Anthony Powell - A Question of Upbringing

“Absolutely.”

One had to admit that he spoke English remarkably well, in spite of the hesitations made necessary by the subtlety of his processes of thought. There could be no doubt that every sentence was intended to knock you down by its penetrative brilliance. Smiling quietly to himself, as if at some essentially witty conception that he was inwardly playing with, and withheld only because its discernment was not for everybody, he began slowly to fill his pipe with tobacco — again like Peter’s — that smelt peculiarly abominable.

“There seems to be a regular falling-out between our good friends from the north,” he said.

I agreed.

“You and I,” said Monsieur Dubuisson, “belong to nations who have solved their different problems in different ways.”

I admitted that this assertion was undeniable.

“Our countries have even, as you would say, agreed to differ. You lean on tradition: we on logic.”

I was not then aware how many times I was to be informed of this contrast in national character on future occasions by Frenchmen whose paths I might happen to cross; and again I concurred.

“As I understand the affair,” went on Monsieur Dubuisson, “as I understand the circumstances of the matter, it would be difficult to achieve something in the nature of a reconciliation.”

“Very difficult, I —”

“It would be difficult, because it would be hard to determine whether an appeal should be made, on the one hand, to your congenital leaning towards tradition: or, on the other, to our characteristic preference for logic. Do you agree? The way may even lie near some Scandinavian fusion of these two ideas. You read Strindberg?”

“I have heard of him.”

“I think our Swedish friend, Lundquist, is quite pleased with himself,” said Monsieur Dubuisson, allowing me no opportunity to interrupt his train of thought: at the same time nodding and smiling, as a speaker personally familiar with the exquisite sensations that being pleased with oneself could impart to the whole being. “Örn, on the other hand, always seems to have the blues. During the war I knew some of your countrymen of that type. Always down at the mouth.”

“Did you see a lot of the British Army?”

“Towards the end, quite a lot. It was obvious, speaking English as I do. For three months I was second-in-command to a battalion. I was wounded twice and have four citations.”

I asked if he had ever come across my father in Paris; but, although Monsieur Dubuisson was unwilling to admit that they had never met — and assured me that he had heard Commandant Leroy speak of my father in the highest terms — it seemed probable that the two of them had never run across one another. On the other hand, Monsieur Dubuisson remarked: “Much of my work was done with Captain Farebrother, whom you have perhaps met in England. He was called Sunny Farebrother by his comrades in the army.”

“But how astonishing — I have met him.”

As a matter of fact, I had thought of Farebrother almost as soon as Monsieur Dubuisson had mentioned his own war record, because it had immediately occurred to me how much Jimmy Stripling would have loathed Monsieur Dubuisson, with his wounds and citations. Besides, Monsieur Dubuisson’s treatment of the circumstances of his war career made Farebrother’s references to his own military past seem infinitely fastidious.

“But why should you think it astonishing?” asked Monsieur Dubuisson, with one of his withering smiles, which spread over the whole of his face, crinkling the features into the shape of a formal mask of comedy, crowned with greyish-mauve locks. “Captain Farebrother is a man I know to go about a great deal in society. What could be more natural than that you should have met him?”

I did not know in those days that it was impossible to convince egoists of Monsieur Dubuisson’s calibre that everyone does not look on the world as if it were arranged with them — in this case Monsieur Dubuisson — at its centre; and, not realising that, in his eyes, the only possible justification for my turning up at La Grenadière would be the fact that I had once met someone already known to him, I tried to explain that this acquaintanceship with Farebrother seemed to me an extraordinary coincidence. In addition to this, if I had been old enough to have experienced something of the world of conferences and semi-political affairs, in effect a comparatively small one, it would have seemed less unexpected that their meeting had taken place.

“He was a good fellow,” said Monsieur Dubuisson. “There was, as a matter of fact, a small question in which Captain Farebrother had shown himself interested, and of which I later heard nothing. Perhaps you know his address?”

“I am afraid not.”

“It is of no consequence,” said Monsieur Dubuisson. “I can easily trace him.”

All the same he cleared his throat again, rather crossly. I felt that all this talk about the war, by reviving old memories, had put him out of his stride. He pulled at his pipe for a time, and then returned to the subject of Monsieur Örn and Monsieur Lundquist.

“Now you were present when this falling-out took place,” he said. “Can you recite to me the pertinent facts?”

I told him how matters had looked to me as a witness of them. He listened carefully to the story, which sounded — I had to admit to myself — fairly silly when told in cold blood. When I came to the end he knocked out his pipe against the leg of the seat, and, turning towards me, said quite tolerantly: “Now look here, Jenkins, you know you and I cannot believe eyewash of that sort. Grown-up men do not quarrel about such things.”

“What were they quarrelling about, then?”

‘Monsieur Dubuisson gave his slow, sceptical smile. He shook his head several times.

“You are no longer a child, Jenkins,” he said. “I know that in England such matters are not — not stressed. But you have no doubt noticed at La Grenadière the presence of two charming young ladies. You have?”

I conceded this.

“Very good,” said Monsieur Dubuisson. “Very good.”

He rose from the seat, and stood looking down at me, holding his hands behind his back.. I felt rather embarrassed, thinking that he had perhaps guessed my own feelings for Suzette.

“Then what is there to be done about it?” I asked, to break the silence.

“Ah, mon vieux,” said Monsieur Dubuisson. “Well may you ask what is to be done about it. To me — troubled as I am with a mind that leaps to political parallels — the affair seems to me as the problems of Europe in miniature. Two young girls — two gentlemen. Which gentleman is to have which young girl? Your Government wishes mine to devalue the franc. We say the solution lies in your own policy of export.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I shrug my shoulders,” he said, “like a Frenchman on the London stage.”

I was entirely at a loss to know how to reply to his presentation of this political and international allegory in relation to the matter in hand: and I found myself unable to grasp the implications of the parallel he drew with sufficient assurance to enable me to express either agreement or disagreement. However, Monsieur Dubuisson, as usual, appeared to expect no reply. He said: “I appreciate, Jenkins, that you have come here to study. At the same time you may need something — what shall I say? — something more stimulating than the conversation which your somewhat limited fluency in the French language at present allows you to enjoy. Do not hesitate to talk with me when we are alone together on any subject that may happen to interest you.”

He smiled once again; and, while I thanked him, added: “I am conversant with most subjects.”