“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 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’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 A.D.C.
“Shall I mention this to the D.A.A.G., 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 indeed 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 C.R.A. 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.”