描述:360截图20131119135932387.jpg Waugh tells the story of the Marchmain family. Aristocratic, beautiful and charming, the Marchmains are indeed a symbol of England and her decline in this novel of the upper class of the 1920s and the abdication of responsibility in the 1930s. THIS novel, which is here re-issued with many small additions and some substantial cuts, lost me such esteem as I once enjoyed among my contemporaries and led me into an unfamiliar world of fan-mail and press photographers. Its theme - the operation of divine grace on a group of diverse but closely connected characters - was perhaps presumptuously large, but I make no apology for it. I am less happy about its form, whose more glaring defects may be blamed on the circumstances in which it was written. In December 1943 1 had the good fortune when parachuting to incur a minor injury which afforded me a rest from military service. This was extended by a sympathetic commanding officer, who let me remain unemployed until June 1944 when the book was finished. I wrote with a zest that was quite strange to me and also with impatience to get back to the war. It was a bleak period of present privation and threatening disaster - the period of soya beans and Basic English - and in consequence the, book is infused with a kind of gluttony, for food and wine, for the splendours of the recent past, and for rhetorical and ornamental language, which now with a full stomach I find distasteful. I have modified the grosser passages but have not obliterated them because they are an essential part of the book. I have been in two minds as to the treatment of Julia’s outburst about mortal sin and Lord Marchmain’s dying soliloquy. These passages were never of course, intended to report words actually spoken. They belong to a different way of writing from, say, the early scenes between Charles and his father. I would not now introduce them into a novel which elsewhere aims at verisimilitude. But I have retained them here in something near their original form because, like the Burgundy (misprinted in many editions) and the moonlight they were essentially of the mood of writing; also because many readers liked them, though that is not a consideration of first importance.  It was impossible to foresee, in the spring of 1944, the present cult of the English country house. It seemed then that the ancestral seats which were our chief national artistic achievement were doomed to decay and spoliation like the monasteries in the sixteenth century. So I piled it on rather, with passionate sincerity. Brideshead today would be open to trippers, its treasures rearranged by expert hands and the fabric better maintained than it was by Lord Marchmain. And the English aristocracy has maintained its identity to a degree that then seemed impossible. The advance of Hooper has been held up at several points. Much of this book therefore is a panegyric preached over an empty coffin. But it would be impossible to bring it up to date without totally destroying it. It is offered to a younger generation of readers as a souvenir of the Second War rather than of the twenties or of the thirties, with which it ostensibly deals.  Combe Florey 1959 E.W. 故事以主人公查尔斯的视角展开，描写了伦敦近郊布赖兹赫德庄园一个天主教家庭的生活和命运。这个家族老一代的马奇梅因侯爵在第一次世界大战期间去国外参加战争，战后没有回国，长期和他的意大利情妇在威尼斯同居。他的妻子马奇梅因夫人住在伦敦，夫妻不睦，按照天主教规定，夫妻不能离婚，事实上他们长期分居。他们的长子布赖兹赫德是未来爵位和庄园的继承人（与庄园同名），却生性怪僻。而次子塞巴斯蒂安和故事叙述人查尔斯是牛津大学的同窗好友，一生经历坎坷，流落异国。大女儿朱莉娅和小女儿科迪莉娅的一生也跌宕起伏。小说通过这一家人的故事，反映了战后的英国状况，也可以说是西方一般知识分子的思想与遭遇......

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Chapter 1
‘I HAVE been here before,’ I said; I had been there before; first with Sebastian more than twenty years ago on a cloudless day in June, when the ditches were creamy with meadowsweet and the air heavy with all the scents of summer; it was a day of peculiar splendour, and though I had been there so often, in so many moods, it was to that first visit that my heart returned on this, my latest.

That day, too, I had come not knowing my destination. It was Eights Week. Oxford - submerged now and obliterated, irrecoverable as Lyonnesse, so quickly have the waters come flooding -in - Oxford, in those days, was still a city of aquatint. In her spacious and quiet streets men walked and spoke as they had done in Newman’s day; her autumnal mists, her grey springtime, and the rare glory of her summer days - such as that day - when the chestnut was in flower and the bells rang out high and clear over her gables and cupolas exhaled the soft airs of centuries of youth. It was this cloistral hush which gave our laughter its resonance, and carried it still, joyously, -over the intervening clamour. Here, discordantly, in Eights Week, came a rabble of womankind, some hundreds strong, twittering and fluttering over the cobbles and up the steps, sight-seeing and pleasure-seeking, drinking claret cup, eating cucumber sandwiches; pushed in punts about the river, herded in droves to the college barges; greeted in the Isis and in the Union by a sudden display of peculiar, facetious, wholly distressing Gilbert-and-Sullivan badinage, and by peculiar choral effects in the College chapels. Echoes of the intruders penetrated every corner, and in my own College was no echo, but an original fount of the grossest disturbance. We were giving a ball. The front quad, where I lived, was floored and tented; palms and azaleas were banked round the porter’s lodge; worst of all, the don who lived above me, a mouse of a man connected with the Natural Sciences, had lent his rooms for a Ladies’ Cloakroom, and a printed notice proclaiming this outrage hung not six inches from my oak.

No one felt more strongly about it than my scout.

‘Gentlemen who haven’t got ladies are asked as far as possible to take their meals out in the next few days,’ he announced despondently. ‘Will you be lunching in?’ ‘No, Lunt.’

‘So as to give the servants a chance, they say. What a chance! I’ve got to buy a pin-cushion for the Ladies’ Cloakroom. What do they want with dancing? I don’t see the reason in it. There never was dancing before in Eights Week. Commem. now is another matter being in the vacation, but not in Eights Week, as if teas and the river wasn’t enough. If you ask me, sir, it’s all on account of the war. It couldn’t have happened but for that.’ For this was 1923 and for Lunt, as for thousands of others, things could never be the same as they had been in 1914. ‘Now wine in the evening, he continued, as was his habit half in and half out of the door’ Cor one or two gentlemen to luncheon, there’s reason in. But not dancing. It all came in with the men back from the war. They were too old and they didn’t know and they wouldn’t learn. That’s the truth. And there’s some even goes dancing with the town at the Masonic - but the proctors will get them, you see . . . Well, here’s Lord Sebastian. I mustn’t stand here talking when there’s pin-cushions to get.’

Sebastian entered - dove-grey flannel, white crepe de Chine, a Charvet tie, my tie as it happened, a pattern of postage stamps ‘Charles - what in the world’s happening at your college? Is there a circus? I’ve seen everything except elephants. I must say the whole of Oxford has become most peculiar suddenly. Last night it was pullulating with women.  You’re to come away at once, out of danger. I’ve got a motor-car and a basket of strawberries and a bottle of Chateau Peyraguey - which isn’t a wine you’ve ever tasted, so don’t pretend. It’s heaven with strawberries.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘To see a friend.’

‘Who?’

‘Name of Hawkins. Bring some money in case we see anything we want to buy. The motor-car is the property of a man called Hardcastle. Return the bits to him if I kill myself; I’m not very good at driving.

Beyond the gate, beyond the winter garden that was once the lodge, stood an open two-seater Morris-Cowley. Sebastian’s teddy bear sat at the wheel. We put him, between us - ‘Take care he’s not sick’ -and drove off. The bells of St Mary’s were chiming nine; we escaped collision with a clergyman, blackstraw-hatted, white-bearded) pedalling quietly down the wrong side of the High Street, crossed Carfax, passed the station, and were soon in open country on the Botley Road; open country was easily reached in those days.

(‘Isn’t it early?’ said Sebastian. ‘The women are still doing whatever women do to themselves before they come downstairs. Sloth has undone them. We’re away. God bless Hardcastle.’

‘Whoever he may be.’

‘He thought he was coming with us. Sloth, undid him too. Well, I did tell him ten.  He’s a very gloomy man in my college. He leads a double life. At least I assume he does. He couldn’t go on being Hardcastle, day and night, always, could he? - or he’d die of it. He says he knows my father, which is impossible.’ ‘Why?’

‘No one knows papa. He’s a social leper. Hadn’t you heard?’

‘It’s a pity neither of us can sing,’ I said.



At Swindon we turned off the main road and, as the sun mounted high, we were among dry-stone walls and ashlar houses. It was about eleven when Sebastian, without warning, turned the car into a cart track and stopped. It was hot enough now to make us seek the shade. On a sheep-cropped knoll under a clump of elms we ate the strawberries and drank the wine - as Sebastian promised, they were delicious together - and we lit fat, Turkish cigarettes and lay on our backs, Sebastian’s eyes on the leaves above him, mine on his profile, while the blue-grey smoke rose, untroubled by any wind, to the blue-green shadows of foliage’, and the sweet scent of the tobacco, merged with the sweet summer scents around us and the fumes of the sweet golden wine seemed to lift us a finger’s breadth above the turf and hold us suspended.  ‘Just the place to bury a crock of gold, ‘ said Sebastian. ‘I should like to bury something precious in every place where I’ve been happy and then when I was old and ugly and miserable, -I could come back and dig it up and remember.’

This was my third term since matriculation, but I date my Oxford life from my first meeting with Sebastian, which had happened, by chance, in the middle of the term before. We were in different colleges and came from different schools; I might well have spent my three or four years in the University and never have met him, but for the chance of his getting drunk one evening in my college and of my having ground-floor rooms in .the front quadrangle.

I had been warned against the dangers of these rooms by my cousin Jasper, who alone, when I first came up, thought me a suitable subject for detailed guidance. My father offered me none. Then, as always, he eschewed serious conversation with me. It was not until I was within a fortnight of going up that he mentioned the subject at all; then he said, shyly and rather slyly: ‘I’ve been- talking about you. I met -your future Warden at the Athenaeum. I wanted to talk about Etruscan notions of immortality; he wanted to talk about extension lectures for the working-class; so we compromised and talked about you. I asked him what your allowance should be. He said, “Three hundred a year; on no account give him more; that’s all most men have.” I thought that a deplorable answer. I had more than most men when I was up, and my recollection is that nowhere else in the world and at no other time, do a few hundred pounds, one way or the other, makee so much difference to one’s importance, and popularity. I toyed with the idea of giving you six hundred,’ said my father, snuffling a little, as he did when he was amused, ‘but I reflected that, should the Warden come to hear of it, it might sound deliberately impolite. So I shall e you five hundred and fifty.’ I thanked him.

Yes, it’s indulgent of me, but it all comes out of capital, you know. I suppose this is the time I should give you advice. I never had any myself except once from your cousin Alfred. Do you know, in the summer before I was going up, your cousin Alfred rode over to Boughton especially to give me a piece of advice? And do you know what the advice was? “Ned,” he said, “there’s one thing I must beg of you. Always wear a tall hat on Sundays during term. It is by that, more than anything, that a man is judged.” And do you know,’ continued my father, snuffling deeply, ‘I always did? Some men did, some didn’t. I never saw any difference between them or heard it commented on, but I always wore mine. It only shows what effect judicious advice can have, properly delivered at the right moment. I wish I had some for you, but I haven’t.’

My cousin Jasper made good the loss; he was the son of my father’s elder brother, to whom he referred more than once, only half facetiously, as ‘the Head of the Family’; he was in his fourth year and, the term before, had come within appreciable distance of getting his rowing blue; he was secretary of the Canning and president of the J.C.R.; a considerable person in college. He called on me formally during my first week and stayed to tea; he ate a very heavy meal of honey-buns, anchovy toast, and Fuller’s walnut cake, then he lit his pipe and, lying back in the basketchair, laid down the rules of conduct which I should follow; he covered most subjects; even today I could repeat much of what he said, word for, word. ‘...You’re reading History? A perfectly respectable school. The very worst is English literature and the next worst is Modern Greats. You want either a first or a fourth. There is no value in anything between. Time spent on a good second is time thrown away. You should go to the best lectures Arkwright on Demosthenes for instance - irrespective of whether they are in your school or not...Clothes. Dress as you do in a country house. Never wear a tweed coat and flannel trousers - always a suit. And go to a London tailor; you get better cut and longer credit...Clubs. Join the Carlton now and the Grid at the beginning of your second year. If you want to run for the Union - and it’s not a bad thing to do - make your reputation outside first, at the Canning or the Chatham, and begin by speaking on the paper...Keep clear of Boar’s Hill...’ The sky over the opposing gables glowed and then darkened; I put more coal on the fire and turned on the light, revealing in their respectability his London-made plus-fours and his Leander tie...’Don’t treat dons like schoolmasters; treat them as you would the vicar at home...You’ll find you spend half your second year shaking off the undesirable friends you made in your first...Beware of the Anglo-Catholics - they’re all sodomites with unpleasant accents. In fact, steer clear of all the religious groups; they do nothing but harm...’ Finally, just as he was going, he said, ‘One last point. Change your rooms’ - They were large, with deeply recessed windows and painted, eighteenth-century panelling; I was lucky as a freshman to get them. ‘I’ve seen many a man ruined through having ground-floor rooms in the front quad,’ said my cousin with deep gravity. ‘People start dropping in. They leave their, gowns here and come and collect them before hall; you start giving them a sherry. Before you know where you are, you’ve opened a free bar for all the undesirables of the college.’

I do not know that I ever, consciously, followed any of this advice. I certainly never changed my rooms - there were gillyflowers growing below the windows which on summer evenings filled them with fragrance.

It is easy, retrospectively, to endow one’s youth with a false precocity or a false innocence; to tamper with the dates marking one’s stature on the edge of the door. I should like to think - indeed I sometimes do think - that I decorated those rooms with Morris stuffs and Arundel prints and that my shelves we’re filled with seventeenth-century folios and French novels of the second empire in Russia-leather and watered silk. But this was not the truth. On my first afternoon I proudly hung a reproduction of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers over the fire and set up a screen, painted by Roger Fry with a Provencal landscape, which I had bought inexpensively when the Omega workshops were sold up. I displayed also a poster by McKnight Kauffer and Rhyme Sheets from the Poetry Bookshop, and, most painful to recall, a porcelain figure of Polly Peachum which stood between black tapers on the chimney-piece. My books were meagre and commonplace - Roger Fry’s Vision and Design, the Medici Press edition of A Shropshire Lad, Eminent Victorians, some volumes of Georgian Poetry, Sinister Street, and South Wind - and my earliest friends fitted well into this background; they were Collins, a Wykehamist, an embryo don, a man of solid reading and childlike humour, and a small circle of college intellectuals, who maintained a middle course of culture between the flamboyant ‘aesthetes’ and the roletarian scholars who scrambled fiercely for facts in the lodging houses of the Iffley Road and Wellington Square. It was by this circle that I found myself adopted during my first term; they provided the kind of company I had enjoyed in the sixth form at school, for which the sixth form had prepared me; but even in the earliest days, when the whole business of living at Oxford, with rooms of my own and my own cheque book, was a source of excitement, I felt at heart that this was not all which Oxford had to offer.

At Sebastian’s approach these grey figures seemed quietly to fade into the landscape and vanish, like highland sheep in the misty heather. Collins had exposed the fallacy of modern aesthetics to me: ‘...the whole argument from Significant Form stands or falls by volume. If you allow C’ezanne to represent a third dimension on his two-dimensional canvas, then you must allow Landseer his gleam of loyalty in the spaniel’s eye’...but it was not until Sebastian, idly turning the page of Clive Bell’s Art, read: “’Does anyone feel the same kind of emotion for a butterfly or a flower that he feels for a cathedral or a picture?” Yes. I do,’ that my eyes were opened.

I knew Sebastian by sight long before I met him. That was unavoidable for, from his first week, he was the most conspicuous man of his year by reason of his beauty, which was arresting, and his eccentricities of behaviour, which seemed to know no bounds.  My first sight of him was in the door of Germer’s, and, on that occasion, I was struck less by his looks than by the fact that he was carrying a large teddy-bear.  ‘That,’ said the barber, as I took his chair, ‘was Lord Sebastian Flyte. A most amusing young gentleman.’

‘Apparently,’ I said coldly.

‘The Marquis of Marchmain’s second boy. His brother, the Earl of Brideshead, went down last term. Now he was very different, a very quiet gentleman’, quite like an old man. What do you suppose Lord Sebastian wanted? A hair brush for his teddybear; it had to have very stiff bristies, not, Lord Sebastian said, to brush him with, but to threaten him with a spanking when he was sulky. He bought a very nice one with an ivory back and he’s having “Aloysius” engraved on it’ - that’s the bear’s name.’ The man, who, in his time, had had ample chance to tire of undergraduate fantasy, was plainly-captivated. I, however, remained censorious, and subsequent glimpses of him, driving in a hansom cab and dining at the George in false whiskers, did not soften me, although Collins, who was reading Freud, had a number of technical terms to cover everything.  Nor, when at last we met, were the circumstances propitious. It was shortly before midnight in early March; I had been entertaining the college intellectuals to mulled claret; the fire was roaring, the air of my room heavy with smoke and spice, and my mind weary with metaphysics. I threw open my windows and from the quad outside came the not uncommon sound of bibulous laughter and unsteady steps. A voice said:

‘Hold up’; another, ‘Come on’; another, ‘Plenty of time...House...till Tom stops ringing’; and another, clearer than the rest, ‘D’you know I feel most unaccountably unwell. I must leave you a minute,’ and there appeared at my window the face I knew to be Sebastian’s, but not, as I had formerly seen it, alive and alight with gaiety; he looked at me for a moment with unfocused eyes and then, leaning forward well into the room, he was sick.  It was not unusual for dinner parties to end in that way; there was in fact a recognized tariff for the scout on such occasions; we were all learning, by trial and error, to carry our wine. There was also a kind of insane and endearing orderliness about Sebastian’s choice, in his extremity, of an open window. But, when all is said, it remained an unpropitious meeting.

His friends bore him to the gate and, in a few minutes, his host, an amiable Etonian of my year, returned to apologize. He, too, was tipsy and his explanations were repetitive and, towards the end, tearful. ‘The wines were too various,’ he said: ‘it was neither the quality nor the quantity that was at fault. It was the mixture. Grasp that and you have the root of the matter. To understand all is to forgive all.’



‘Yes,’ I said, but it was with a sense of grievance that I faced Lunt’s reproaches next morning.

‘A couple of jugs of mulled claret between the five of you,’ Lunt said, ‘and this had to happen. Couldn’t even get to the window. Those that can’t keep it down are better without it.’

‘It wasn’t one of my party. It was someone from out of college.’

‘Well, it’s just as nasty clearing it up, whoever it was.’

‘There’s five shillings on the sideboard.’

‘So I saw and thank you, but I’d rather not have the money and not have the mess, any morning.’

I took my gown and left him to his task. I still frequented the lecture-room in those days, and it was after eleven when I returned to college. I found my room full of flowers; what looked like, and, in fact, was, the entire day’s stock of a market-stall stood in every conceivable vessel in every part of the room. Lunt was secreting the last of them in brown paper preparatory to taking them home.  ‘Lunt, what is all this?’

‘The gentleman from last night, sir, he left a note for you.’ The note was written in conté crayon on a whole sheet of my choice Whatman H.P.  drawing paper: I am very contrite. Aloysius won’t speak to me until he sees I am forgiven, so please come to luncheon today. Sebastian Flyte. It was typical of him, I reflected, to assume I knew where he lived; but, then, I did know.  ‘A most amusing gentleman, I’m sure it’s quite a pleasure to clean up after him. I take it you’re lunching out, sir. I told Mr Collins and Mr Partridge so - they wanted to have their commons in here with you.’

‘Yes, Lunt, lunching out.’

That luncheon party - for party it proved to be - was the beginning o f a new epoch in my life.

I went there uncertainly, for it was foreign ground and there was a tiny, priggish, warning voice in my ear which in the tones of Collins told me it was seemly to hold back. But I was in search of love in those days, and I went full of curiosity and the faint, unrecognized apprehension that here, at last, I should find that low door in the wall, which others, I knew had found before me, which opened on an enclosed and enchanted garden, which was somewhere, not overlooked by any window, in the heart of that grey city.

Sebastian lived at Christ Church, high in Meadow Buildings. He was alone when I came, peeling a plover’s egg taken from the large nest of moss in the centre of his table.  ‘I’ve just counted them,’ he said. ‘There were five each and two over, so I’m having the two. I’m unaccountably hungry today. I put myself unreservedly in the hands of Dolbear and Goodall, and feel so drugged that I’ve begun to believe that the whole of yesterday evening was a dream. Please don’t wake me up.

He was entrancing, with that epicene beauty which in extreme youth sings aloud for love and withers at the first cold wind.

His room was filled with a. strange jumble of objects - a harmonium in a gothic case, an elephant’s-foot waste-paper basket, a dome of wax fruit, two disproportionately large Sèvres vases, framed drawings by Daumier - made all the more incongruous by the austere college furniture and the large luncheon table. His chimney-piece was covered in cards of invitation from London hostesses.

‘That beast Hobson has put Aloysius next door,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it’s as well, as there

wouldn’t have been any plovers’ eggs for him. D’you know, Hobson hates Aloysius. I wish I had a scout like yours. He was sweet to me this morning where some people might have been quite strict.’

The party assembled. There were three Etonian freshmen, mild, elegant, detached young men who had all been to a dance in London the night before, and spoke of it as though it had been the funeral of a near but unloved kinsman. Each as he came into the room made first for the plovers’ eggs, then noticed Sebastian and then myself with a polite lack of curiosity which seemed to say: ‘We should not dream of being so offensive as to suggest that you never met us before.’

‘The first this year,’ they said. ‘Where do you get them?’

‘Mummy sends them from Brideshead. They always lay early for her.’ When the eggs were gone and we were eating the lobster Newburg, the last guest arrived.

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘I couldn’t get away before. I was lunching with my p-p-preposterous tutor. He thought it ‘was very odd my leaving when I did. I told him I had to change for F-f-footer.’

He was tall, slim, rather swarthy, with large saucy eyes. The rest of us wore rough tweeds and brogues. He had on a smooth chocolate-brown suit with loud white stripes, suède shoes, a large bow-tie and he drew off yellow, wash-leather gloves as he came into the room; part Gallic, part Yankee, part, perhaps Jew; wholly exotic.  This, I did not need telling, was Anthony Blanche, the ‘aesthete’ par excellence, a byword of iniquity from Cherwell Edge to Somerville. He had been pointed out to me often in the streets, as he pranced along with his high peacock tread; I had heard his voice in the George challenging the conventions; and now meeting him, under the spell of Sebastian, I found myself enjoying him voraciously.  After luncheon he stood on, the balcony with a megaphone which had appeared surprisingly among the bric-a-brac of Sebastian’s room, and in languishing tones recited passages from The Waste Land to the sweatered and muffled throng that was on its way to the river.

‘I, Tiresias, have foresuffered all,’ he sobbed to them from the Venetian arches;

‘Enacted on this same d-divan or b-bed,

I who have sat by Thebes below the wall

And walked among the 1-1-lowest of the dead...’



And then, stepping lightly into the room, ‘How I have surprised them! All b-boatmen are Grace Darlings to me. ‘

We sat on sipping Cointreau while the mildest and most detached of the Etonians sang: ‘Home they brought her warrior dead’ to his own accompaniment on the harmonium.

It was four o’clock before we broke up.

Anthony Blanche was the first to go. He took formal and complimentary leave of each of us in turn. To Sebastian he said: ‘My dear, I should like to stick you full of barbed arrows like a p-p-pin-cushion,’ and to me: ‘I think it’s perfectly brilliant of Sebastian to have discovered you. Where do you lurk? I shall come down your burrow and ch-chivvy you out like an old st-t-toat.’

The others left soon after him. I rose to go with them, but Sebastian said: ‘Have some more Cointreau,’ so I stayed and later he said, ‘I must go to the Botanical Gardens.’ ‘Why? ‘

‘To see the ivy.’

It seemed a good enough reason and I went with him. He took my arm as we walked under the walls of Merton.

‘I’ve never been to the Botanical Gardens,’ I said.

‘Oh, Charles, what a lot you have to learn! There’s a beautiful arch there and more different kinds of ivy than I knew existed. I don’t know where I should be without the Botanical Gardens.’

When at length I returned to my rooms and found them exactly as I had left them that morning, I detected a jejune air that had not irked me before. What was wrong? Nothing except the golden daffodils seemed to be real. Was it the screen? I turned it face to the wall. That was better.

It was the end of the screen. Lunt never liked it, and after a few days he took it away, to an obscure refuge he had under the stairs, full of mops and buckets.  That day was the beginning of my friendship with Sebastian, and thus it came about, that morning in June, that I was lying beside him in the shade of the high elms watching the smoke from his lips drift up into the branches.

Presently we drove on and in another hour were hungry. We stopped at an inn, which was half farm also, and ate eggs and bacon, pickled walnuts and cheese, and drank our beer in a sunless parlour where an old clock ticked. in the shadows and a cat slept by the empty grate.

We drove on and in the early afternoon came to our destination: wrought-iron gates and Twin, classical lodges on a village green, an avenue, more gates, open park-land, a turn in the drive and suddenly a new and secret landscape opened before us. We were at the head of a valley and below us, half a mile distant, grey and gold amid a screen of boskage, shone the dome and columns of an old house.  ‘Well?’ said Sebastian, stopping the car. Beyond the dome lay receding steps of water and round it, guarding and hiding it, stood the soft hills.  ‘Well?’

‘What a place to live in!’ I said.

‘You must see the garden front and the fountain.’ He leaned forward and put the car into gear. ‘It’s where my family live’; and even then, rapt in the vision, I felt, momentarily, an ominous chill at the words he used - not, ‘that is my house’, but ‘it’s where my family live’.

‘Don’t worry,’ he continued, ‘they’re all away. You won’t have to meet them.’

‘But I should like to.’

‘Well, you can’t. They’re in London.’

We drove round the front into a side court - ‘Everything’s shut up. We’d better go in this way’ - and entered through the fortress-like, stone-flagged, stone-vaulted passages of the servants’ quarters - ‘I want you to meet Nanny Hawkins. That’s what we’ve come for’ - and climbed uncarpeted, scrubbed elm stairs, followed more passages of wide boards covered in the centre by a thin strip of drugget, through passages covered by linoleum, passing the wells of many minor staircases and many rows of crimson and gold fire buckets, up a final staircase, gated at the head. The dome was false, designed to be seen from below like the cupolas of Chambord. Its drum was merely an additional storey full of segmental rooms. Here were the nurseries.  Sebastian’s nanny was seated at the open window; the fountain lay before her, the lakes, the temple, and, far away on the last spur, a glittering obelisk; her hands lay open in her lap and loosely between them, a rosary; she was fast asleep. Long hours of work in her youth, authority in middle life, repose and security in her age, had set their stamp on her lined and serene face’.



‘Well, ‘ she said, waking; ‘this is a surprise.’

Sebastian kissed her.

‘Who’s this?’ she said, looking at me. ‘I don’ t think I know him.’

Sebastian introduced us.

‘You’ve come just the right time. Julia’s here for the day. Such a time they’re all having. It’s dull without them. Just Mrs Chandler and two of the girls and old Bert. And then they’re all going on holidays and the boiler’s being done out in August and you going to see his Lordship in Italy, and the rest on visits, it’ll be October before we’re settled down again. Still, I suppose Julia must have her enjoyment the same as other young ladies, though what they always want to go to London for in the best of the summer and the gardens all out, I never have understood. Father Phipps was here on Thursday and I said exactly the same to him,’ she added as though she had thus acquired sacerdotal authority for her opinion.

‘D’you say Julia’s here?’

‘Yes, dear, you must have just missed her. It’s the Conservative Women. Her Ladyship was to have done them, but she’s poorly. Julia won’t be long; she’s leaving immediately after her speech, before the tea.’

‘I’m afraid we may miss her again.’

‘Don’t do that, dear, it’ll be such a surprise to her seeing you, though she ought to wait for the tea, I told her, it’s what the Conservative Women come for. Now what’s the news? Are you studying hard at your books?’

‘Not very, I’m afraid, nanny,’

‘Ah, cricketing all day long, I expect, like your brother. He found time to study, too, though. He’s not been here since Christmas, but he’ll be here for the Agricultural, I expect. Did you see this piece about Julia in the paper? She brought it down for me. Not that it’s nearly good enough of her, but what it says is very nice. “The lovely daughter whom Lady Marchmain is bringing out this season...witty as well as ornamental...the most popular débutante”, well that’s no more than the truth, though it was a shame to cut her hair; such a lovely head of hair she had, just like her Ladyship’s. I said to Father Phipps it’s not natural. He said: “Nuns do it,” and I said, “Well, surely, father, you aren’t going to make a nun out of Lady Julia? The very idea!”’ Sebastian and the old woman talked on. It was a charming room, oddly shaped to conform with the curve of the dome. The walls were papered in a pattern of ribbon and roses. There was a rocking horse in the corner and an oleograph of the Sacred Heart over the mantelpiece; the empty grate was hidden by a bunch of pampas grass and bulrushes; laid out on the top of the chest of drawers and carefully dusted, were the collection of small presents which had been brought home to her at various times by her children, carved shell and lava, stamped leather, painted wood, china, bog-oak, damascened silver, blue-john, alabaster, coral, the souvenirs of many holidays.  Presently nanny said: ‘Ring the bell, dear, and we’ll have some tea. I usually go down to Mrs Chandler, but we’ll have it up here today. My usual girl has gone to London with the others. The new one is just up from the village. She didn’t know anything at first, but she’s coming along nicely. Ring the bell.’

But Sebastian said we had to go.

‘And miss Julia? She will be upset when she hears. It would have been such a surprise for her.’

‘Poor nanny,’ said Sebastian when we left the nursery. ‘She does have such a dull life.  I’ve a good mind to bring her to Oxford to live with me, only she’d always be trying to send me to church. We must go quickly before my sister gets back.’ ‘Which are you ashamed of, her or me?’



‘I’m ashamed of myself,’ said Sebastian gravely. ‘I’m not going to have you get mixed up with my family. They’re so madly charming. All my life they’ve been taking things away from me. If they once got hold of you with their charm, they’d make you their friend not mine, and I won’t let them.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’m perfectly content. But am I not going to be allowed to see any more of the house?’

‘It’s all shut up. We came to see nanny. On Queen Alexandra’s day it’s all open for a shilling. Well, come and look if you want to...’

He led me through a baize door into a dark corridor; I could dimly see a gilt-cornice and vaulted plaster above; then, opening a heavy, smooth-swinging, mahogany door, he led me into a darkened hall. Light streamed through the cracks in the shutters. Sebastian unbarred one, and folded it back; the mellow afternoon sun flooded in, over the bare floor, the vast, twin fireplaces of sculptured marble, the coved ceiling frescoed with classic deities and heroes, the gilt mirrors and scagliola pilasters, the islands of sheeted furniture. It was a glimpse only, such as might be had from the t

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Chapter 2
TOWARDS the end of that summer term I received the last visit and Grand Remonstrance of my cousin Jasper. I was just free of the schools, having taken the last paper of History Previous on the afternoon before; Jasper’s subfuse suit and white tie proclaimed him still in the thick of it; he had, too, the exhausted but resentful air of one who fears he has failed to do himself full justice on the subject of Pindar’s Orphism.  Duty alone had brought him to my rooms, that afternoon at great inconvenience to himself and, as it happened, to me, who, when he caught me in the door, was on my way to make final arrangements about a dinner I was giving that evening. It was one of several parties designed to comfort Hardcastle - one of the tasks that had lately fallen to Sebastian and me since, by leaving his car out, we had got him into grave trouble with the proctors.

Jasper would not sit down; this was to be no cosy chat; he stood with his back to the fireplace and, in his own phrase, talked to me ‘like an uncle’.  ‘...I’ve tried to get in touch with you several times in the last week or two. In fact, I have the impression you are avoiding me. If that is so, Charles, I can’t say I’m surprised.  ‘You may think it none of my business, but I feel a sense of responsibility. You know as well as I do that since your - well, since the war, your father has not been really in touch with things lives in his own world. I don’t want to sit back and see you making mistakes which a word in season might save you from.

‘I expected you to make mistakes your first year. We all do. I got in with some thoroughly objectionable O.S.C.U. men who ran a mission to hop-pickers during the long vac. But you, my dear Charles, whether you realize it or not, have gone straight, hook line and sinker, into the very worst set in the University. You may think that, living in digs, I don’t know what goes on in college; but I hear things. In fact, I hear all too much. I find that I’ve become a figure of mockery on your account at the Dining Club. There’s that chap Sebastian Flyte you seem inseparable from. He may be all right, I don’t know. His brother Brideshead was a very sound fellow. But this friend of yours looks odd to me and he gets himself talked about. Of course, they’re an odd family. The Marchmains have lived apart since the war, you know. An extraordinary thing; everyone thought they were a devoted couple. Then he went off to France with his Yeomanry and just never came, back. It was as if he’d been killed. She’s a Roman Catholic, so she can’t get a divorce - or won’t, I expect. You can do anything at Rome with money, and they’re enormously rich. Flyte, may be all right, but Anthony Blanche - now there’s a man there’s absolutely no excuse for.’

‘I don’t, particularly like him myself,’ I said.

‘Well, he’s always hanging round here, and the stiffer element in college don’t like it.  They can’t stand him at the House. He was in Mercury again last night. None of these people you go about with pull any weight in their own colleges, and that’s the real test.  They think because they’ve got a lot of money to throw about, they can do anything.  ‘And that’s another thing. I don’t know what allowance my uncle makes you, but I don’t mind betting you’re spending double. All this,’ he said, including in a wide sweep of his hand the evidence of profligacy about him. It was true; my room had cast its austere winter garments, and, by not very slow stages, assumed a richer wardrobe. ‘Is that paid for?’ (the box of a hundred cabinet Partagas on the sideboard) ‘or those?’ (a dozen frivolous, new books on the table) ‘or those?’ (a Lalique decanter and glasses) ‘or that peculiarly noisome object?’ (a human skull lately purchased from the School of Medicine, which, resting in a bowl of roses, formed, at the moment, the chief decoration of my table. It bore the motto ‘Et in Arcadia ego’ inscribed on its forehead.) ‘Yes,’ I said, glad to be clear of one charge. ‘I had to pay cash for the skull.’ ‘You can’t be doing any work. Not that that matters, particularly if you’re making something of your career elsewhere - but are you? Have you spoken at the Union or at any of the clubs? Are you connected with any of the magazines? Are you even making a position in the O.U.D.S.? And your clothes!’ continued my cousin. ‘When you came up I remember advising you to dress as you would in a country house. Your present get-up seems an unhappy compromise between the correct wear for a theatrical party at Maidenhead and a glee-singing competition in a garden suburb.  ‘And drink - no one minds a man getting tight once or twice a term. In fact, he ought to, on certain occasions. But I hear you’re constantly seen drunk in the middle of the afternoon.’

He paused, his duty discharged. Already the perplexities of the examination school were beginning to reassert themselves in his mind.

‘I’m sorry, Jasper,’ I said. ‘I know it must be embarrassing for you, but I happen to like this bad set. I like getting drunk at luncheon, and though I haven’t yet spent quite double my allowance, I undoubtedly shall before the end of term. I usually have a glass of champagne about this time. Will you join me?’

So my cousin Jasper despaired and, I learned later, wrote to his father on the subject of my excesses who, in his turn, wrote to my father, who took no action or particular thought in the matter, partly because he had disliked my uncle for nearly sixty years and partly because, as Jasper had said, he lived in his own world now, since my mother’s death.

Thus, in broad outline, Jasper sketched the more prominent features of my first year; some detail may be added on the same scale.

I had committed myself earlier to spend the Easter vacation with Collins and, though I would have broken my word without compunction and left my former friend friendless, had Sebastian made a sign, no sign was made; accordingly Collins and I spent several economical and instructive weeks together in Ravenna. A bleak wind blew from the Adriatic among those mighty tombs. In an hotel bedroom designed for a warmer season, I wrote long letters to Sebastian and called daily at the post: office for his answers. There were two, each from a different address, neither giving any plain news of himself, for he wrote in a style of remote fantasy - ...’Mummy and two attendant poets have three bad colds in the head, so I have come here. It is the feast of S.  Nichodemus of Thyatira, who was martyred by having goatskin nailed to his pate, and is accordingly the patron of bald heads. Tell Collins, who I am sure will be bald before us. There are too many people here, but one, praise heaven! Has an ear trumpet, and that keeps me in good humour. And now I must try to catch a fish. It is too far to send it to you so I will keep the backbone...’ - which left me fretful. Collins made notes for a little thesis pointing out the inferiority of the original mosaics to their photographs. Here was planted the seed of what became his life’s harvest. When, many years later, there appeared the first massive volume of his still unfinished work on Byzantine Art, I was touched to find among two pages of polite, preliminary acknowledgements of debt, my own name: ‘...to Charles Ryder, with the aid of whose all-seeing yes I first saw the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia and San Vitale...’

