Fable, A - William Faulkner [21]
'And that wouldn't have been make-believe too?' the general said.
'It would have been me that wrote them, invented them, created them,' Nor did the general discern humility either: a quality humble yet dogged too, even if it was sheeplike. 'I would at least have done that,'
'Oh,' the general said. 'And this is the book,'
'No, no,' the aide said. 'Another man wrote this one. I haven't written mine yet,'
'Haven't written it yet? You have had time here'; not even knowing that he had expressed the contempt nor even that he had tried to conceal it, or that perhaps he might have tried. And now the aide was not humble, not even dogged; certainly the general would not have recognised despair, though he might indomitability: 'I dont know enough yet. I had to wait to stop the books to find out-'
'In books? What in books?'
'About being brave. About glory, and how men got it, and how they bore it after they got it, and how other people managed to live with them after they got it; and honor and sacrifice, and the pity and compassion you have to have to be worthy of honor and sacrifice, and the courage it takes to pity, and the pride it takes to deserve the courage-'
'Courage, to pity?' the general said.
'Yes. Courage. When you stop to pity, the world runs over you. It takes pride to be that brave,'
Pride in what?' the general said.
'I dont know yet. That's what I'm trying to find out.' Nor did the general recognise serenity then, since he probably called it something else. 'And I will find it. It's in the books.'
'In this book?' the general said.
Tes,' the aide said, and he died, or that is, the general found him missing one morning, or rather failed to find him at all one morning. It was two hours before he found where the aide was, and another three or four hours before he learned exactly what the aide had done, and he never did learn why and how the aide had come to be there, inside the lines, where a general of division's Assistant Judge Advocate General had no right nor business whatever, sitting-this was how the runner told it-beside a regimental runner behind a wall near a corner much used by staff cars, on which, so the runner claimed he had told the aide, the enemy had registered a gun only that morning. And everybody had been warned of it, yet the car came on anyway, still coming on even after the aide sprang to his feet and began to wave his arms to stop the car. But it refused to stop, still coming on even after the aide ran out into the open road, still trying to wave the car off even after the runner said that he could hear the shell coming, and that the aide himself must have heard it also; and how the aide could not possibly have known that the car contained not only a wealthy American expatriate, a widow whose only son was in a French air squadron a few kilometres away and who was supporting near Paris an asylum for war-orphaned children, but a well-connected Paris staff-major too. And there had been nothing to pin the medal on when it came through, and nothing to identify to bury it with either, so that the medal also was still in the battered chest which the aide's successors in their succession superintended from post to post; and the division commander took the book out and read the title and then read it again in mounting exasperation, reading it aloud, saying aloud almost, All right. Bias wrote it. But what's the name of the book? until he realised that the word he was looking at was the name of the book and therefore the book would have Monday to be about a man, thinking Yes, remembering scraps, fragments, echoes from that night two years ago, saying the name aloud this time: "Gil Bias,' listening, concentrated, if perhaps there might come out of the closed pages, through the cover itself and into the simple name, something, some echo of the thunder, the clanging crash, the ringing bugles and the horns, the-What was it? he thought.