The Soldier's Art by Anthony Powell Read Free Book Online Page A

were lucky to get any port at all, rather than for the reasons impelling
Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson so precisely to enunciate the word.
    “Yes, Derrick?”
    “Not to-night,
Eric. Port don’t do the liver any good. Not the sort of port we have in this
Mess anyway. I shall steer clear of port myself, Eric, and I should advise you
to do the same.”
    “You do?”
    “I do, Eric.”
    “Well, I think
I’ll have a small glass nevertheless, Derrick. I’m sorry you won’t be
accompanying me.”
    Colonel Pedlar
gave the necessary order. Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson shook his head in
disapproval. He was known to favour economy; it was said, even to the extent of
parsimony. A glass of port was brought to the table. Colonel Pedlar, looking
like an advertisement for some well-known brand of the wine in question, held
the glass to the lamp-light, turning the rim in his hand.
    “Fellow in my
regiment was telling me just before the war that his grandfather laid down a
pipe of port for him to inherit on his twenty-first birthday,” he remarked.
    Colonel
Hogbourne-Johnson grunted. He did this in a manner to imply observation of that
particular custom, even the social necessity of such a provision, was too well
accepted in decent society for any casual commendation of the act to be
required; though the tradition might be comparatively unfamiliar in what he was
accustomed to describe as “Heavy” infantry; and, it might be added, not much of
a regiment at that.
    “Twelve dozen
bottles,” said Colonel Pedlar dreamily. “Pretty good cellar for a lad when he
comes of age.”
    Colonel
Hogbourne-Johnson suddenly showed attention. He began to bare a row of teeth
under the biscuit-coloured bristles and small hooked nose.
    “Twelve dozen,
Eric?”
    “That’s it,
isn’t it, Derrick?”
    Colonel Pedlar
sounded nervous now, already aware no doubt that he had ventured too far in
claiming knowledge of the world; had made, not for the first time, an
elementary blunder.
    “
Twelve dozen
?”
repeated Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson.
    He added
additional emphasis to the question, carrying the implication that he himself
must have misheard.”
    “Yes.”
    “You’re wide
of the mark, Eric. Completely out of the picture.”
    “I am,
Derrick?”
    “You certainly
are, Eric.”
    “What is a
pipe then, Derrick? I’m not in the wine trade.”
    “Don’t have to
be in the wine trade to know what a pipe of port is, old boy. Everyone ought to
know that. Nothing to do with being a shopman.
More than fifty dozen. That’s a pipe. You’re absolutely out in
your calculations. Couldn’t be more so. Mismanaged your slide-rule. Landed in
an altogether incorrect map-square. Committed a real bloomer. Got off on the
wrong foot, as well as making a false start.”
    “Is that a
pipe, by Jove?”
    “That’s a
pipe, Eric.”
    “I got it
wrong, Derrick.”
    “You certainly
did, Eric. You certainly got it wrong. You did, by Jove.”
    “You’ve shaken
me, Derrick. I’ll have to do better next time.
    “You will,
Eric, you will – or we won’t know what to think of you.”
    General
Liddament seemed not to hear them. It was as if he had fallen into a cataleptic
sleep or was under the influence of some potent drug. After this exchange
between the two colonels, another long silence fell, one of those protracted
abstinences from all conversation so characteristic of army Messes – British
ones, at least – during which, as every moment passes, you feel someone is on
the point of giving voice to a startling utterance, yet, for no particular
reason, that utterance is always left pending, for ever choked back, incapable,
from inner necessity, of being finally brought to birth. An old tin alarm-clock
ticked away noisily on the dresser, emphasising the speedy passing of mortal
life. Colonel Pedlar sipped away at his port, relish departed after his
blunder. Cocksidge, with the side of his palm, very quietly scraped together
several crumbs from the surface of the table