I sometimes wonder whether, had it not been for Sebastian, I might have trodden the same path as Collins round the cultural water-wheel. My father in his youth sat for All Souls and, in a year of hot competition, failed; other successes and honours came his way later, but that early failure impressed itself on him, and through him on me, so that I came up with an ill-considered sense that there lay the proper and natural goal of the life of reason. I, too, should doubtless have failed, but, having failed, I might perhaps have slipped into a less august academic life elsewhere. It is conceivable, but not, I believe, likely, for the hot spring of anarchy rose from the depths where was no solid earth, and burst into the sunlight - a rainbow in its cooling vapours - with a power the rocks could not repress.

In the event, that Easter vacation formed a short stretch of level road in the precipitous descent of which Jasper warned me. Descent or ascent? It seems to me that I grew younger daily with each adult habit that I acquired. I had lived a lonely childhood and a boyhood, straitened by war and overshadowed by bereavement; to the hard bachelordom of English adolescence, the premature dignity and authority of the school system, I had added, a sad and grim strain of my own. Now, that summer term with Sebastian, it seemed as though I was being given a brief spell of what I had never known, a happy childhood, and though its toys were silk shirts and liqueurs and cigars and its naughtiness high in the catalogue of grave sins, there was something of nursery freshness about us that fell little short of the joy of innocence. At the end of the term I took my first schools; it was necessary to pass, if I was to remain at Oxford and pass I did, after a week in which I forbade Sebastian my rooms and sat up to a late hour, with iced black, coffee and charcoal biscuits, cramming myself with the neglected texts. I remember no syllable of them now, but the other, more ancient lore which I acquired that term will be with me in one shape or another to my last hour.  ‘I like this bad set and I like getting drunk at luncheon’; that was enough then. Is more needed now?

Looking back, now, after twenty years, there is little I would have left undone or done otherwise. I could match my cousin Jasper’s game-cock maturity with a sturdier fowl. I could tell him that all the wickedness of that time was like the spirit they mix with the pure grape of the Douro, heady stuff full of dark ingredients; it at once enriched and retarded the whole process of adolescence as the spirit checks the fermentation of the wine, renders it undrinkable, so, that it must lie in the dark year in, year out, until it is brought up at last fit for the table.

I could tell him, too, that to know and love one other, human being is the root of all wisdom. But I felt no need for these sophistries as I sat before my cousin, saw him, freed from his inconclusive struggle with Pindar, in his dark grey suit, his white tie, his scholar’s gown; heard his grave tones and, all the time, savoured the gillyflowers in full bloom under my windows. I had my secret and sure defence, like a talisman worn in the bosom, felt for in the moment of danger, found and firmly grasped. So I told him what was not in fact the truth, that I usually had a glass of champagne about that time, and asked him to join me.

On the day after Jasper’s Grand Remonstrance I received another, in different terms and from an unexpected source.

All the term I had been seeing rather more of Anthony Blanche than my liking for him warranted. I lived now among his friends, but our frequent meetings were more of his choosing than mine, for I held him in considerable awe.  In years, he was barely my senior, but he seemed then to be burdened with the experience of the Wandering Jew. He was indeed a nomad of no nationality.  An attempt had been made in his childhood to make an Englishman of him; he was two years at Eton; then in the middle of the war he had defied the submarines, rejoined his mother in the Argentine, and a clever and audacious schoolboy was added to the valet, the maid, the two chauffeurs, the pekinese, and the second husband. Criss-cross about the world he travelled with them, waxing in wickedness like a Hogarthian page boy. When peace came they returned to Europe, to hotels and furnished villas spas, casinos, and bathing beaches. At this age of fifteen, for a wager; he was disguised as a girl and taken to play at the big table in the Jockey Club at Buenos Aires; he dined with Proust and Gide and was on closer terms with Cocteau and Diaghilev; Firbank sent him novels with fervent inscriptions; he had aroused three irreconcilable feuds in Capri; by his own account he had practised black art in Cefalù and had been cured of drug-taking in California and of an Oedipus complex in Vienna.

At times we all seemed like children beside him - at most times, but not always, for there was a bluster and zest in Anthony which the rest of us had shed somewhere in our more leisured adolescence, on the playing field or in the school-room; his vices flourished less in the pursuit of pleasure than in the wish to shock, and in the midst of his polished exhibitions I was often reminded of an urchin I had once seen in Naples, capering derisively with obscene, unambiguous gestures, before a party of English tourists; as he told the tale of his evening at the gaming table, one could see in the roll of his eye just how he had glanced, covertly, over the dwindling pile of chips at his stepfather’s party; while we had been rolling one another in the mud at football and gorging ourselves with crumpets, Anthony had helped oil fading beauties on sub-tropical sands and had sipped his apéritif in smart little bars, so that the savage we had tamed was still rampant in him. He was cruel, too, in the wanton, insect-maiming manner of the very young, and fearless like a little boy, charging, head down, small fists whirling, at the school prefects.

He asked me to dinner, and I was a little disconcerted to find that we were to dine alone. ‘We are going to Thame,’ he said. ‘There is a delightful hotel there, which luckily doesn’t appeal to the Bullingdon. We will, drink Rhine wine and imagine ourselves...where? Not on a j-j-jaunt with J-J-Jorrocks anyway. But first we will have our apéritif.’

At the George bar he ordered ‘Four Alexandra cocktails, please,’ ranged them before him with a loud ‘Yum-yum’ which drew every eye, outraged, upon him. ‘I expect you would prefer sherry, but, my dear Charles, you are not going to have sherry. Isn’t this a delicious concoction? You don’t like it? Then I will drink it for you. One, two, three, four, down the red lane they go. How the students stare!’ And he led me out to the waiting motorcar.

‘I hope we shall find no undergraduates there. I am a little out of sympathy with them for the moment. You heard about their treatment of me on Thursday? It was too naughty. Luckily I was wearing my oldest pyjamas and it was an evening of oppressive heat, or I might have been seriously cross.’ Anthony had a habit of putting his face near one when he spoke; the sweet and creamy cocktail had tainted his breath. I leaned away from him in the comer of the hired car.

‘Picture me, my dear, alone and studious. I had just bought a rather forbidding book called Antic Hay, Which I knew I must read before going to Garsington on Sunday, because everyone was bound to talk about it, and it’s so banal saying you have not read the book of the moment, if you haven’t. The solution I suppose is not to go to Garsington, but that didn’t occur to me until this moment. So, my dear, I had an omelet and a peach and a bottle of Vichy water and put on my pyjamas and settled down to read. I must say my thoughts wandered, but I kept turning the pages and watching the light fade, which in Peckwater, my dear, is quite an experience - as darkness falls the stone seems positively to decay under one’s eyes. I was reminded of some of those leprous fa?ade’s in the vieux port at Marseille, until suddenly I was disturbed by such a bawling and cater-wauling as you never heard, and there, down in the little piazza, I saw a mob of about twenty terrible young men, and do know what they were chanting? “We want Blanche. We want Blanche,” in a kind of litany. Such a public declaration! Well, I saw it was all up with Mr Huxley for the evening, and, I must say I had reached a point of tedium when any interruption was welcome. I was stirred by the bellows, but, do you know, the louder they shouted, the shyer they seemed? They kept saying “Where’s Boy?” “He’s Boy Mulcaster’s friend,” “Boy must bring him down.” Of course you’ve met Boy? He’s always popping in and out of dear Sebastian’s rooms. He’s everything we dagos expect of an English lord. A great parti I can assure you. All the young ladies in London are after him. He’s very hoity-toity with them I’m told. My dear, he’s scared stiff. A great oaf - that’s Mulcaster - and what’s more, my dear, a cad. He came to le Touquet at Easter and, in some extraordinary way, I seemed to have asked him to stay.  He lost some infinitesimal sum at cards, and as a result expected me to pay for all his treats - well, Mulcaster was in this party; I could see his ungainly form shuffling about below and hear him saying: “It’s no good. He’s out. Let’s go back and have a drink?” So then I put my head out of the window and called to him; “Good evening, Mulcaster, old sponge and toady, are you lurking among the hobbledehoys? Have you come to repay me the three hundred francs I lent you for the poor drab you picked up in the Casino? It was a niggardly sum for her trouble, and what a trouble, Mulcaster. Come up and pay me, poor hooligan!”

‘That, my dear, seemed to put a little life into them, and up the stairs they came,

clattering. About six of them came into my room, the rest stood mouthing outside. My dear, they looked too extraordinary. They had been having one of their ridiculous club dinners, and they were all wearing coloured tail-coats - a sort of livery. “My dears,” I

said to them, “you look like a lot of most disorderly- footmen.” Then one of them, rather a juicy little piece, accused me of unnatural vices. “My dear,” I said, “I may be inverted but I am not insatiable. Come back when you are alone.” Then they began to blaspheme in a very shocking manner, and suddenly I, too, began to be annoyed. “Really,” I thought, “when I think of all the hullabaloo there was when I was seventeen, and the Duc de Vincennes (old Armand, of course, not Philippe) challenged me to a duel for an affair of the heart, and very much more than the heart, I assure you, with the duchess (Stefanie, of course, not old Poppy) - now, to submit to impertinence from these pimply, tipsy virgins...” Well, I gave up the light, bantering tone and let myself be just a little offensive.

‘Then they began saying, “Get hold of him. Put him in Mercury.” Now as you know I have two sculptures by Brancusi and several pretty things and I did not want them to start getting rough, so I said, pacifically, “Dear sweet clodhoppers, if you knew anything of sexual psychology you would know that nothing could give me keener pleasure than to be manhandled by you meaty boys. It would be art ecstasy of the very naughtiest kind. So if any of you wishes to be my partner in joy come and seize me. If, on the other hand, you simply wish to satisfy some obscure and less easily classified libido and see me bathe, come with me quietly, dear louts, to the fountain.” ‘Do you know, they all looked a little foolish at that? I walked down with them and no one came within a yard of me. Then I got into the fountain and, you know, it was really most refreshing, so I sported there a little and struck some attitudes, until they turned about and walked sulkily home, and I heard Boy Mulcaster saying, “Anyway, we did put him in Mercury.” You know, Charles, that is just what they’ll be saying in thirty years time. When they’re all married to scraggy little women like hens and have cretinous porcine sons like themselves getting drunk at the same club dinner in the same coloured coats, they’ll still say, when my name is mentioned, “We put him in Mercury one night,” and their barnyard daughters will snigger and think their father was quite a dog in his day, and what a pity he’s grown so dull.’ Oh, la fatigue du Nord!’ It was not, I knew, the first time Anthony had been ducked, but the incident seemed much on his mind, for he reverted to it again at dinner.  ‘Now you can’t imagine an unpleasantness like that happening to Sebastian, can you?’

‘No.’ I said; I could not.

‘No, Sebastian has charm’; he held up his glass of hock to the candle-light and repeated, ‘such charm. Do you know, I went round to call on Sebastian next day? I thought the tale of my evening’s adventures might amuse him. And what do you think I found - besides, of course, his amusing toy bear? Mulcaster and two of his cronies of the night before. They looked very foolish and Sebastian, as composed as Mrs P-p-ponsonby-de-Tomkyns in P-p-punch, said, “You know Lord Mulcaster, of course,” and the oafs said, “Oh, we just came to see how Aloysius was,” for they find the toy bear just as amusing as we do - or, shall I hint, just a teeny bit more? So off they went. And I said “S-s-sebastian, do you realize that those s-sycophantic s-slugs insulted me last night, and but for the warmth of the weather might have given me a s-s-severe cold,” and he said “Poor things. I expect they were drunk.” He has a kind -word for everyone, you see; he has such charm.

‘I can see he has completely captivated you, my dear Charles. Well, I’m not surprised.

Of course, you haven’t known him as long as I have. I was At school with him. You wouldn’t believe it, but in those days people used to say he was a little bitch; just a few unkind boys who knew him well. Everyone in pop liked him, of course and all the masters. I expect it was really that they were jealous of him. He never seemed to get into trouble. The rest of us were constantly being beaten in the most savage way, on the most frivolous pretexts, but never Sebastian. He was the only boy in my house who was never beaten at all. I can see him now, at the age of fifteen. He never had spots you know; all the other boys were spotty. Boy Mulcaster was positively scrofulous. But not Sebastian. Or did he have one, rather a stubborn one at the back of his neck? I think, now, that he did. Narcissus, with one pustule. He and I were both Catholics, so we used to go to mass together. He used to spend such a time in the confessional, I used to wonder what he had to say, because he never did anything wrong; never quite; at least, he never got punished. Perhaps he was just being charming through the grille. I left under what is called a cloud, you know - I can’t think why it is called that; it seemed to me a glare of unwelcome light; the process involved a series of harrowing interviews with m’ tutor. It was disconcerting to find how observant that mild old man proved to be. The things he knew about me, which I thought no one - except possibly Sebastian - knew. It was a lesson never to trust mild old men - or charming school boys; which?  ‘Shall we have another bottle of this wine, or of something different? Something different, some bloody, old Burgundy, eh? You see, Charles, I understand all your tastes. You must come to France with me and drink the wine. We will go at the vintage.  I will take you to stay at the Vincennes. It is all made up with them now, and he has finest wine in France; he and the Prince de Portallon - I will take you there, too. I think they would amuse you, and of course they would love you. I want to introduce, you to a lot of my friends. I have told Cocteau about you. He is all agog. You see, my dear Charles, you are that very rare thing, An Artist. Oh yes, you must not look bashful.  Behind that cold, English, phlegmatic exterior you I are An Artist. I have seen those little drawings you keep hidden away in your room. They are exquisite. And you, dear Charles, if you will understand me, are not exquisite; but not at all Artists are not exquisite. I am; Sebastian, in a kind of way, is exquisite, but the artist is an eternal type, solid, purposeful, observant - and, beneath it all, p-p-passionate, eh, Charles?  ‘But who recognizes you? The other day I was speaking to Sebastian about you, and I said, “But you know Charles is an artist. He draws like a young Ingres,” and do you know what Sebastian said? - “Yes, Aloysius draws very prettily, too, but of course he’s rather more modern.’ So charming; so amusing.

‘Of course those that have charm don’t really need brains. Stefanie de Vincennes really tickled me four years ago. My dear, I even used the same coloured varnish for my toe-nails. I used her words and lit my cigarette in the same way and spoke with her tone on the telephone so that the duke used to carry on long and intimate conversations with me, thinking that I was her. It was largely that which put his mind on pistol and sabres in such an old-fashioned manner. My step-father thought it an excellent education for me. He thought it would make me grow out of what he calls my “English habits”. Poor man, he is very South American...I never heard anyone speak an ill word of Stefanie, except-the Duke: and she, my dear, is positively cretinous.’ Anthony had lost his stammer in the deep waters of his old romance. It came floating back to him, momentarily, with the coffee and liqueurs. ‘Real G-g-green Chartreuse, made before the expulsion of the monks. There are five distinct tastes as it trickles over the tongue. It is like swallowing a sp-spectrum. Do you wish Sebastian was with us? Of course you do. Do I? I wonder. How our thoughts do run on that little bundle of charm to be sure. I think you must be mesmerizing me, Charles. I bring you here, at very considerable expense, my dear, simply to talk about myself, and I find I talk of no one except Sebastian. It’s odd because there’s really no mystery about him except how he came to be born of such a very sinister family.

‘I forget if you know his family. I don’t suppose he’ll ever let you meet them. He’s far too clever. They’re quite, quite gruesome. Do you ever feel there is something a teeny bit gruesome about Sebastian? No? Perhaps I imagine it; it’s simply that he looks so like the rest of them, sometimes.

‘There’s Brideshead who’s something archaic, out of a cave that’s been sealed for centuries. He has the face as though an Aztec sculptor had attempted a portrait of Sebastian; he’s a learned bigot, a ceremonious barbarian, a snow-bound lama...Well, anything you like. And Julia, you know what she looks like. Who could help it? Her photograph appears as regularly in the illustrated papers as the advertisements for Beecham’s Pills. A face of flawless Florentine quattrocento beauty; almost anyone else with those looks would have been tempted to become artistic; not Lady Julia; she’s as smart as - well, as smart as Stefanie. Nothing greenery-yallery about her. So gay, so correct, so unaffected. I wonder if she’s incestuous. I doubt it; all she wants is power.  There ought to be an Inquisition especially set up to burn her. There’s another sister, too, I believe, in the schoolroom. Nothing is known of her yet except that her governess went mad and drowned herself not long ago. I’m sure she’s abominable. So you see there was really very little left for poor Sebastian to do except be sweet and charming.  ‘It’s when one gets to the parents that a bottomless pit opens. My dear, such a pair.  How does Lady Marchmain manage it? It is one of the questions of the Age. You have seen her? Very, very beautiful; no artifice her hair just turning grey in elegant silvery streaks, no rouge very pale, huge-eyed - it is extraordinary how large those eyes look and how the lids are veined blue where anyone else would have touched them with a finger-tip of paint; pearls and a few great starlike jewels, heirlooms, in ancient settings, a voice as quiet as a prayer, and as powerful. And Lord. Marchmain, well, a little fleshy perhaps, but very handsome, a magnifico, a voluptuary, Byronic, bored, infectiously slothful, not at all the sort of man you would expect to see easily put down. And that Reinhardt nun, my dear, has destroyed him but utterly. He daren’t show his great purple face anywhere. He is the last, historic, authentic case of someone being hounded out of society. Brideshead won’t see him, the girls mayn’t, Sebastian does, of course, because he’s, so charming. No one else goes near him. Why, last September Lady Marchmain was in Venice staying at the Palazzo Fogliere. To tell you the truth she was just a teeny bit ridiculous in Venice. She never went near the Lido, of course, but she was always drifting about the canals in a gondola with Sir Adrian Porson - such attitudes, my dear, like Madame Récamier; once I passed them and I caught the eye of the Fogliere gondolier, whom, of course, I knew, and, my dear, he gave me such a wink. She came to all the parties in a sort of cocoon of gossamer, my dear, as though she were part of some Celtic play or a heroine from Maeterlinck; and she would go to church. Well, as you know, Venice is the one town in Italy where no one ever has gone to church.  Anyway, she was rather a figure of fun that year, and then who, should turn up, in the Maltons’ yacht, but poor Lord Marchmain. He’d taken a little palace there, but was he allowed in? Lord Malton put him and his valet into a dinghy, my dear, and transhipped him there and then into the steamer for Trieste. He hadn’t even his mistress with him. It was her yearly holiday. No one ever knew how they heard Lady Marchmain was there.  And, do you know, for a week Lord Malton slunk about as if he was in disgrace? And he was in disgrace. The Principessa Fogliere gave a ball and Lord Malton was not asked nor anyone from his yacht - even the de Pa?oses. How does Lady Marchmain do it? She has convinced the world that Lord Marchmain is a monster. And what is the truth? They were married for fifteen years or so and then Lord Marchmain went to the war; he never came back but formed a connection with a highly talented dancer. There are a thousand such cases. She refuses to divorce him because she is so pious. Well, there have been cases of that before. Usually, it arouses sympathy for the adulterer; not for Lord Marchmain though. You would think that the old reprobate had tortured her, stolen her patrimony, flung her out of doors, roasted, stuffed, and eaten his children, and gone frolicking about wreathed in all the flowers of Sodom and Gomorrah; instead of what?

Begetting four splendid children by her, handing over to her Brideshead and Marchmain House in St James’s and all the money she can possibly want to spend, while he sits with a snowy shirt front at Larue’s with a personable, middle-aged lady of the theatre, in most conventional Edwardian style. And she meanwhile keeps a small gang of enslaved and emaciated prisoners for her exclusive enjoyment. She sucks their blood. You can see the tooth marks all Adrian Porson’s shoulders when he is bathing . And he, my dear, was the greatest, the only, poet of our time. He’s bled dry; there’s nothing left of him.  There are five or is others of all ages and sexes, like wraiths following her around. They never escape once she’s had her teeth into them. It is withcraft. There’s no other explanation.

‘So you see we mustn’t blame Sebastian if at times he seems a little insipid - but then you don’t blame him, do you, Charles? With that very murky background, what could he do except set up as being simple and charming, particularly as he isn’t very well endowed in the Top Storey. We couldn’t claim that for him, could we, much as we love him?

‘Tell me candidly, have you ever heard Sebastian say anything you have remembered for five minutes? You know, when I hear him talk, I am reminded of that in some ways nauseating picture of “Bubbles”. Conversation should be like juggling; up go the balls and the plates, up and over, in and out, good solid objects that glitter in the footlights ‘and fall with a bang if you miss them. But when dear Sebastian speaks it is like a little sphere of soapsud drifting off the end of an old clay pipe, anywhere, full of rainbow light for a second and then phut! vanished, with nothing left at all, nothing.’ And then Anthony spoke of the proper experiences of an artist, of the appreciation and criticism and stimulus he should expect from his friends, of the hazards he should take in the pursuit of emotion, of one thing and another while I fell drowsy and let my mind wander a little. So we drove ho

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Chapter 3
I RETURNED home for the Long Vacation without plans and without money. To cover end-of-term expenses I had sold my Omega screen to Collins for ten pounds, of which I now kept four; my last cheque overdrew my account my a few shillings, and I had been told that, without my father’s authority, I must draw no more. My next allowance was not due until October. I was thus faced with a bleak prospect and, turning the matter over in my mind, I felt something not far off remorse for the prodigality,of the preceding weeks.

I had started the term with my battels paid and over a hundred pounds in hand. All that had gone, and not a penny paid out where I could get credit. There had been no reason for it, no great pleasure unattainable else; it had gone in ducks and drakes.  Sebastian used to tease me - ‘You spend money, like a bookie’ - but all of it went on and with him. His own finances were perpetually, vaguely distressed. ‘It’s all done by lawyers,’ he said helplessly, ‘and I suppose they embezzle a lot. Anyway, I never seem to get much. Of course, mummy would give me anything I asked for.’ ‘Then why don’t you ask her for a proper allowance?’ ‘Oh, mummy likes everything to be a present. She’s so sweet,’ he said, adding one more line to the picture I was forming of her.

Now Sebastian had disappeared into that other life of his where I was not asked to follow, and I was left, instead, forlorn and regretful.

How ungenerously in later life we disclaim the virtuous moods of our youth, living in retrospect long, summer days of unreflecting dissipation. There is no candour in a story of early manhood which leaves out of account the home-sickness for nursery morality,

the regrets and resolutions of amendment, the black hours which, like zero on the roulette table, turn up with roughly calculable regularity.  Thus I spent the first afternoon at home, wandering from room to room, looking from the plate-glass windows in turn on the garden and the street, in a mood of vehement self-reproach.

My father, I knew, was in the house, but his library was inviolable, and it was not until just before dinner that he appeared to greet me. He was then in his late fifties, but it was his idiosyncrasy to seem much older than his years; to see him one might have put him at seventy, to hear him speak at nearly eighty. He came to me now, with the shuffling, mandarin-tread which he affected, and a shy smile of welcome. When he dined at home - and he seldom dined elsewhere - he wore a frogged velvet smoking suit of the kind which had been fashionable many years before and was to be so again, but, at that time, was a deliberate archaism.

‘My dear boy, I they never told me you were here.’ Did you have a very exhausting journey? They gave you tea? You are well? I have just made a somewhat audacious I purchase from Sonerscheins - a terra-cotta bull of the fifth century. I was examining it and forgot your arrival. Was the carriage very full? You had a corner seat? (He travelled so rarely himself that to hear of others doing so always excited his solicitude.) ‘Hayter brought you the evening paper? There is no news, of course - such a lot of nonsense.’

Dinner was announced. My father from long habit took a book with him to the table and then, remembering my presence, furtively dropped it under his chair. ‘What do you like to drink? Hayter, what have we for Mr Charles to drink?’ ‘There’s some whisky.’

‘There’s whisky. Perhaps you like something, else? What else have we?’

‘There isn’t anything else in the house, sir.’

‘There’s nothing else. You must tell Hayter what you would like and he will get it in. I never keep any wine now. I am forbidden it and no one comes to see me. But while you are here, you must have what you like. You are here for long.?’ ‘I’m not quite sure, father.’

‘It’s a very long vacation,’ he said wistfully. ‘In my day we used to go on what were called reading parties, always in mountainous areas. Why?. Why,’ he repeated petulantly, ‘should alpine scenery be thought conducive to study?’ ‘I thought of putting in some time at an art school - in the life class.’ ‘My dear boy, you’ll find them all shut. The students go to Barbizon or such places and paint in the open air. There was an institution in my day called a “sketching club”’ - mixed sexes’ (snuffle), ‘bicycles’ (snuffle), ‘pepper-and-salt knickerbockers, holland umbrellas, and, it was popularly thought, free love’ (snuffle), such a lot of nonsense. I expect they still go on. You might try that.’

‘One of the problems of the vacation is money, father.’

‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry about a thing like that at your age.’

‘You see, I’ve run rather short.’

‘Yes?’ said my father without any sound of interest.

‘In fact I don’t quite know how I’m going to get through the next two months.’ ‘Well, I’m the worst person to come to for advice. I’ve never been “short” as you so painfully call it. And yet what else could you say? Hard up? Penurious? Distressed?

Embarrassed? Stonybroke?’ (snuffle). ‘On the rocks? In Queer Street? Let us say you are in Queer Street and leave it at that. Your grandfather once said to me, “Live within your means, but if you do get into difficulties, come to me. Don’t go to the Jews.” Such a lot of nonsense. You try. Go to those gentlemen in Jermyn Street who offer advances on note of hand only. My dear boy, they won’t give you a sovereign.’ ‘Then what do you suggest my doing?’

‘Your cousin Melchior was imprudent with his investments and got into a very queer street. He went to Australia.’ I had not seen my father so gleeful since he found two pages of second-century papyrus between the leaves of a Lombardic breviary.  ‘Hayter, I’ve dropped my book.’

It was recovered for him from under his feet and propped against the épergne. For the rest of dinner he was silent save for an occasional snuffle of merriment which could not, I thought be provoked by the work he read.

Presently we left the table and sat in I the garden-room; and there, plainly, he put me out of his mind; his thoughts, I knew, were far away, in those distant ages where he moved at ease, where time passed in centuries and all the figures were defaced and the names of his companions were corrupt readings of words of quite other meaning. He sat in an attitude which to anyone else would have been one of extreme discomfort, askew in his upright armchair, with his book held high and obliquely to the light. Now and then he took a gold pencil-case from his watchchain and made an entry in the margin.  The windows were open to the summer night; the ticking of the clocks, the distant murmur of traffic on the Bayswater Road, and my-father’s regular turning of the pages were the only sounds. I had thought it impolitic to smoke a cigar while pleading poverty; now in desperation I went to my room and fetched one. My father did not look up. I pierced it, lit it, and with renewed confidence said, ‘Father, you surely don’t want me to spend the whole vacation here with you?’

‘Eh?’

‘Won’t you find it rather a bore having me at home for so long?’ ‘I trust I should not betray such an emotion even if I felt it, said my father mildly and turned back to his book.

The evening passed. Eventually all over the room clocks of diverse pattern musically chimed eleven. My, father closed his book and removed his spectacles. ‘You are very welcome, my dear boy,’ he said. ‘Stay as long as you find it convenient.’ At the door he paused and turned back. ‘Your cousin Melchior worked his passage to Australia before the mast.’ (Snuffle.) ‘What, I wonder, is “before the mast”?’

During the sultry week that followed, my relations with my father deteriorated sharply. I saw little of him during the day; he spent hours on end in the library; now and then he emerged and I would hear him calling over the banisters: ‘Hayter, get me a cab.’ Then he would be away, sometimes for half an hour or less, sometimes a whole day; his errands were never explained. Often I saw trays going up to him at odd hours, laden with meagre nursery snacks - rusks, glasses of milk, bananas, and so forth. If we met in a passage or on the stairs he would look at me vacantly and say ‘Ah-ha,’ or ‘Very warm,’ or ‘Splendid, splendid,’ but in the evening, when he came to the garden-room in his velvet smoking suit, he always greeted me formally.

The dinner table was our battlefield.

On the second evening I took my book with me to the dining-room. His mind and wandering eye fastened on it with sudden attention, and as we passed through the hall he surreptitiously left his own on a side table. When we sat down, he said plaintively: ‘I do think, Charles, you might talk to me. I’ve had a very exhausting day. I was looking forward to a little conversation.’

‘Of course, father. What shall we talk about?’

‘Cheer me up. Take me out of myself,’ petulantly, ‘tell me about the new plays.’



‘But I haven’t been to any.’

‘You should, you know you really should. It’s not natural in a young man to spend all his evenings at home.’

‘Well, father,’ as I told you, I haven’t much money to spare for theatre-going.’ ‘My dear boy, you must not let money become your master in this way. Why, at your age, your cousin Melchior was part-owner of a musical piece. It was one of his few happy ventures. You should go to the play as part of your education. If you read the lives of eminent men you will find that quite half of them made their first acquaintance with drama from the gallery. I am told there is no pleasure like it. It is there that you find the real critics and devotees. It is called “sitting, with the gods”. The expense is nugatory, and even while you wait for admission in the street you are diverted by “buskers”. We will sit with the gods together one night. How do you find Mrs.Abel’s cooking.?’

‘Unchanged.’

‘It was inspired by your Aunt Philippa. She gave Mrs Abel ten menus, and they have never been varied. When I am alone I do not notice what I eat, but now that you are here, we must have a change. What would you like? What is in season? Are you fond of lobsters? Hayter, tell Mrs Abel to give us lobsters tomorrow night.’ Dinner that. evening consisted of a white, tasteless soup, overfried fillets of sole with a pink sauce, lamb cutlets propped against a cone of mashed potato, stewed pears in jelly standing on a kind of sponge cake.

‘It is purely out of respect for your Aunt Philippa that I dine at this length. She laid it down that a three-course dinner was middle-class. “If you once let the servants get their way,” she said, “you will find yourself dining nightly off a single chop.” There is nothing I should like more. In fact, that is exactly what I do when I go to my club on Mrs Abel’s evening out. But your aunt ordained that at home I must have soup and three courses; some nights it is fish, meat, and savoury, on others it is meat, sweet, savoury - there are a number of possible permutations.

It is remarkable how some people are able to put their opinions in lapidary form; your aunt had that gift.

‘It is odd to think that she and I once dined together nightly just as you and I do, my boy. Now she made unremitting efforts to take me out of myself. She used to tell me about her reading. It was in her mind to make a home with me, you know. She thought I should get into funny ways if I was left on my own. Perhaps I have got into funny ways.  Have I? But it didn’t do. I got her out in the end.’

There was an unmistakable note of menace in his voice as he said this.  It was largely by reason of my Aunt Philippa that I now found myself so much a stranger in my father’s house. After my mother’s death she came to live with my father and me, no doubt, as he said, with the idea of making her home with us. I knew nothing, then, of the nightly agonies at the dinner table. My aunt made herself my companion, and I accepted her without question. That was for a year. The first change was that she reopened her house in Surrey which she had meant to sell, and lived there during my school terms, coming to London only for a few days’ shopping and entertainment. In the summer we went to lodgings together at the seaside. Then in my last year at school she left England. ‘I got her out in the end,’ he said with derision and triumph of that kindly lady, and he knew that I heard in the words a challenge to myself.  As we left the dining-room my father said, ‘Hayter, have you yet said anything to Mrs Abel about the lobsters I ordered for tomorrow?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Do not do so.’



‘Very good, sir.’

And when we reached our chairs in the garden-room he said: ‘I wonder whether Hayter had any intention of mentioning, lobsters, I rather think not. Do you know, I believe he thought I was joking? ‘

Next day by chance, a weapon came to hand. I met an old acquaintance of school-days, a contemporary of mine named Jorkins. I never had much liking for Jorkins.  Once, in my Aunt Philippa’s day, he had come to tea, and she had condemned him as being probably charming at heart, but unattractive at first sight. Now I greeted him with enthusiasm and asked him to dinner. He came and showed little alteration. My father must have been warned by Hayter that there was a guest, for instead of his velvet suit he wore a tail coat; this, with a black waistcoat, very high collar, and very narrow white tie, was his evening dress; he wore it with an air of melancholy as though it were court mourning, which he had assumed in early youth and, finding the style sympathetic, had retained. He never possessed a dinner jacket.

‘Good evening, good evening. So nice of you to come all this way.’

‘Oh, it wasn’t far, said Jorkins, who lived in Sussex Square.  ‘Science annihilates distance,’ said my father disconcertingly. ‘You are over here on business?’

‘Well, I’m in business, if that’s what you mean.’

‘I had a cousin who was in business - you wouldn’t know him; it was before your time. I was telling Charles about him only the other night. He has been much in my mind. He came,’ my father paused to give full weight to the bizarre word - ‘a cropper.’ Jorkins giggled nervously. My father fixed him with a look of reproach.  ‘You find his misfortune the subject of mirth? Or perhaps the word I used was unfamiliar; you no doubt would say that he “folded up”.’ My father was master of the situation. He had made a little fantasy for himself, that Jorkins should I be an American and throughout the evening he played a delicate one-sided parlour-game with him, explaining any peculiarly English terms that occurred in the conversation, translating pounds into dollars and courteously deferring to him with such phrases as ‘Of course, by your standards...’; ‘All this must seem very parochial to Mr Jorkins’; ‘In the vast spaces to which you are accustomed...’ so that my guest was left with the vague sense that there was a misconception somewhere as to his identity, which he never got the chance of explaining. Again and again during dinner he sought my father’s eye, thinking to read there the simple statement that this form of address was an elaborate joke, but met instead a look of such mild benignity that he was left baffled.  Once I thought my father had gone too far, when he said: ‘I am afraid that, living in London, you must sadly miss your national game.’

‘My national game?’ asked Jorkins, slow in the uptake, but scenting that here, at last, was the opportunity for clearing the matter up.

My father glanced from him to me and his expression changed from kindness to malice then back to kindness again as he turned once more to Jorkins. It was the look of a gambler who lays down fours against a full house. ‘Your national game,’ he said gently, ‘cricket,’ and he snuffled uncontrollably, shaking all over and wiping his eyes with his napkin. ‘Surely, working in the City, you find your time on the cricket-field, greatly curtailed?’

At the door of the dining-room he left us. ‘Good night, Mr Jorkins,’ he said. ‘I hope you will pay us another visit when you next “cross the herring pond”.’ ‘I say, what did.your governor mean by that?’ He seemed almost to think I was, American.’

‘He’s rather odd at times.’



‘I mean all that about advising me to visit Westminster Abbey. It seemed rum.’

‘Yes. I can’t quite explain.’

‘I almost thought he was pulling my leg,’ said Jorkins in puzzled tones.

My father’s counter-attack was delivered a few days later. He sought me out and said, ‘Mr Jorkins is still here?’

‘No, father, of course not. He only came to dinner.’

‘Oh, I hoped he was staying with us. Such a versatile young man. But you will be dining in?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am giving a little dinner party to diversify the rather monotonous series of your evenings at home. You think Mrs Abel is up to it? No. But our guests are not exacting.  Sir Cuthbert and Lady Orme-Herrick are what might be called the nucleus. I hope for a little music afterwards. I have included in the invitations some young people for you.’ My presentiments of my father’s plan were surpassed by the actuality. As the guests assembled in the room which my father, without self-consciousness, called ‘the Gallery’, it was plain to me that they had been carefully chosen for my discomfort. The ‘young people’ were Miss Gloria Orme-Herrick a student of the cello; her fiancé, a bald young man .from the British Museum; and a monoglot Munich publisher. I saw my father snuffling at me from behind a case of ceramics as he stood with them. That evening he wore, like a chivalric badge of battle, a small red rose in his button-hole.  Dinner was long and chosen, like the guests, in a spirit of careful mockery. It was not of Aunt Philippa’s choosing, but had been reconstructed from a much earlier period, long before he was of an age to dine downstairs. The dishes were ornamental in appearance and regularly alternated in colour between red and white. They and the wine were equally tasteless. After dinner my father led the German publisher to the piano and then, while he played, left the drawing-room to show Sir Cuthbert Orme-Herrick the Etruscan bull in the gallery.

It was a gruesome evening, and I was astonished to find, when at last the party broke up, that it was only a few minutes after eleven. My father helped himself to a glass of barley-water and said: ‘What very dull friends I have! You know, without the spur of your presence I should never have roused myself to invite them. I have been very negligent about entertaining lately. Now that you are paying me such a long visit, I will have many such evenings. You liked Miss Gloria Orme-Herrick?’ ‘No.’

‘No? Was it her little moustache you objected to or her very large feet? Do you think she enjoyed herself.’

