Anthony Powell - Soldier's Art

“I told him,” said Farebrother, simply.

“But look here …” said Widmerpool.

He was too furious to finish the sentence.

“The long and the short of it was the M.G.A. said he was going to get in touch with your General about the whole matter.”

“But I behaved in no way incorrectly,” said WidmerpooL “There is not the smallest reason to suggest…”

“Believe me, Kenneth, I’m absolutely confident you did nothing to which official exception could possibly be taken,” said Farebrother. “On my heart. That’s why I thought it best to put my own cards on the table. The M.G.A. is sometimes hasty. As you know well, amateur soldiers like you and me tend to go about our business in rather a different way from the routine a Regular gets accustomed to. We like to get things done expeditiously. I just thought it was a pity myself you went and told the M.G.A. all those things about me. That was why I decided he ought to know more about you and your own activities. I’m sure everything will be all right in the end, but I believed it right to warn you — as I was coming to say good-bye anyway — simply that my General might be getting in touch with your General about all this.”

Farebrother’s quiet, reassuring tone did not at all soothe Widmerpool, who now looked more disturbed than ever. Farebrother rose to his feet. He squared his shoulders and smiled kindly, pleased, as well he might be, with the devastation his few minutes’ conversation had brought about in the promotion of Widmerpool’s plans. In his own way, as I learnt later, Farebrother was an efficient operator when he wanted something done; very efficient indeed. Widmerpool had made a mistake in trying to double-cross him in whatever matter the visit to the M.G.A. had concerned. He should have guessed that Farebrother, sooner or later, would find out. Perhaps he had disregarded that possibility, ruling out the risk of Farebrother turning to a formidable weapon at hand. However, with characteristic realism, Widmerpool grasped that something must be done quickly, if trouble, by now probably inevitable, was to be reduced in magnitude. He was not going to waste time in recrimination.

“I’ll come with you to the door, Sunny,” he said. “I can explain all that business about going to the M.G.A. It wasn’t really aimed at you at all, though now I see it must look like that.”

Farebrother turned towards me. He gave a nod.

“Good-bye, Nicholas.”

“Good-bye, sir.”

They left the room together. The situation facing Widmerpool might be disagreeable, almost certainly was going to be. One thing at least was certain: whomsoever he had been trying to jockey into the position of commanding the Recce Unit would have done the job as well, if not better, than anyone else likely to be appointed. Widmerpool’s candidate — if only for Widmerpool’s own purposes — would, from no aspect, turn out unsuitable. If his claims were pressed by Widmerpool, he would be a first-class officer, not a personal friend whose competence was no more than adequate. That had to be said in fairness to Widmerpool methods, though I had no cause to like them. So far as that went, Farebrother’s man, Ivo Deanery, as it turned out, made a good job of the command too. He led the Divisional Recce Corps, with a great deal of dash, until within a few days of the German surrender; then was blown up when his jeep drove over a landmine. However, that is equally by the way. The immediate point was that Widmerpool, even if his machinations had not actually transgressed beyond what were to be regarded as the frontiers of discipline, could, at the same time, well have allowed himself liberties with the established scope permissible to an officer of his modest rank, which, if brought to light, would seriously affront higher authority. Probably his original contact with the Major-General at Corps had been on the subject of a petty contention with Farebrother; something better not arranged — certainly better not arranged behind Farebrother’s back; at the same time trivial enough. Widmerpool had no scruples about conduct of that sort.

“No good being too gentlemanly,” he had once said.

The next stage might be guessed. Having gained access to the M.G.A. on this pretext, opportunity had been found to link the subject in hand with matters relating to the Recce Unit. Possibly the M.G.A. was even glad to be provided with one or other of those useful items of miscellaneous private information which Widmerpool was so pre-eminent in storing up his sleeve for use at just that sort of interview. Then, so it seemed, something had gone wrong. The M.G.A. had allowed Farebrother to find out, or at least make a good guess, that Widmerpool had been brewing up trouble for him. Like so many individuals who believe in being “ungentlemanly”, Widmerpool did not allow sufficiently for the eventuality of other people practising the same doctrine. Indeed, he used to complain bitterly if they did. Farebrother was an example of a man equally unprejudiced by scruple. No doubt he had pointed out to the M.G.A. that Widmerpool’s suggested line included contrivances that, when examined in the light of day, revealed — perhaps only to an over-fastidious sense of how things should be done — shreds of what might be regarded as the impertinent intrigue of a junior officer. That, at least, seemed to have been just how the M.G.A. had seen the matter. He had become angry. Now, as Farebrother said, there was going to be the hell of a row; this at a most awkward juncture in Widmerpool’s career. He was evidently having a longish talk with Farebrother on the doorstep. Before he returned Greening looked in.

“D.A.A.G. about?”

“Just gone down the stairs to have a final word with his opposite number from Command. He’ll be back in a second.”

“His Nibs wants Major Widmerpool at once.”

“Shall I tell him?”

“I’ll wait. His Nibs is far from pleased. Absolutely cheesed off, in fact. I don’t dare go back without my man — like the North-West Mounted Police.”

“What’s happened?”

“No idea.”

It looked as if the trouble in question was about to begin. Greening and I had a game of noughts and crosses. Widmerpool returned. Greening delivered his summons. Widmerpool, who was looking worried already, gave a slight twitch, but made no comment. He and Greening went off together in the direction of the General’s room. In the army, long tracts of time when nothing whatever seems to happen are punctuated by sudden unexpected periods of upheaval and change. That is traditional. We had been all at once sucked into one of those whirlpools. Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson was the next person to enter the room. This was a rare occurrence, of which the most likely implication was that some sudden uncontrollable rage was too great to allow him to remain inactive while Widmerpool was summoned by telephone to his own presence. He must have come charging up the passage to prevent it boiling over without release, thereby perhaps doing him some internal injury. However, that turned out to be a wrong guess. The Colonel was, on the contrary, in an unusually good humour.

“Where’s the D.A.A.G.?”

“With the Divisional Commander, sir.”

Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson took the chair on which Farebrother had been sitting a moment before. To remain was as unexpected as arrival here. There could be no doubt he was specially pleased about something. It might well be he already knew Widmerpool was in hot water. He pulled at his short, bristly, dun-coloured moustache.

“Aren’t you some sort of a literary bloke in civilian life?” he asked.

I agreed that was the case.

“The General said something of the kind the other day.”

Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson emitted that curious sound, a kind of hissing gulp issuing from the corner of his mouth, after this comment, apparently, on this occasion, to express the ease he himself felt in the presence of the arts.