The Valley of Bones - Anthony Powell [43]
‘Sitting up all night catches one across the back,’ he said.
‘It certainly does.’
‘I once sat up from Prague to the Hook and swore I’d never do it again. I little knew one was in for a lifetime of journeys of that sort.’
‘Budapest to Vienna by Danube can be gruelling at night too,’ I said, not wishing to seem unused to continental discomforts. ‘Do you think we are in a very strategic position for getting cups of tea?’
‘Perhaps not. Let’s try the far end of the counter. One might engage the attention of the lady on the second urn.’
‘Also stand a chance of buying one of those faded, but still beautiful, sausage rolls, before they are all consumed by Other Ranks.’
We changed our position with hopeful effect.
‘Talking of Vienna,’ he said, ‘did you ever have the extraordinary experience of entering that gallery in the Kunsthistorisches Museum with the screen across the end of it? On the other side of the screen, quite unexpectedly, you find those four staggering Bruegels.’
‘The Hunters in the Snow is almost my favourite picture.’
‘I am also very fond of the Two Monkeys in the Kaiser Friedrich in Berlin. I’ve just been sharing a room with a man in the Essex Regiment who looked exactly like the ape on the left, the same shrewd expression. I say, we’re not making much headway with the tea.’
There were further struggles at the counter, eventually successful. The reward was a sausage roll apiece.
‘Should we return to the train now? I don’t feel absolutely confident about that corner seat.’
‘In that case I shall take this sausage roll with me.’
Back in the carriage, the quartermaster went to sleep again; so did the two Signals and the Gunner. Both the Durham Light Infantryman and the Green Howard brought out button-sticks, tins of polish, cloths, brushes. Taking off their tunics, they set to work energetically shining themselves up, while they discussed allowances.
‘Haven’t we met before somewhere?’ I asked.
‘My name is Pennistone – David Pennistone.’
I knew no one called that. I told him my own name, but we did not establish a connexion sufficiently firm to suggest a previous encounter. Pennistone said he liked Moreland’s music, but did not know Moreland personally.
‘Are you going on leave?’
‘To a course – and you?’
‘I’ve just come from a course,’ he said. ‘I’m on leave until required.’
‘That sounds all right.’
‘I’m an odd kind of soldier in any case. Certain specific qualifications are my only excuse. It will be rather nice to be on one’s own for a week or two. I’m trying to get something finished. A case of earn while you learn.’
‘What sort of thing?’
‘Oh, something awfully boring about Descartes. Really not worth discussing. Cogito ergo sum, and all that. I feel quite ashamed about it. By the way, have you ever read this work? I thought one might profit by it in one’s new career.’
He held out to me the book he had been reading. I took it from his hand and read the title on the spine: Servitude et Grandeur Militaire: Alfred de Vigny.
‘I thought Vigny was just a poet – Dieu! que le son du Cor est triste au fond des bois! ...’
‘He also spent fourteen years of his life as a regular soldier. He ended as a captain, so there is hope for all of us.’
‘In the Napoleonic wars?’
‘Too young. Vigny never saw action. Only the most irksome sort of garrison duty, spiced with a little civil disturbance – having to stand quietly in the ranks while demonstrators threw bricks. That kind of thing.’
‘I see.’
‘In some ways the best viewpoint for investigating army life. Action might have confused the issue by proving too exciting. Action is, after all, exciting rather than interesting. Anyway, this book says what Vigny thought about soldiering.’
‘What were his conclusions?’
‘That the soldier is a