‘No.’

‘That was my impression also. I doubt if any of our guests will count this as one of their happiest evenings. That young foreigner played atrociously, I thought. Where can I have met him? And Miss Constantia Smethwick - where can I have met her? But the obligations of hospitality must be observed. As long as you are here, you shall not be dull.’

Strife was internecine during the next fortnight, but I suffered the more, for my father had greater reserves to draw on and a wider territory for manoeuvre, while I was pinned to my bridgehead between. the uplands and the sea. He never declared his war aims, and I do not to this day know whether they, were purely punitive - whether he had really at the back of his mind some geopolitical idea of getting me out of the country, as my Aunt Philippa had been driven to Bordighera and cousin Melchior to Darwin, or whether, as seems most likely, he fought for the sheer love of a battle in which indeed he shone.

I received one letter from Sebastian, a conspicuous object which was brought to me in my father’s presence one day when he was lunching at home; I saw him look curiously at it and bore it away to read in solitude. It was written on, and enveloped in, heavy late-Victorian mourning paper, black-coroneted and black-bordered. I read it eagerly:

Brideshead Castle,

Wiltshire

I wonder what the date is Dearest Charles,

I found a box of this paper at the back of a bureau so I must write to you as I am mourning for my lost innocence. It never looked like living. The doctors despaired of it from the start.

Soon I am off to Venice to stay with my papa in his palace of sin. I wish you were coming. I wish you were here.

I am never quite alone. Members of my family keep turning up and collecting luggage and going away again but the white raspberries are ripe.  I have a good mind not to take Aloysius to Venice. I don’t want him to meet a lot of horrid Italian bears and pick up bad habits.

Love or what you will.

S.

I knew his letters of old; I had had them at Ravenna; I should not have been disappointed; but that day as I tore the stiff sheet across and let it fall into the basket, and gazed resentfully across the grimy gardens and irregular backs of Bayswater, at the jumble of soil-pipes and fire-escapes and protuberant little conservatories, I saw, in my mind’s eye, the pale face of Anthony Blanche, peering through the straggling leaves as it had peered through the candle flames at Thame, and heard, above the murmur of traffic, his clear tones...’You mustn’t blame Sebastian if at times he seems a little insipid...When I hear him talk I am reminded of that in some ways nauseating picture of “Bubbles”.’ For days after that I thought I hated Sebastian; then one Sunday afternoon a telegram came from him, which dispelled that shadow, adding a new and darker one of its own.  My father was out and returned to find me in a condition of feverish anxiety. He stood in the hall with his panama hat still on his head and beamed at me.  ‘You’ll never guess how I have spent the day; I have been to the Zoo. It was most agreeable; the animals seem to enjoy the sunshine so much.’ ‘Father, I’ve got to leave at once.’

‘Yes?’

‘A, great friend of mine - he’s had a terrible accident. I must go to him at once.

Hayter’s packing for me, now. There’s a train in half an hour.’ I showed him the telegram, which read simply: ‘Gravely injured come at once Sebastian.’

‘Well,’ said my father. ‘I’m sorry you are upset. Reading this message I should not say that the accident was as serious as you seem to think - otherwise it would hardly be signed by the victim himself. Still, of course, he may well be fully conscious but blind or paralysed with a broken back. Why exactly is your presence so necessary? You have no medical knowledge. You are not in holy orders. Do you hope for a legacy?’ ‘I told you, he is a great friend.’

‘Well, Orme-Herrick is a great friend of mine, but I should not go tearing off to his deathbed on a warm Sunday afternoon. I should doubt whether Lady Orme-Herrick would welcome me. However, I see you have no such doubts. I shall miss you, my dear boy, but do not hurry back on my account.’

Paddington Station on that August Sunday evening, with the sun streaming through the obscure panes of its roof, the bookstalls shut, and the few passengers strolling unhurried beside their porters, would have soothed a mind less agitated than mine. The train was nearly empty. I had my suitcase put in the corner of a third-class carriage and took a seat in the dining-car. ‘First dinner after Reading, sir; about seven o’clock. Can I get you anything now?’ I ordered gin and vermouth; it was brought to me as we pulled out of the station. The knives and forks set up their regular jingle; the bright landscape rolled past the windows. But I had no mind for these smooth things; instead, fear worked like yeast in my thoughts, and the fermentation brought to the surface, in great gobs of scum, the images of disaster; a loaded gun held carelessly at a stile, a horse rearing and rolling over, a shaded pool with a submerged, stake, an elm bough falling suddenly on a still morning, a car at a blind corner; all the catalogue of threats to civilized life rose and haunted me; I even pictured a homicidal maniac mouthing in the shadows, swinging a length of lead pipe. The cornfields and heavy woodland sped past, deep in the golden evening, and the throb of the wheels repeated monotonously in my ears. ‘You’ve come too late. You’ve come too late. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.’ I dined and changed trains to the local line, and in twilight came to Melstead Carbury, which was my destination.

‘Brideshead, sir? Yes, Lady Julia’s in the yard.’

She was sitting at the wheel of an open car. I recognized her at once; I could not have failed to do so.

‘You’re Mr Ryder? Jump in.’ Her voice was Sebastian’s and his her, way of speaking.

‘How is he?’

‘Sebastian? Oh, he’s fine. Have you had dinner? Well, I expect it was beastly. There’s some more at home. Sebastian and I are alone, so we thought we’d wait for you.’ ‘What’s happened to him?’

‘Didn’t he say? I expect he thought you wouldn’t come if you knew. He’s cracked a bone in his ankle so small that it hasn’t a name. But they X-rayed it yesterday, and told him to keep it up for a month. It’s a great bore to him, putting out all his plans; he’s been making the most enormous fuss...Everyone else has gone. He tried to make me stay back with him. Well, I expect you know how maddeningly pathetic he can be. I almost gave in, and then I said: “Surely there must be someone you can get hold of,” and he said everybody was away or busy and, anyway, no one else would do. But at last he agreed to try you, and I promised I’d stay if you failed him, so you can imagine how popular you are with me. I must say it’s noble of you to come all this way at a moment’s notice.’ But as she said it, I heard, or thought I heard, a tiny note of contempt in her voice that I should be so readily available.

‘How did he do it?’

‘Believe it or not, playing croquet. He lost his temper and tripped over a hoop. Not a very honourable scar.’

She so much resembled Sebastian that, sitting beside her in the gathering dusk, I was confused by the double illusion of familiarity and strangeness. Thus, looking through strong lenses, one may watch a man approaching from afar, study every detail of his face and clothes, believe one has only to put out a hand to touch him marvel that he does not hear one and look up as one moves, and then, seeing him with the naked eye, suddenly remember that one is to him a distant speck, doubtfully human. I knew her and she did not know me. Her dark hair was scarcely longer than Sebastian’s, and it blew back from her forehead as his did; her eyes on the darkling road were his, but larger; her painted mouth was less friendly to the world. She wore a bangle of charms on her wrist and in her ears little gold rings. Her light coat revealed an inch or two of flowered silk; skirts were short in those days, and her legs, stretched forward to the controls of the car, were spindly, as was also the fashion. Because her sex was the palpable difference between the familiar and the strange it seemed to fill the space between us, so that I felt her to be especially female, as I had felt of no woman before.  ‘I’m terrified of driving at this time of the evening,’ she said. ‘There doesn’t seem anyone left at home who can drive a car. Sebastian and I are practically camping out here. I hope you haven’t come expecting a pompous party.’ She leaned forward to the locker for a box of cigarettes.

‘No thanks.’

‘Light one for me, will you?’

It was, the first time in my life that anyone had asked this of me, and as I took the cigarette from my lips and put it in hers, I caught a thin bat’s squeak of sexuality, inaudible to any but me.

‘Thanks. You’ve been here before. Nanny reported it. We both thought it very odd of you not to stay to tea with me.’

‘That was Sebastian.’

‘You seem to let him boss you about a good deal. You shouldn’t. It’s very bad for him.’

We had turned the comer of the drive now; the colour had died in the woods, and sky,.and the house seemed painted in grisaille, save for the central golden square at the open doors. A man was waiting to take my luggage.

‘Here we are.’

She led me up the steps and into the hall, flung her coat on a marble table, and stooped to fondle a dog which came to greet her. ‘I wouldn’t put it past Sebastian to have started dinner.’

At that moment he appeared between the pillars at the further end, propelling himself in a wheel-chair. He was in pyjamas and dressing-gown, with one foot heavily bandaged.

‘Well, darling, I have collected your chum,’ she said, again with a barely perceptible note of contempt.

‘I thought you were dying,’ I said, conscious then, as I had been ever since I arrived, of the predominating emotion of vexation, rather than of relief, that I had been bilked of my expectations of a grand tragedy.

‘I thought I was, too. The pain was excruciating. Julia, do you think, if you asked him, Wilcox would give us champagne tonight?’

‘I hate champagne and Mr Ryder has had dinner.’

‘Mister Ryder? Mister Ryder? Charles drinks champagne at all hours. Do you know, seeing this great swaddled foot of mine, I can’t get it out of my mind that I have gout, and that gives me a craving for champagne.’

We dined in a room they called ‘the Painted Parlour’. It was a spacious octagon, later in design than the rest of the house its walls, were adorned with wreathed medallions and across its dome prim Pompeian figures stood pastoral groups. They and the satinwood and ormolu furniture, the carpet, the hanging bronze candelabrum, the mirrors and sconces, were all a single composition, the design of one illustrious hand. ‘We usually eat here when we’re alone,’ said Sebastian, ‘it’s so cosy.’ While they dined I ate a peach and told them of the war with my father.

‘He sounds a perfect poppet,’ said Julia. ‘And now I’m going to leave you boys.’

‘Where are you off to?’

‘The nursery. I promised nanny a last game of halma.’ She kissed the top of Sebastian’s head. I opened the door for her. ‘Good Night, Mr Ryder, and good-bye. I don’t suppose we’ll meet tomorrow. I’m leaving early. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for relieving me at the sick-bed.’

‘My sister is very pompous tonight,’ said Sebastian, when she was gone.

‘I don’t think she cares for me,’ I said.

‘I don’t think she cares for anyone much. I love her. She’s so like me.’

‘Do you? Is she?’

‘In looks I mean and the way she talks. I wouldn’t love anyone with a character like mine.’

When we had drunk our port, I walked beside Sebastian’s chair through the pillared hall to the library, where we sat that night and nearly every night of the ensuing month.  It lay on the side of the house that overlooked the lakes; the windows were open to the stars and the scented air, to the indigo and silver, moonlit landscape of the valley and the sound of water falling in the fountain.

‘We’ll have a heavenly time alone,’ said Sebastian and when next morning, while I was shaving, I saw from my bathroom window Julia, with luggage at her back, drive from the forecourt and disappear at the hill’s crest, without a backward glance, I felt a sense of liberation and peace such as I was, to know years later when, after a night of unrest, the sirens sounded the ‘All Clear’.

我回家过暑假，既无计划，又没钱。为了付期末的费用，我已经把欧米加牌的屏风以十镑代价卖给了科林斯，这笔钱现在只剩下四镑；我最后的一张支票在我的账上已经透支了几先令，银行通知我，不得到我父亲许可，我不能再支钱了。要到十月，我的下一笔津贴才能到手。这样，我就面临着黯淡的前景，我左思右想，对前几个星期的挥霍浪费不免有点懊悔。

我在学期开始时付清了大学的膳费和杂费，手头还有一百多镑钱。现在这笔钱花光了，我在商店的欠款还分文未还。那些花费其实没有必要，丝毫乐趣也没有得到；那些钱都白白浪费掉。塞巴斯蒂安常常取笑我——“你像个赛马的赌徒一样浪费银钱”——可是那些钱全是花在他身上，或者是和他一块儿花的。他自己好像永远很困难。“都给律师们算计光了，”他一筹莫展地说，“我想，他们贪污了不少。无论如何，我得到的好像从来不多。当然，只要我要，妈妈就会给。”

“那么，你为什么不向她要一笔固定的津贴呢？”

“啊，妈妈喜欢样样都当作礼物给人，她可好极啦。”他这样说，在我勾画的她的形象上又添上一笔。

现在塞巴斯蒂�

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Chapter 4
THE languor of Youth - how unique and quintessential it is! How quickly, how irrecoverably, lost! The zest, the generous affections, the illusions, the despair, all the traditional attributes of Youth - all save this - come and go with us through life. These things are a part of life itself; but languor - the relaxation of yet unwearied sinews, the mind sequestered and self-regarding that belongs to Youth alone and dies with it.  Perhaps in the mansions of Limbo the heroes enjoy some such compensation for their loss of the Beatific Vision; perhaps the Beatific Vision itself has some remote kinship with this lowly experience; I, at any rate, believed myself very near heaven, during those languid days at Brideshead.

‘Why is this house called a “Castle”?’

‘It used to be one until they moved it.’

‘What can you mean?’

‘Just that. We had a castle a mile away, down by the village. Then we took a fancy to the valley and. pulled the castle down, carted the stones up here, and built a new house.  I’m glad they did, aren’t you?’

‘If it was mine I’d never live anywhere else.’

‘But you sec. Charles, it isn’t mine. Just at the moment it is, but usually it’s full of ravening beasts. If it could only be like this always - always summer, always alone, the fruit always ripe, and Aloysius in a good temper...’

It is thus I like to remember Sebastian, as he was that summer, when we wandered alone together through that enchanted palace; Sebastian in his wheel chair spinning down the box-edged walks of the kitchen gardens in search of alpine strawberries and warm figs, propelling himself through the succession of hothouses, from scent to scent and climate to climate, to cut the muscat grapes and choose orchids for our button-holes; Sebastian hobbling with a pantomime of difficulty to the old nurseries, sitting beside me on the threadbare, flowered carpet with the toy-cupboard empty about us and Nanny Hawkins stitching complacently in the comer, saying, ‘You’re one as bad as the other; a pair of children the two of you. Is that what they teach you at College?’ Sebastian supine on the sunny seat in the colonnade, as he was now, and I in a hard chair beside him, trying to draw the fountain.

‘Is the dome by Inigo Jones, too? It looks later.’

‘Oh, Charles, don’t be such a tourist. What does it matter when it was built if it’s pretty?’

‘It’s the sort of thing I like to know.’

‘Oh dear, I thought I’d cured you of all that - the terrible Mr Collins.’ It was an aesthetic education to live within those walls, to wander from room to room, from the Soanesque library to the Chinese drawing, adazzle with gilt pagodas and nodding mandarins, painted paper and Chippendale fretwork, from the Pompeian parlour to the great tapestry-hung hall which stood unchanged, as it had been designed two hundred and fifty years before; to sit, hour after hour, in the shade looking out on the terrace.

This terrace was the final consummation of the house’s plan; it stood on massive stone ramparts above the lakes, so that from the hall steps it seemed to overhang them, as though, standing by the balustrade, one could have dropped a pebble into the first of them immediately below one’s feet. It was embraced by the two arms of the colonnade; beyond the pavilions groves of lime led to the wooded hillsides. Part of the terrace was paved, part planted with flower-beds and arabesques of dwarf box; taller box grew in a dense hedge, making a wide oval, cut into niches and interspersed with statuary, and, in the centre, dominating the, whole splendid space rose the fountain; such a fountain as one might expect to find in a piazza of southern Italy; such a fountain as was, indeed, found there a century ago by one of Sebasian’s ancestors; found, purchased, imported, and re-erected in an alien but welcoming climate.

Sebastian set me to draw it. It was an ambitious subject for an amateur - an oval basin with an island of sculptured rocks at its centre; on the rocks grew, in stone, formal tropical vegetation, and wild English fem in its natural fronds; through them ran a dozen streams that counterfeited springs, and round them sported fantastic tropical animals, camels and camelopards and an ebullient lion, all vomiting water; on the rocks, to the height of the pediment, stood an Egyptian obelisk of red sandstone - but, by some odd chance, for the thing was far beyond me, I brought it off and, by judicious omissions and some stylish tricks, produced a very passable echo of Piranesi. ‘Shall I give it to your mother?’ I asked.

‘Why? You don’t know her.’

‘It seems polite. I’m staying in her house.’

‘Give it to nanny,’ said Sebastian.

I did so, and she put it among the collection on the top of her chest of drawers, remarking that it had quite a look of the thing, which she had often heard admired but could never see the beauty of, herself.

For me the beauty was new-found.

Since the days when, as a schoolboy, I used to bicycle round the neighbouring parishes, rubbing brasses and photographing fonts, I had nursed a love of architecture, but, though in opinion I had made that easy leap, characteristic of my generation, from the puritanism of Ruskin to the puritanism of Roger Fry, my sentiments at heart were insular and medieval.

This was my conversion to the Baroque. Here under that high and insolent dome, under those coffered ceilings; here, as I passed through those arches and broken pediments to the pillared shade beyond and sat, hour by hour, before the fountain, probing its shadows, tracing its lingering echoes, rejoicing in all its clustered feats of daring and invention, I felt a whole new system of nerves alive within me, as though the water that spurted and bubbled among its stones, was indeed a life-giving spring.

One day in a cupboard we found a large japanned-tin box of oil-paints still in workable condition.

‘Mummy bought them a year or two ago. Someone told her that you could only appreciate the beauty of the world by trying to paint it. We laughed at her a great deal about it. She couldn’t draw at all, and however bright, the colour were in the tubes, by the time mummy had mixed them up, they came out a kind of khaki. Various dry, muddy smears on the palette confirmed this statement. ‘Cordelia was- always made to wash the brushes. In the end we all protested and made mummy stop.’ The paints gave us the idea of decorating the office; this was a small room opening on the colonnade; it had once been used for estate business, but was now derelict, holding only some garden games and a tub of dead aloes; it had plainly been designed for a softer use, perhaps as a tea-room or study, for the plaster walls were decorated with delicate Rococo panels and the roof was prettily groined. Here, in one of the smaller oval frames, I sketched a romantic landscape, and in the days that followed filled it out in colour, and, by luck and the happy mood of the moment, made a success of it. The brush seemed somehow to do what was wanted of it. It was a landscape without figures, a summer scene of white cloud and blue distances, with an ivy-clad ruin in the foreground, rocks and a waterfall affording a rugged introduction to the receding parkland behind. I knew little of oil-painting and learned its ways as I worked.  When, in a week, it was finished, Sebastian was eager for me to start on one of the larger panels. I made some sketches. He called for a fête champêtre with a ribboned swing and a Negro page and a shepherd playing the pipes, but the thing languished. I knew it was good chance that had made my landscape, and that this elaborate pastiche was too much for me.

One day we went down to the cellars with Wilcox and saw the empty bays which had once held a vast store of wine; one transept only was used now; there the bins were well stocked, some of with vintages fifty years old.

‘There’s been nothing added since his Lordship went abroad,’ said Wilcox. ‘A lot of the old wine wants drinking up. We ought to have laid down the eighteens and twenties.  I’ve had several letters about it from the wine merchants, but her Ladyship says to ask Lord Brideshead, and he says to ask his Lordship, and his Lordship says to ask the lawyers. That’s how we get low. There’s enough here for ten years at the rate it’s going, but how shall we be then?’

Wilcox welcomed our interest; we had bottles brought up from every bin, and it was during those tranquil evenings with Sebastian that I first made a serious acquaintance with wine and sowed the seed of that rich harvest which was to be my stay in many barren years. We would sit, he and I, in the Painted Parlour with three bottles open on the table and three glasses before each of us; Sebastian had found a book on winetasting, and we followed its instructions in detail. We warmed the glass slightly at a candle, filled it a third high, swirled the wine round, nursed it in our hands, held it to the light, breathed it, sipped it, filled our mouths with it, and rolled it over the tongue, ringing it on the palate like a coin on a counter, tilted our heads back and let it trickle down the throat. Then we talked of it and nibbled Bath Oliver biscuits, and passed on to another wine; then back to the first, then on to another, until all three were in circulation and the order of glasses got confused, and we fell out over which was which, and we passed the glasses to and fro between us until there were six glasses, some of them with mixed wines in them which we had filled from the wrong bottle, till we were obliged to start again with three clean glasses each, and the bottles were empty and our praise of them wilder and more exotic.

‘...It is a little shy wine like a gazelle.’

‘Like a leprechaun.’

‘Dappled, in a tapestry meadow.’

‘Like flute by still water.’

‘...And this is a wise old wine.’

‘A prophet in a cave.’

‘...And this is a necklace of pearls on a white neck.’

‘Like a swan.’

‘Like the last unicorn.’

And we would leave the golden candlelight of the dining-room for the starlight outside and sit on the edge of the fountain, cooling our hands in the water and listening drunkenly to its splash and gurgle over the rocks.

‘Ought we to be drunk every night?, Sebastian asked one morning.

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘I think so too.’

We saw few strangers. There was the agent, a lean and pouchy colonel, who crossed our path occasionally and once came to tea. Usually we managed to hide from him. On Sundays a monk was fetched from a neighbouring monastery to say mass and breakfast with us. He was the first priest I ever met; I noticed how unlike he was to a parson, but Brideshead was a place of such enchantment to me that I expected everything and everyone to be unique; Father Phipps was in fact a bland, bun-faced man with, an interest in county cricket which he obstinately believed us to share.  ‘You, know, father, Charles and I simply don’t know about cricket.’ ‘I wish I’d seen Tennyson make that fifty-eight last Thursday. That must have been an innings. The account in The Times was excellent. Did you see him against the South Africans?’

‘I’ve never seen him.’

‘Neither have I. I haven’t seen a first-class match for years not since Father Graves took me when we were passing through Leeds, after we’d been to the induction of the Abbot at Ampleforth. Father Graves managed to look up a train which gave us three hours to wait on the afternoon of the match against Lancashire. That was an afternoon. I remember every ball of it. Since then I’ve had to go by the papers. You seldom go to see cricket?’

‘Never,’ I said, and he looked at me with the expression I have seen since in the religious, of innocent wonder that those who expose themselves to the dangers of the world should avail themselves so little of its varied solace.

Sebastian always heard his mass, which was ill-attended. Brideshead was not an old-established centre of Catholicism. Lady Marchmain had introduced a few Catholic servants, but the majority of them, and all the cottages, prayed, if anywhere, among the Flyte tombs in the little grey church at the gates.

Sebastian’s faith was an enigma to me at that time, but not one which I felt particularly concerned to solve. I had no religion. I was taken to church weekly as a child, and at school attended chapel daily, but, as though in compensation, from the time I went to my public school I was excused church in the holidays. The masters who taught me Divinity told me that biblical texts were highly untrustworthy. They never suggested I should try to pray. My father did not go to church except on family occasions and then with derision. My mother, I think, was devout. It once seemed odd to me that she should have thought it her duty to leave my father and me and go off with an ambulance, to Serbia, to die of exhaustion in the snow in Bosnia. But later I recognized some such spirit in myself. Later, too, I have come to accept claims which then, in 1923, I never troubled to examine, and to accept the supernatural as the real. I was aware of no such needs that summer at Brideshead.  Often, almost daily, since I had known Sebastian, some chance word in his conversation had reminded me that he was a Catholic, but I took it as a foible, like his teddy-bear. We never discussed the matter until on the second Sunday at Brideshead, when Father Phipps had left us and we sat in the colonnade with the papers, he surprised me by saying: ‘Oh dear, it’s very difficult being a Catholic.’ ‘Does it make much difference to you?’

‘Of course. All the time.’

‘Well, I can’t say I’ve noticed it. Are you struggling against temptation? You don’t seem much more virtuous than me.’

‘I’m very, very much wickeder,’ said Sebastian indignantly.

‘Well then?’

‘Who was it used to pray, “O God, make me good, but not yet”?’

‘I don’t know. You, I should think.’

‘Why, yes, I do, every day. But it isn’t that.’ He turned back to the pages of the News of the World and said, ‘Another naughty scout-master.’ ‘I suppose they try and make you believe an awful lot of nonsense?’

‘Is it nonsense? I wish it were. It sometimes sounds terribly sensible to me.’

‘But my dear Sebastian, you can’t seriously believe it all.’

‘Can’t I?’

‘I mean about Christmas and the star and the three kings and the ox and the ass.’

‘Oh yes, I believe that. It’s a lovely idea.’

‘But you can’t believe things because they’re a lovely idea.’

‘But I do. That’s how I believe.’

‘And in prayers? Do you think you can kneel down in front of a statue and say a few words, not even out loud, just in your mind, and change the weather; or that some saints are more influential than others, and you must get hold of the right one to help you on the right problem?’

‘Oh yes. Don’t you remember last term when I took Aloysius and left him behind I didn’t know where. I prayed like mad to St Anthony of Padua that morning, and immediately after lunch there was Mr Nichols at Canterbury Gate with Aloysius in his arms, saying I’d left him in his cab.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘if you can believe all that and you don’t want to be good, where’s the difficulty about your religion?’

‘If you can’t see, you can’t.’

‘Well, where?’

‘Oh, don’t be a bore, Charles. I want to read about a woman in Hull who’s been using an instrument.’

‘You started the subject. I was just getting interested.’ ‘I’ll never mention it again...thirty-eight other cases were taken into consideration in sentencing her to six months - golly!’ But he did mention it again, some ten days later, as we were lying on the roof of the house, sunbathing and watching through a telescope the Agricultural Show which was in progress in the park below us. It was a modest two-day show serving the neighbouring parishes, and surviving more as a fair and social gathering than as a centre of serious competition. A ring was marked out in flags, and round it had been pitched half a dozen tents of varying size; there was a judges’ box and some pens for livestock; the largest marquee was for refreshments, and there the farmers congregated in numbers. Preparations had been going on for a week. ‘We shall have to hide,’ said Sebastian as the day approached. ‘My brother will be here. He’s a big part of the Agricultural Show.’ So we lay on the roof under the balustrade.  Brideshead came down by train in the morning and lunched with Colonel Fender, the agent. I met him for five minutes on his arrival. Anthony Blanche’s description was peculiarly apt; he had the Flyte face, carved by an Aztec. We could see him now, through the telescope, moving awkwardly among the tenants, stopping to greet the judges in their box, leaning over a pen gazing seriously at the cattle.  ‘Queer fellow, my brother,’ said Sebastian.

‘He looks normal enough.’

‘Oh, but he’s not. If you only knew, he’s much the craziest of us, only it doesn’t come out at all. He’s all twisted inside. He wanted to be a priest, you know.’ ‘I didn’t.’

‘I think he still does. He nearly became a Jesuit, straight from Stonyhurst. It was awful for mummy. She couldn’t exactly try and stop him, but of course it was the last thing she wanted. Think what people would have said - the eldest son; it’s not as if it had been me. And poor papa. The Church has been enough trouble to him without that happening. There was a frightful to do - monks and monsignori running round the house like mice, and Brideshead just sitting glum and talking about the will of God. He was the most upset, you see, when papa went abroad - much more than mummy really.  Finally they persuaded him to go to Oxford and think it over for three years. Now he’s trying to make up his mind. He talks of going into the Guards and into the House of Commons and of marrying. He doesn’t know what he wants. I wonder if I should have been like that, if I’d gone to Stonyhurst. I should have gone, only papa went abroad before I was old enough, and the first thing he insisted on was my going to Eton.  ‘Has your father given up religion?’

‘Well, he’s had to in a way; he only took to it when he married mummy. When he went off, he left that behind with the rest of us. You must meet him. He’s a very nice man.’

Sebastian had never spoken seriously of his father before.

I said: ‘It must have upset you all when your father went a way.’ ‘All but Cordelia. She was too young. It upset me at the time. Mummy tried to explain it to the three eldest of us so that we wouldn’t hate papa. I was the only one who didn’t. I believe she wishes I did. I was always his favourite. I should be staying with him now, if it wasn’t for this foot. I’m the only one who goes. Why don’t you come too? You’d like him.’

A man with a megaphone was shouting the results of the last event in the field below; his voice came faintly to us.

‘So you see we’re a mixed family religiously. Brideshead and Cordelia are both fervent, Catholics; he’s miserable, she’s bird-happy; Julia and I are half-heathen; I am happy, I rather think Julia isn’t; mummy is popularly believed to be a saint and papa is excommunicated - and I wouldn’t know which of them was happy. Anyway, however you look at it, happiness doesn’t seem to have much to do with it, and that’s all I want I wish I liked Catholics more.’

‘They seem just like other people.’

‘My dear Charles, that’s exactly what they’re not particularly in this country, where they’re so few. It’s not just that they’re a clique - as a matter of fact, they’re at least four cliques all blackguarding each other half the time - but they’ve got an entirely different outlook on life; everything they think important is different from other people. They try and hide it as much as they can, but it comes out all the time. It’s quite natural, really, that they should. But you see it’s dffficult for semi-heathens like Julia and me.’ We were interrupted in this unusually grave conversation by loud, childish cries from beyond the chimneystacks, ‘Sebastian, Sebastian.’

‘Good heavens!’ said Sebastian, reaching for a blanket. ‘That sounds like my sister Cordelia. Cover yourself up.’

‘Where are you?’

There came into view a robust child of ten or eleven; she had the unmistakable family characteristics, but had them ill-arranged in a frank and chubby plainness; two thick old fashioned pigtails hung down her back.

‘Go away, Cordelia. We’ve got no clothes on.’

‘Why? You’re quite decent. I guessed you were here. You didn’t know I was about, did you? I came down with Bridey and stopped to see Francis Xavier.’ (To me) ‘He’s my pig. Then we had lunch with Colonel Fender and then the show. Francis Xavier got a special mention. That beast Randal got first with a mangy animal. Darling Sebastian, I am pleased to see you again. How’s your poor foot?’

‘Say how-d’you-do to Mr Ryder.

‘0h, sorry. How d’you do?’ All the family charm was in her smile. ‘They’re all getting pretty boozy down there, so I came away. I say, who’s been painting the office? I went in to look for a shooting-sick and saw it.’

‘Be careful what you say. It’s Mr Ryder.’

‘But it’s lovely. I say, did you really? You are clever. Why don’t you both dress and come down? There’s no one, about.’

‘Bridey’s sure to bring the judges in.

‘But he won’t. I heard making plans not to. He’s very sour today. He didn’t want me to have dinner with you, but I fixed that. Come on. I’ll be in the nursery when you’re fit to be seen.’

We were a sombre little party that evening. Only Cordelia was perfectly at ease, rejoicing in the food, the lateness of the hour, and her brothers’ company. Brideshead was three years older than Sebastian and I, but he seemed of another generation. He had the physical tricks of his family, and his smile, when it rarely came, was as lovely as theirs; he spoke, in their voice, with a gravity and restraint which in my cousin jasper would have sounded pompous and false, but in him was plainly unassumed and unconscious.

‘I am so sorry to miss so much of your visit,’ he said to me. ‘You are being looked after properly? I hope Sebastian is seeing to the wine. Wilcox is apt to be rather grudging when he is on his own.’

‘He’s treated us very liberally.’

‘I am delighted to hear it. You are fond of wine?’



‘Very.’

‘I wish I were. It is such a bond with other men. At Magdalen I tried to get drunk more than once, but I did not enjoy it. Beer and whisky I find even less appetizing.  Events like this afternoon’s are a torment to me in consequence.’

‘I like wine,’ said Cordelia.

‘My sister Cordelia’s last report said that she was not only the worst girl in the school, but the worst there had ever been in the memory of the oldest nun.’ ‘That’s because I refused to be an Enfant de Marie. Reverend Mother said that if I didn’t keep my room tidier I couldn’t be one one, so I said, well, I won’t be one, and I don’t believe our Blessed Lasy cares two hoots whether I put my gym shoes on the left or the right of my dancing shoes. Reverend Mother was livid.  ‘Our Lady cares about obedience.’

‘Bridey, you mustn’t be pious,’ said Sebastian. ‘We’ve got an atheist with us.’

‘Agnostic,’ I said.

‘Really? Is there much of that at your college? There was a certain amount at Magdalen.’

‘I really don’t know. I was one long before I went to Oxford.’

‘It’s everywhere,’ said Brideshead.

Religion seemed an inevitable topic that day. For some time we talked about the Agricultural Show. Then Brideshead said, ‘I saw the Bishop in London last week. You know, he wants to close our chapel.’

‘Oh, he couldn’t,’ said Cordelia.

‘I don’t think mummy will let him, ‘ said Sebastian.

‘It’s too far away,’ said Brideshead. ‘There are a dozen families round Melstead who can’t get here. He wants to open a mass centre there.’

‘But what about us?’ said Sebastian. ‘Do we have to drive out on winter mornings?’ ‘We must have the Blessed Sacrament here,’ said Cordelia. ‘I like popping in at odd times; so does mummy.’

‘So do I, “ said Brideshead, ‘but there are so few of us. It’s not as though we were old Catholics with everyone on the estate coming to mass. It’ll have to go sooner or later, perhaps after mummy’s time. The point is whether it wouldn’t be better to let it go now.  You are an artist, Ryder, what do you think of it aesthetically?’

‘I think it’s beautiful,’ said Cordelia with tears in her eyes.

‘Is it Good Art?’

‘Well, I don’t quite know what you mean,’ I said warily. ‘I think it’s a remarkable example of its period. Probably in eighty years it will be greatly admired.’ ‘But surely it can’t be good twenty years ago and good in eighty years, and not good now?’

‘Well, it may be good now. All I mean is that I don’t happen to like it much.’

‘But is there a difference between liking a thing and thinking it good?’ ‘Bridey, don’t be so Jesuitical,’ said Sebastian, but I knew that this disagreement was not a matter of words only, but expressed a deep and impassable division between us; neither had any understanding of the other, nor ever could.  ‘Isn’t that just the distinction you made about wine?’

‘No. I like and think good the end to which wine is sometimes the means - the promotion of sympathy between man and man. But in my own case it does not achieve that end, so I neither like it nor think it good for me.’

‘Bridey, do stop.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I thought it rather an interesting point.’

‘Thank God I went to Eton,’ said Sebastian.



After dinner Brideshead said: ‘I’m afraid I must take Sebastian away for half an hour.  I shall be busy all day tomorrow, and I’m off immediately after the show. I’ve a lot of papers for father to sign. Sebastian must take them out and explain them to him. It’s time you were in bed, Cordelia.’

‘Must digest first,’ she said. ‘I’m not used to gorging like this at night. I’ll talk to Charles.’

‘”Charles”?’ said Sebastian. ‘”Charles”?’ “Mr Ryder” to you, child.’

‘Come on Charles.’

When we were alone: she said: ‘Are you really an agnostic?’

‘Does your family always talk about religion all the time?’

‘Not all the time. It’s a subject that just comes up naturally, doesn’t-it?’

‘Does it? It never has with me before.’

‘Then perhaps you are an agnostic. I’ll pray for you.’

‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘I can’t spare you a whole rosary you know. Just a decade. I’ve got such a long list of people. I take them in order and they get a decade about once a week.’ ‘I’m sure it’s more than I deserve.’

‘Oh, I’ve got some harder cases than you. Lloyd George and the Kaiser and Olive Banks.’

‘Who is she?’

‘She was bunked from the convent last term. I don’t quite know what for. Reverend Mother found something she’d been writing. D’you know, if you weren’t an agnostic, I should ask you for five shillings to buy a black god-daughter.’ ‘Nothing will surprise me about your religion.’

‘It’s a new thing a missionary priest started last term. You send five bob to some nuns in Africa and they christen a baby and name her after you. I’ve got six black Cordelias already. Isn’t it lovely?’

When Brideshead and Sebastian returned, Cordelia was sent to bed. Brideshead began again on our discussion.

‘Of course, you are right really,’ he said. ‘You take art as a means not as an end. That is strict theology, but it’s unusual to find an agnostic believing it.’ ‘Cordelia has promised to pray for me,’ I said.

‘She made a novena I for her pig’ said Sebastian.

‘You know all this is very puzzling to me,’ I said.

‘I think we’re causing scandal, said Brideshead.

That night I began to realize how little I really knew of Sebastian, and to understand why he had always sought to keep me apart from the rest of his life. He was like a friend made on board ship, on the high seas; now we had come to his home port.

Brideshead and Cordelia went away; the tents were struck on the show ground, the flags uprooted; the trampled grass began to regain its colour; the month that had started in leisurely fashion came swiftly to its end. Sebastian walked without a stick now and had forgotten his injury.

‘I think you’d better come with me to Venice,’ he said.

‘No money.’

‘I thought of that. We live on papa when we get there. The lawyers pay my fare - first class and sleeper. We can both travel third for that.’

