Anthony Powell - The Military Philosophers

‘She told me to remind you of the Pole she mentioned when you last met.’

‘She did?’

‘That was some joke?’

‘Some people thought so. I hope Mademoiselle Flitton is in good Belgian hands now.’

‘I think she has higher aspirations than that.’

Clanwaert laughed, but revealed no secrets. As it turned the implications of the words were clarified through the agency of the Czechs.

‘Colonel Hlava is an excellent man’ Hewetson had said. ‘More ease of manner than most of his countrymen, some of whom like to emphasize their absolute freedom, as a nation, from the insincere artificialities of social convention. Makes them a bit dour at times. Personally, I find it oils the wheels when there’s a drop of Slovak, Hungarian or Jewish blood. Not so deadly serious.’

‘Hlava’s a flying ace?’

‘With innumerable medals for gallantry in the last war — where he served against the Russians, whom he’s now very pro — not to mention international awards as a test pilot. He is also rather keen on music, which I know nothing about. For example, he asked me the other day if I didn’t get rather tired of Egyptian music. As I’m almost tone deaf, I’d no idea Egypt was in the forefront as a musical country.’

‘Tzigane — gipsy.’

‘I thought he meant belly-dancing,’ said Hewetson. ‘By the way, when you’re dealing with two Allies at once, it’s wiser never to mention one to the other. They can’t bear the thought of your being unfaithful to them.’

It was at one of Colonel Hlava’s musical occasions that the scene took place which showed what Clanwaert had been talking about. This was a performance of The Bartered Bride mounted by the Czechoslovak civil authorities in the interests of some national cause. I was not familiar with the opera, but remembered Maclintick and Gossage having a music critics’ argument about Smetana at Mrs Foxe’s party for Moreland’s symphony. No recollection remained of the motif of their dispute, though no doubt, like all musical differences of opinion, feelings had been bitter when aroused. I was invited, with Isobel, to attend The Bartered Bride in a more or less official capacity. We sat with Colonel Hlava, his staff and their wives.

‘The heroine is not really a bride, but a fiancée,’ explained Hlava. ‘The English title being not literal for German Die Verkaufte Braut .’

In most respects very different from Kucherman, the Czech colonel possessed the same eighteenth-century appearance. Perhaps it would be truer to say Hlava recalled the nineteenth century, because there was a look of Liszt about his head and thick white hair, together with a certain subdued air of belonging to the Romantic Movement. This physical appearance was possibly due to a drop of Hungarian blood — one of the allegedly lubricating elements mentioned by Hewetson — though Hlava himself claimed entirely Bohemian or Moravian origins. Quiet, almost apologetic in manner, he was also capable of firmness. His appointment dated back to before the war, and, during the uncertainties of the immediately post-Munich period, he had armed his staff, in case an effort was made to take over the military attaché’s office by elements that might have British recognition, but were regarded by himself as traitorous. Hlava liked a mild joke and was incomparably easy to work with.

‘Smetana’s father made beer,’ he said. ‘Father wanted son to make beer too, but Smetana instead make Czechoslovak national music.’

These wartime social functions had to take place for a variety of reasons: to give employment: raise money: boost morale. They were rarely very enjoyable. Objection was sometimes aimed at them on the grounds that they made people forget the war. Had such oblivion been attainable, they would, indeed, have provided a desirable form of recuperation. In fact, they often risked additionally emphasizing contemporary conditions, the pursuits of peace, especially the arts, elbowed out of life, being hard to re-establish at short notice. Conversations, on such occasions as this opera, were apt to hover round semi-political or semi-official matters, rather than break away into some aesthetic release.

‘Your other great national composer is, of course, Dvorak.’

‘Dvorik poor man like Smetana. Dvorak’s father poor pork butcher.’

‘But a musical pork butcher?’

‘Played the bagpipes in the mountains,’ said Hlava. ‘Like in Scotland.’

Most of the theatre was occupied with Allied military or civil elements, members of the Diplomatic Corps and people with some stake in Czech organizations. In one of the boxes, Prince Theodoric sat with the Huntercombes and a grey-haired lady with a distinguished air, probably one of his household, a countrywoman in exile. Lord Huntercombe, now getting on in age, was shown in the programme as on the board staging this performance. He was closely connected with many Allied causes and charities, and looked as shrewd as ever. He and Theodoric were wearing dark suits, the grey-haired lady in black — by this stage of the war not much seen — beside Lady Huntercombe, in rather a different role from that implied by her pre-war Gainsborough hats, was formidable in Red Cross commandant’s uniform.

‘Who’s the big man with the white moustache three rows in front?’ asked Isobel.

‘General van Strydonck de Burkel, Inspector-General of the Belgian army and air force — rather a figure.’

The overture began. The curtain had already gone up on the scene of the country fair, when a woman came through one of the doors of the auditorium, paused and looked about her for a moment, then, showing no sign of being embarrassed by her own lateness, made her way to an empty seat beside another woman, in the same row as General van Strydonck, but nearer the middle. In doing this she caused a good deal of disturbance. Several men stood up to let her get by, among them Widmerpool, whom I had not before noticed. It was surprising to see him at a show like this, as he was likely to be working late every night at his particular job. When the lights went on again, he was revealed as being in the company of a youngish major-general. Our party went out during the entr’acte,

‘How unpunctual Miss Flitton is,’ said Isobel.

Pamela Flitton came into the foyer at that moment. She was wearing a bright scarlet coat and skirt, and accompanied by a woman in uniform, Lady McReith, someone I had not seen for the best part of twenty years.

‘She must have blown every coupon she’s got on that outfit.’

‘Or taken them off some poor chap who received a special issue for overseas.’

Apart from hair now iron-grey, very carefully set, Lady McReith remained remarkably unaltered. She was thinner than ever, almost a skeleton, the blue veins more darkly shaded in on her marble skin. She retained her enigmatic air, that disconcerting half-smile that seemed to be laughing at everyone, although at this moment she did not look in the best of humours. Probably she had paid for Pamela’s ticket and was cross at her lateness. If Lady McReith were at the head of a detachment of drivers, she would know about discipline. However, annoyance showed only in her eyes, while she and Pamela stood in a corner watching the crowd. Widmerpool and his general, who was of unknown identity, were behaving as if something important was brewing between them, strolling up and down in a preoccupied manner like men talking serious business, rather than a couple of opera-lovers having a night off duty. On the way back to our seats, we found ourselves next to them in the aisle. Widmerpool, who had met Isobel in the past, peered closely to make sure I was out with my wife, and said good evening. Then he muttered a question under his breath.

‘Do you happen to know the name of the girl in red who came in late? I’ve seen her before. With some Americans at one of Biddle’s big Allied gatherings.’