance Headquarters were again ordered to move, this time in preparation for our return to base. We were on this occasion brought, contrary to habit in such manœuvres, into direct contact with our own Rear Headquarters; both branches of the staff being assembled together in a large farm building, cowshed or barn, waiting there while transport arrangements went forward. It was here that the episode took place which so radically altered Widmerpool’s attitude towards Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson.

  Cars and trucks were being marshalled along a secondary road on the other side of a ploughed field on which drizzle was falling. A short time earlier, a message had come through from base stating that the raid during the night had done damage that would affect normal administration on return to the town. Accordingly, Colonel Pedlar had driven back at once to arrange any modification of routine that might be required. Colonel Pedlar’s presence with the rest of the staff could possibly, though by no means certainly, have provided a buffer between Widmerpool and Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson. As things fell out, those two came into direct impact just before we moved off. Widmerpool, with the two other officers who normally shared the same staff car, was about to leave the cowshed where we were hanging about, sleepless and yawning, when Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson came suddenly through the doorway. He was clearly very angry, altogether unable to control the rage surging up within him. Even for a professionally bad-tempered man, he was in a notably bad temper. ‘Where’s the DAAG?’ he shouted at the top of his voice.

  Widmerpool came forward with that serious, self-important air of his, which, always giving inadequate impression of his own capabilities, was often calculated to provoke irritation in people he dealt with, even if not angry already.

  ‘Here I am, sir.’

  Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson turned on Widmerpool as if he were about to strike him.

  ‘What the bloody hell do you think of yourself?’ he asked, still speaking very loudly.

  ‘Sir?’

  Widmerpool was not in the least prepared at that moment for such an onslaught. Only a few minutes before he had been congratulating himself aloud on how successfully had gone his share of the exercise. Now he stood staring at Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson in a way that was bound to make matters worse rather than better.

  ‘Traffic circuits!’ shouted Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson. ‘What in God’s name have you done about them? Don’t you know that’s a DAAG’s job? I suppose you don’t. You’re not fit to organise an outing for a troop of Girl Guides in the vicarage garden. Divisional Headquarters has been ordered to move back to base forthwith. Are you aware of that?’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  ‘You’ve read the Movement Order? Have you got as far as that?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘And made appropriate arrangements?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then why is the Medium Field Regiment coming in at right angles across our route? That’s not all. It has just been reported to me that Divisional Signals, and all their technical equipment, are being held up at another crossroads half a mile up the same road by the Motor Ambulance Convoy making a loop and entering the main traffic artery just ahead of them.’

  ‘I talked with the DAPM about distributory roads, sir—’ began Widmerpool.

  ‘I don’t want to hear who you talked to,’ said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, his voice rising quite high with fury. ‘I want an immediate explanation of the infernal muddle your incompetence has made.’

  If Widmerpool were not allowed to mention recommendations put forward by Keef, captain in command Military Police at Div HQ, also to some extent responsible for traffic control, it was obviously impossible for him to give a clear picture of what arrangements had been made for moving the column back. Brigadier Hawkins used to advocate two sovereign phrases for parrying dissatisfaction or awkward interrogation on the part of a superior: ‘I don’t know, sir, I’ll find out’, and its even more potent alternative: ‘the officer/man in question has been transferred to another unit’. On this occasion, neither of those great international army formulae of exorcism were applicable. Matters were in any case too urgent. For once, those powerful twin spells were ineffective. However, Widmerpool, as it turned out, could do far better than fall back on such indecisive rubric, however magical, to defend his own position. He possessed chapter and verse. Instead of answering at once, he allowed Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson to fume, while he himself drew from the breast pocket of his battle-dress blouse a fat little notebook. After glancing for a second or two at one of its pages, he looked up again, and immediately began to recite a detailed account of troop movements, unit by unit, throughout the immediate area of Divisional activities.

  ‘. . . Medium Field Regiment proceeding from . . . on the move at . . . must have reached . . . in fact, sir, should already have passed that point on the road twenty minutes ago . . . Motor Ambulance Convoy . . . shouldn’t be anywhere near the Royal Signals route . . . proceeding to base via one of the minor roads parallel to and south of our main body . . . I’ll show you on the map in a second, sir . . . only thing I can think of is some trouble must have occurred on that narrow iron bridge crossing the canal. That bridge wasn’t built for heavy traffic. I’ll send a DR right away . . .’

  These details showed commendable knowledge of local transport conditions. Widmerpool recapi
tulated a lot more in the same vein, possessing apparently the movement-tables of the entire Division, an awareness that certainly did him credit as DAAG. The information should have satisfied Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson that, whatever else could have happened, Widmerpool, at least on the face of it, was not to blame for any muddle that might have taken place. However, Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson was in no state of mind to give consideration to any such possibility; nor, indeed, to look at the problem, or anything else, in the light of reason. There was something to be said for this approach. It is no good being too philosophical about such questions as a column of troops in a traffic jam. Action is required, not explanation. Such action may have to transcend reason. Historical instances would not be difficult to find. That concept provided vindication for Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson’s method, hard otherwise to excuse.

  ‘You’ve made a disgraceful mess of things,’ he said. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I know we have to put up these days with a lot of amateur staff officers who’ve had little or no experience, and possess even less capacity for learning the ABC of military affairs. Even so, we expect something better than this. Off you go now and find out immediately what’s happened. When you’ve done so, report back to me. Look sharp about it.’

  Widmerpool’s face had gone dark red. It was an occasion as painful to watch as the time when Budd had hit him between the eyes full-pitch with an overripe banana; or that moment, even more portentous, when Barbara Goring poured sugar over his head at a ball. Under the impact of those episodes, Widmerpool’s bearing had indicated, under its mortification, masochistic acceptance of the assault—‘that slavish look’ Peter Templer had noted on the day of the banana. Under Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson’s tirade, Widmerpool’s demeanour proclaimed no such thing. Perhaps that was simply because Hogbourne-Johnson was not of sufficiently high rank, in comparison with Budd (then captain of the Eleven), not a person of any but local and temporary importance in the eyes of someone like Widmerpool, who thought big—in terms of the Army Council and beyond—while Barbara had invoked a passion in him which placed masochism in love’s special class. All the same, the difference is worth recording.