And so we went; first by the long, cheap sea-crossing to Dunkirk, sitting all night on deck under a clear sky, watching the grey dawn break over the sand dunes; then to Paris, on wooden seats, where we drove to the Lotti, had baths and shaved, lunched at Foyot’s, which was hot and half-empty, loitered sleepily among the shops, and sat long in a café waiting till the time of our train; then in the warm, dusty evening to the Gare de Lyon, to the slow train south, again the wooden seats, a carriage full of the poor, visiting their families - travelling, as the poor do in Northern countries, with a multitude of small bundles and an air of patient submission to authority - and sailors returning from leave.  We slept fitfully, jolting and stopping, changed once in the night, slept again and awoke in an empty carriage, with pine woods passing the windows and the distant view of mountain peaks. New uniforms at the frontier, coffee and bread at the station buffet, people round us of Southern grace and gaiety; on again into the plains, conifers changing to vine and olive, a change of trains at Milan; garlic sausage, bread, and a flask of Orvieto bought from a trolley (we had spent all our money save for a few francs, in Paris); the sun mounted high and the country glowed with heat; the carriage filled with peasants, ebbing and flowing at each station, the smell of garlic was overwhelming in the hot carriage. At last in the evening we arrived at Venice.  A sombre figure was there to meet us. ‘Papa’s valet, Plender.’ ‘I met the express,’ said Plender. ‘His Lordship thought you must have looked up the train wrong. This seemed only to come from Milan.’

‘We travelled third.’

Plender tittered politely. ‘I have the gondola here’. I shall follow with the luggage in the vaporetto. His Lordship had gone to the Lido. He was not sure he would be home before you - that was when we expected you on the Express. He should be there by now.’

He led us to the waiting boat. The gondoliers wore green and white livery and silver plaques on their chests; they smiled and bowed.

‘Palazzo. Pronto.’

‘Si, signore Plender.’

And we floated away.

‘You’ve been here before?’

‘No.’

‘I came once before - from the sea. This is the way to arrive.’

‘Ecco ci siamo, signori.’

The palace was a little less than it sounded, a narrow Palladian facade, mossy steps, a dark archway of rusticated stone. One boatman leapt ashore, made fast to the post, rang the bell; the other stood on the prow keeping the craft in to the steps. The doors opened; a man in rather raffish summer livery of striped linen led us up the stairs from shadow into light; the piano nobile was in full sunshine, ablaze with frescoes of the school of Tintoretto.

Our rooms were on the floor above, reached by a precipitous marble staircase; they were shuttered against the afternoon sun; the butler threw them open and we looked out on the grand canal; the beds had mosquito nets.

‘Mostica not now.’

There was a little bulbous press in each room, a misty, gilt-framed mirror, and no other furniture. The floor was of bare marble slabs.

‘A bit bleak?’ asked Sebastian.

‘Bleak? Look at that.’ I led him again to the window and the incomparable pageant below and about us.

‘No’, you couldn’t call it bleak.’

A tremendous explosion drew us next door. We found a bathroom which seemed to have been built in a chimney. There was no ceiling; instead the walls ran straight through the floor above to the open sky. The butler was almost invisible in the steam of an antiquated geyser. There was an overpowering smell of gas and a tiny trickle of cold water.

‘No good.’

‘Si, Si, subito signori.’

The butler ran to the top of the staircase and began to shout down it; a female voice, more strident than his answered. Sebastian and I returned to the spectacle below our w

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Chapter 5
‘IT is typical of Oxford,’ I said, ‘to start the new year in autumn.’

Everywhere, on cobble and gravel and lawn, the leaves were falling and in the college gardens the smoke of the bonfires joined the wet river mist, drifting across the grey walls; the flags were oily underfoot and as, one by one, the lamps were lit in the windows round the quad, the golden lights were diffuse and remote, new figures in new gowns wandered through the twilight under the arches and the familiar bells now spoke of a year’s memories.

The autumnal mood possessed us both as though the riotous exuberance of June had died with the gillyflowers whose scent at my windows now yielded to the damp leaves, smouldering in a corner of the quad.

It was the first Sunday evening of term.

‘I feel precisely one hundred years old,’ said Sebastian.  He had come up the night before, a day earlier than I, and this was our first meeting since we parted in the taxi.

‘I’ve had a talking to from Mgr Bell this afternoon. That makes the fourth since I came up - my tutor, the junior dean, Mr Samgrass of All Souls, and now Mgr Bell.’ ‘Who is Mr Samgrass of All Souls?’

‘Just someone of mummy’s. They all say that I made a very bad start last year, that I have been noticed, and that if I don’t mend my ways I shall get sent down. How does one mend one’s ways? I suppose one joins the League of Nations Union, and reads the Isis every week, and drinks coffee in the morning at the Cadena café, and smokes a great pipe and plays hockey and goes out to tea on Boar’s Hill and to lectures at Keble, and rides a bicycle with a little tray full of notebooks and drinks cocoa in the evening and discusses sex seriously. Oh, Charles, what has happened since last term? I feel so old.’

‘I feel middle-aged. That is infinitely worse. I believe we have had all the fun we can expect here.’

We sat silent in the firelight as darkness fell.

‘Anthony Blanche has gone down.’

‘Why?’

‘He wrote to me. Apparently he’s taken a flat in Munich - he has formed an

attachment to a policeman there.’

‘I shall miss him.’

‘I suppose I shall, too, in a way.’

We fell silent again and sat so still in the firelight that a man who came in to see me, stood for a moment in the door and then went away thinking the room empty.  ‘This is no way to start a new year,’ said Sebastian; but this sombre October evening seemed to breathe its chill, moist air over the succeeding-weeks. All that term and all that year Sebastian and I lived more and more in the shadows and, like a fetish, hidden first from the missionary and at length forgotten, the toy bear, Aloysius, sat unregarded on the chest-of-drawers in Sebastian’s bedroom.

There was a change in both of us. We had lost the sense of discovery which had infused the anarchy of our first year. I began to settle down.

Unexpectedly, I missed my cousin Jasper, who had got his first in Greats and was now cumbrously setting about a life of public mischief in London; I needed him to shock; without that massive presence the college seemed to lack solidity; it no longer provoked and gave point to outrage as it had done in the summer. Moreover, I had come back glutted and a little chastened; with the resolve to go slow. Never again would I expose myself to my father’s humour; his whimsical persecution had convinced me, as no rebuke could have done, of the folly of living beyond my means. I had had no talking-to this term; my success in History Previous and a beta minus in one of my Collections papers had put me on easy terms with my tutor which I managed to maintain without undue effort.

I kept a tenuous connection with the History School, wrote my two essays a week, and attended an occasional lecture. Besides this I started my second year by joining the Ruskin School of Art; two or three mornings a week we melt, about a dozen of us - half, at least, the daughters of north Oxford among the casts from the antique at the Ashmolean Museum; twice a week we drew from the nude in a small room over a teashop; some pains were taken by the authorities to exclude any hint of lubricity on these evenings, and the young woman who sat to us was brought from London for the day and not allowed to reside in the University city; one flank, that nearer the oil stove, I remember, was always rosy and the other mottled and puckered as though it had been plucked. There, in the smell of the oil lamp, we sat astride the donkey stools and evoked a barely visible wraith of Trilby. My drawings were worthless; in my own rooms I designed elaborate little pastiches, some of which, preserved by friends of the period, come to light occasionally to embarrass me.

We were instructed by a man of about my age, who treated us with defensive hostility; he wore very dark blue shirts, a lemon-yellow tie, and horn-rimmed glasses, and it was largely by reason of this warning that I modified my own style of dress until it approximated to what my cousin jasper would have thought suitable for country-house visiting. Thus soberly dressed and happily employed I became a fairly respectable member of my college.

With Sebastian it was different. His year of anarchy had filled a deep, interior need of his, the escape from reality, and as he found himself increasingly hemmed in, where he once felt himself free, he became at times listless and morose, even with me.

We kept very much to our own company that term, each so much bound up in the other that we did not look elsewhere for friends. My cousin Jasper had told me that it was normal to spend one’s second year shaking off the friends of one’s first, and it happened as he said. Most of my friends were those I had made through Sebastian; together we shed them and made no others. There was no renunciation. At first we seemed to see them as often as ever; we went to parties but gave few of our own. I was not concerned to impress the new freshmen who, like their London sisters were here being launched in Society; there were strange faces now at every party and I, who a few months back had been voracious of new acquaintances, now felt surfeited; even our small circle of intimates, so lively in the summer sunshine, seemed dimmed and muted now in the pervading fog, the river-borne twilight that softened and obscured all that year for me. Anthony Blanche had taken something away with him when he went; he had locked a door and hung the key on his chain; and all his friends, among whom he had always been a stranger, needed him now.

The Charity matinée was over, I felt; the impresario had buttoned his astrakhan coat and taken his fee and the disconsolate ladies of the company were without a leader.

Without him they forgot their cues and garbled their lines; they needed him to ring the curtain up at the right moment; they needed him to direct the lime-lights they needed his whisper in the wings, and his imperious eye on the leader of the band; without him there were no photographers from the weekly press, no prearranged goodwill and expectation of pleasure. No stronger bond held them together than common service; now the gold lace and velvet were packed away and returned to the costumier and the drab uniform of the day put on in its stead. For a few happy hours of rehearsal, for a few ecstatic minutes of performance, they had played splendid parts, their own great ancestors, the famous paintings they were thought to resemble; now it was over and in the bleak light of day they must go back to their homes; to the husband who came to London too often, to the lover who lost at cards, and to the child who grew too fast.  Anthony Blanche’s set broke up and became a bare dozen lethargic, adolescent Englishmen. Sometimes in later life they would say: ‘Do you remember that extraordinary fellow we used all to know at Oxford - Anthony Blanche? I wonder what became of him.’ They lumbered back into the herd from which they had been so capriciously chosen and grew less and less individually recognizable. The change was not so apparent to them as to us, and they still congregated on occasions in our rooms; but we gave up seeking them. Instead we formed the taste for lower company and spent our evenings, as often as not, in Hogarthian little inns in St Ebb’s and St Clement’s and the streets between the old market and the canal, where we managed to be gay and were, I believe, well liked by the company. The Gardener’s Arms and the Nag’s Head, the Druid’s Head near the theatre, and the Turf in Hell Passage knew us well; but in the last of these we were liable to meet other undergraduates pub-crawling hearties from BNC - and Sebastian became possessed by a kind of phobia, like that which sometimes comes over men in uniform against their own service, so that many an evening was spoilt by their intrusion, and he would leave his glass half empty and turn sulkily back to college.

It was thus that Lady Marchmain found us when, early in that Michaelmas term, she came for a week to Oxford. She found Sebastian subdued, with all his host of friends reduced to one, myself. She accepted me as Sebastian’s friend and sought to make me hers also, and in doing so, unwittingly struck at the roots of our friendship. That is the single reproach I have to set against her abundant kindness to me.  Her business in Oxford was with Mr Samgrass of All Souls, who now began to play an increasingly large part in our lives. Lady Marchmain was engaged in making a memorial book for circulation among her friends, about her brother, Ned, the eldest of three legendary heroes all killed between Mons and Passchendaele; he had left a, quantity of papers - poems, letters, speeches, articles; to edit them, even for a restricted circle, needed tact and countless decisions in which the judgement of an adoring sister was liable to err. Acknowledging this, she had sought outside advice, and Mr Samgrass had been found to help her.

He was a young history don, a short, plump man, dapper in dress, with sparse hair brushed flat on an over-large head, neat hands, small feet, and the general appearance of being too often bathed. His manner was genial and his speech idiosyncratic. We came to know him well.

It was Mr Samgrass’s particular aptitude to help others with their work, but he was himself the author of several stylish little books. He was a great delver in muniment-rooms and had a sharp nose for the picturesque. Sebastian spoke less than the truth when he described him as ‘someone of mummy’s’; he was someone of almost everyone’s who possessed anything to attract him.

Mr Samgrass was a genealogist and a legitimist; he loved dispossessed royalty and knew the exact validity of the rival claims of the pretenders to many thrones; he was not a man of religious habit, but he knew more than most Catholics about their Church; he had friends in the Vatican and could talk at length of policy and appointments, saying which contemporary ecclesiastics were in good favour, which in bad, what recent theological hypothesis was suspect, and how this or that Jesuit or Dominican had skated on thin ice or sailed near the wind in his Lenten discourses; he had everything except the Faith, and later liked to attend benediction in the chapel of Brideshead and see the ladies of the family with their necks arched in devotion under their black lace mantillas; he loved forgotten scandals in high life and was an expert in putative parentage; he claimed to love the past, but I always felt that he thought all the splendid company, living or dead, with whom he associated slightly absurd; it was Mr Samgrass who was real, the rest were an insubstantial pageant. He was the Victorian tourist, solid and patronizing, for whose amusement these foreign things were paraded. And there was something a little too brisk about his literary manners; I suspected the existence of a dictaphone somewhere in his panelled rooms.

He was with Lady Marchmain when I first met them, and I thought then that she could not have found a greater contrast to herself than this intellectual-on-the-make, nor a better foil to her own charm. It was not her way to make a conspicuous entry into anyone’s life, but towards the end of that week Sebastian said rather sourly: ‘You and mummy seem very thick,’ and I realized that in fact I was being drawn into intimacy by swift, imperceptible stages, for she was impatient of any human relationship that fell short of it. By the time that she left I had promised to spend all next vacation, except Christmas itself, at Brideshead.

One Monday morning a week or two later I was in Sebastian’s room waiting for him to return from a tutorial, when Julia walked in, followed by a large man whom she introduced as ‘Mr Mottram’ and addressed as ‘Rex’. They were motoring up from a house where they had spent the week-end, they explained. Rex Mottram was warm and confident in a check ulster; Julia cold and rather shy in furs; she made straight for the fire and crouched over it shivering.

‘We hoped Sebastian might give us luncheon,’ she said. ‘Failing him we can always try Boy Mulcaster, but I somehow thought we should eat better with Sebastian, and we’re very hungry. We’ve been literally starved all the week-end at the Chasms.’ ‘He and Sebastian are both lunching with me. Come too.’ So, without demur, they joined the party in my rooms, one of the last of the old kind that I gave. Rex Mottram exerted himself to make an impression. He was a handsome fellow with dark hair growing low on his forehead and heavy black eyebrows. He spoke with an engaging Canadian accent. One quickly learned all that he wished one to know about him, that he was a lucky man with money, a member of parliament, a gambler, a good fellow; that he played golf regularly with the Prince of Wales and was on easy terms with ‘Max’ and ‘F.E.’ and ‘Gertie’ Lawrence and Augustus John and Carpentier - with anyone, it seemed, who happened to be mentioned. Of the University he said: ‘No, I was never here. It just means you start life three years behind the other fellow.’ His life, so far as he made it known, began in the war, where he had got a good M.C.  serving with the Canadians and had ended as A.D.C. to a popular general.  He cannot have been more than thirty at the time we met him, but he seemed very old to us in Oxford. Julia treated him, as she seemed to treat all the world, with mild disdain, but with an air of possession. During luncheon she sent him to the car for her cigarettes, and once or twice when he was talking very big, she apologized for him, saying: ‘Remember he’s a colonial,’ to which he replied with boisterous laughter.  When he had gone I asked who he was.

‘Oh, just someone of Julia’s,’ said Sebastian.

We were slightly surprised a week later to get a telegram from him asking us and Boy Mulcaster to dinner in London on the following night for ‘a party of Julia’s’.  ‘I don’t think he knows anyone young,’ said Sebastian; ‘all his friends are leathery old sharks in the City and the House of Commons. Shall we go?’ We discussed it, and because our life at Oxford was now so much in the shadows, we decided that we would.

‘Why does he want Boy?’

‘Julia and I have known him all our lives. I suppose, finding him at lunch with you, he thought he was a chum.’



We had no great liking for Mulcaster, but the three of us were in high spirits when, having got leave for the night from our colleges, we drove off on the London road in Hardcastle’s car.

We were to spend the night at Marchmain House. We went there to dress and, while we dressed, drank a bottle of champagne, going in and out of one another’s rooms which were together three floors up and rather shabby compared with the splendours below.  As we came downstairs Julia passed us going up to her room still in her day clothes.  ‘I’m going to be late,’ she said; ‘you boys had better go on to Rex’s. It’s heavenly of you to come.’

‘What is this party?’

‘A ghastly charity ball I’m involved with. Rex insisted on giving a dinner party for it.

See you there.’

Rex Mottram lived within walking distance of Marchmain House.

‘Julia’s going to be late,’ we said, ‘she’s only just gone up to dress.’ ‘That means an hour. We’d better have some wine.’ A woman who was introduced as ‘Mrs Champion’ said: ‘I’m sure she’d sooner we started, Rex.’ ‘Well, let’s have some wine first anyway.’

‘Why a Jeroboam, Rex?’ she said peevishly. ‘You always want to have everything too big.’

‘Won’t be too big for us,’ he said, taking the bottle in his own hands and easing the cork.

There were two girls there, contemporaries of Julia’s; they all seemed involved in the management of the ball. Mulcaster knew them of old and they, without much relish I thought, knew him. Mrs Champion talked to Rex. Sebastian and I found ourselves drinking alone together as we always did.

At length Julia arrived, unhurried, exquisite, unrepentant. ‘You shouldn’t have let him wait,’ she said. ‘It’s his Canadian courtesy.’

Rex Mottram was a liberal host, and by the end of dinner the three of us who had come from Oxford were rather drunk. While we were standing in the hall waiting for the girls to come down and Rex and Mrs Champion had drawn away from us, talking, acrimoniously, in low voices, Mulcaster said, ‘I say, let’s slip away from this ghastly dance and go to Ma Mayfield’s.’

‘Who is Ma Mayfield?’

‘You know Ma Mayfield. Everyone knows Ma Mayfield of the Old Hundredth. I’ve got a regular there - a sweet little thing called Effie. There’d be the devil to pay if Effie heard I’d been to London and hadn’t been in to see her. Come and meet Effie at Ma Mayfield’s.’

‘All right,’ said Sebastian, ‘let’s meet Effie at Ma Mayfield’s.’ ‘We’ll take another bottle of pop off the good Mottram and then leave the bloody dance and go to the Old Hundredth. How about that?’

It was not a difficult matter to leave the ball; the girls whom Rex Mottram had collected had many friends there and, after we had danced together once or twice, our table began to fill up; Rex Mottram ordered more and more wine; presently the three of us were together on the pavement.

‘D’you know where this place is?’

‘Of course I do. A hundred Sink Street.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Just off Leicester Square. Better take the car.’

‘Why?’

‘Always better to have one’s own car on an occasion like this.’ We did not question this reasoning, and there lay our mistake. The car was in the forecourt of Marchmain House within a hundred yards of the hotel where we had been dancing. Mulcaster drove and, after some wandering, brought us safely to Sink Street. A commissionaire at one side of a dark doorway and a middle-aged man in evening dress on the other side of it, standing with his face to the wall cooling his forehead on the bricks, indicated our destination.

‘Keep out, you’ll be poisoned,’ said the middle-aged man.

‘Members?’ said the commissionaire.

‘The name is Mulcaster, ‘ said Mulcaster. ‘Viscount Mulcaster.’

‘Well, try inside,’ said the commissionaire.

‘You’ll be robbed, poisoned and infected and robbed,’ said the middle-aged man.

Inside the dark doorway was a bright hatch.

‘Members?’ asked a stout woman, in evening dress.

‘I like that,’ said Mulcaster. ‘You ought to know me by now.’

‘Yes, dearie,’ said the woman without interest. ‘Ten bob each.’

‘Oh, look here, I’ve never paid before.’

‘Daresay not, dearie. We’re full up tonight so it’s ten bob. Anyone who comes after you will have to pay a quid. You’re lucky.’

‘Let me speak to Mrs Mayfield.’

‘I’m Mrs Mayfield. Ten bob each.’

‘Why, Ma, I didn’t recognize you in your finery. You know Me, don’t you? Boy Mulcaster.’

‘Yes, duckie. Ten bob each.’

We paid, and the man who had been standing between us and the inner door now made way for us. Inside it was hot and crowded, for the Old Hundredth was then at the height of its success. We found a table and ordered a bottle; the waiter took payment before he opened it.

‘Where’s Effie tonight?’ asked Mulcaster.

‘Effie ‘oo?’

‘Effie, one of the girls who’s always here. The pretty dark one.’ ‘There’s lots of girls works here. Some of them’s dark and some of them’s fair. You might call some of them pretty. I haven’t the time to know them by name.’ ‘I’ll go and look for her,’ said Mulcaster.

While he was away two girls stopped near our table and looked at us curiously.

‘Come on,’ said one to the other, we’re wasting our time. They’re only fairies.’ Presently Mulcaster returned in triumph with Effie to whom, without its being ordered, the waiter immediately brought a plate of eggs and bacon.  ‘First bite I’ve had all the evening,’ she said. ‘Only thing that’s any good here is the breakfast; makes you fair peckish hanging about.’

‘That’s another six bob,’ said the waiter.

When her hunger was appeased, Effie dabbed her mouth and looked at us.

‘I’ve seen you here before, often, haven’t I?’ she said to me.

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘But I’ve seen you?’ to Mulcaster.

‘Well, I should rather hope so. You haven’t forgotten our little evening in September?’ ‘No, darling, of course not. You were the boy in the Guards who cut your toe, weren’t you?’

‘Now, Effie, don’t be a tease.’

‘No, that was another night, wasn’t it? I know - you were with Bunty the time the police were in and we all hid in the place they keep the dust-bins.’ ‘Effie loves pulling my leg, don’t you, Effie? She’s annoyed with me for staying away so long, aren’t you?’

‘Whatever you say, I know I have seen you before somewhere.’

‘Stop teasing.’

‘I wasn’t meaning to tease. Honest. Want to dance?’

‘Not at the minute.’

‘Thank the Lord. My shoes pinch something terrible tonight.’ Soon she and Mulcaster were deep in conversation. Sebastian leaned back and said to me: ‘I’m going to ask that pair to join us.’

The two unattached women who had considered us earlier, were again circling towards us. Sebastian smiled and rose to greet them: soon they, too, were eating heartily. One had the face of a skull, the other of a sickly child. The Death’s Head seemed destined for me. ‘How about a little party,’ she said, ‘just the six of us over at my place?’

‘Certainly,’ said Sebastian.

‘We thought you were fairies when you came in.’

‘That was our extreme youth.’

Death’s Head giggled. ‘You’re a good sport,’ she said. ‘You’re very sweet really,’ said the Sickly Child. ‘I must just tell Mrs Mayfield we’re going out.’ It was still early, not long after midnight, when we regained the street. The commissionaire tried to persuade us to take a taxi. ‘I’ll look after your car, sir, I wouldn’t drive yourself, sir, really I wouldn’t.’

But Sebastian took the wheel and the two women sat one on the other beside him, to show him the way. Effie and Mulcaster and I sat in the back. I think we cheered a little as we drove off.

We did not drive far. We turned into Shaftesbury Avenue and were making for Piccadilly when we narrowly escaped a head-on collision with a taxi-cab.  ‘For Christ’s sake, ‘ said Effie, ‘look where you’re going. D’you want to murder us all?’

‘Careless fellow that,’ said Sebastian.

‘It isn’t safe the way you’re driving,’ said Death’s Head. ‘Besides, we ought to be on the other side of the road.’

‘So we should,’ said Sebastian, swinging abruptly across.

‘Here, stop. I’d sooner walk.’

‘Stop? Certainly.’

He put on the brakes and we came abruptly to a halt broadside across the road. Two policemen quickened their stride and approached us.

‘Let me out of this,’ said Effie, and made her escape with a leap and a scamper.

The rest of us were caught.

‘I’m sorry if I am impeding the traffic, officer,’ said Sebastian with care, ‘but the lady insisted on my stopping for her to get out. She would take no denial. As you will have observed, she was pressed for time. A matter of nerves you know.’ ‘Let me talk to him, ‘ said Death’s Head. ‘Be a sport, handsome; no one’s seen anything but you. The boys don’t mean any harm. I’ll get them into a taxi and see them home quiet.’

The policemen looked us over, deliberately, forming their own judgement. Even then everything might have been well had not Mulcaster joined in. ‘Look here, my good man,’ he said. ‘There’s no need for you to notice anything. We’ve just come from Ma Mayfield’s. I reckon she pays you a nice retainer to keep your eyes shut. Well, you can keep ‘em shut on us too, and you won’t be the losers by it.’ That resolved any doubts which the policemen may have felt. In a short time we were in the cells.

I remember little of the journey there or the process of admission. Mulcaster, I think, protested vigorously and, when we were made to empty our pockets, accused his gaolers of theft. Then we were locked in, and my first clear memory is of tiled walls with a lamp set high up under thick glass, a bunk, and a door which had no handle on my side. Somewhere to the left of me Sebastian and Mulcaster were raising Cain.  Sebastian had been steady on his legs and fairly composed on the way to the station; now, shut in, he seemed in a frenzy and was pounding the door, and. shouting: ‘Damn you, I’m not drunk. Open this door. I insist on seeing the doctor. I tell you I’m not drunk,’ while Mulcaster, beyond, cried: ‘My God, you’ll pay for this! You’re making a great mistake, I can ‘tell you. Telephone the Home Secretary. Send for my solicitors. I will have habeas corpus.’ Groans of protest rose from the other cells where various tramps and pickpockets were trying to get some sleep: ‘Aw, pipe down!’ ‘Give a man some peace, can’t yer?’...’Is this a blinking lock-up or a looney-house?’ - and the sergeant, going his rounds, admonished them through the grille. ‘You’ll be here all night if you don’t sober up.’

. I sat on the bunk in low spirits and dozed a little. Presently the racket subsided and Sebastian called: ‘I say, Charles, are you there?’

‘Here I am.’

‘This is the hell of a business.’

‘Can’t we get bail or something?’

Mulcaster seemed to have fallen asleep.

‘I tell you the man - Rex Mottram. He’d be in his element here.’ We had some difficulty in getting in touch with him; it was half an hour before the policeman in charge answered my bell. At last he consented, rather sceptically, to send a telephone message to the hotel where the ball was being held. There was another long delay and then our prison doors were opened.

Seeping through the squalid air of the police station, the sour smell of dirt and disinfectant, came the sweet, rich smoke of a Havana cigar - of two Havana cigars, for the sergeant in charge was smoking also.

Rex stood in the charge-room looking the embodiment indeed, the burlesque - of power and prosperity; he wore a fur-lined overcoat with broad astrakhan lapels and a silk hat. The police were deferential and eager to help.  ‘We had to do our duty,’ they said. ‘Took the young gentlemen into custody for their own protection.’

Mulcaster looked crapulous and began a confused complaint that he had been denied legal representation and civil rights. Rex said: ‘Better leave all the talking to me.’ I was clear-headed now and watched and listened with fascination while Rex settled our business. He examined the charge sheets, spoke affably to the men who had made the arrest; with the slightest perceptible nuance he opened the way for bribery and quickly covered it when he saw that things had now lasted too long and the knowledge had been too widely shared; he undertook to deliver us at the magistrate’s court at ten next morning, and then led us away. His car was outside.  ‘It’s no use discussing things tonight. Where are you sleeping.?’

‘Marchers, ‘ said Sebastian.

‘You’d better come to me. I can fix you up for tonight. Leave everything to me.’

It was plain that he rejoiced in his efficiency.



Next morning the display was even more impressive. I awoke with the startled and puzzled sense of being in a strange room, and in the first seconds of consciousness the memory of the evening before returned, first as though of a nightmare, then of reality.  Rex’s valet was unpacking a suitcase. On seeing me move he went to the wash-hand stand and poured something from a bottle. ‘I think I have everything from Marchmain House,’ he said. ‘Mr Mottram sent round to Heppell’s for this.’ I took the draught and felt better.

A man was there from Trumper’s to shave us.

Rex joined us at breakfast. ‘It’s important to make a good appearance at the court,’ he said. ‘Luckily none of you look much the worse for wear.’ After breakfast the barrister arrived and Rex delivered a summary of the case.  ‘Sebastian’s in a jam,’ he said. ‘He’s liable to anything up to six months’ imprisonment for being drunk in charge of a car. You’ll come up before Grigg unfortunately. He takes rather a grim view of cases of this sort. All that will happen this morning is that we shall ask to have Sebastian held over for a week to prepare the defence. You two will plead guilty, say you’re sorry, and pay your five bob fine. I’ll see what can be done about squaring the evening papers. The Star may be dffficult.  ‘Remember, the important thing is to keep out all mention of the Old Hundredth.  Luckily the tarts were sober and aren’t being charged, but their names have been taken as witnesses. If we try and break down the police evidence, they’ll be called. We’ve got to avoid that at all costs, so we shall have to swallow the police story whole and appeal to the magistrate’s good nature not to wreck a young man’s career for a single boyish indiscretion. It’ll work all right. We shall need a don to give evidence of good character.  Julia tells me you have a tame one called Samgrass. He’ll do. Meanwhile your story is simply that you came up from Oxford for a perfectly respectable dance, weren’t used to wine, had too much, and lost the way driving home.

‘After that we shall have to see about fixing things with your authorities at Oxford.’ ‘I told them to call my solicitors,’ said Mulcaster, ‘and they refused. They’ve put themselves hopelessly in the wrong, and I don’t see why they should get away with it.’ ‘For heaven’s sake don’t start any kind of argument. Just plead guilty and pay up.

Understand?’

Mulcaster grumbled but submitted.

Everything happened at court as Rex had predicted. At half past ten we stood in Bow Street, Mulcaster and I free men, Sebastian bound over to appear in a week’s time.  Mulcaster had kept silent about his grievance; he and I were admonished and fined five shillings each and fifteen shillings costs. Mulcaster was becoming rather irksome to us, and it was with relief that we heard his plea of other business in London. The barrister bustled off and Sebastian and I were left alone and disconsolate.  ‘I suppose mummy’s got to hear about it,’ he said. ‘Damn, damn, damn! It’s cold. I won’t go home. I’ve nowhere to go. Let’s just slip back to Oxford and wait for them to bother us’ The raffish habitués of the police court came and went, up and down the steps; still we stood on the windy comer, undecided.

‘Why not get hold of Julia?’

‘I might go abroad.’

‘My dear Sebastian, you’ll only be given a talking-to and fined a few pounds.’ ‘Yes, but it’s all the bother - mummy and Bridey and all the family and the dons. I’d sooner go to prison. If I just slip away abroad they can’t get me back, can they? That’s what people do when the police are after them. I know mummy will make it seem she has to bear the whole brunt of the business.’



‘Let’s telephone Julia and get her to meet us somewhere and talk it over.’ We met at Gunter’s in Berkeley Square. Julia, like most women then, wore a green hat pulled down to her eyes with a diamond arrow in it; she had a small dog under her arm, three-quarters buried in the fur of her coat. She greeted us with an unusual show of interest.

‘Well, you are a pair of pickles; I must say you look remarkably well on it. The only time I got tight I was paralysed all the next day. I do think you might have taken me with you. The ball was positively lethal, and I’ve always longed to go to the Old Hundredth. No one

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“要记住，关键是绝口不提老一百号的事。幸亏那几个骚货当时还算清醒，没受到控告，可是作为见证人，她们的名字已经记录在案了。如果我们企图否认警察的证词的话，她们就会给传到法庭的。这种情况，我们无论如何也要避免，所以我们硬着头皮承认警察说的全部情节，然后请求地方法院发善心，不要因为一件幼稚的轻率举动就断送青年人的前程。这样说会起很好的作用的。我们还需要找一位牛津大学的教师证明你们品行端正。朱丽娅告诉我说，你们有一位叫桑格拉斯的老师好说话。他可以给你们作证。同时，你们要简短地说明：你们从牛津来，是参加一个十分体面的舞会的，很不习惯喝葡萄酒，由于喝得太多了，所以开车回家时迷了路。

“这件事办完了以后，我们还得想办法和你们牛津大学校方把这件事通融通融。”

“我原来要他们把我的律师找来的，”马尔卡斯特说，“可是他们就是不肯。他们这不是无可挽回地犯了错误吗？我看他们是逃不了责任的啦。”

“看在上帝的分上，千万不要挑起什么争端。只是表示服罪，缴纳罚款。懂了吧？”

马尔卡斯特咕哝着，不过还是服从了。

法庭上的情形果然不出雷克斯所料。到了十点半钟的时候，我们已经站在鲍夫大街上，我和马尔卡斯特已经是自由人了，却令塞巴斯蒂安具结保证过一个星期还得出庭。马尔卡斯特对他自己的冤屈一直沉默。我和他受到了警告，每人罚款五先令，还有十五先令的诉讼费。马尔卡斯特越来越使我们讨厌了，所以当我们听到他借口说要去伦敦办事，我们真是如释重负。那位律师也匆匆忙忙走掉了，就剩下我和塞巴斯蒂安孤零零的，闷闷不乐。

“我估计妈妈已经听说这件事了。”他说，“浑蛋，浑蛋，真浑蛋！天气真冷。我不愿回家去。可也没地方可去啊。我们溜回牛津去吧，等他们来找我们的麻烦。”

一些在违警罪法庭名声狼藉的常客们走进走出，从台阶上走上走下；而我们还站在当风的街角那儿，拿不定主意。

“为什么不去找朱丽娅呢？”

“我也许要出门去。”

“亲爱的塞巴斯蒂安，你只会挨一顿训，罚几英镑罢了。”

“是啊，可是一切事都够烦人的——妈妈，布赖德，家里所有的人，还有那些学监和教师。我宁愿进监狱哩。如果我溜到国外去，他们就没法把我弄回来，是不是？人们受到警察追究时，不就是这么干的吗？我知道妈妈会搞得让人们觉得我们的事情完全落在她身上了。”

“还是给朱丽娅打个电话，让她在什么地方跟咱们碰碰头，商量一下这件事吧。”

我们在伯克利街区的冈特餐厅见面了。朱丽娅和当时的大多数女人一样，戴着一顶绿色女帽，压到眉毛上，帽子上还有一枚镶宝石的箭头；她腋下还夹着一只小狗，有四分之三的部分藏在她皮大衣里。她跟我们招呼，表现非常感兴趣的样子。

“嘿，你们真是一对捣蛋鬼。我得说，你们在干这种事情上似乎很在行。要是我一喝醉，第二天就完全瘫了。我认为当时你们可能带我一块去的。那个舞会也实在是要命，而且我一直盼着能去老一百号玩玩呢。永远不会有人带我去的。那开心极了吧？”

“这么说，事情你也全知道啦？”

“今天早晨雷克斯给我打了电话，什么都告诉我了。你们那些女朋友长得怎么样？”

“别那么色迷迷的。”塞巴斯蒂安说。

“我那位就像一个骷髅头。”

“我那位就像一个痨病鬼。”

“天啊。”我们带女人出去玩过，这件事显然提高了我们在朱丽娅心目中的地位；她的兴趣完全是在那些女人身上。

“妈妈知道了吗？”

“还不知道你们的骷髅头和痨病鬼。她知道你们进了监狱了。我告诉了她。当然，就这一类事说她可好极了，确实是这样。你知道，内德叔叔干什么事情都是无可指摘的，有一次他因为带一条熊进入劳埃德·乔治主持的会场而被关押起来，所以她对整个事情都抱着通情达理的态度。她希望你们俩和她一道吃饭。”

“啊，天哪！”

“麻烦就在报纸和家庭方面。查尔斯，你有一个糟透了的家庭吗？”

“只有父亲一个人，可是他绝不会听到这件事的。”

“我们家可麻烦极了。由于那些亲戚，可怜的妈妈势必要倒霉了。他们会写信来，还要登门拜访，表示同情，可是同时有一半人心里头说的是：‘这就是把孩子培养成个天主教徒的结果。’另一半人则会说：‘这就是不孩子送去伊顿公学，而不送到斯托尼赫斯特学校的结果。’可怜的妈妈也没法解释清楚。”

午饭我们是和马奇梅因夫人一起吃的。她以幽默的无可奈何的态度接受了这件事。她只责备说：“我想不出你们为什么出去和莫特拉姆住在一起。你们可以先来找我，把这件事告诉我。”

“我可怎么把这件事跟全家人解释呢？”她问道。“他们发现我对这件事还不如他们难过，他们一定感到非常震惊的。你知道我嫂子范妮·罗斯康芒吧？她一向认为我对孩子的教育很坏。现在我开始觉得她说的很对。”

当我们离开后我说：“她实在太好了。那你还发什么愁呢？”

