Anthony Powell - The Military Philosophers

Frustrate their knavish tricks,

On thee our hopes we fix;

God save us all.

Thy choicest gift in store

On him be pleased to pour;

Long may he reign!

May he defend our laws,

And ever give us cause

To sing with heart and voice,

God save the King I’

Repetitive, jerky, subjective in feeling, not much ornamented by imagination nor subtlety of thought and phraseology, the words possessed at the same time a kind of depth, an unpretentious expression of sentiments suited somehow to the moment. It would be interesting to know whether, at the period they were written, ‘reign’ had been considered an adequate rhyme to ‘king’; or whether the poet had simply not bothered to achieve identity of sound in the termination of the last verse. Language, pronunciation, sentiment, were always changing. There must have been advantages, moral and otherwise, in living at an outwardly less squeamish period, when the verbiage of high-thinking had not yet cloaked such petitions as those put forward in the second verse, incidentally much the best; when, in certain respects at least, hypocrisy had established less of a stranglehold on the public mind. Such a mental picture of the past was no doubt largely unhistorical, indeed totally illusory, freedom from one sort of humbug merely implying, with human beings of any epoch, thraldom to another. The past, just as the present, had to be accepted for what it thought and what it was.

The Royal Party withdrew. There was a long pause while photographs were taken outside on the steps. The Welsh Guards turned their attention to something in Moreland’s line, Walton’s ‘Grand March’. Orders had been issued that the congregation was to leave by the south portico, the door just behind us. It was now thrown open. Finn and I drove the military attachés like sheep before us in that direction. Once in the street, they would have to find their own cars. The last of them disappeared into the crowd. Finn drew a deep breath.

‘That appeared to go off all right*

‘I think so, sir.’

‘Might have been trouble when we couldn’t fit that fellow in.’

‘He was quite happy with my lot’

‘Nice chap.’

‘He seemed to be.’

‘Going back now?’

‘I was, sir. Shall I get the car?’

Something was troubling Finn.

‘Look here, Nicholas, will you operate under your own steam — leave me the car?’

‘Of course, sir.’

Finn paused again. He lowered his voice.

‘I’ll make a confession to you, Nicholas.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘A friend of mine has sent me a salmon from Scotland.’

That was certainly a matter for envy in the current food situation, though hardly basis for the sense of guilt that seemed to be troubling Finn. There was no obvious reason why he should make such a to-do about the gift His voice became a whisper.

‘I’ve got to collect the fish.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘At Euston Station.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m going to take the Section’s car,’ said Finn. ‘Risk court-martial if I’m caught. Be stripped of my VC. It’s the only way to get the salmon.’

‘I won’t betray you, sir.’

‘Good boy.’

Finn nodded his head several times, laughing to himself, looking even more than usual like a Punchinello.

‘After all, we’ve won the war,’ he said ‘We’ve just celebrated the fact.’

He thought for a moment.

‘Another thing about Flores,’ he said. ‘Just while I think of it. The Foreign Office are very anxious to keep in with his country. They want us to give him a decoration. He’s going to get a CBE.’

‘But he’s only just arrived.’

‘I know, I know. It’s just to improve relations between the two countries.’

‘But we were frightfully stingy in what we handed out to the Allies in the way of decorations after six years. Hlava told me he didn’t know how he was going to face his people when he reported what we offered. Foreigners expect something after they’ve worked with you for ages.’

‘The argument is that we like to make our decorations rare.’

‘And then we hand one out to a chap who’s just got off the plane.’

‘It’s all a shambles,’ said Finn. ‘You get somebody like myself who does something and gets a VC. Then my son- in-law’s dropped in France and killed, and no one ever hears about him at all, or what he’s done. It’s just a toss-up.’

‘I didn’t know about your son-in-law.’

‘Long time ago now,’ said Finn. ‘Anyway, Flores is going to get a CBE. Don’t breathe a word about the car.’

He turned away and stumped off towards the car park. It had evidently been a heavy decision for him to transgress in this manner; use a War Department vehicle for a private purpose, even over so short a distance. This was an unexpected piece of luck so far as I was concerned. Just what I wanted. There had seemed no avoiding going back with Finn to duty, when in fact some sort of a break was badly required. Now it would be possible to walk, achieve adjustment, after the loaded atmosphere of the Cathedral. One was more aware of this need outside in the open air than within, when the ceremony was just at an end. After all, one did not every day of the week attend a Thanksgiving Service in St Paul’s for Victory after six years of war. It was not unreasonable to experience a need to mull things over for half an hour or so. The ritual itself might not have been exactly moving, too impersonal for that, too well thought out, too forward-looking in the fashionable sense (except for the invocation to confound their politics and frustrate their knavish tricks), but I was aware of some sort of inner disturbance, though its form was hard to define. There were still large crowds round the Cathedral. I hung about for a while by the west door, waiting for them to disperse.

‘So you were lucky enough to be invited to the Service?’

It was Widmerpool.

‘I’ve been superintending the military attachés.’

‘Ah, I wondered how you got here — though of course I knew they selected at all levels.’

‘Including yours.’

‘I did not have much trouble in arranging matters. What a splendid ceremony. I was carried away. I should like to be buried in St Paul’s — would prefer it really to the Abbey.’

‘Make that clear in your will.’

Widmerpool laughed heartily.

‘Look, Nicholas,’ he said. ‘I’m glad we met. You were present at a rather silly incident when Pam and I had a tiff. At that embassy. I hope you did not attribute too much seriousness to the words that passed.’

‘It was no business of mine.’

‘Of course not — but people do not always understand her moods. I flatter myself I do. Pamela is undoubtedly difficile at times. I did not wish you to form a wrong impression.’

‘All’s made up?’

‘Perfectly. I am glad to have this opportunity of putting you right, if you ever supposed the contrary. The very reckless way she was talking about official matters was, of course, the sheerest nonsense. Perhaps you hardly took in how absurd she was being. One can forgive a lot to a little person who looks so decorative, however. Now I must hurry off.’

‘The Minister again?’

‘The Minister showed the utmost good humour about my lateness on that occasion. I knew he would, but I thought it was right for Pam to be apprised that official life must take precedence.’

He went off, infinitely pleased with himself, bringing back forcibly the opinion once expressed by General Conyers:

‘I can see that fellow has a touch of exaggerated narcissism.’

The scene with Pamela had been altogether dismissed from Widmerpool’s mind, as he had risen above failure with Mrs Haycock. Just then I had other things to ponder: Isaiah: Blake: Cowley: the wayfaring men: matters of that sort that seemed to claim attention.