“我说不出原因来。”塞巴斯蒂安悲惨地说。

一个星期后塞巴斯蒂安出庭，他被罚款十镑。报纸把这条消息放在令人难受的显著位置，有一家报纸还用了讽刺性的标题：“侯爵家的儿子不习惯喝葡萄酒。”地方法官说，只是由于警察行动果断，他才没有受到严重的指控……“纯粹是靠了运气好，你才没有负严重责任事故的罪责……”桑格拉斯先生作证说，塞巴斯蒂安的品行是无可指摘的，还说他在牛津大学的灿烂前途已经岌岌可危。报纸也抓住这句话不放——“模范学生的前途危若累卵。”那位地方法官说，如果没有桑格拉斯先生的证词，他可能会受到惩罚性的判决；法律对一个牛津大学的大学生和任何一个小流氓都是一视同仁的；毫无疑问，家庭愈好，犯法行为就愈可耻……

桑格拉斯先生所具有的价值并不只限于鲍夫大街。在牛津大学，他表现出与雷克斯·莫特拉姆在伦敦所表现出来的全部热情和全部机敏。他走访了学校当局、学监们、大学副校长；他还怂恿管理员贝尔去拜访了基督教会学院院长；他还安排了马奇梅因夫人同校长谈话；作为这一切努力的结果，就是禁止我么三人在这学期剩下的日子中出校门。哈德卡斯尔不清楚为了什么缘故，再次被剥夺了使用自己的汽车的权利，这件事就算过去了。我们所遭受到的时间最长的出发却是我们同雷克斯·莫特拉姆和桑格拉斯之间的亲密关系，不过因为雷克斯生活在伦敦的政界和上层金融界，而桑格拉斯却生活在牛津，与我们近在咫尺，所以我们从他那儿受的罪就更大。

在这个学期余下的日子里，他老缠住我们。由于我们受到“禁止外出”的处罚，所以我们晚上也不能在一起度过，从九点起，我们都得各在一处，而且是处在桑格拉斯的支配之下。几乎没有一个晚上他不来找我们中的这一个或那一个。当他说起“我们的那次小小的越轨行为”时，就好像他也曾关在单人牢房里，因此和我们也很有缘分……有一次我翻墙爬出学院，桑格拉斯先生发现我在关了校门后竟在塞巴斯蒂安的房间里，他把这件事也变成了一种束缚。所以，当我圣诞节后到了布赖兹赫德，走进他们称为“挂毯大厅”的那间屋子的时候，看到了桑格拉斯先生独自坐在炉火前面，似乎是在等我的样子，这情形并没有使我惊讶。

“你看我正单独占有这一切。“他说。不错，他的确好像占据了这间厅堂，占据了四周挂满狩猎图的灰沉沉的场面，还占据了壁炉两边的女像柱，当他站起身来，像个主人一样欢迎我的时候，好像还占据了我。“今天早晨，”他继续说，“我们在草坪上举行了马奇梅因猎前聚会——真是一个妙不可言的古色古香的场面——我们所有的年轻朋友们都去猎狐了，甚至塞巴斯蒂安，你听见大概不会吃惊吧，他穿着他那件红色外套，看上去很优雅了。而布赖兹赫德呢，与其说是优雅，倒不如说是给人深刻印象；他和本地一个名叫沃尔特·斯特里克兰—维纳布尔斯爵士的有趣人物当联合主人。我希望这些太单调乏味的挂毯中能加进他们两人的肖像——那么这些挂毯就会显出一种幻想的情调来。

“我们的女主人也留在家里；还有一位正在养病的多明我派的教士，他谈马利丹太多，读黑格尔又太少；还有艾德里安·波森爵士，当然啰，还有两位颇令人生畏的匈牙利表兄弟——我曾经用德语和法语试着跟他们说话，可是他们对哪种语言都没有兴趣。现在这些人都坐车去邻居家做客去了。我就在炉火前，拿着这本绝妙的《查勒斯》消磨一个舒适的下午。你的到来使我增添了打铃要茶的勇气。我怎样使你为这次聚会做好思想准备呢？哎呀，聚会明天就要散啦。朱丽娅小姐到别的地方去庆祝新年，还把时髦的社交人物带走了。我会见不到住在附近的美人们——特别是那个西莉娅；她是我们那个倒霉的老伙计博伊·马尔卡斯特的妹妹，可完全不像他。她说起话来就像小鸟一样，喜欢吹毛求疵，那样子我觉得十分可爱，她的衣着像是学校班长的样式，这种样式我只能说‘帅’啦。我会想念她的，因为明天我不去。明天我就得认真开始搞我们的女主人那本书了——那本书，请你相信，乃是是嗲珍宝的历史宝库；同时也是真实的一九一四年的历史。”

茶送上来了，喝完了茶不久，塞巴斯蒂安就回来了；他说他早就找不到猎狐队的人了，所以就悠悠荡荡地回来了。别的人在他回来后不久，在黄昏时给汽车接回来了。没有布赖兹赫德；他在养狗场有事要办，跟他去的还有科迪莉娅。回来的人挤满了大厅，随后就吃起了炒鸡蛋和烤饼；而那位在家里吃过午饭在炉火前打了一下午盹的桑格拉斯先生，也和他们一起吃着鸡蛋和烤饼。过了一会儿，马奇梅因夫人一行人回来了，还没有等我们上楼梯换晚餐礼服，她就问大家，“谁去教堂念玫瑰经呀？”塞巴斯蒂安和朱丽娅都说他们得马上去洗澡，桑格拉斯先生跟她和那位男修士一起去了。

“我希望桑格拉斯先生去，”塞巴斯蒂安洗澡的时候说，“我厌烦再向他表示感谢了。”

在以后的半个月时间里，对桑格拉斯先生的厌烦已经在整个宅第里成了一个公开的秘密，只要他在场，艾德里安·波森爵士那双漂亮的暗褐色眼睛就仿佛在察看远处的地平线，他的嘴巴就带着典型的悲观主义神气。只有那两个匈牙利表兄弟，他们误解了这位大学教师的身份，把他当成一个享有特殊权得的高级用人，所以没有因为他在场而受到影响。


圣诞节聚会的人中留下来的有桑格拉斯先生、艾德里安·波森爵士，两个匈牙利人、男修士、布赖兹赫德、塞巴斯蒂安和科迪莉娅。

在这所宅第里，宗教居于统治地位。这倒不仅仅表现在这个家庭的种种习惯上——每天早晚都要在小教堂做弥撒和念玫瑰经——而且表现在家庭内人们的交往上。“我们得把查尔斯变成一个天主教徒。”马奇梅因夫人说。在我作客期间，我们在一起闲聊过许多次，每次她都要把话题巧妙地引到这个神圣的问题上来。谈过第一次后，塞巴斯蒂安就说，“妈妈是不是和你闲聊了？她经常这样做。我真希望她可别再这么做了。”

其实谁也没有被叫去聊聊，或者有意识地给引到这种谈话上去；当她希望要亲切地谈谈的时候，人就会发现自己偶然地和她单独在一起了，如果是在夏天，那他就会发现他们正在僻静的水塘岸边散步，或者发现他们在四面有围墙的玫瑰园的一个角落里；倘若是冬天，那就是在二楼她的起居室里了。

这间起居室是完全属于她的；她把这个房间据为己有后，就把它改造了，所以一走进这间房子，你就恍如置身于另一所宅第里。她放低了天花板，因而以各种不同的样式为每一间屋子增光的门楣不见了；四壁，一面装有花缎护墙，却被刮除干净，刷上一层蓝色的底色，上面散布着很多小小的水彩画；房间里的空气甜丝丝的，鲜花的清新芳香和百花香的陈腐气息混杂在一起；她的图书室是软皮护墙，一个黑檀木的小书架上摆满了广博精深的诗集和神学著作；壁炉架上摆满了私人收藏的小珍品——一个象牙圣母像，一尊圣约瑟的石膏像，还有三个当兵的弟弟的几帧遗像。那年光辉灿烂的八月里，我和塞巴斯蒂安两人独自住在布赖兹赫德的时候，她母亲的这个房间是不让我们进去的。

由于回忆起她这间屋子，使我们当时谈话的一些片断重新浮现脑际。我还记得她说：“当我还是女孩子时，我们比较贫困，当然比起大多数人来还是阔气多了，我结了婚的时候，就很富有了。我常常忧虑，自己拥有那么多珍宝，而他人却一无所有，我认为这是错误的。现在我认识到，由于羡慕穷人的特权，富人也可能犯罪。穷人总是上帝和圣徒的宠儿，不过我相信洗净整个生灵——其中包括富人在内——的罪孽乃是神的特殊恩宠。异教徒的罗马帝国的财富必然是残酷得来的；不可能是另外的情况。”

我谈了一下骆驼和针眼的典故，她听到这话就高兴地说到要点。

“不过当然啰，”她说，“骆驼穿过针眼确实是意想不到的事，可是福音书只是种种意想不到的事情的汇编罢了。一头牛和一头驴子竟在畜圈里做起礼拜来，这是意想不到的。在圣徒的生活中，牧畜总是干许多奇怪的事情。这完全是宗教的诗的一面，阿丽丝漫游奇境的一面。”

但是，正如我对她的魅力并不动心一样，对她的信仰我同样也无动于衷；或者毋宁说，这两方面对我的触动都是一个样儿。那时我一心想的只是塞巴斯蒂安，我看到他已经受到威胁，尽管我还不知道这种威胁有多么凶恶。他那经常的、丧失信心的祈祷是单独进行的。在他心中的蔚蓝色海水边和飒飒作响的棕榈树下，他像中太平洋波利尼西亚群岛的土人一样，是快乐的、与世无争的；只是当大船在珊瑚礁石那边抛了锚，小汽艇冲上环礁湖的时候，商人，官吏，传教士和旅游客这群凶恶的入侵者踏上了从来不曾印上过长统靴足迹的斜坡上——这时才发掘出民族的武器，在山中响起了鼓声；或者更容易做到的是离开那阳光照耀的门口，然后躺在黑暗中，在那里，无用的、画出来的神像仿佛在墙上徒然游行，他在酒瓶中间咳嗽得声嘶力竭。

自从塞巴斯蒂安在这群入侵者中间考虑他自己良心和人类感情的一切要求以来，他在阿卡迪亚的淳朴宁静的日子就屈指可数了。因为在这段对我来说是平静的日子里，塞巴斯蒂安却惊恐不安。我对他这种警觉和猜疑的情绪是很熟悉的，他像一头鹿听到远处猎队的声音就突然扬起头来；我看出当他想到他的家庭和他的宗教信仰时，他就变得小心翼翼，而现在我发现我也成了他怀疑的对象。他并不是没有爱，而是他已经没有了爱的欢乐，因为我不再是他寂寞时的伴侣。随着我和他家庭的关系越来越密切，我就越来越成为他力图逃避的那个社会的一部分了；同时我也愈来愈成为他的一种束缚了。而这也正是他母亲在所有和我闲聊中力图让我起的作用。一切都是不言而喻的。我只是模模糊糊地偶尔怀疑似乎正在进行什么活动。

从表面上看，桑格拉斯是唯一的敌人。我和塞巴斯蒂安在布赖兹赫德待了半个月光景，过着自己的生活。他哥哥参加运动和地产经营；桑格拉斯先生在图书室里埋头编纂马奇梅因夫人的那本书；艾德里安·波森爵士则把马奇梅因夫人的大部分时间都占去了。除了晚上以外，我们很少看到他们；在这个宽大的屋顶下面，过各式各样独立生活的地方是绰绰有余的。

过了半个月，塞巴斯蒂安说：“我再也受不了桑格拉斯先生那一套了。我们去伦敦吧。”这样他就和我一起到伦敦住在我家里，现在开始不回“马奇”家而住在我家。我父亲很喜欢他。“我觉得你的朋友很有意思。叫他常来吧。”


后来，我们回到了牛津，重新过起那种仿佛寒冷得缩成一团的生活。上个学期塞巴斯蒂安身上那种很深重的哀伤被一种愠怒代替了，甚至对我也是这样。他心里难受，可是我并不知道是怎么回事，我为他难过，可是又无能为力。

现在，当他快活起来时，通常就是他喝醉了的时候，他喝醉了酒，就尽情发挥“嘲弄桑格拉斯先生”的能事。他谱了一支小调，内有这样的迭句，“绿色的屁股，桑格拉斯——桑格拉斯，绿色的屁股”，并且配上圣玛丽教堂的和谐钟声唱起来，他还在他的窗户下对他唱起小夜曲，大概一个星期有那么一次。桑格拉斯先生由于是第一个在自己房间里装了私人电话的教师而著名，塞巴斯蒂安在喝醉的时候常常打电话给他，把这支小曲唱给他听。对这些，桑格拉斯先生丝毫也不见怪，像人们认为的，每逢遇到我们，他表面上总是微笑着，但是，却带着一种与日俱增的信心，好象每一次凌辱都在某种程度上加强了他对塞巴斯蒂安的控制。

在这个学期里，我开始认识到，塞巴斯蒂安是一个跟我自己完全不同的酒鬼。我常常喝醉，只是由于兴奋过度，并且由于留恋醉酒的时刻，希望延长和增强醉意。而塞巴斯蒂安却是为了逃避现实。随着我们越来越长大，越来越严肃，我喝的越来越少，而他喝的越来越多。我发现有时我回到我的学院以后，他还深夜不睡，兀自狂饮不已。一连串的灾祸那么迅速而又猛烈得意想不到，以致我很难说我究竟什么时候看出来我的朋友正处在极大的苦恼中。到复活节的假期中我才完全明白是怎么回事。

朱丽娅常常说：“可怜的塞巴斯蒂安呀。他身上的‘化学’出了些毛病。”

这是当时流行的时髦话，天知道这是由通俗科学的什么误解衍生出来的。像“他们之间存在着某种化学问题”这句话，就是用来说明随便哪两个人之间极大的仇恨或者爱情的。是用新方式来表达宿命论的旧观念。我决不相信在我的朋友身上会存在什么化学问题。

布赖兹赫德的复活节聚会过得难受极了，最后导致了依次事情虽小然而却令人难以忘怀的事件。当时塞巴斯蒂安在他母亲家里，吃晚饭前喝得酩酊大醉，这标志着他忧郁症病历中一个新时代的开始，继而发展到逃出家庭，导致了他的毁灭。

大批来度复活节假期的人离开布赖兹赫德那天，已经是黄昏时候了。虽说是来度复活节假期，但实际上大家到齐的时候已经是复活节一周间的星期二了，因为弗莱特一家人从濯足节星期四到复活节一直都隐居在一家修道院的客房里。塞巴斯蒂安早就说过今年复活节他不回家，可是到了最后一刻他还是让步了，回家的时候他的心境极为颓唐，我完全无法使他振作起来。

他整整一个星期酒喝得很厉害——只有我知道有多么厉害——喝酒的时候神经紧张，偷偷摸摸，和他过去的习惯完全不一样。在聚会期间，图书室里总放着一托盘的兑了水的烈性酒，塞巴斯蒂安白天一有空就偷偷溜进去，甚至对我都绝口不提。家里白天差不多走空了。这时我则在柱廊那间小小的花园房间里，在画板上画另一幅画。塞巴斯蒂安说自己患了感冒，就留在家里，而在这段时间里他就没有十分清醒过；他不声不响以躲避别人的注意。我时常注意到他引起了人们好奇的目光，不过来度假的大多数人对他不甚了解，也就看不出他身上的变化，而他家的人又很忙，每个人都要应酬各自的客人。

每当我规劝他时，他就说：“周围这些人真让人受不了。”可是众人终于走了以后，他在狭隘的住所不得不面对他的家人，这时他支持不住了。

一般的习惯，六点钟把鸡尾酒托盘端到客厅里；然后我们都自己掺兑自己的饮料，当我们去换礼服时，酒瓶就给拿走了。然后，在吃饭前，鸡尾酒又出现了，由男仆递给每个人。

那天吃完了茶点，塞巴斯蒂安就不见了。天渐渐暗下来，我和科迪莉娅玩了一小时麻将牌。到了六点，就剩下我一个人在客厅里，这时塞巴斯蒂安回来了。他皱着眉头，那种样子我非常熟悉，他刚一说话，我就从他的声音里听出浓重的醉意来。

“他们还没有把鸡尾酒端来吗？”他笨手笨脚地拉铃绳。

我说：“刚才你去哪儿了？”

“在楼上，和保姆在一起。”

“我不信。你一直在什么地方喝酒。”

“我一直在我的房里看书哩。我的感冒今天更重了。”

托盘端进来后，他歪歪斜斜地把杜松子酒和苦艾酒倒进一只平底大杯里，端着酒走出客厅。我跟着他上了楼，一上了楼他就当着我的面把门关上，拧上了锁。

我万分沮丧地回到客厅，心里充满了不祥的预感。

这时全家人都坐在一起。马奇梅因夫人说：“塞巴斯蒂安现在怎么样了？”

“他已经睡下了。他的感冒更厉害了。”

“嗯，亲爱的，我希望他不要得了流感。最近我有一两次觉得他像在发烧。他想要什么吗？”

“不要什么。他特别要求别打搅他。”

我不知道是不是应该跟布赖兹赫德说一下，可是他那副冷酷无情的岩石般的面孔打消了我对他的信任。我上楼去换衣服的时候把这话告诉了朱丽娅。

“塞巴斯蒂安喝醉了。”

“不会吧。他连鸡尾酒也没有来喝呀。”

“整个下午他一直在自己房间里喝酒。”

“真奇怪！太讨厌了！到时候他能来吃晚饭吗？”

“不行。”

“嗨，你必须照料他，这不关我的事。他是不是经常这样喝？”

“近来常这样喝。”

“太讨厌了。”

我试着开塞巴斯蒂安的房门，发现门已经锁了，我希望他睡觉了，可是当我洗完澡回来，却看到他坐在壁炉前的椅子上；他已经穿好了夜礼服，只是没有穿鞋，领带系得歪歪斜斜，头发直竖起来；他满脸通红，眼睛有点歪斜，说话含糊不清。

“查尔斯，你说的十分对。没有在保姆那儿。一直在楼上喝威士忌。现在图书室没人，聚会散了。聚会一散，只有妈妈在。我觉得醉得厉害。看来我还是在楼上用盘子吃些什么好。不和妈妈一起吃饭了。”

“睡觉去吧，”我告诉他，“我就说你的感冒更厉害了。”

“厉害多了。”

我把他带到隔壁他的房间里，想让他躺在床上，可是他坐在梳妆台前面，斜着眼睛照镜子，整理了一下蝴蝶结。在壁炉边那张写字台上放着喝了一半的威士忌酒瓶。我把瓶子拿起来，以为他没看见，可是他立刻从镜子前转过身来说，“把它放下。”

“别傻了，塞巴斯蒂安。你喝的已经够多的了。”

“这到底和你有什么相干？你只不过是这儿的客人——我的客人。在我家里，我想喝什么就喝什么。”

当时他为此会和我打架的。

“也好，”我说着把细颈瓶放了回去，“看在上帝的面上，别让人看见。”

“得嘞，操心你自己的事吧。你是作为我的朋友到这儿来的；现在你替我母亲暗中监视我，我知道。好了，你可以滚了，你替我告诉她，将来我要挑选我的朋友，她可以挑选她的间谍。”

我就这样离开了他，到楼下去吃饭。

“刚才我去塞巴斯蒂安那儿了，他的感冒相当厉害。他已经睡下来，并且说什么也不要。”

“可怜的塞巴斯蒂安，”马奇梅因夫人说，“他最好喝一杯热威士忌，我要去看看他。”

“妈妈别去，还是我去吧。”朱丽娅说着站起来。

“我去，”科迪莉娅说，她这晚上下来吃饭，为了给一些客人饯行。她正在门口，别人还没有拦住她就已经出门了。

朱丽娅迎住我的目光，悲哀地轻轻耸了耸肩。

过了几分钟科迪莉娅回来了，表情很严峻。“看来他什么也不想要。”她说。

“他怎么样了？”

“噢，这我可不知道。可我觉得他醉得厉害。”她说。

“科迪莉娅。”

突然这孩子咯咯地笑起来。“‘侯爵的儿子不习惯喝葡萄酒’，”她引用报纸上的话说，“‘模范学生的前程受到威胁’。”

“查尔斯，这是真的吗？”马奇梅因夫人说。

“真的。”

接着宣布开饭，我们都去了餐室，在那儿没有再说到这个话题。

当只有我和布赖兹赫德在一起的时候，他说：“你是说塞巴斯蒂安喝醉了？”

“是的。”

“怎么单单挑这么个时候，你不能劝他不喝吗？”

“劝不住的。”

“劝不住，”布赖兹赫德说，“我估计你也劝不住。有一次我看见我父亲喝醉了，就是在这间屋子里，那时我大约还不超过十岁。如果有人想要喝醉，那是劝不住的。我母亲就劝不住我父亲，知道吧。”

他古怪地、不带个人感情色彩地讲话。我想，对这个家庭，我看得愈多，就愈觉得他们很特别。“我今天晚上要请母亲给我们朗读。”

我后来才知道这是一个惯例，在家庭处在紧张状态的晚上，总是请马奇梅因夫人高声朗读。她的声音很悦耳，表情非常幽默。这一晚上，她念了《布朗神父的智慧》的片断。朱丽娅坐在那儿，旁边长凳子上摆满了修指甲的东西，她在仔细地修饰自己的指甲；科迪莉娅爱抚着朱丽娅的小狮子狗；布赖兹赫德玩着单人纸牌；我坐着无事可干，就研究起由他们组成的这一伙很妙的群像，我同时还为那个躲在楼上的朋友感到哀伤。

可是这一晚上可怕的事还没有过去。

马奇梅因夫人有时有这样的习惯，当只剩下家里的人的时候，她在睡觉以前要去一趟小教堂。她刚合上书，提出要去小教堂的时候，门就开了，塞巴斯蒂安出现了。他穿的衣服和我看到他时穿的一样，不过这时脸不是涨得通红，而是惨白得瘆人。

“我是来道歉的，”他说。

“塞巴斯蒂安，亲爱的，还是回你的房间去吧。”马奇梅因夫人说，“明天早晨我们再来谈这件事好吧？”

“不是向你道歉。是来向查尔斯道歉的。我待他太过分了，他是我的客人。他是我的客人，也是我唯一的朋友，而我待他太过分了。”

我们大家都感到寒心。我把他领回到他的房间；他全家的人都去作祈祷了。我们上了楼的时候，我注意到那只细颈瓶已经空了。“你该睡觉了。”我说。

塞巴斯蒂安哭泣起来。“你为什么要站在他们一边来反对我？我知道，如果我让你和他们见面，你就会反对我的。你为什么要监视我呢？”

他说了许多我不忍回忆的事情，即使现在都已隔了二十年。我终于安顿他睡下了，然后自己十分哀伤地去睡了。

第二天早晨，他很早就来到我的房间，这时全家人都还睡着；他拉开窗帘，拉窗帘的声音把我弄醒了，我发现他站在那儿，衣服全穿好了，吸着烟，背冲着我，正眺望窗外横在露水上的长长的一道破晓的曙光，最早醒来的鸟儿在正抽芽的树梢头啁啾鸣叫。我刚一说话，他就转过脸来，他脸上没有了前一天晚上的酒意，而是鲜润又愠怒的，就像一张失望的孩子的脸。

“喂，”我说，“你觉得怎么样了？”

“有点奇怪。我觉得也许我还有点醉意呢。我刚才下楼去马厩那儿，想搞一部车子，可是所有的东西都锁着。我们离开这儿吧。”

他拿起枕头边那只水瓶喝了几口水，不烟卷扔出窗外，接着又点燃了一支，手颤抖得就像老人一样。

“你要去哪儿？”

“我不知道。我想去伦敦吧。我能住你家吗？”

“当然可以。”

“好啦，把衣服穿起来。让他们把我们的行李用火车托运去。”

“我们不能这样就走啊。”

“我们不能住下去了。”

他坐在靠窗户的椅子上，他的眼光从我身上移开，望着窗外。过了一会儿他说：“一些烟囱冒烟了。他们大概已经打开马厩门了。走把。”

“我不能走，”我说，“我得跟你母亲道别了再走。”

“真是可爱的哈巴狗。”

“喂，我可不愿偷偷溜走。”

“我可顾不了那么多。我可要偷偷溜走，而且跑得越远越好，越快越好。你和我妈妈愿意策划什么阴谋诡计都随你们的便；我不会回来了。”

“昨天晚上你说的不就是这些吗？”

“我知道。对不起，查尔斯。我跟你说过我还醉着呢。如果要叫你舒服的话，我就要说我真恨透了我自己了。”

“这话一点也不叫我舒服。”

“总会有点舒服吧，我原来是这样想的。好啦，如果你不来的话，请代我向保姆问好。”

“你真的要走？”

“当然啦。”

“在伦敦我会见到你吗？”

“会的，我要去和你住在一起。”

他离开我走了，可是我再也睡不着了；大约过了两个小时，一个男用人端来茶、面包和奶油，还把我新的一天要穿的衣服摆出来。


上午晚些时我找到了马奇梅因夫人；这天风变得强劲了，多仪我们没有出门。我挨着她坐在她房里的壁炉前，这时她俯身做着针线活，正在发芽的爬墙虎在窗玻璃上发出格格的响声。

“我希望我没有看到他就好了，”她说，“这是残酷的。我并不在乎他喝醉了这一点。所有的男人年轻时候都有过这种事。我已经习惯了。我的兄弟们在他这个年龄喝起酒来也厉害得很呢。昨天晚上让人难受的是他一点都不高兴。”

“我知道，”我说，“以前我也没有看见他喝成这个样子。”

“偏偏是昨天晚上……昨天晚上客人都走了，家里就剩了我们这些人——我把你看成我们家里的人一样。塞巴斯蒂安很爱你——在你面前他不需费力假装快乐。他是不快乐的。昨天晚上我睡不着，一直想着这件事，他太不幸了。”

我不可能把我自己还不完全了解的事情跟她讲清楚，甚至在那时候我就感到，“那件事她不久就会认识到的。说不定她现在已经知道了。”

“这是可怕的，”我说，“可是也不要以为他经常这个样子。”

“桑格拉斯先生告诉我，整个上学期他一直喝得很厉害。”

“是很厉害，可是没有像这个样子——以前从来没有喝成这个样子。”

“那么，为什么现在成这个样子？在家里就这样？和我们在一起就这样？一整夜我都在思考，祈祷，不知道应该怎么跟他说才好，而现在，今天早晨，他干脆就不在了。他多么伤人的心啊，连一句话也不说就走了。我并不希望他感到羞愧——使他这样反常才是使人羞愧的事。”

“他为自己的不幸而感到很羞愧。”我说。

“桑格拉斯先生说他又吵又闹，兴高采烈。我相信，”她说道，这时她阴霾重重的脸上闪过一丝幽默的笑意，“我知道你和他有点拿桑格拉斯先生开心。你们太淘气了。我很喜欢桑格拉斯先生，他毕竟为你们办了很多事，你们也该喜欢他。不过我想，如果我在你们这个年龄，又是个男人的话，也许我自己也想戏弄桑格拉斯先生的。不，我并不在意这些事，可是昨天晚上和今天早晨的事情却不一样了。你知道，这种事以前都发生过。”

“我只能这么说：我常常看见他喝醉，我也常常和他一起喝醉，但是昨天晚上的情况我可完全没有见过。”

“噢，我指的不是塞巴斯蒂安。我指的是好多年前的事。我曾经同一个我爱过的人经历过这一切。嗯，你谅必知道我指的是谁吧——是他的父亲。他过去常常像那样喝醉。有人告诉我，他现在不像那样了。我恳求上帝这是真的。如果是真的，我全心全意地感谢上帝啊。可是说到偷偷溜掉——他也是偷偷溜掉的，你知道。正像你刚才所说的那样，他为自己的不幸感到羞愧。他们两个人都不幸，都很羞愧，结果都偷偷溜掉了。这太可怜了。和我一起长大的兄弟们——”她那双大眼睛从绣花手工上转到壁炉架上那个皮面折叠相框里的三帧小照——“他们就不像这个样子。我简直不懂这是怎么回事。你懂得吗？查尔斯？”

“稍稍懂一点。”

“可是塞巴斯蒂安爱你胜过爱我们家任何一个人。你知道。你得帮助他。我没有办法啦。”

我在这里把本来需要用很多话来描述的事情压缩成了很少几句话。马奇梅因夫人说话并不啰唆，但是她以一种女性的、调情的方式来谈论自己的话题，先是兜着圈子迂回，渐渐地靠拢，随后又躲开，声东击西。她就像一只蝴蝶那样，在话题上翩翩起舞；她还耍弄“老太太的步伐”，当别人转过身去的时候，她却神不知鬼不觉地接近要害的地方，当你看到她时，她却稳稳当当地站在那儿不动。不幸，偷偷地溜掉——这两点构成了她的悲哀，她以独特的方式把自己的全部悲哀暴露出来，而且还不到一个小时，她就把她想要说的话都说了。后来，当我站起来要离开时，她仿佛又想起了什么，说：“不知道你看过关于我弟弟的书没有？书刚刚出版。”

我告诉她我在塞巴斯蒂安的房间里浏览过。

“我愿意你也有一本。我可以送给你一本吗？他们是三个杰出的男人；内德是他们中最杰出的。他是最后死的一个，我一接到电报，就知道这种事会发生的，我想：‘现在轮到我的儿子去完成内德未完成的事业了。’当时就我一个人。他刚刚去伊顿。如果你读了关于内德的这部书，你就会理解了。”

在她的写字台上就摆好了一本，这时我想到，“好像我还没有进这间屋子，她就计划好了这样告别的。难道这次谈话她也排演过吗？假如事情的发展不像现在这个样子，她会不会把那本书放回抽屉里呢？”

她在扉页上写下她的名字和我的名字，还有日期和地点。

“昨天夜里，我也为你祈祷来着。”她说。

我走出去，随手把门关上，把迷信的用品、低低的天花板、印花棉布、羊羔皮封面的书、佛洛伦萨的风景画、盛有风信子和百花香的碗钵、那快帆布刺绣、那件小小的难题、那个亲切的女性以及时髦上流社会都关在里面，我回到了穹隆状的、有平顶镶板装饰的屋顶下，回到中央大厅的圆柱旁和柱顶盘下面，回到一个更好时代的、威严的男性气氛里。

我决不是傻瓜；我年纪够大的了，完全足以懂得那处心积虑要收买我的企图；而且我还十分年轻，完全能够感到这种经验很令人愉快。

这天早晨我没有看见朱丽娅，可是正当我离开的时候，科迪莉娅跑到汽车门前来说道：“你会见到塞巴斯蒂安吗？请你带给他我对他的特别的爱。你记得住吗——我特别的爱？”


在去伦敦的火车上我读了一遍马奇梅因夫人送给我的那本书。卷首的插图是一帧复制的一位身穿掷弹兵军服的青年的照片，我从这帧照片上清清楚楚地看到它显示出那种冷酷无情的假面具的血统，布赖兹赫德脸上的这种假面具遮盖住他父亲家族的美貌；照片上这位青年是住在森林里或是岩洞里的人，一个猎人，一个部落社会的法官，是一个同周围环境作斗争的民族种种严厉传统的保持者。书中还有其他一些图片，几张三兄弟在假日的快照，我在每个人脸上都探索出同样的古代血统；我想起马奇梅因夫人，她那样明亮、优雅，我在这些阴沉的男人身上根本找不到与她相似的地方。

她在这本书中很少出现；她比他们中最大的还要年长九岁，她结婚离开家庭的时候，他们还是小学生；在她和他们之间还有两个姐妹；生了第三个女孩之后，父母曾经数度朝圣，虔诚施舍，祈求生一个儿子，因为他们家财万贯，而且还是一个古老的名门望族。男性继承人到很晚才出生，在连续生了好几个儿子的时候，似乎能传宗接代，延续香火，可是在悲剧性的事件中，三个男性继承人先后死亡，这个家族的家系便突然中断了。

这个家族的历史，在英格兰信天主教的乡绅中是很典型的；从伊丽莎白女王统治时期一直到维多利亚女王当政，他们一直过着离群索居的生活，只和他们的承佃人以及亲属来往，他们都送自己的子弟们去国外读书，常常在本地结婚，如果不是族内通婚，就是同几十个和他们一样的世族联姻，他们不能取得高官厚禄，在那迷惘的时代里，还要受到一些教训，这些教训在这个家族最后的三个男人的一生中依旧可以辨认出来。

桑格拉斯先生的巧妙娴熟的编辑工作把各种文体的文字汇集在一起，编排成浑然天成的一本小书——有诗歌、信件、日记片断、一两篇未发表过的文章，这些文字都喷薄着一样高尚的、严肃的、勇武的、富于精神世界的气息，还收辑了他们同时代人的几封来信，在这三位死后写的，虽然文笔表达的水平各有不同，不过讲叙的都是死者的相同故事，说死者生前在学问上和体育上才华横溢，名声卓著，酬金优渥的前程在望，却与朋友同学分道扬镳，成了备极哀荣的牺牲者，献出了自己的生命。这些人为了给胡珀创造一个世界必须去死。他们是土著居民，按照法定的权利是害人虫，从从容容地给人击毙，使那些戴着夹鼻眼镜、用潮乎乎的胖手和别人握手、咧开嘴笑露出满口假牙的旅行商人得到安全。火车载着我离开马奇梅因夫人越来越远的时候，我纳闷，难道在她身上就没有那种同样的火焰，标志着不用战争的方式就使她和她的家属都归于毁灭吗？难道她在她舒适的壁炉通红的火焰中心，从窗玻璃上爬墙虎的格格声中，没有看出或听到死亡征兆吗？

车到帕丁顿火车站，回到家里，我发现塞巴斯蒂安已经在这儿了，我还发现那种悲惨感觉也烟消云散了，他轻松又活泼，就像我当年第一次和他相见时的样子。

“科迪莉娅要我转达她对你的特别的爱。”

“你和妈妈‘聊了聊’吗？”

“聊了。”

“你已经转到她那边去了？”

要是在前一天我就会说：“并不存在对立的双方啊。”这一天我说：“没有，我站在你一边，‘不管世俗观念的塞巴斯蒂安’。”

我脽拓于这个问题只谈了这几句，从此以后就再没有谈起了。


可是阴影逐渐笼罩在塞巴斯蒂安周围。我们回到牛津，窗下的紫罗兰又一次盛开，栗树照亮了街巷，鹅卵石路上撒满温热的石头碎片；可是事过境迁，已经今非昔比了；在塞巴斯蒂安的心里却是数九隆冬的天气。

几个星期过去了；我们为即将来到的这个学期寻找寄宿的地方，结果在默顿大街找到了一处，那是靠近网球场的一所僻静而又昂贵的小房子。

遇到了近来不大见到的桑格拉斯先生，我就把我们挑选房子的事告诉了他。当时他正站在布莱克韦尔书店的桌子旁，那儿正展览一些最新出版的德文书籍，他把买来的一小堆书放在一边。

“你和塞巴斯蒂安合住吗？”他说，“这么说他下个学期还要上大学啊？”

“我想是这样的。他为什么不上大学呢？”

“我可不知道为什么。不知为什么我觉得也许他会不上大学了。在这类事情上我总是猜得不对的。我倒很喜欢默顿大街。”

他给我看他买的书籍，由于我不懂德文，所以我对这些书毫无兴趣。我离开他的时候，他说：“别以为我多管闲事，你知道，当你们真的住下来以后，我才会在默顿大街做出明确的安排的。”

我把这次谈话告诉了塞巴斯蒂安，他说：“那当然，正在搞阴谋呗。妈妈想让我和管理员贝尔主教住在一起。”

“你怎么不告诉我？”

“因为我不打算和贝尔主教一块住。”

“我觉得你应该告诉我的。这是什么时候的事？”

“呃，这事一直在进行，你知道，妈妈精极了。她看出来在你身上没有成功。我估计就是你看完了关于内德舅舅那本书以后写的那封信起了作用。”

“我几乎什么事也没说啊。”

“就是因为这样。如果你将来能对她有所帮助的话，你就会大说特说了。内德舅舅只是个试验，知道吧。”

不过看来她并没有完全绝望，几天以后我收到她写来的一封便条，上面写着：“我星期二要路过牛津，希望看到你和塞巴斯蒂安。在见到他以前，我想先和你单独见五分钟。这个要求太过分了吗？我将在大约十二点的时候去你的寓所。”

她来了；她很欣赏我的住所……“我弟弟西蒙和内德也在这儿上过学，你知道。内德的房子正对着花园。我原来希望塞巴斯蒂安也来这儿上学的，可是我的丈夫当时在基督教会学院任职，正如你所知道的那样，塞巴斯蒂安的教育是由他负责的。”她又称赞起我的画来……“大家都很喜欢你在花园屋子里画的那些画儿。如果你不把那些画都完成了的话，我们可不答应。”最后，她说到了要点。

“我想你已经猜到了我来这儿要问你些什么。简单极了，这个学期塞巴斯蒂安喝酒喝得很厉害吗？”

我早就猜到了；我回答说：“如果他喝得很厉害，我就不会回答你。事实上，我可以说不厉害。”

她说：“我相信你，谢天谢地！”随后我们就一块去基督教会学院吃了午饭。

这天晚上塞巴斯蒂安又遭到了第三次灾祸。在一点钟的时候，副院长看到他酩酊大醉，在汤姆学院的四方院子里徘徊。

我是在十二点差几分时离开他的，当时虽然他郁郁不乐，可还是完全清醒的。可是在随后的时间里他闷头喝了半瓶威士忌。第二天早晨他来告诉我，这时他记不大清楚了。

“你是不是常常这么干？”我问，“我走了以后你就自己一个人喝开了？”

“大概有两次吧；也许有四次。只有当他们麻烦我的时候我才喝的。如果他们不管我，我就没事了。”

“他们现在不会麻烦你了。”我说。

“我知道。”

我们两人都知道这是一次危机。我那天上午对塞巴斯蒂安没有什么热情可言；他需要热情，可是我没有什么可给他的。

“真的，”我说，“如果你每次看到你家里的一个人，你都要自己闷着头喝一顿酒的话，那你可就完全不可救药了。”

“嗨，是啊，”塞巴斯蒂安黯然神伤，“我知道。是不可救药了。”

可是我的自尊心受到了伤害，因为这使我看来像个撒谎的人，而我又无法满足他的需要。

“喂，你打算怎么办呢？”

“我毫无办法。一切都看他们吧。”

我让他走了，没有给他什么安慰。

随后机器又开始运转起来，我看到十二月经过的事这回又从头至尾演了一遍；桑格拉斯先生和贝尔主教去见了基督教会学院的院长；布赖兹赫德又来这儿住了一夜；大齿轮活动起来；小齿轮飞快旋转。大家都为马奇梅因夫人感到十分遗憾，她弟弟们的名字用金色的字记载在阵亡将士名录上，关于她弟弟们的事，人们记忆犹新。

她又来看我了，我又不得不把一番长谈归纳为几句话，长谈伴着我们从霍利维尔到公园，穿过美索不达米亚街，乘渡船去北牛津，这天晚上她要在北牛津和一屋子修女们度过，她们都是得到她某种方式的保护的。

“你必须相信，”我说，“当我告诉你塞巴斯蒂安不喝酒时，我跟你说的是我所知道的真实情况。”

“我知道你希望做他的好朋友。”

“我并不是这个意思。我相信过去我告诉你的那些话。现在我在某种程度上还相信那些话。我认为他以前喝醉过两三次，不会再多了。”

“这可不好，查尔斯，”她说，“你所有的话无非是说明，你对他的影响和对他的了解，并不像我想的那么大和那样多。我们两人试图相信他是没有用的。过去我对酒鬼还是了解的。他们最可怕的一件事就是欺骗。爱真理是头一件好事。

“在高高兴兴一道吃了那顿午餐之后，当你一走，他对我是那样乖，就像他还是小孩子的时候那样，而我则满足他的一切要求。你知道，我对他和你住在一起一向不放心。我知道你会理解我这话的意思。你知道，撇开你是塞巴斯蒂安的朋友这一点不谈，我们都很喜欢你。如果你总是不赖我们家住，我们会多么想念你啊。可是我希望塞巴斯蒂安有各种各样的朋友，不要只有你一个朋友。贝尔主教告诉我，他从来不和别的天主教徒在一起，也从来不去纽曼俱乐部，甚至很少去做弥撒。决不是他只该认识天主教徒，不过他应当认识几个。要完全独立自主的话，那就需要有很坚强的信仰，而塞巴斯蒂安的信仰可并不坚强。

“不过，我在星期二吃午饭的时候心情非常愉快，我把一切的反对意见都放弃了。我和他到处转，还看了你们挑选的房子。那套房子很可爱。我们还选定了一些家具，你们可以从伦敦运来，把房子布置得更美些。可是就在我见到他的那天晚上——不，查尔斯，这简直不合逻辑。”

当她说这话时，我一面想：“这种话准是她从她的某位知识分子食客那里俭来的。”

“嗯，”我说，“您有补救的办法吗？”

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“喂，”我问，“到底发生了什么事呀？” “嗨，还不是一件令人讨厌的家庭纠纷。塞巴斯蒂安又喝得大醉，我们大家只得留心看着他。这真够烦人。” “对他来说也是相当烦人的。” “嗯，那得怪他自己呀。为什么他表现得不像别人一样？说起看管人来，桑格拉斯先生怎么样？查尔斯，你是不是注意到这个人有点靠不住？” “十分靠不住。你觉得你母亲看出来了？” “妈妈只看到她中意的东西。她不能把全家的人都置于监视之下。我也正在引起她的焦虑，你知道。” “我不知道，”我说，还谦虚地补充一句，“我刚刚从巴黎来。”这样我就避免造成这样一个印象，即她可能遇到的任何麻烦并不是恶名流传，尽人皆知的。 这是一个情绪特别低沉的晚上。我们在彩绘客厅吃的晚餐。塞巴斯蒂安来晚了，当时我们心里都痛苦不安，我认为大家心里都以为他准会来一个滑稽戏里的亮相，比如晃下身子，打个呃。他进来时，当然，表现得十分得体，道了歉，坐在一个空位上，就让桑格拉斯重新滔滔不绝讲下去，他没有打断他，也好像没有听。德鲁兹人，东正教的高级主教，圣像，臭虫，罗马建筑的遗迹，由山羊和绵羊的眼珠拼成的稀奇菜，法国和土耳其的官吏——把一切近东旅行的见闻提出来供我们消遣。 我注意着香槟酒在餐桌上斟了一圈。当轮到塞巴斯蒂安时，他说：“我要喝威士忌，请给斟上。”我看到威尔科克斯越过他的头顶向马奇梅因夫人看了一眼，又看到她轻轻地、几乎察觉不出地点了一下头。在布赖兹赫德，大家都用一种又小又特别的盛酒精的细颈瓶喝酒，每瓶大约能盛下四分之一酒瓶的酒，这种瓶子总斟满了摆在想喝的人面前；威尔科克斯放在塞巴斯蒂安面前的那只细颈瓶里只斟了一半。塞巴斯蒂安小心地把瓶子端起来，又把瓶子倾斜过去，注视着，然后默默地把酒倒进他自己的玻璃杯里，用两个手指头遮住它。除了塞巴斯蒂安，我们所有人都立刻说起话来，这时桑格拉斯先生发现自己没有人可以聊天，就对蜡烛台讲起马龙派来了。可是我们很快又都沉默了，他就滔滔不绝，独霸全桌，直到马奇梅因夫人和朱莉娅走出屋子。 “布赖德，不要坐久了。”她照平日习惯出门时说，而这晚上，我们都不想多耽搁了。我们的杯子里都斟满了葡萄酒，细颈瓶立刻被拿走了。我们把酒赶快喝完，就都去了客厅，布赖兹赫德请他母亲念念书，于是她就念了《一位小人物的日记》，情绪饱满地念到十点钟，然后她合上了书，说她感到说不出来的疲劳，她疲劳得这一晚上都不愿意去小教堂了。 “明天谁去打猎？”她问道。 “科迪莉娅去。”布赖兹赫德说，“我要带上朱莉娅的那匹小马，好让它认识一下猎物。我把它带出去不会超过两个小时。” “雷克斯一会儿要来这儿，”朱莉娅说，“我最好留在家里接他。” “大家在什么地方会齐？”塞巴斯蒂安突然问道。 “就在这儿，弗莱特家的圣玛丽教堂。” “那我也想去打猎，行吧，如果也有我的份。” “当然有啦。这太让人高兴了。我本来要让你去的，只是你常常抱怨说，总是强迫你出去。你可以骑那匹廷克贝尔。这个狩猎期它一直跑得很好。” 大家由于塞巴斯蒂安想去打猎而突然高兴起来；似乎这天晚上那场恶作剧已经一笔勾销了。布赖兹赫德打铃要威士忌。 “还有谁想喝？” “给我也拿点来。”塞巴斯蒂安说，虽然这一回是一个用人而不是威尔科克斯，我还是看到仆人和马奇梅因夫人之间同样交换了一下眼色和点点头。所有的人都被提醒过。端进来的两种酒，已经倒进杯子里了，就像酒吧的那种“双料酒”，大家的眼睛紧盯着托盘，好像我们是一群在餐厅里嗅猎物的狗。 但是塞巴斯蒂安想去打猎所造成的好情绪依旧没有消失；布赖兹赫德写了条子给管马厩的，我们都兴高采烈地去睡觉了。 塞巴斯蒂安径直上了床；我坐在他房里壁炉旁，吸着一支烟斗，我说：“我真希望明天和你一起出去。” “喂，”他说，“你不要把打猎看得了不起。我告诉你我究竟要干什么吧。只要碰到第一个隐蔽的地点，我就撇开布赖德，转悠到最近的一家好的小酒店去，然后在那儿打发掉整天的时间，要在酒馆的前厅安安静静地开怀痛饮。如果他们把我当成酒鬼那样对待，那么他们就会不折不扣地有一位酒鬼。我讨厌打猎，随你怎么说。” “嗨，我没法阻止你。” “你能阻止，实际上——什么钱也不给我就可以啦。他们停付我的银行账户存款，你知道，是在夏天停的。这是我一个主要的难处。我典当了手表和香烟盒才保证圣诞节过得快乐，所以我明天得找你解决我一天的开销。” “我不给。你知道得很清楚，我不能给。” “你不给吗，查尔斯？好吧，我敢说靠我自己也可以想办法解决的。前不久那次靠自己想办法时我可聪明极了。我不得不那样做。” “塞巴斯蒂安，你和桑格拉斯先生都干了些什么？” “吃饭的时候他告诉过你们啦——废墟啦，向导啦，骡子啦，这都是桑米干的事。我们决定了按照自己的路线走，就是这么回事。可怜的桑米到现在表现得确实还不坏。我希望他能这样继续下去，不过关于我的快乐的圣诞节的话，他可显得太冒失了。大概他认为，如果把我形容得太好了，他也许会丢掉他当监护人的职位吧。 “他在这件事情上可捞到了相当多的好处，你知道吧。我的意思并不是说他偷窃。我认为在钱财上他是相当诚实的。他确实保存着一个特别麻烦的小笔记本，他记下了所有兑换成现金的旅行支票，还记下了这些钱的用场，好让妈妈和律师检查。可是那些地方他都想去，而对他来说，有我舒舒服服地带着他那可是太方便了，要是像大学教师通常那样旅行就没有这么舒服了。唯一不便的地方就是得容忍我这个同伴，而我们很快就解决了这个问题。 “于是我们开始了一次几乎算得上大旅游的路程，你知道，我们随身带着给各地头面人物的信，住在罗德岛的军事总督和君士坦丁堡大使那里。这是桑米之所以要签约受雇来管我的首要原因。当然喽，他把学校工作停下来监视我，可是他事先给我们所有的东道主都打过招呼说我这个人不可靠。” “塞巴斯蒂安。” “是说不十分可靠——由于我没有钱可花，所以差不多就没法到别处去了。甚至连小费那点钱都由他替我付，把钞票塞在人家手里，然后当时当地就草草在笔记本上记下数额。我走运的时候是在君士坦丁堡。有一天晚上我趁桑米没盯住的时候，打牌赢了一些钱。第二天我给他来了个不辞而别，当我正在托卡特里安大街的一间酒吧过得快活极了的时候，这时只见走进一个人来，原来不是别人，是蓄着胡须的安东尼·布兰奇带着一个犹太男孩子。安东尼刚把一张十镑的票子借给我，这时桑米就气喘吁吁地跑进来，把我又抓住了。这以后，我连一分钟都没有躲开他的监视；后来大使馆的职员把我们安顿在去比雷埃夫斯的船上，一直盯住我们驶离码头。可是到了雅典就容易多了。一天吃过了中饭，我随便走出公使馆，到库克餐厅里兑换了钱，只是为了蒙骗桑米还询问了去亚历山大港的班次，然后就坐了一辆公共汽车去了码头，找到了一个说美国英语的水手，就睡在他那里，直到那条船起航，就奔回了君士坦丁堡，就是这么回事。 “安东尼和那个犹太男孩合住在集市附近一所不坏的摇摇欲坠的房子里。我在那里住下来，直到天气太冷了，我就和安东尼坐船南行，三星期以前我和桑米按照约定在叙利亚碰头了。” “难道桑米不在乎吗？” “哦，我想他照自己的糟透了的方式生活得还相当高兴哩——当然，只是没有更多的高级生活让他过罢了。我想他最初有些着急，而我并不希望他得知整个地中海舰队的消息，因此我就从君士坦丁堡给他拍了海底电报，说我很好，但愿他把钱寄到奥托曼银行。他一接到我的海底电报，立刻坐飞机来了。他的处境当然很困难，因为我已经成年，而且没有病情证明，所以他也就无法把我扣留起来。他也不能花着我的钱的时候让我挨饿，况且他又没法既把这件事告诉妈妈而又不暴露出他自己愚蠢透顶。可怜的桑米，他得乖乖地听我的话。我本想干脆离开他，可是安东尼在这件事上倒很帮忙，他说把事情友好地解决要好得多；而且他的确把事情非常友好地解决了。瞧，我就回来了。” “是在圣诞节后。” “是的，因为我决心要快快乐乐地过一个圣诞节。” “过得快乐吗？” “我认为是这样。怎么过的，我现在不大记得了。不过这总算是一个好兆头吧？” 第二天早餐时布赖兹赫德穿了件鲜红的衣服；科迪莉娅漂亮极了，她系着一条白色硬围领，下巴高高地翘起来。当塞巴斯蒂安穿着一件花呢外套进来的时候，她悲叹道：“嗨，塞巴斯蒂安，你怎么能像那样出去呢，快去换衣服吧。你穿着猎装可显得漂亮哩。” “不知锁在什么地方了。吉布斯找不到。” “别骗人了。在喊你之前，我已经亲手帮着把那套衣服取出来了。” “有一半东西都不见了。” “这只是在鼓励斯特里克兰—维纳布尔斯夫妇。他们的表现可真够糟的。他们连礼帽也不戴就带着马夫出去。” 这时离十一点还差一刻，马匹还没有牵来，可是楼下没有人出现，就好象他们都藏了起来，等着听塞巴斯蒂安打退堂鼓再露面。 当塞巴斯蒂安动身要走的时候，他把我招呼进了前厅，这时别人已经上了马了。那张桌子上除了放着他的帽子、手套、马鞭和夹肉面包外，还放着那个他拿出来准备灌满酒的长颈瓶。他拿起瓶子摇了摇，瓶子是空的。 “你看，”他说，“不信任我甚至到了这种地步。发疯的是他们，而不是我。现在你不能拒绝给我钱了吧。” 我给他一镑。 “再给点。”他说。 我又给他一镑，看着他上了马，放开马在他的哥哥和妹妹后面小跑着。 这时，桑格拉斯先生仿佛在舞台上暗示一样，走到我的肘边，挽着我的胳膊，把我带回到壁炉前。他先烤烤自己那双干净的小手，然后烤烤自己的臀部。 “看来塞巴斯蒂安猎狐去了，”他说，“我们的小难题暂时可以放开一两个小时吧？” 我可不吃桑格拉斯先生这一套。 “你们那次大旅行，我可全听说了，就在昨天晚上。”我说。 “啊，我就猜到你会听说的。”桑格拉斯先生并不害怕，似乎因为别人知道了这件事还松了一口气呢，“我没有用这些事情去折磨我们的女主人。总而言之，这件事结果比人料想的要强多了。但是，我的确感到，关于塞巴斯蒂安在圣诞节的庆祝活动，应当向夫人做一番解释。昨天晚上你注意到了吧，是采取了一些预防措施的。” “我注意到了。” “你认为那些措施太过分了吧？我是和你站在一边的，特别是当我们这次小小的访问也要受到波及的时候。今天早晨我去见了马奇梅因夫人。你大概不会以为我现在刚刚起床吧。我和我们的女主人在楼上作了一番小小的谈话。我想我们可以指望今天晚上过得轻松一点了。像昨天晚上那样的情况，谁也不希望再重演了。我想，昨天晚上我努力要使你开心点，可是我得到你的感谢远远不够。” 和桑格拉斯先生谈论塞巴斯蒂安是非常令我反感的，可是我不得不说道：“今天晚上是不是确实可以轻松一下，我可拿不准。” “当然啰？今天晚上怎么不行，难道在布赖兹赫德检查官似的眼睛监视下，在野外过了一天还不行吗？难道还能挑选到更好的吗？” “呃，我认为这实在不关我的事。” “严格地说来，也不关我的事，既然他已经平平安安回了家。马奇梅因夫人肯和我商量事情使我感到很荣幸。可是，此刻我心里想的不是塞巴斯蒂安的幸福，而是我们自己的。我需要喝第三杯葡萄酒；我在图书室里需要这个好客的托盘。可是你还明确说今晚不会松快。我不知道这是为什么。塞巴斯蒂安今天不会搞恶作剧了。就凭一点：他没有钱。这我碰巧知道了。我留心这件事呢。我甚至拿了他楼上的手表和香烟盒。他完全不会害人了……只要没有人邪恶得给他钱……啊，朱莉娅小姐，早上好，早上好。在今天早晨他们去打猎的时候，那只小狮子狗怎么样？” “噢，狮子狗很好，听着，我已经叫雷克斯·莫特拉姆今天到这儿来。我们简直不能再像昨天晚上那样过了。得有人跟妈妈说说。” “有人已经说了。我说了。我想今晚一切都会很好。” “谢谢上帝。查尔斯，今天你画画吗？” 这已经成了惯例，我每次到布赖兹赫德作客，都要在那间花园房间的墙上画一枚大奖章。这个惯例对我倒很好，因为这样我就有充分理由离开其余的人；每当这所宅第宾客盈门的时候，这间花园房子就可以和育婴室媲美了，人们常常躲到这里来发牢骚；因此，我轻而易举地就知道了这里的一切闲话。我这时已经画成了三枚奖章，每一枚就其本身来看都很漂亮，可是从另一种观点来看，每一枚都不够妥当，因为我的趣味已经变了，自从开始画这一系列的奖章以来，我的手在十八个月当中变得越来越灵巧了。作为装饰性的设计，这些奖章只能算是失败。当我发现这间花园房子是一所圣殿时，这个上午在许许多多的上午中是很有代表性的。我一去那里，马上就着手工作。朱莉娅跟我一起来了，她来看我动手画画儿，我们谈起来，不可避免地谈起塞巴斯蒂安。 “这个话题你听腻了没有？”她问，“为什么每个人都把这当成一件大事？” “因为我们都喜欢他。” “对啦。我也喜欢他，大概在某种程度上吧，只是我希望他表现得也像别人那样就好了。我是伴随着一桩家丑长大的，你知道——那就是爸爸。当我们还是孩子的时候，人们从来不当着用人的面谈他，也从来不当着我们的面谈他。如果妈妈还要打算把塞巴斯蒂安弄成一桩家丑的话，那就太过分了。如果他想总是喝醉，那他为什么不去肯尼亚，或者去别的什么不在乎喝醉酒的地方呢？” “为什么他在肯尼褵妄得不愉快就不那么要紧呢？” “别装糊涂，查尔斯。你完全明白。” “你的意思是不是说，如果他在肯尼亚，你们就不会碰到那么多尴尬的局面了？喏，我想说的是，我很担心如果塞巴斯蒂安抓住个机会，今天晚上就会出现一个令人尴尬的局面。他的心情很不好。” “嗯，打一天猎会使情绪变好的。” 看到大家都把信心寄托在一天狩猎的价值上，真是令人伤心。今天上午马奇梅因夫人来看我，为此用她尽人皆知的冷嘲方式嘲笑了自己一番。 “我总是痛恨打猎的，”她说，“因为打猎似乎会在最有教养的人身上产生很多粗俗的影响。我不知道打猎是怎么回事，可是一当他们穿上猎装，骑在马上，就变得像一帮普鲁士人了。他们为此还挺得意的呢。到了晚上我坐在那里吃饭，看到我认识的那些男女仿佛都变成了不明事理、刚愎自用、有偏执狂的蠢货，我就感到震惊极了……可是你知道，打猎大概是从几百年前传下来的事情，一想到塞巴斯蒂安今天和他们出去了，我心里就轻松多了。‘实际上他什么毛病也没有，’我心里说，‘他已经打猎去了。’仿佛我的祈祷应验了。” 她问到我在巴黎的生活。我跟她讲，从我那套寓所可以看到塞纳河的风景和巴黎圣母院的许多塔楼。“我希望我回去时塞巴斯蒂安来和我一起住几天。” “那可太好了。”马奇梅因夫人说，好像因为这是一件无法实现的事而叹了口气。 “我希望他去伦敦和我住几天。” “查尔斯，你知道这是不行的。伦敦是个最坏的地方。在那里就是桑格拉斯先生也管束不住他。我们家里的事是不瞒你的。他失踪了，你知道，整个圣诞节期间都不见了。桑格拉斯先生之所以能找到他，只是因为他在那个地方没钱付账，这样他们才把电话打到我们家里来。这太可怕了。不，去伦敦是不行的。如果他在这儿和我们在一起还不能规规矩矩的话……那我们就得使他在这儿快乐一点儿，健康一点儿，打打猎，然后打发他跟桑格拉斯先生再到国外去……你知道，这些事我以前都经历过。” 反驳的话是现成的，即便没说出来，我们两人心里也都完全明白——那就是：“你过去没把他管住；他跑掉了。塞巴斯蒂安今后也会跑掉。因为他们两人都恨你。” 这时在我们下面的那个山谷里响起了号角声和猎人们的叫喊声。 “他们去那儿了，快到我们家的那片林地了。我希望他今天过得很好。” 就这样，我和朱莉娅和马奇梅因夫人都僵持住了，这倒不是因为我们之间互不理解，而是因为我们理解得太充分了。布赖兹赫德回来吃午餐，也和我谈到这个话题——这个话题在这个家里随处都要谈到，好像吃水线以下的一艘轮船船舱中的一团火，这火在黑暗中呈现暗红色，从舱口下冒出来一缕缕刺鼻的浓烟，又突然从舷窗口和通气管滚滚冒出来——和布赖兹赫德在一起，我就置身于奇异的世界中，对我而言那是一个死寂的世界，置身于由光秃秃熔岩造成的月球上，置身于一片太空，在那里我即使声嘶力竭地大声叫喊，而对方却毫无所闻。 他说：“我希望这就是嗜酒狂。我们大家都要帮助他去忍受这种病，这简直是极大的不幸。过去我常常担心的是他想喝醉就喝醉，因为他喜欢喝醉。” “过去他确实是这样的——而且我们俩都是这样的。现在他跟我也是这么干的。倘若你母亲信得过我，我能够使他只到这个地步。如果用监视人和神父的教化来纠缠他的话，不出几年他的身体就会完全垮了。” “身体垮了可并不是什么罪过，你知道。并没有什么道德的义务要求谁成为邮政部长或者成为训练猎狗的大师，也没有要求谁活到八十岁还能步行十英里路。” “什么罪过，”我说，“什么道德义务——你又扯到宗教去了。” “我从来也没有离开过宗教。”布赖兹赫德说。 “布赖德，你要知道，如果我有那么一刻工夫感到愿意当一个天主教徒，那么我只需和你谈上五分钟就会完全消除这个念头。你竟然会把那些看来非常明智的主张变得十分荒谬。” “真奇怪，你竟这么说。以前我也听到别人说过。我觉得我之所以成不了一个优秀的教士，这也是许多原因中的一个。我想，我的脑子思考问题的方法起了作用。” 吃午饭的时候，朱莉娅满脑子想的都是这天要来的客人。她开车去车站接他，而且把他接回家来吃茶点。 “妈妈，一定要来看看雷克斯的圣诞节礼物。” 这是一只小乌龟，在活生生的乌龟壳上用钻石嵌着朱莉娅名字开头的大写字母，这个有点可憎的东西一会儿在光滑的桌面上有气无力地爬行，一会儿爬过了牌桌，一会儿又笨手笨脚地爬上一块小地毯，碰它一下，它就往回缩一缩，然后又伸出脖子，晃晃它那干瘪的老朽的脑袋，它成了这个晚上令人难忘的一个物件，成了一个有吸引力的东西，在危急关头它把人们的注意力吸引过去。 “哎呀，”马奇梅因夫人说，“我不知道它吃的东西是不是和普通乌龟吃的一样啊。” “要是它死了，你怎么办呢？”桑格拉斯先生问，“能不能把别的乌龟安进这个乌龟壳里呢？” 雷克斯也曾经听说过塞巴斯蒂安的问题——如果没有别的什么办法，他在这种气氛中几乎没法忍受——于是他就带来这个小动物作为解决办法。在喝茶的时候他兴高采烈地把塞巴斯蒂安的问题公开提出来，到这时候，他们已经窃窃私语了一天，这会儿听人家公开谈论这个问题倒是很宽慰的。“把他打发到苏黎世的博莱图斯那儿去吧。博莱图斯是那人的名字，他在他工作的那个疗养院每天都在创造奇迹。你们都知道查利·基尔卡特尼一向是怎么喝酒的吧。” “不知道。”马奇梅因夫人说，还带着她那亲切的冷嘲口吻，“不知道，恐怕我不知道查利·基尔卡特尼过去是怎么喝酒的。” 朱莉娅听到她的情人遭到奚落，冲着那只乌龟蹙起眉头，可是雷克斯·莫特拉姆并不懂得这类微妙的玩笑。 “两个妻子对他都绝望了。”他说，“他跟西尔维亚订婚的时候，西尔维亚把他必须去苏黎世进行治疗当作一个条件。治疗是起作用的。过了三个月他回来时已经判若两人了。从那时起，他连一滴酒也没沾，即使西尔维亚抛弃了他也是一样。” “她为什么要抛弃他呢？” “嗨，可怜的查利一旦戒了酒就叫人讨厌极了。不过实际上这也并不是这件事的关键。” “我猜想也不是的。我想事实上这个故事确实是很鼓舞人心的。” 这时朱莉娅怒视着她那只嵌着钻石的乌龟。 “他也接受性病病人，你知道。” “呃，亲爱的，可怜的塞巴斯蒂安在苏黎世将要结识些什么古怪的朋友啊。” “要提前好几个月预约好。不过我想，如果我向他要求的话，他会留出空房来的。今天晚上我就可以从这儿给他打电话。” （雷克斯在他最亲切的时刻展示出来一种虚张声势的热情，就像他把一个真空吸尘器塞给一位很不情愿的家庭主妇手上一样。） “我们得考虑考虑。” 我们正在考虑这件事，这时科迪莉娅打猎回来了。 “啊，朱莉娅，这是什么？太让人厌恶啦！” “这是雷克斯送的圣诞节礼物。” “噢，对不起。我总把事情搞糟了。可是这太狠心啦！它一定痛极了吧。” “它们不会觉得痛。” “你怎么知道？我敢断定它们会觉得的。” 她吻了吻这一天她还没见到的母亲，又和雷克斯握握手，就打铃要了鸡蛋。 “我在巴尼太太那儿吃过茶点了，我是从她那儿打电话要汽车的，可是我现在还饿。今天可妙极啦。琼·斯特里克兰—维纳布尔斯摔到泥泞里去了。我们连停也没停，一口气从本格斯跑到了伊斯特莱。我估计有五英里路，是吧，布赖德？” “三英里。” “不止三英里，就照他那样跑……”在她大口大口吃炒鸡蛋的时候，她告诉我们打猎的事。“……你们真该看看琼从泥泞里站起来是个什么样子。” “塞巴斯蒂安在哪儿？” “他可丢脸了。”这几个字由孩子般的清脆嗓音说出来，就犹如敲响了丧钟，她接着说：“他出门时穿着一件捕鼠人穿的让人恶心的外套，系着一条难看的小领带，就好像是从莫文上尉的骑兵学校里出来的。在集合地点我差点没认出他来，我希望谁也没有认出他来。他没回来吗？我估计他又走丢啦。” 当威尔科克斯把茶具清理走的时候，马奇梅因夫人问道：“没有塞巴斯蒂安少爷的踪迹吗？” “没有，夫人。” “他一定停下来和什么人喝茶呢。他怎么会像这样呢。” 又过了半点钟，威尔科克斯端着鸡尾酒的托盘进来的时候说：“塞巴斯蒂安少爷刚才打电话来说要车去南特温宁接他。” “南特温宁？谁住在那儿？” “他是从旅馆里打来的电话，夫人。” “南特温宁？”科迪莉娅说，“天哪，他真的走丢啦！” 他到家的时候，满脸通红，眼睛发烧似的发亮；我看出他已经有七八成的醉意了。 “亲爱的孩子，”马奇梅因夫人说，“看到你的气色又这么好，多叫人高兴啊！在野地里待一天对你的身体很好。桌子上有酒；自己喝吧。” 除了她说有酒这句话以外，她的话里并没有什么特别的东西。而在六个月以前，这话是不会说出来的。 “谢谢，”塞巴斯蒂安说，“我会喝的。”

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Chapter 7
IT is time to speak of Julia, who till now has played an intermittent and somewhat enigmatic part in Sebastian’s drama. It was thus she appeared to me at the time, and I to her. We pursued separate aims which brought us near to one another, but we remained strangers. She told me later that she had made a kind of note of me in her mind, as, scanning the shelf for a particular book, one will sometimes have one’s attention caught by another, take it down, glance at the title page and, saying ‘I must read that, too, when I’ve the time,’ replace it, and continue the search. On my side the interest was keener, for there was always the physical likeness between brother and sister, which, caught repeatedly in different poses, under different lights, each time pierced me anew; and, as Sebastian in his sharp decline seemed daily to fade and crumble, so much the more did Julia stand out clear and firm.

She was thin in those days, flat-chested, leggy; she seemed all limbs and neck, bodiless, spidery; thus far she conformed to the fashion, but the hair-cut and the hats of the period, and the blank stare and gape of the period, and the clownish dabs of rouge high on the cheekbones, could not reduce her to type.

When I first met her, when she met me in the station yard and drove me home through the twilight, that high summer of 1923, she was just eighteen and fresh from her first London season.

Some said it was the most brilliant season since the war, that things were getting into their stride again. Julia was at the centre of it. There were then remaining perhaps half a dozen London houses which could be called ‘historic’; Marchmain House in St James’s was one of them, and the ball given for Julia, in spite of the ignoble costume of the time, was by all accounts a splendid spectacle. Sebastian went down for it and half-heartedly suggested my coming with him; I refused and came to regret my refusal, for it was the last ball of its kind given there; the last of a splendid series.  How could I have known? There seemed time for everything in those days; the world was open to be explored at leisure. I was so full of Oxford that summer; London could wait, I thought.

The other great houses belonged to kinsmen or to childhood friends of Julia’s, and beside s them there were countless substantial houses in the squares of Mayfair and Belgravia, alight and thronged, one or other of them, night after night. Foreigners returning on post from their own waste lands wrote home that here they seemed to catch a glimpse of the world they had believed lost forever, among the mud and wire, and through those halcyon weeks Julia darted and shone, part of the sunshine between the tress, part of the candle-light in the mirror’s spectrum, so that elderly men and women sitting aside with their memories, saw her as herself the blue-bird. ‘ “Bridey” Marchmain’s eldest girl,’ they said. ‘Pity he can’t see her tonight.’ That night and the night after, wherever she went always in her own little circle of intimates, she brought a moment of Joy, such as strikes deep to the heart on the river’s bank when the kingfisher suddenly flares across the water.

This was the creature, neither child nor woman, that drove me through the dusk that summer evening, untroubled by love, taken aback by the power of her own beauty, hesitating on the cool edge of life one who had suddenly found herself armed, unawares; the heroine of a fairy story turning over in her hands the magic ring; she had only to stroke it with her fingertips and whisper the charmed word, for the earth to open at her feet and belch forth her titanic servant, the fawning monster who would bring her whatever she asked., but bring it, perhaps, in unwelcome shape.  She had no interest in me that evening; the jinn rumbled below us uncalled; she lived apart in a little world, within a little world, the innermost of a system of concentric spheres, like the ivory balls laboriously carved in China; a little problem troubling her mind - little, as she saw it, in abstract terms and symbols. She was wondering dispassionately and leagues distant from reality, whom she should marry. Thus strategists hesitate over the map, the few pins and lines of coloured chalk, contemplating a change in the pins and lines, a matter of inches, which outside the room, out of sight of the studious officers, may engulf past, present, and future in ruin or life. She was a symbol to herself then, lacking the life of both child and women; victory and defeat were changes of pin and line; she knew nothing of war.  ‘If only one lived abroad,’ she thought, ‘where these things are arranged between parents and lawyers.’

To be married, soon and splendidly, was the aim of all her friends. If she looked further than the wedding, it was to see marriage as the beginning of individual existence; the skirmish where one gained one’s spurs, from which one set out on the true quests of life.

She outshone by far all the girls of her age, but she knew that, in that little world within a world which she inhabited, there were certain grave disabilities from which she suffered. On the sofas against the wall where the old people counted up the points, there were things against her. There was the scandal of her father; that slight, inherited stain upon her brightness that seemed deepened by something in her own way of life - waywardness and wilfulness, a less disciplined habit than most of her contemporaries; but for that, who knows?...

One subject eclipsed all others in importance for the ladies along the wall; who would the young princes marry? They could not hope for purer lineage or a more gracious presence than Julia’s; but there was this faint shadow on her that unfitted her for the highest honours; there was also her religion.

Nothing could have been further from Julia’s ambitions than a royal marriage. She knew, or thought she knew, what she wanted and it was not that. But wherever she turned, it seemed, her religion stood as a barrier between her and her natural goal.  As it seemed to her, the thing was a dead loss. If she apostatized now, having been brought up in the Church, she would go to hell, while the Protestant girls of her acquaintance, schooled in happy ignorance, could marry eldest sons, live at peace with their world, and get to heaven before her. There could be no eldest son for her, and younger sons were indelicate things, necessary, but not to be much spoken of. Younger sons had none of the privileges of obscurity; it was their plain duty to remain hidden until some disaster perchance promoted them to their brother’s places, and, since this was their function, it was desirable that they should keep themselves wholly suitable for succession. Perhaps in a family of three or four boys, a Catholic might get the youngest without opposition. There were of course the Catholics themselves, but these came seldom into the little world Julia had made for herself; those who did were her mother’s kinsmen, who, to her, seemed grim and eccentric. Of the dozen or so rich and noble Catholic families, none at that time had an heir of the right age. Foreigners - there were many among her mother’s family - were tricky about money, odd in their ways, and a sure mark of failure in the English girl who wed them. What was there left?  This was Julia’s problem after her weeks of triumph in London. She knew it was not insurmountable. There must, she thought, be a number of people outside her own world who were well qualified to be drawn into it; the shame was that she must seek them.



Not for her the cruel, delicate luxury of choice, the indolent, cat-and-mouse pastimes of the hearth-rug. No Penelope she; she must hunt in the forest.  She had made a preposterous little picture of the kind of man who would do: he was an English diplomat of great but not very virile beauty, now abroad, with a house smaller than Brideshead, nearer to London; he was old, thirty-two or -three, and had been recently and tragically widowed; Julia thought she would prefer a man a little subdued by earlier grief. He had a great career before him but had grown listless in his loneliness; she was not sure he was not in danger of falling into the hands of an unscrupulous foreign adventuress; he needed a new infusion of young life to carry him to the Embassy at Paris. While professing a mild agnosticism himself he had a liking for the shows of religion and was perfectly agreeable to having his children brought up Catholic; he believed, however in the prudent restriction of his family to two boys and a girl, comfortably, spaced over twelve years, and did not demand, as a Catholic husband might, yearly pregnancies. He had twelve thousand a year above his pay, and no near relations. Someone like that would do, Julia thought, and she was in search of him when she met me at the railway station. I was not her man. She told me as much, without a word, when she took the cigarette from my lips.

All this I learned about Julia, bit by bit, as one does learn the former - as it seems at the time, the preparatory - life of a woman one loves, so that one thinks of oneself as having been part of it, directing it by devious ways, towards oneself.

Julia left Sebastian and me at Brideshead and went to stay with an aunt, Lady Rosscommon, in her villa at Cap Ferrat. All the way she pondered her problem. She had given a name to her widower-diplomat; she called him “Eustace”, and from that moment he became a figure of fun to her, a little interior, incommunicable joke, so that when at last such a man did cross her path - though he was not a diplomat but a wistful major in the Life Guards - and fall in love with her and offer her just those gifts she had chosen, she sent him away moodier and more wistful than ever; for by that time she had met Rex Mottram.

Rex’s age was greatly in his favour, for among Julia’s friends there was a kind of gerontophilic snobbery; young men were held to be gauche and pimply; it was thought very much more chic to be seen lunching alone at the Ritz - a thing, in any case, allowed to few girls of that day, to the tiny circle of Julia’s intimates; a thing looked at askance by the elders who kept the score, chatting pleasantly against the walls of the ballrooms - at the table on the left as you came in, with a starched and wrinkled old roué whom your mother had be warned of as a girl, than than in the centre of the room with a party of exuberant young bloods. Rex, indeed, was neither starched nor wrinkled; his seniors thought him a pushful young cad, but Julia recognized the unmistakable chic - the flavour of ‘Max’ and ‘F. E.’ and the Prince of Wales, of the big table in the Sporting Club, the second magnum, and the fourth cigar, of the chauffeur kept waiting hour after hour without compunction - which her friends would envy. His social position was unique; it had an air of mystery, even of crime, about it; people said Rex went about armed. Julia and her friends had a fascinated abhorrence of what they called ‘Pont Street’; they collected phrases that damned their user, and among themselves - and often, disconcertingly, in public - talked a language made up of them. It was ‘Pont Street’ to wear a signet ring and to give chocolates at the theatre; it was ‘Pont Street’ at a dance to say, ‘Can I forage for you?’ Whatever Rex might be, he was definitely not ‘Pont Street’. He had stepped straight from the underworld into the world of Brenda Champion who was herself the innermost of a number of concentric ivory spheres.

Perhaps Julia recognized in Brenda Champion an intimation of what she and her friends



might be in twelve years’ time; there was an antagonism between the girl and the woman that was hard to explain otherwise. Certainly the fact of his being Brenda Champion’s property sharpened Julia’s appetite for Rex.  Rex and Brenda Champion were staying at the next villa on Cap Ferrat, taken that year by a newspaper magnate, and frequented by politicians. They would not normally have come within Lady Rosscommon’s ambit, but, living so close, the parties mingled and at once, Rex began warily to pay his court.

All that summer he had been feeling restless. Mrs Champion had proved a dead end; it had all been intensely exciting at first, but now the bonds had begun to chafe. Mrs Champion lived as, he found, the English seemed apt to do, in a little world within a little world; Rex demanded a wider horizon. He wanted to consolidate his gains; to strike the black ensign, go ashore, hang the cutlass up over the chimney, and think about the crops. It was time he married; he, too, was in search of a ‘Eustace’, but, living as he did, he met few girls. He knew of Julia; she was by all accounts top debutante, a suitable prize.

With Mrs Champion’s cold eyes watching behind her sunglasses, there was little Rex could do at Cap Ferrat except establish a friendliness which could be widened later. He was never entirely alone with Julia, but he saw to it that she was included in most things they did; he taught her chemin-de-fer, he arranged that it was always in his car that they drove to Monte Carlo or Nice; he did enough to make Lady Rosscommon. write to Lady Marchmain, and Mrs Champion move him, sooner than they had planned, to Antibes.  Julia went to Salzburg to join her mother.

‘Aunt Fanny tells me you made great friends with Mr Mottram. I’m sure he can’t be very nice.’

‘I don’t think he is,’ said Julia. ‘I don’t know that I like nice people.’ There is proverbially a mystery among most men of new wealth, how they made their first ten thousand; it is the qualities they showed then, before they became bullies, when every man was someone to be placated, when only hope sustained them and they could count on nothing from the world but what could be charmed from it, that make them, if they survive their triumph, successful with women. Rex, in the comparative freedom of London, became abject to Julia; he planned his life about hers where he would meet her, ingratiating himself with those who could report well of him to her; he sat on a number of charitable committees in order to be near Lady Marchmain; he offered his services to Brideshead in getting him a seat in Parliament (but was there rebuffed); he expressed a keen interest in the Catholic Church until he found that this was no way to Julia’s heart.  He was always ready to drive her in his Hispano wherever she wanted to go; he took her and parties of her friends to ring-side seats at prize-fights and introduced them afterwards to the pugilists; and all the time he never once made love to her. From being agreeable, he became indispensable to her; from having been proud of him in public she became a little ashamed, but by that time, between Christmas and Easter, he had become indispensable. And then, without in the least expecting it, she suddenly found herself in love.

It came to her, this disturbing and unsought re

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Chapter 8
I RETURNED to London in the spring of 1926 for the General Strike.  It was the topic of Paris. The French, exultant as always at the discomfiture of their former friends, and transposing into their own precise terms our mistier notions from across the Channel, foretold revolution and civil war. Every evening the kiosks displayed texts of doom, and, in the cafés, acquaintances greeted one half-derisively with: ‘Ha, my friend, you are better off here than at home, are you not?’ until I and several friends in circumstances like my own came seriously to believe that our country was in danger and that our duty lay there. We were joined by a Belgian Futurist, who lived under the, I think, assumed name of Jean de Brissac la Motte, and claimed the right to bear arms in any battle anywhere against the lower classes.  We crossed together, in a high-spirited, male party, expecting to find unfolding before us at Dover the history so often repeated of late, with so few variations, from all parts of Europe, that I, at any rate, had formed in my mind a clear, composite picture of ‘Revolution’ - the red flag on the post office, the overturned tram, the drunken N.C.O.s, the gaol open and gangs of released criminals prowling the streets, the train from the capital that did not arrive. One had read it in the papers, seen it in the films, heard it at café tables again and again for six or seven years now, till it had become part of one’s experience, at second hand, like the mud of Flanders and the flies of Mesopotamia.  Then we landed and met the old routine of the customs-shed, the punctual boat-train, the porters lining the platform at Victoria and converging on the first-class carriages; the long line of waiting taxis.

‘We’ll separate,’ we said, and see what’s happening. We’ll meet and compare notes at dinner,’ but we knew already in our hearts that nothing was happening; nothing, at any rate, which needed our presence.

‘Oh dear, ‘ said my father, meeting me by chance on the stairs, ‘how delightful to see you again so soon.’ (I had been abroad fifteen months.) ‘You’ve come at a very awkward time, you know. They’re having another of those strikes in two days - such a lot of nonsense - and I don’t know when you’ll be able to get away.’

I thought of the evening I was forgoing, with the lights coming out along the banks of the Seine, and the company I should have had there - for I was at the time concerned with two emancipated American girls who shared a gar?onnière in Auteuil - and wished I had not come.

We dined that night at the Café Royal. There things were a little more warlike, for the Café was full of undergraduates who had come down for ‘National Service’. One group, from Cambridge, had that afternoon signed on to run messages for Trans-port House, and their table backed on another group’s, who were enrolled as special constables. Now and then one or other party would shout provocatively over the shoulder, but it is hard to come into serious conflict back to back, and the affair ended with their giving each other tall glasses of lager beer.

‘You should have been in Budapest when Horthy marched in’ said Jean. ‘That was politics.’

A party was being given that night in Regent’s Park for the ‘Black Birds’ who had newly arrived in England. One of us had been asked and thither we all went.  To us, who frequented Bricktop’s and the Bal Nègre in the Rue Blomet, there was nothing particularly remarkable in the spectacle; I was scarcely inside the door when I heard an unmistakable voice, an echo from what now seemed a distant past.  ‘No,’ it said, ‘they are not animals in a zoo, Mulcaster, to be goggled at. They are artists, my dear, very great artists, to be revered.’

Anthony Blanche and Boy Mulcaster were at the table where the wine stood.  ‘Thank God here’s someone I know,’ said Mulcaster, as I joined them. ‘Girl brought me. Can’t see her anywhere.’

‘She’s given you the slip, my dear, and do you know why? Because you look ridiculously out of place, Mulcaster. It isn’t your kind of party at all; you ought not to be here; you ought to go away, you know, to the Old Hundredth or some lugubrious dance in Belgrave Square.’

‘Just come from one, ‘ said Mulcaster. ‘Too early for the Old Hundredth. I’ll stay on a bit. Things may cheer up.’

‘I spit on you,’ said Anthony. ‘Let me talk to you, Charles.’ We took a bottle and our glasses and found a comer in another room. At our feet five members of the ‘Black Birds’ orchestra squatted on their heels and threw dice.  ‘That one, ‘ said Anthony, ‘the rather pale one, my dear, conked Mrs Arnold Frickheimer the other morning on the nut, my dear, with a bottle of milk.’ Almost immediately, inevitably, we began to talk of Sebastian.  ‘My dear, he’s such a sot. He came to live with me in Marseille last year when you threw him over, and really it was as much as I could stand. Sip, sip, sip like a dowager all day long. And so sly. I was always missing little things, my dear, things I rather liked; once I lost two suits that had arrived from Lesley and Roberts that morning. Of course, I didn’t know it was Sebastian - there were some rather queer fish, my dear, in and out of my little apartment. Who knows better than you my taste for queer fish?  Well, eventually, my dear, we found the pawnshop where Sebastian was p-p-popping them and then he hadn’t got the tickets; there was a market for them, too, at the bistro.

‘I can see that puritanical, disapproving look in your eye, dear Charles, as though you thought I had led the boy on. It’s one of Sebastian’s less lovable qualities that he always gives the impression of being l-1-led on - like a little horse at a circus. But I assure you I did everything. I said to him again and again, “Why drink? If you want to be intoxicated there are so many much more delicious things.” I took him to quite the best man; well, you know him as well as I do, Nada Alopov and Jean Luxmore and everyone we know has been to him for years - he’s always in the Regina Bar - and then we had trouble over that because Sebastian gave him a bad cheque - a s-s-stumer, my dear - and a whole lot of very menacing men came round to the flat thugs, my dear - and Sebastian was making no sense at the time and it was all most unpleasant.’ Boy Mulcaster wandered towards us and sat down, without encouragement, by my side.

‘Drink running short in there,’ he said, helping himself from our bottle and emptying it. ‘Not a soul in the place I ever set eyes on before - all black fellows.’ Anthony ignored him and continued: ‘So then we left Marseille and went to Tangier, and there, my dear, Sebastian took up with his new friend. How can I describe him? He is like the footman in Warning Shadows - a great clod of a German who’d been in the Foreign Legion. He got out by shooting off his great toe. It hadn’t healed yet. Sebastian found him, starving as tout to one of the houses in the Kasbah, and brought him to stay with us. It was too macabre. So back I came, my dear, to good old England - Good old England,’ he repeated, embracing with a flourish of his hand the Negroes gambling at our feet, Mulcaster staring blankly before him, and our hostess who, in pyjamas, now introduced herself to us.

‘Never seen you before,’ she said. ‘Never asked you. Who are all this white trash, anyway? Seems to me I must be in the wrong house.’ ‘A time of national emergency,’ said Mulcaster. ‘Anything may happen.’ ‘Is the party going well?’ she asked anxiously. ‘D’you think Florence Mills would sing? We’ve met before,’ she added to Anthony.

‘Often, my dear, but you never asked me tonight.’

‘Oh dear, perhaps I don’t like you. I thought I liked everyone.’ ‘Do you think,’ asked Mulcaster, when our hostess had left us, ‘that it might be witty to give the fire alarm?’

‘Yes, Boy, run away and ring it.’

‘Might cheer things up, I mean.’

‘Exactly.’

So Mulcaster left us in search of the telephone.

‘I think Sebastian and his lame chum went to French Morocco,’ continued Anthony.  ‘They were in trouble with the Tangier police when I left them. The Marchioness has been a positive pest ever since I came to London, trying to make me get into touch with them. What a time that poor woman’s having! It only shows there’s some justice in life.’ Presently Miss Mills began to sing and everyone, except the crap players, crowded to the next room.

‘That’s my girl,’ said Mulcaster. ‘Over there, with that black fellow. That’s the girl who brought me.’

‘She seems to have forgotten you now.’

‘Yes. I wish I hadn’t come. Let’s go somewhere.’ Two fire engines drove up as we left and a host of helmeted figures joined the throng upstairs.  ‘That chap, Blanche,’ said Mulcaster, ‘not a good fellow. I put him in Mercury once.’ We went to a number of night clubs. In two years Mulcaster seemed to have attained his simple ambition of being known and liked in such places. At the last of them he and I were kindled by a great flame of patriotism.

‘You and I ‘ he said, ‘were too young to fight in the war. Other chaps fought, millions of them dead. Not us. We’ll show them. We’ll show the dead chaps we can fight, too.’ ‘That’s why I’m here,’ I said. ‘Come from overseas, rallying to old country in hour of need.’

‘Like Australians.’

‘Like the poor dead Australians.’



‘What you in?’

‘Nothing yet. War not ready.’

‘Only one thing to join - Bill Meadows’ show Defence Corps. All good chaps. Being fixed in Bratt’s.’

‘I’ll join.’

‘You remember Bratt’s?’

‘No. I’ll join that, too.’

‘That’s right. All good chaps like the dead chaps.’

So I joined Bill Meadows’ show, which was a flying squad, protecting food deliveries in the poorest parts of London. First I was enrolled in the Defence Corps, took an oath of loyalty, and was given a helmet and truncheon; then I was put up for Bratt’s Club and, with a number of other recruits, elected at a committee meeting specially called for the occasion. For a week we sat under orders in Bratt’s and thrice a day we drove out in a lorry at the head of a convoy of milk vans. We were jeered at and sometimes pelted with muck but only once did we go into action.

We were sitting round after luncheon that day when Bill Meadows came back from the telephone in high spirits.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘There’s a perfectly good battle in the Commercial Road.’ We drove at great speed and arrived to find a steel hawser stretched between lamp posts, an overturned truck and a policeman, alone on the pavement, being kicked by half a dozen youths. On either side of this centre of disturbance, and at a little distance from it, two opposing parties had formed. Near us, as we disembarked, a second policeman was sitting on the pavement, dazed, with his head in his hands and blood running through his fingers; two or three sympathizers were standing over him; on the other side of the hawser was a hostile knot of young dockers. We charged in cheerfully, relieved the policeman, and were just falling upon the main body of the enemy when we came into collision with a party of local clergy and town councillors who arrived simultaneously by another route to try persuasion. They were our only victims, for just as they went down there was a cry of ‘Look out. The coppers,’ and a lorry-load of police drew up in our rear.

The crowd broke and disappeared. We picked up the peace-makers (only one of whom was seriously hurt), patrolled some of the side streets looking for trouble and finding none, and at length returned to Bratt’s. Next day the General Strike was called off and the country everywhere, except in the coal fields, returned to normal. It was as though a beast long fabled for its ferocity had emerged for an hour, scented danger, and slunk back to its lair. It had not been worth leaving Paris.  Jean, who joined another company, had a pot of ferns dropped on his head by an elderly widow in Camden Town and was in hospital for a week.

It was through my membership of Bill Meadows’ squad that Julia learned I was in England. She telephoned to say her mother was anxious to see me.  ‘You’ll find her terribly ill,’ she said.

I went to Marchmain House on the first morning of peace. Sir Adrian Porson passed me in the hall, leaving, as I arrived; he held a bandanna handkerchief to his face and felt blindly for his hat and stick; he was in tears.

I was shown into the library and in less than a minute Julia joined me. She shook hands with a gentleness and gravity of a ghost.

‘It’s sweet of you to come. Mummy has kept asking for you, but I don’t know if she’ll be able to see you now, after all. She’s just said “good-bye” to Adrian Porson and it’s tired her.’



‘Good-bye?’

‘Yes. She’s dying. She may live a week or two or she may go at any minute. She’s so weak. I’ll go and ask nurse.’

The stillness of death seemed in the house already. No one ever sat in the library at Marchmain House. It was the one ugly room in either of their houses. The bookcases of Victorian oak held volumes of Hansard and obsolete encyclopedias that were never opened; the bare mahogany table seemed set for the meeting of a committee; the place had the air of being both public and unfrequented; outside lay the forecourt, the railings, the quiet cul-de-sac.

Presently Julia returned.

‘No, I’m afraid you can’t see her. She’s asleep. She may lie like that for hours; I can tell you what she wanted. Let’s go somewhere else. I hate this room.’ We went across the hall to the small drawing-room where luncheon parties used to assemble, and sat on either side of the fireplace. Julia seemed to reflect the crimson and gold of the walls and lose some of her warmness.

‘First, I know, mummy wanted to say how sorry she is she was so beastly to you last time you met. She’s spoken of it often. She knows now she was wrong about you. I’m quite sure you understood and put it out of your mind immediately, but it’s the kind of thing mummy can never forgive herself - it’s the kind of thing she so seldom did.’ ‘Do tell her I understood completely.’

‘The other thing, of course, you have guessed - Sebastian. She wants him. I don’t know if that’s possible. Is it?’

‘I hear he’s in a very bad way.’

‘We heard that, too. We cabled to the last address we had, but there was no answer.  There still may be time for him to see her. I thought of you as the only hope, as soon, as I heard you were in England. Will you try and get him? It’s an awful lot to ask, but I think Sebastian would want it, too, if he realized.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘There’s no one else we can ask. Rex is so busy.’

‘Yes. I heard reports of all he’s been doing organizing the gas works.’ ‘Oh yes,’ Julia said with a touch of her old dryness. ‘He’s made a lot of kudos out of the strike.’

Then we talked for a few minutes about the Bratt’s squad. She told me Brideshead had refused to take any public service because he was not satisfied with the justice of the cause; Cordelia was in London, in bed now, as she had been watching by her mother all night. I told her I had taken up architectural painting and that I enjoyed it. All this talk was nothing; we had said all we had to say in the first two minutes; I stayed for tea and then left her.

Air France ran a service of a kind to Casablanca; there I took the bus to Fez, starting at dawn and arriving in the new town at evening. I telephoned from the hotel to the British Consul and dined with him that evening, in his charming house by the walls of the old town. He was a kind, serious man.

‘I’m delighted someone has come to took after young Flyte at last,’ he said. ‘He’s been something of a thorn in our sides here. This is no place for a remittance man. The French don’t understand him at all. They think everyone who’s not engaged in trade is a spy. It’s not as though he lived like a Milord. Things aren’t easy here. There’s war going on not thirty miles from this house, though you might not think it. We had some young fools on bicycles only last week who’d come to volunteer for Abdul Krim’s army.

‘Then the Moors are a tricky lot; they don’t hold with drink and our young friend, as you may know, spends most of his day drinking. What does he want to come here for?  There’s plenty of room for him at Rabat or Tangier, where they cater for tourists. He’s taken a house in the native town, you know. I tried to stop him, but he got it from a Frenchman in the Department of Arts. I don’t say there’s any harm in him, but he’s an anxiety. There’s an awful fellow sponging on him - a German out of the Foreign Legion.  A thoroughly bad hat by all accounts. There’s bound to be trouble.  ‘Mind you, I like Flyte. I don’t see much of him. He used to come here for baths until he got fixed up at his house. He was always perfectly charming, and my wife took a great fancy to him. What he needs is occupation.’

I explained my errand.

‘You’ll probably find him at home now. Goodness knows there’s nowhere to go in the evenings in the old town. If you like I’ll send the porter to show you the way.’ So I set out after dinner, with the consular porter going ahead lantern in hand.  Morocco was a new and strange country to me. Driving that day, mile after mile, up the smooth, strategic road, past the vineyards and military posts and the new, white settlements and the early crops already standing high in the vast, open fields, and the hoardings advertising the staples of France - Dubonnet, Michelin, Magasin du Louvre - I had thought it all very suburban and up-to-date; now, under the stars, in the walled city, whose streets were gentle, dusty stairways, and whose walls rose windowless on either side, closed overhead, then opened again to the stars; where the dust lay thick among the smooth paving stones and figures passed silently, robed in white, on soft slippers or hard, bare soles; where the air was scented with cloves and incense and wood smoke - now I knew what had drawn- Sebastian here and held him so long.  The consular porter strode arrogantly ahead with his light swinging and his tall cane banging; sometimes an open doorway revealed a silent group seated in golden lamplight round a brazier.

‘Very dirty peoples,’ the porter said scornfully, over his shoulder. ‘No education.  French leave them dirty. Not like British peoples. My peoples,’ he said, ‘always very British peoples.’

For he was from the Sudan Police, and regarded this ancient centre of his culture as a New Zealander might regard Rome.

At length we came to the last of many studded doors, and the porter beat on it with his stick.

‘British Lord’s house,’ he said.

Lamplight and a dark face appeared at the grating. The consular porter spoke peremptorily; bolts were withdrawn and we entered a small courtyard with a well in its centre and a vine trained overhead.

‘I wait here,’ said the porter. ‘You go with this native fellow.’ I entered the house, down a step and into the living-room I found a gramophone, an oil-stove and, between them, a young man. Later, when I looked about me, I noticed other, more agreeable things - the rugs on the floor, the embroidered silk on the walls, the carved and painted beams of the ceiling, the heavy, pierced lamp that hung from a chain and cast soft shadows of its own tracery about the room. But on first entering these three things, the gramophone for its noise - it was playing a French record of jazz band - the stove for its smell, and the young man for his wolfish look, struck my senses. He was lolling in a basket chair, with a bandaged foot stuck forward on a box; he was dressed in a kind of thin, mid-European imitation tweed with a tennis shirt open at the neck; the unwounded foot wore a brown canvas shoe. There was a brass tray by his side on wooden legs, and on it were two beer bottles, a dirty plate, and a saucer full of cigarette ends; he held a glass of beer in his hand and a cigarette lay on his lower lip and stuck there when he spoke. He had long fair hair combed back without a parting and a face that was unnaturally lined for a man of his obvious youth; one of his front teeth was missing, so that his sibilants came sometimes with a lisp, sometimes with a disconcerting whistle, which he covered with a giggle; the teeth he had were stained with tobacco and set far apart.

This was plainly the ‘thoroughly bad hat’ of the consul’s description, the film footman of Anthony’s.

‘I’m looking for Sebastian Flyte. This is his house, is it not?’ I spoke loudly to make myself heard above the dance music, but he answered softly in English fluent enough to suggest that it was now habitual to him.

‘Yeth. But he isn’t here. There’s no one but me.’

‘I’ve come from England to see him on important business. Can you tell me where I can find him?’

The record came to its end. The German turned it over, wound up the machine and started it playing again before answering.

‘Sebastian’s sick. The brothers took him away to the Infirmary. Maybe they’ll let you thee him, maybe not. I got to go there myself one day thoon to have my foot dressed. I’ll ask them then. When he’s better they’ll let you thee him, maybe.’ There was another chair and I sat down on it. Seeing that I meant to stay, the German offered me some beer.

‘You’re not Thebastian’s brother?’ he said. ‘Cousin maybe? Maybe you married hith thister?’

‘I’m only a friend. We were at the university together.’ ‘I had a friend at the university. We studied History. My friend was cleverer than me; a little weak fellow - I used to pick him up and shake him when I was angry - but tho clever. Then one day we said: “What the hell? There is no work in Germany. Germany is down the drain,” so we said good-bye to our professors, and they said: “Yes, Germany is down the drain. There is nothing for a student to do here now,” and we went away and walked and walked and at last we came here. Then we said, “There is no army in Germany now, but we must be tholdiers,” so we joined the Legion. My friend died of dysentery last year, campaigning in the Atlas. When he was dead, I said, “What the hell?” so I shot my foot. It is now full of pus, though I have done it one year.’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s very interesting. But my immediate concern is with Sebastian.

Perhaps you would tell me about him.’

‘He is a very good fellow, Sebastian. He is all right for me. Tangier was a stinking place. He brought me here - nice house, nice food, nice servant - everything is all right for me here, I reckon. I like it all right.’

‘His mother is very ill,’ I said. ‘I have come to tell him.’

‘She rich?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why don’t she give him more money? Then we could live at Casablanca, maybe, in a nice flat. You know her well.? You could make her give him more money?’ ‘What’s the matter with him?’

‘I don’t know. I reckon maybe he drink too much. The brothers will look after him.

It’s all right for him there. The brothers are good fellows. Very cheap there.’

He clapped his hands and ordered more beer.

‘You thee? A nice thervant to look after me. It is all right.’ When I had got the name of the hospital I left.

‘Tell Thebastian I am still here and all right. I reckon he’s worrying about me, maybe.’



The hospital, where I went next morning, was a collection of bungalows, between the old and the new towns. It was kept by Franciscans. I made my way through a crowd of diseased Moors to the doctor’s room. He was a layman, clean shaven, dressed in white, starched overalls. We spoke in French, and he told me Sebastian was in no danger, but quite unfit to travel. He had had the grippe, with one lung slightly affected; he was very weak; he lacked resistance; what could one expect? He was an alcoholic. The doctor spoke dispassionately, almost brutally, with the relish men of science sometimes have for limiting themselves to inessentials, for pruning back their work to the point of sterility; but the bearded, barefooted brother in whose charge he put me, the man of no scientific pretensions who did the dirty jobs of the ward, had a different story.  ‘He’s so patient. Not like a young man at all. He ties there and never complains - and there is much to complain of. We have no facilities. The Government give us what they can spare from kind. There is a poor German boy with the soldiers. And he is so kind.  There is a poor German boy with a foot that will not heal and secondary syphilis, who comes here for treatment. Lord Flyte found him starving in Tangier and took him in and gave him a home. A real Samaritan.’

‘Poor simple monk,’ I thought, ‘poor booby.’ God forgive me!  Sebastian was in the wing kept for Europeans, where the beds were divided by low partitions into cubicles with some air of privacy. He was lying with his hands on the quilt staring at the wall, where the only ornament was a religious oleograph.  ‘Your friend,’ said the brother.

He looked round slowly.

‘Oh, I thought he meant Kurt. What are you doing here, Charles?’ He was more than ever emaciated; drink, which made others fat and red, seemed to wither Sebastian. The brother left us, and I sat by his bed and talked about his illness.  ‘I was out of my mind for a day or two,’ he said. ‘I kept thinking I was back in Oxford.  You went to my house? Did you like it? Is Kurt still there? I won’t ask you if you liked Kurt; no one does. It’s funny - I couldn’t get on without him, you know.’

Then I told him about his mother. He said nothing for some time, but lay gazing at the oleograph of the Seven Dolours. Then:

‘Poor mummy. She really was a femme fatale, wasn’t she? She killed at a touch.’ I telegraphed to Julia that Sebastian was unable to travel and stayed a week at Fez, visiting the hospital daily until he was well enough to move. His first sign of returning strength, on the second day of my visit, was to ask for brandy. By next day he had got some, some how, and kept it under the bedclothes.

The doctor said: ‘Your friend is drinking again. It is forbidden here. What can I do?  This is not a reformatory school. I cannot police the wards. I am here to cure people, not to protect them from vicious habits, or teach them self-control. Cognac will not hurt him now. It will make him weaker for the next time he is ill, and then one day some little trouble will carry him off, pouff. This is not a home for inebriates. He must go at the end of the week.’

The lay-brother said: ‘Your friend is so much happier today, it is like one transfigured.’

‘Poor simple monk,’ I thought, ‘poor booby’; but he added, ‘You know why? He has a bottle of cognac in bed with him. It is the second I have found. No sooner do I take one away than he gets another. He is so naughty. It is the Arab boys who fetch it for him.  But it is good to see him happy again when he has been so sad.’

On my last afternoon I said, ‘Sebastian, now your mother’s dead’ - for the news had reached us that morning - ‘do you think of going back to England?’ ‘It would be lovely, in some ways,’ he said, ‘but do you think Kurt would like it?’

‘For God’s sake,’ I said, ‘you don’t mean to spend your life with Kurt, do you?’ ‘I don’t know. He seems to mean to spend it with me. “It’th all right for him, I reckon, maybe,”’ he said, mimicking Kurt’s accent, and then he added what, if I had paid more attention, should have given me the key I lacked; at the time I heard and remembered it, without taking notice. ‘You know, Charles,’ he said, ‘it’s rather a pleasant change when all your life you’ve had people looking after you, to have someone to look after yourself.  Only of course it has to be someone pretty hopeless to need looking after by me.’ I was able to straighten his money affairs before I left. He had lived till then by getting into difficulties and then telegraphing for odd sums to his lawyers. I saw the branch manager of the bank and arranged for him, if funds were forthcoming from London, to receive Sebastian’s quarterly allowance and pay him a weekly sum of pocket money with a reserve to be drawn in emergencies. This sum was only to be given to Sebastian personally, and only when the manager was satisfied that he had a proper use for it. Sebastian agreed readily to all this.

‘Otherwise,’ he said, ‘Kurt will get me to sign a cheque for the whole lot when I’m tight and then he’ll go off and get into all kinds of trouble.’ I saw Sebastian home from the hospital. He seemed weaker in his basket chair than he had been in bed. The two sick men, he and Kurt, sat opposite one another with the gramophone between them.

‘It was time you came back, ‘ said Kurt. ‘I need you.’

‘Do you, Kurt?’

‘I reckon so. It’s not so good being alone when you’re sick. That boy’s a lazy fellow - always slipping off when I want him. Once he stayed out all night and there was no one to make my coffee when I woke up. It’s no good having a foot full of pus. Times I can’t sleep good. Maybe another time I shall slip off, too, and go where I can be looked after.’ He clapped his hands but no servant came. ‘You see?’ he said.

‘What d’you want?’

‘Cigarettes. I got some in the bag under my bed.’

Sebastian began painfully to rise from his chair.

‘I’ll get them,’ I said. ‘Where’s his bed?’

‘No, that’s my job,’ said Sebastian.

‘Yeth, ‘ said Kurt, ‘I reckon that’s Sebastian’s job.’

So I left him with his friend in the little enclosed house at the end of the alley. There was nothing more I could do for Sebastian.

I had meant to return direct to Paris, but this business of Sebastian’s allowance meant that I must go to London and see Brideshead. I travelled by sea, taking the P. & 0. from Tangier, and was home in early June.

‘Do you consider,’ asked Brideshead, ‘that there is anything vicious in my brother’s connection with this German?’

‘No. I’m sure not. It’s simply a case of two waifs coming together.’

‘You say he is a criminal?’

‘I said “a criminal type”. He’s been in the military prison and was dishonourably discharged.’

‘And the doctor says Sebastian is killing himself with drink?’

‘Weakening himself. He hasn’t D.T.s or cirrhosis.’

‘He’s not insane?’



‘Certainly not. He’s found a companion he happens to like and a place where he happens to like living.’

‘Then he must have his allowance as you suggest. The thing is quite clear.’ In some ways Brideshead was an easy man to deal with. He had a kind of mad certainty about everything which made his decisions swift and easy.  ‘Would you like to paint this house?’ he asked suddenly. ‘A picture of the front, another of the back on the park, another of the staircase, another of the big drawing-room? Four small oils; that is what my father wants done for a record, to keep at Brideshead. I don’t know any painters. Julia said you specialized in architecture.’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I should like to very much.’

‘You know it’s being pulled down? My father’s selling it. They are going to put up a block of flats here. They’re keeping the name - we can’t stop them apparently.’ ‘What a sad thing.’

‘Well, I’m sorry of course. But you think it good architecturally?’

‘One of the most beautiful houses I know.’

‘Can’t see it. I’ve always thought it rather ugly. Perhaps your pictures will make me see it differently.’

This was my first commission; I had to work against time, for the contractors were only waiting for the final signature to start their work of destruction. In spite, or perhaps, because, of that for it is my vice to spend too long on a canvas, never content to leave well alone - those four paintings are particular favourites of mine, and it was their success, both with myself and others, that confirmed me in what has since been my career.

I began in the long drawing-room, for they were anxious to shift the furniture, which had stood there since it was built. It was a long, elaborate, symmetrical Adam room, with two bays of windows opening into Green Park. The light, streaming in from the west on the afternoon when I began to paint there, was fresh green from the young trees outside.

I had t

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Chapter 9
MY theme is memory, that winged host that soared about me one grey morning of war-time.

These memories, which are my life - for we possess nothing certainly except the past - were always with me. Like the pigeons of St Mark’s, they were everywhere, under my feet, singly, in pairs, in little honey-voiced congregations, nodding, strutting, winking, rolling the tender feathers of their necks, perching sometimes, if I stood still, on my shoulder; until, suddenly, the noon gun boomed and in a moment, with a flutter and sweep of wings, the pavement was bare and the whole sky above dark with a tumult of fowl. Thus it was that morning of war-time.

For nearly ten dead years after that evening with Cordelia I was borne along a road outwardly full of change and incident, but never during that time, except sometimes in my painting - and that at longer and longer intervals - did I come alive as I had been during the time of my friendship with Sebastian. I took it to be youth, not life, that I was losing. My work upheld me, for I had chosen to do what I could do well, did better daily, and liked doing; incidentally it was something which no one else at that time was attempting to do. I became an architectural painter.

More even than the work of the great architects, I loved buildings that grew silently with the centuries, catching and keeping the best of each generation, while time curbed the artist’s pride and the Philistine’s vulgarity, and repaired the clumsiness of the dull workman. In such buildings England abounded, and, in the last decade of their grandeur, Englishmen seemed for the first time to become conscious of what before was taken for granted, and to salute their achievement at the moment of extinction. Hence my prosperity, far beyond my merits; my work had nothing to recommend it except my growing technical skill, enthusiasm for my subject, and independence of popular notions.

The financial slump of the period, which left many painters without employment, served to enhance my success, which was, indeed, itself a symptom of the decline.  When the water-holes were dry people sought to drink at the mirage. After my first exhibition I was called to all parts of the country to make portraits of houses that were soon to be deserted or debased; indeed, my arrival seemed often to be only a few paces ahead of the auctioneer’s, a presage of doom.

I published three splendid folios - Ryder’s Country Seats, Ryder’s English Homes, and Ryder’s Village and Provincial Architecture, which each sold its thousand copies at five guineas apiece. I seldom failed to please, for there was no conflict between myself and my patrons, we both wanted the same thing. But, as the years passed, I began to mourn the loss of something I had known in the drawing-room of Marchmain House and once or twice since, the intensity and singleness and the belief that it was not all done by hand - in a word, the inspiration.

In quest of this fading light I went abroad, in the augustan manner, laden with the apparatus of my trade, for two years’ refreshment among alien styles. I did not go to Europe; her treasures were safe, too safe, swaddled in expert care, obscured by reverence. Europe could wait. There would be a time for Europe, I thought; all too soon the days would come when I should need a man at my side to put up my easel and carry my paints; when I could not venture more than an hour’s journey from a good hotel; when I should need soft breezes and mellow sunshine all day long; then I would take my old eyes to Germany and Italy. Now while I had the strength I would go to the wild lands where man had deserted his post and the jungle was creeping back to its old strongholds.

Accordingly, by slow but not easy stages, I travelled through Mexico and Central America in a world which had all I needed, and the change from parkland and hall should have quickened me and set me right with myself. I sought inspiration among gutted palaces and cloisters embowered in weed, derelict churches where the vampire-bats hung in the dome like dry seed-pods and only the ants were ceaselessly astir tunnelling in the rich stalls; cities where no road led, and mausoleums where a single, agued family of Indians sheltered from the rains. There in great labour, sickness, and occasionally in some danger, I made the first drawings for Ryder’s Latin America.

Every few weeks I came to rest, finding myself once more in the zone of trade or tourism, recuperated, set up my studio, transcribed my sketches, anxiously packed the complete canvases, dispatched them to my New York agent, and then set out again, with my small retinue, into the wastes.

I was in no great pains to keep in touch with England. I followed local advice for my itinerary and had no settled route, so that much of my mail never reached me, and the rest accumulated until there was more than could be read at a sitting. I used to stuff a bundle of letters into my bag and read them when I felt inclined, which was in circumstances so incongruous swinging in my hammock, under the net, by the light of a storm-lantern; drifting down river, amidships in the canoe, with the boys astern of me lazily keeping our nose out of the bank, with the dark water keeping pace with us, in the green shade, with the great trees towering above us and the monkeys screeching in the sunlight, high overhead among the flowers on the roof of the forest; on the veranda of a hospitable ranch, where the ice and the dice clicked, and a tiger cat played with its chain on the mown grass - that they seemed voices so distant as to be meaningless; their matter passed clean through the mind, and out leaving no mark, like the facts about themselves which fellow travellers distribute so freely in American railway trains.  But despite this isolation and this long sojourn in a strange world, I remained unchanged, still a small part of myself pretending to be whole. I discarded the experiences of those two years with my tropical kit and returned to New York as I had set out. I had a fine haul - eleven paintings and fifty odd drawings and when eventually I exhibited them in London, the art critics many of whom hitherto had been patronizing in tone, as my success invited, acclaimed a new and richer note in my work. Mr Ryder, the most respected of them wrote, rises like a fresh young trout to the hypodermic injection of a new culture and discloses a powerful facet in the vista of his potentialities....By focusing the frankly traditional battery of his elegance and erudition on the maelstrom of barbarism, Mr Ryder has at last found himself.  Grateful words, but, alas, not true by a long chalk. My wife, who crossed to New York to meet me and saw the fruits of our separation displayed in my agent’s office, summed the thing up better by saying: ‘Of course, I can see they’re perfectly brilliant and really rather beautiful in a sinister way, but somehow I don’t feel they are quite you.’

In Europe my wife was sometimes taken for an American because of her dapper and jaunty way of dressing, and the curiously hygienic quality of her prettiness; in America she assumed an English softness and reticence. She arrived a day or two before me, and was on the pier when my ship docked.

‘It has been a long time,’ she said fondly when we met.  She had not joined the expedition; she explained to our friends that the country was unsuitable and she had her son at home. There was also a daughter now, she remarked, and it came back to me that there had been talk of this before I started, as an additional reason for her staying behind. There had been some mention of it, too, in her letters.  ‘I don’t believe you read my letters,’ she said that night, when at last, late, after a dinner party and some hours at a cabaret, we found ourselves alone in our hotel bedroom.

‘Some went astray. I remember distinctly your telling me that the daffodils in the orchard were a dream, that the nursery-maid was a jewel, that the Regency four-poster was a find, but frankly I do not remember hearing that your new baby was called Caroline’. Why did you call it that?’

‘After Charles, of course.’

‘I made Bertha Van Halt godmother. I thought she was safe for a good present. What do you think she gave?’



‘Bertha Van Halt is a well-known trap. What?’

‘A fifteen shilling book-token. Now that Johnjohn has a companion - ‘ ‘Who?’

‘Your son, darling. You haven’t forgotten him, too?’

‘For Christ’s sake,’ I said, ‘why do you call him that?’

‘It’s the name he invented for himself. Don’t you think it sweet? Now that Johnjohn has a companion I think we’d better not have any more for some time, don’t you?’ ‘Just as you please.’

‘Johnjohn talks of you such a lot. He prays every night for your safe return.’ She talked in this way while she undressed with an effort to appear at ease; then she sat at the dressing table, ran a comb through her hair, and with her bare back towards me, looking at herself in the glass, said: ‘Shall I put my face to bed?’ It was a familiar phrase, one that I did not like; she meant should she remove her make-up, cover herself with grease and put her hair in a net.  ‘No,’ I said, ‘not at once.’

Then she knew what was wanted. She had neat, hygienic ways for that too, but there were both relief and triumph in her smile of welcome; later we parted and lay in our twin beds a yard or two distant, smoking. I looked at my watch; it was four o’clock, but neither of us was ready to sleep, for in that city there is neurosis in the air which the inhabitants mistake for energy.

‘I don’t believe you’ve changed at all, Charles.’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’

‘D’you want to change?’

‘It’s the only evidence of life.’

‘But you might change so that you didn’t love me any more.’

‘There is that risk.’

‘Charles, you haven’t stopped loving me.’

‘You said yourself I hadn’t changed.’

‘Well, I’m beginning to think you have. I haven’t.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘no; I can see that.’

‘Were you at all frightened at meeting me today?’

‘Not the least.’

‘You didn’t wonder if I should have fallen in love with someone else in the meantime?’

‘No. Have you?’

‘You know I haven’t. Have you?’

‘No. I’m not in love.’

My wife seemed content with this answer. She had married me six years ago at the time of my first exhibition, and had done much since then to push our interests. People said she had ‘made’ me, but she herself took credit only for supplying me with a congenial background; she had firm faith in my genius and in the ‘artistic temperament’, and in the principle that things done on the sly are not really done at all.  Presently she said: ‘Looking forward to getting home?’ (My father gave me as a wedding present the price of a house, and I bought an. old rectory in my wife’s part of the country.) ‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve turned the old barn into a studio for you, so that you needn’t be disturbed by the children or when we have people to stay. I got Emden to do it. Everyone thinks it a great success.

There was an article on it in Country Life; I bought it for you to see.’



She showed me the article: ‘...happy example of architectural good manners...Sir Joseph Emden’s tactful adaptation of traditional material to modern needs...’; there were some photographs; wide oak boards now covered the earthen floor; a high, stone-mullioned bay-window had been built in the north wall, and the great timbered roof, which before had been lost in shadow, now stood out stark, well lit, with clean white plaster between the beams; it looked like a village hall. I remembered the smell of the place, which would now be lost.

‘I rather liked that barn.’ I said.

‘But you’ll be able to work there, won’t you?’

‘After squatting in a cloud of sting-fly,’ I said, ‘under a sun which scorched the paper off the block as I drew, I could work on the top of an omnibus. I expect the vicar would like to borrow the place for whist drives.’

‘There’s a lot of work waiting for you. I promised Lady Anchorage you would do Anchorage House as soon as you got back. That’s coming down, too, you know - shops underneath and two-roomed flats above. You don’t think, do you, Charles, that all this exotic work you’ve been doing, is going to spoil you for that sort of thing?’ ‘Why should it?’

‘Well, it’s so different. Don’t be cross.’

‘It’s just another jungle closing in.’

‘I know just how you feel, darling. The Georgian Society made such a fuss, but we couldn’t do anything...Did you ever get my letter about Boy?’ ‘Did I? What did it say?’

(‘Boy’ Mulcaster was her brother.)

‘About his engagement. It doesn’t matter now because it’s all off, but father and mother were terribly upset. She was an awful girl. They had to give her money in the end.’

‘No, I heard nothing of Boy.’

‘He and Johnjohn are tremendous friends, now. It’s so sweet to see them together.  Whenever he comes the first thing he does is to drive straight to the Old Rectory. He just walks into the house, pays no attention to anyone else, and hollers out: “Where’s my chum Johnjohn?” and Johnjohn comes tumbling downstairs and off they go into the spinney together and play for hours. You’d think, to hear them talk to each other, they were the same age. It was really Johnjohn who made him see reason about that girl; seriously, you know, he’s frightfully sharp. He must have heard mother and me talking because next time Boy came he said: “Uncle Boy shan’t marry horrid girl and leave Johnjohn,” and that was the very day he settled for two thousand pounds out of court.  Johnjohn admires Boy so tremendously and imitates him in everything. It’s so good for them both.’

I crossed the room and tried once more, ineffectively, to moderate the heat of the radiators; I drank some iced water and opened the window, but, besides the sharp night air, music was borne in from the next room where they were playing the wireless. I shut it and turned back towards my wife.

At length she began talking again, more drowsily ‘The garden’s come on a lot...The box hedges you planted grew five inches last year...I had some men down from London to put the tennis court right...first-class cook at the moment...’ As the city below us began to wake, we both fell asleep, but not for long; the telephone rang and a voice of hermaphroditic gaiety said: ‘Savoy-Carlton-Hotel-goodmorning. It is now a quarter of eight.’

‘I didn’t ask to be called, you know.’

‘Pardon me?’



‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’

‘You’re welcome.’

As I was shaving, my wife from the bath said: ‘Just like old times. I’m not worrying any more, Charles.’

‘Good.’

‘I was so terribly afraid that two years might have made a difference. Now I know we can start again exactly where we left off.’

‘When?’ I asked. ‘What? When we left off what?’

When you went away, of course.’

‘You are not thinking of something else, a little time before?’ ‘Oh, Charles, that’s old history. That was nothing. It was never anything. It’s all over and forgotten.’

‘I just wanted to know,’ I said. ‘We’re back as we were the day I went abroad, is that it?’

So we started that day exactly where we left off two years before, with my wife in tears.

My wife’s softness and English reticence , her very white, small regular teeth, her neat rosy finger-nails, her schoolgirl air of innocent mischief and her schoolgirl dress, her modern jewellery, which was made at great expense to give the impression, at a distance, of having been mass produced, her ready, rewarding smile, her deference to me and her zeal in my interests, her motherly heart which made her cable daily to the nanny at home - in short, her peculiar charm - made her popular among the Americans, and our cabin on the day of departure was full of cellophane packages - flowers, fruit, sweets, books, toys for the children - from friends she had known for a week. Stewards, like sisters in a nursing home, used to judge their passengers’ importance by the number and value of these trophies; we therefore started the voyage in high esteem.  My wife’s first thought on coming aboard was of the passenger list.  ‘Such a lot of friends,’ she said. ‘It’s going to be a lovely trip. Let’s have a cocktail party this evening.’

The companion-ways were no sooner cast off than she was busy with the telephone.  ‘Julia. This is Celia - Celia Ryder. It’s lovely to find you on board. What have you been up to? Come and have a cocktail this evening and tell me all about it.’ ‘Julia who?’

‘Mottram. I haven’t seen her for years.’

Nor had I; not, in fact, since my wedding day, not to speak to for any time, since the private view of my exhibition where the four canvases of Marchmain House, lent by Brideshead, had hung together attracting much attention. Those pictures were my last contact with the Flytes; our lives, so close for a year or two, had drawn apart. Sebastian, I knew, was still abroad; Rex and Julia, I sometimes heard said, were unhappy together.

Rex was not prospering quite as well as had been predicted; he remained on the fringe of the Government, prominent but vaguely suspect. He lived among the very rich, and in his speeches seemed to incline to revolutionary policies, flirting, with Communists and Fascists. I heard the Mottrams’ names in conversation; I saw their faces now and again peeping from the Tatler, as I turned the pages impatiently waiting for someone to come, but they and I had fallen apart, as one could in England and only there, into separate worlds, little spinning planets of personal relationship; there is probably a perfect metaphor for the process to be found in physics, from the way in which, I dimly apprehend, particles of energy group and regroup themselves in separate magnetic systems; a metaphor ready to hand for the man who can speak of these things with assurance; not for me, who can only say that England abounded in these small companies of intimate friends, so that, as in this case of Julia and myself, we could live in the same street in London, see at times, a few miles distant, the rural horizon, could have a liking one for the other, a mild curiosity about the other’s fortunes, a regret, even, that we should be separated, and the knowledge that either of us had only to pick up the telephone and speak by the other’s pillow, enjoy the intimacies of the levee, coming in, as it were, with the morning orange juice and the sun, yet be restrained from doing so by the centripetal force of our own worlds, and the cold, interstellar space between them.  My wife, perched on the back of the sofa in a litter of cellophane and silk ribbons, continued telephoning, working brightly through the passenger list...’Yes, do of course bring him, I’m told he’s sweet...Yes, I’ve got Charles back from the wilds at last; isn’t it lovely...What a treat seeing your name in the list! It’s made my trip...darling, we were at the Savoy-Carlton, too; how can we have missed you?’...Sometimes she turned to me and said: ‘I have to make sure you’re still really there. I haven’t got used to it yet.’ I went up and out as we steamed slowly down the river to one of the great glass cases where the passengers stood to watch the land slip by. ‘Such a lot of friends,’ my wife had said. They looked a strange crowd to me; the emotions of leave-taking were just beginning to subside; some of them, who had been drinking till the last moment with those who were seeing them off, were still boisterous; others were planning where they, would have their deck chairs; the band played unnoticed - all were as restless as ants.  I turned into some of the halls of the ship, which were huge without any splendour, as though they had been designed for a railway coach and preposterously magnified. I passed through vast bronze gates on which paper-thin Assyrian animals cavorted; I trod carpets the colour of blotting paper; the painted panels of the walls were like blotting paper, too - kindergarten work in flat, drab colours - and between the walls were yards and yards of biscuit-coloured wood which no carpenter’s tool had ever touched, wood that had been bent round comers, invisibly joined strip to strip, steamed and squeezed and polished; all over the blotting-paper carpet were strewn tables designed perhaps by a sanitary engineer, square blocks of stuffing, with square holes for sitting in, and upholstered, it seemed, in blotting paper also; the light of the hall was suffused from scores of hollows, giving an even glow, casting no shadows - the whole place hummed from its hundred ventilators and vibrated with the turn of the great engines below.  ‘Here I am,’ I thought, ‘back from the jungle, back from the ruins. Here where wealth is no longer gorgeous and power has no dignity. Quomodo sedet sola civitas’ (for I had heard that great lament, which Cordelia once quoted to me in the drawing-room of Marchmain House, sung by a half-caste choir in Guatemala, nearly a year ago).  A steward came up to me.

‘Can I get you anything, sir?’

‘A whisky and soda, not iced.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, all the soda is iced.’

‘Is the water iced, too?’

‘Oh yes, sir.’

‘Well, it, doesn’t matter.’

He trotted off, puzzled, soundless in the pervading hum.

‘Charles.’

I looked behind me. Julia was sitting in a cube of blotting paper, her hands folded in her lap, so still that I had passed by without noticing her.  ‘I heard you were here. Celia telephoned to me. It’s delightful.’

‘What are you doing?’

She opened the empty hands in her lap with a little eloquent gesture. ‘Waiting. My maid’s unpacking; she’s been so disagreeable ever since we left England. She’s complaining now about my cabin. I can’t think why. It seems a lap to me.’ The steward returned with whisky and two jugs, one of iced water, the other of boiling water; I mixed them to the rig ht temperature. He watched and said: ‘I’ll remember that’s how you take it, sir.’

Most passengers had fads; he was paid to fortify their self-esteem. Julia asked for a cup of hot chocolate. I sat by her in the next cube.

‘I never see you now, ‘ she said. ‘I never seem to see anyone I like. I don’t know why.’ But she spoke as though it were a matter of weeks rather than of years; as though, too, before our parting we had been firm friends. It was dead contrary to the common experience of such encounters, when time is found to have built its own defensive lines, camouflaged vulnerable points, and laid a field of mines across all but a few well-trodden paths, so that, more often than not, we can only signal to one another from either side of the tangle of wire. Here she and I, who were never friends before, met on terms of long and unbroken intimacy.

‘What have you been doing in America?’

She looked up slowly from her chocolate and, her splendid, serious eyes in mine, said: ‘Don’t you know? I’ll tell you about it sometimes I’ve been a mug. I thought I was in love with someone, but it didn’t turn out that way.’ And my mind went back ten years to the evening at Brideshead, when that lovely, spidery child of nineteen, as though brought in for an hour from the nursery and nettled by lack of attention from the grown-ups, had said: ‘I’m causing anxiety, too, you know,’ and I had thought at the time, though scarcely, it now seemed to me, in long trousers myself, ‘How important these girls make themselves with their love affairs.’

Now it was different; there was nothing but humility and friendly candour in the way she spoke.

I wished I could respond to her confidence, give some token of acceptance, but there was nothing in my last, flat, eventful years that I could share with her. I began instead to talk of my time in the jungle, of the comic characters I had met and the lost places I had visited, but in this mood of old friendship the tale faltered and came to an end abruptly.

‘I long to see the paintings,’ she said.

‘Celia wanted me to unpack some and stick them round the cabin for her cocktail party. I couldn’t do that.’

‘No...is Celia as pretty as ever? I always thought she had the most delicious looks of any girl of my year.’

‘She hasn’t changed.’

‘You have, Charles. So lean and grim; not at all the pretty boy Sebastian brought home with him. Harder, too.’

‘And you’re softer.’

‘Yes, I think so...and very patient now.’

She was not yet thirty, but was approaching the zenith of her loveliness, all her rich promise abundantly fulfilled. She had lost that fashionable, spidery look; the head that I used to think quattrocento, which had sat a little oddly on her, was now part of herself and not at all Florentine; not connected in any way with painting or the arts or with anything except herself, so that it would be idle to itemize and dissect her beauty, which was her own essence, and could only be known in her and by her authority and in the love I was soon to have for her.

Time had wrought another change, too; not for her the sly, complacent smile of la Gioconda; the years had been more than ‘the sound of lyres and flutes’, and had saddened her. She seemed to say: ‘Look at me. I have done my share. I am beautiful. It is something quite out of the ordinary, this beauty of mine. I am made for delight. But what do I get out of it? Where is my reward?’

That was the change in her from ten years ago; that, indeed, was her reward, this haunting, magical sadness which spoke straight to the heart and struck silence; it was the completion of her beauty.

‘Sadder, too,’ I said.

‘Oh yes, much sadder.’

My wife was in exuberant spirits when, two hours later, I returned to the cabin.

‘I’ve had to do everything. How does it look?’

We had been given, without paying more for it, a large suite of rooms, one so large, in fact, that it was seldom booked except by directors of the line, and on most voyages, the chief purser admitted, was given to those he wished to honour. (My wife was adept in achieving such small advantages, first impressing the impressionable with her chic and my celebrity and, superiority once firmly established, changing quickly to a pose of almost flirtatious affability.) In token of her appreciation the chief purser had, been asked to our party and he, in token of his appreciation, had sent before him the life-size effigy of a swan, moulded in ice and filled with caviar. This chilly piece of magnificence now dominated the room, standing on a table in the centre, thawing gently, dripping at the beak into its silver dish. The flowers of the morning delivery hid as much as possible of the panelling (for this room was a miniature of the monstrous hall above).

‘You must get dressed at once. Where have you been all this time?’

‘Talking to Julia Mottram.’

‘D’you know her? Oh, of course, you were a friend of the dipso brother. Goodness, her glamour!’

‘She greatly admires your looks, too.’

‘She used to be a girl friend of Boy’s.’

‘Surely not?’

‘He always said so.’

‘Have you considered,’ I asked, ‘how your guests are going to eat this caviar?’ ‘I have. It’s insoluble. But there’s all this’ - she revealed some trays of glassy titbits - ‘and anyway, people always find ways of eating things at parties. D’you remember we once ate potted shrimps with a paper knife?’

‘Did we?’

‘Darling’ it was the night you popped the question.’

‘As I remember, you popped.’

‘Well, the night we got engaged. But you haven’t said how you like the, arrangements.’

The arrangements, apart from the swan and the flowers, consisted of a steward already inextricably trapped in the corner behind an improvised bar, and another steward, tray in hand, in comparative freedom.

‘A cinema actor’s dream,’ I said.

‘Cinema actors,’ said my wife; ‘that’s what I want to talk about.’ She came with me to my dressing-room and talked while I changed. It had occurred to her that, with my interest in architecture, my true métier was designing scenery for the films, and she had asked two Hollywood magnates to the party with whom she wished to ingratiate me.

We returned to the sitting-room.



‘Darling, I believe you’ve taken against my bird. Don’t be beastly about it in front of the purser. It was sweet of him to think of it. Besides, you know, if you had read about it in the description of a sixteenth-century banquet in Venice, you would have said those were the days to live.’

‘In sixteenth-century Venice it would have been a somewhat different shape.’

‘Here is Father Christmas. We were just in raptures over your swan.’

The chief purser came into the room and shook hands, powerfully.  ‘Dear Lady Celia,’ he said, ‘if you’ll put on your warmest clothes and come on an expedition into the cold storage with me tomorrow, I can show you a whole Noah’s Ark of such objects. The toast will be along in a minute. They’re keeping it hot.’ ‘Toast!’ said my wife, as though this was something beyond the dreams of gluttony.

‘Do you hear that Charles? Toast.’

Soon the guests began to arrive; there was nothing to delay them. ‘Celia,’ they said, ‘what a grand cabin and what a beautiful swan!’ and, for all that it was one of the largest in the ship, our room was soon painfully crowded; they began to put out their cigarettes in the little pool of ice-water which now surrounded the swan.  The purser made a sensation, as sailors like to do, by predicting a storm. ‘How can you be so beastly?’ asked my wife, conveying the flattering suggestion that not only the cabin and the caviar, but the waves, too, were at his command. ‘Anyway, storms don’t affect a ship like this, do they?’

‘Might hold us back a bit.’

‘But it wouldn’t make us sick?’

‘Depends if you’re a good sailor. I’m always sick in storms, ever since I was a boy.’ ‘I don’t believe it. He’s just being sadistic. Come over here, there’s something I want to show you.’

It was the latest photograph of her children. ‘Charles hasn’t even seen Caroline yet.

Isn’t it thrilling for him?’

There were no friends of mine there, but I knew about a third of the party, and talked away civilly enough. An elderly woman said to me, ‘So you’re Charles. I feel I know you through and through, Celia’s talked so much about you.’ ‘Through and through,’ I thought. ‘Through and through is a long way, madam. Can you indeed see into those dark places where my own eyes seek in vain to guide me? Can you tell me, dear Mrs Stuyvesant Oglander - if I am correct in thinking that is how I heard my wife speak of you - why it is that at this moment, while I talk to you, here, about my forthcoming exhibition, I am thinking all the time only of when Julia will come? Why can I talk like this to you, but not to her? Why have I already set her apart from humankind, and myself with her? What is going on in those secret places of my spirit with which you make so free? What is cooking, Mrs Stuyvesant Oglander?’ Still Julia did not come, and the noise of twenty people in that tiny room, which was so large that no one hired it, was the noise of a multitude.  Then I saw a curious thing. There was a little red-headed man whom no one seemed to know, a dowdy fellow quite unlike the general run of my wife’s guests; he had been standing by the caviar for twenty minutes eating as fast as a rabbit. Now he wiped his mouth with his handkerchief and, on the impulse apparently, leaned forward and dabbed the beak of the swan, removing the drop of water that had been swelling there and would soon have fallen. Then he looked round furtively to see if he had been observed, caught my eye, and giggled nervously.

‘Been wanting to do that for a long time,’ he said. ‘Bet you don’t know how many drops to the minute. I do, I counted.’

‘I’ve no idea.’



‘Guess. Tanner if you’re wrong; half a dollar if you’re right. That’s fair.’

‘Three,’ I said.

‘Coo, you’re a sharp one. Been counting ‘em yourself.’ But he showed no inclination to pay this debt. Instead he said: ‘How d’you figure this out. I’m an Englishman born and bred, but this is my first time on the Atlantic.’

‘You flew out perhaps?’

‘No, nor over it.’

‘Then I presume you went round the world and came across the Pacific.’ ‘You are a sharp one and no mistake. I’ve made quite

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“查尔斯，”我的妻子说，“这位就是克拉姆先生，星际电影制片公司的。” “你就是查尔斯·赖德先生，”克拉姆说。 “是的。” “好，好，好，”他停顿了一下。我等待着。“船上的事务长说我们就要碰上暴风雨了。关于这件事你还知道些什么？” “比事务长知道的差多了。” “对不起，赖德先生，我不十分明白你的意思。” “我的意思是说我所知道的比事务长少。” “是这样吗？好，好，好。我非常欣赏我们这场谈话。希望这是以后多次谈话的开始。” 这时一个英国女人说道：“啊，瞧这只天鹅！我在美国待了六个星期，现在对冰真腻烦透了。跟我说说，隔了两年重见西莉娅是什么感觉？我知道我可能觉得像个不大恰当的婚礼。不过西莉娅从来没有把她头上的香橙花完全摘下来，是不是？” 另一个女人说道：“一边说再见，一边又知道我脽妄半个小时又会见面，而且许多天每隔半小时都要见一次面，这不是妙极了吗？” 客人们陆续告辞了，每个人走的时候都要告诉我，我的妻子已经答应了在最近的时间里我将为他做些什么事。这个晚上的话题就是：我们大家都会常常碰面，以及我们形成了一个只有物理学家才能描述得出来的分子体系。末了那只天鹅也用轮车推走了，我对妻子说，“朱莉娅一直没来。” “不来了，她打过电话了。我听不清她的话，噪音就一直没断——她大概为了一件衣服吧。不过真够幸运的了，这儿连个活动余地都没有了。这个聚会挺不错吧？你很讨厌它吗？你的举止好极了，而且看起来派头很高贵。你那个红头发的好朋友是谁呀？” “不是我的什么好朋友。” “那可太奇怪了！你跟克拉姆先生说过去好莱坞工作的事吗？” “当然没有。” “唉，查尔斯，你真叫我操心。光是站在那儿摆出尊贵的派头，像个为艺术而牺牲的人，这是不够的。咱们吃晚饭去吧。我们在船长那张桌子吃。我想今天晚上他大概不会下来吃的，不过遵守时间才有礼貌。” 当我们到了桌子跟前时，其他聚会的人已经各就各位了。在空着的船长那张椅子两边坐着朱莉娅和施托伊弗桑特·奥格兰德夫人；除了他们，还有一位英国外交官和他的妻子，还有上议员施托伊弗桑特·奥格兰德，还有一位美国教士，这时他孤零零地坐在两对空着的椅子中间那张椅子上。这位教士后来把自己说成是——似乎有些多余—一位圣公会的主教。餐桌旁夫妻都是坐在一起的。这时我的妻子必须当机立断，尽管那位服务员企图指挥我们另外一个坐法，可是她还是分开坐了，她挨着那位上议员坐，我挨着主教。朱莉娅对我们两人忧郁地露出一点儿同情的表示来。 “说到鸡尾酒会真让人丧气，”她说道，“当时我的要命的女仆和我所有的衣服都不见了。她半个小时前才回来。原来她打乒乓球去了。” “我跟上议员说了他没看到什么人，”施托伊弗桑特·奥格兰德夫人说。“无论西莉娅到什么地方，你准会发现那里所有的头面人物她全都认识。” “在我右边的，”那位主教说，“预料会来的是一对重要人物。他们在自己的客舱里吃饭，除非事先得到通知船长会光临才来这里。” 我们是乏味透顶的一圈人；连我的妻子喜欢社交的精神也动摇了。我不时听到她的片片断断的谈话。 “……一个非凡的红头发的小个子男人。相貌像福尔纳夫船长。” “但是我认为你的意思是说，西莉娅小姐，你并不认识他。” “我是说他像福尔纳夫船长。” “我有些明白了。他为了参加你的酒会而冒充你的这位朋友。” “不，不。福尔纳夫船长不过是个喜剧角色。” “另外这个人听起来也没有多大意思啊。你的朋友是一个喜剧演员吗？” “不是，不是。福尔纳夫船长是一家英国报纸上的虚构人物。知道吧，就像你们的虚构人物‘凸眼球’一样。” 那位上议员放下手里的刀叉。“简单地说：一个骗子参加你的宴会，而你又接纳了他，因为他和一部动画片里的一个虚构人物出奇地相像。” “是的，我想的确是这样。” 上议员看着他的妻子似乎像是说：“头面人物，嘿！” 我听见桌子对面朱莉娅正在替那个外交官试图追溯她的匈牙利和意大利表兄妹之间的婚姻关系。一颗颗宝石在她头上和手指上闪着光，可是她的手却神经质地揉搓着几个小面包球，她那闪着宝石光泽的头绝望地低垂着。 那位主教告诉我他去巴塞罗那担负着友好亲善的使命……“一项非常非常有意义的清理工作已经完成了，赖德先生。在更广阔的基础上重建的时机已经来临。我定的目标是：让所谓的无政府主义者和所谓的共产主义者和解。以此为目的，我和我的委员会也已经深入研究了关于这个问题的一切有采用价值的文件。赖德先生，我们的结论是一致的。两种思想意识之间，并没有根本的分歧。分歧是人物性格的问题，赖德先生，凡是由于人物性格而出现分歧的问题，人物性格也可以把它统一起来……” 在另一边我听到说：“我可否斗胆地问一句，你丈夫去考察，是什么单位发起的呢？” 那位外交官夫人勇敢地跨过把他们隔开来的鸿沟和主教攀谈起来。 “你到了巴塞罗那，将说哪一种语言呢？” “说理性和兄弟情谊的语言，夫人。”然后他又转过身来对我说，“下一个世纪，说话将用思想而不是用语言。你不同意吗，赖德先生？” “同意，”我说，“同意。” “什么是语言呢？”主教说。 “确实，什么是语言呢？” “无非是传统的符号罢了，赖德先生，这个时代恰恰是适当地怀疑传统符号的时代。” 我的脑子感到天旋地转；经历了我妻子举办的那个吵吵嚷嚷的酒会，和今天下午那种难以了解的情绪，经历了和我的妻子在纽约的纵情享乐，在充满瘴疠和绿阴的丛林中过了好几个月的孤独生活以后，目前这种状态实在是不堪忍受了。我觉得自己就像荒野里的李尔王，就像那个被疯子逼到绝路的马尔菲公爵夫人一样，我呼唤着狂风暴雨，仿佛依靠巫术，我的召唤就会应验似的。 这时有那么一刻，尽管我当时弄不清楚是不是神经紧张变出来的幻觉，反正我感到有一种周而复始、持续不断的逐渐增长的运动——这间宽大的餐厅猛地膨胀和震颤，就像一个人酣睡时的胸脯一样。这时我的妻子扭过脸对我说：“要么是我有些醉了，要么是暴风雨来了。”就在她说话的时候，我们觉得自己坐在椅子上歪到一边去了；这时靠墙放着的刀叉餐具掉落下来发出一片猛烈的碰撞声和叮叮当当的声音，桌上的酒杯全都打翻了，在桌子上滚动起来，而这时我们每个人都稳住盘子叉子，用各种不同的表情望着别人，从外交官太太明显的恐惧到朱莉娅的怡然自得。 在我们这个封闭隔绝的天地里听不到、看不到也感觉不到的外面的八级大风，在上面高空飕飕地刮了一小时，现在已经变了风向，直向船首猛扑过来。 猛烈的碰撞声过后接着就是一片沉寂，随后又爆发出一阵高声的神经质的咯咯笑声。服务员们把餐巾撂在洒出来的一摊摊葡萄酒上。我们还想继续谈话，可是大家都在等待着，就像那淡褐黄色的小个子男人盯住水滴胀大从天鹅嘴上滴落下来那样，等待着下一次巨大的冲击；冲击来了，比上一次还要猛烈。 “我该向大家告辞了。”外交官太太说着站起来。 她的丈夫带她回自己的舱里去了。整个餐厅霎时间便空了。很快就剩了朱莉娅、我妻子和我还在餐桌旁，好像是心灵感应似的，朱莉娅说道：“就像李尔王似的。” “只是我们每一个人完完全全就像他们三个人。” “你说的是什么意思？”我的妻子说道。 “李尔、肯特和弄臣。” “噢，亲爱的，好像又要谈一遍刚才那场折磨人的福尔纳夫式的谈话了吧。不要再解释了吧。” “我怀疑我是否能解释得了呢。”我说。 又上升，又猛地跌落。值班的服务员把东西系紧，关上，赶快把放不稳的装饰品拿走。 “好啦，我们已经吃完了晚饭，表现了英国人镇定的好榜样。”我的妻子说，“走吧，去看看情况怎么样啦。” 去休息厅的路上，有一次我们三个人不得不紧紧地抱住一根柱子；当我们到了休息厅的时候，发现那里几乎无人了，乐队奏着曲子，可是没有人跳舞；摆好几张卖汤博拉彩票的桌子，可是没有人买一张彩票，那个船上的高级船员专用下级船员的顺口溜来报数——“漂亮的十六，亲嘴没轮上——房门的钥匙，二十——稀里哗啦，六十六”——这时他正在和他的同事们懒洋洋地聊着天；大厅里稀稀落落还有二十来个看小说的人，还有几桌人在打桥牌，吸烟室里还有几个人在喝白兰地，可是我们的两个小时以前的客人都不见了。 我们三人在空荡荡的舞池旁稍坐片刻；我的妻子一肚子鬼算盘，按照她的主意，我们可以不失礼地挪到餐厅另一张桌子上去。“要去饭馆可就太蠢了，”她说，“完全一样的饭菜，还得付额外的钱。总而言之，饭馆只有电影界的人才去。我不知道我们为什么非得去那儿不可。” 过了一会儿她说：“使我的脑袋都疼了，我毕竟累了。我要去睡觉啦。” 朱莉娅和她一起走了。我在船上四处转悠，在一片盖着顶蓬的甲板上，狂风呼啸，浪花从昏暗的地方飞溅起来，撞击在大玻璃窗上，碎成白色和褐色的水点。有人把守着，不让旅客们到露天甲板上去。因此我也下到舱里来了。 在我的梳妆室里，一切易碎的物品都已经收藏起来了，通向客舱的门大开着，从外面勾住了，我妻子哀怨地从里面呼喊。 “我觉得太可怕了。我不知道这样大的船会颠簸成这个样子。”她说道，眼睛里充满了惊愕和怨恨，就像一个快分娩的妇女的眼睛一样，她终于明白了，不管小型私人医院多么豪华，不管医生的费用多么昂贵，但她分娩痛苦却是不可避免的；这时轮船的起落就像分娩时的阵痛一样有规律。 我睡在隔壁房间里；或者毋宁说我躺在那儿，迷迷糊糊，似睡非睡。如果睡在狭窄的睡铺里，躺在硬床垫上的话，我可能得到好好的休息，可是这儿的床铺又宽大又松软；我把能找到的垫子都搜集起来，拼命用垫子把自己塞得牢实些，可是一整夜我都随着船一起摇晃，颠簸——这时船不仅上下颠簸，而且还左右摇晃——我的脑袋里回响着吱吱嘎嘎乒乒乓乓的声音。 破晓前一个小时，我的妻子像一个幽灵一样出现在门口，她用双手扶着门的两侧来支撑住自己，说：“你醒着吧？能不能想点办法？能不能到医生那儿拿点药？” 我按铃叫来夜间的服务员，他那儿有准备好的药，这使她舒服一些。 整夜在迷迷糊糊似睡非睡的我，想的一直是朱莉娅；在我的短暂的梦境里她变幻成上百种奇异、可怕而又模糊不清的形象，可是等我醒来，她在我脑子里的形象又恢复到那种哀伤的、头上宝石闪耀着光芒的样子，就像吃晚饭时我看见她的那副样子。 第一道曙光出现以后，我又睡了一两个小时，醒来的时候脑子非常清楚，并且有一种快乐的预感。 服务员告诉我说，风已经减弱了，可是还刮得很猛烈，浪涛还汹涌澎湃；“对旅客的享受而言，再没有比巨浪更糟糕的了，”他说道，“今天早晨要早餐的人可不多。” 我顺便看了看我的妻子，发现她还在睡，我把我们之间的那扇门关好；然后我吃了鲑鱼和鸡蛋葱豆烩饭还有冷火腿，然后打电话叫理发师来给我理发。 “起居室有夫人的一堆东西，”那位服务员说，“是不是暂时把东西留在那儿？” 我走过去看了看。原来是船上商店送来的第二批玻璃纸包装的大小包裹，有些是纽约的朋友拍无线电报订购的，他们的秘书没有及时把我们要离开的消息提醒他们，有些是我们的客人在离开鸡尾酒会时买来送我们的。这种天气不是摆花瓶的时候；我叫服务员把花瓶都挪到地板上，这时我又灵机一动，把克拉姆先生送的玫瑰花上的名片取掉，叫人把花和我的情意一起给朱莉娅送去。 当我刮脸的时候她打来电话。 “查尔斯，你干了多么可叹的事啊！这可不像你的为人啊！” “你不喜欢吗？” “这种天气你可让我怎么处置这些玫瑰花呢？” “闻一闻呗。” 一阵沉默，随后又是一阵拆包的沙沙声。“这些花完全没有香味了。” “你早饭吃了什么？” “圆叶葡萄和罗马甜瓜。” “我什么时候能见到你？” “午饭以前吧。吃午饭以前有一位女按摩师忙着给我按摩。” “女按摩师？” “是的，不是很奇怪吗？我以前从来没有做过按摩，除了有一次打猎伤了肩膀。在一条船上使人人都表现得像电影明星的派头，这是怎么回事？” “我可不像。” “送这些让人很为难的玫瑰花，又是什么派头呢？” 那位理发师异常敏捷地理着发——确实是很灵活，他站的姿势活像一位芭蕾舞中的剑客，有时用这个脚尖站着，一会儿又用另一个脚尖，他轻巧地把剃刀刃上的泡沫抹下来，当船恢复了平稳的时候，他就又猛地刮我的下巴，我自己连保险剃刀都不敢用的。 这时电话铃又响了。 是我妻子打来的。 “你好吗，查尔斯？” “累了。” “你不来看看我吗？” “我来了一次了。我这就再来。” 我把起居室里的花带给了她；这些花使得她在这间客舱里创造的产房的气氛完满了；那位女服务员身上就有助产士气派，她站在床边，俨然是一位穿着浆洗过亚麻衣杉的安详的支柱。我的妻子在枕头上转过头来，惨淡地微笑了一下；她伸出一只裸露的胳膊，用手指尖抚弄着那把最大的花束的玻璃罩纸和缎带。“人们多可爱啊，”她软弱无力地说着，就仿佛这场八级大风只是她个人的不幸，世人都要以其眷爱向她表示慰问。 “我还以为你没有起来呢？” “哦，没有，克拉克太太可好极了。”她总是很快就知道用人们的名字。“别紵鸵。有时进来跟我讲讲外面的情形吧。” “喂，喂，亲爱的，”那位女服务员说，“今天越少打扰我们越好。” 甚至晕船，我的妻子似乎都把它搞成一种庄严的女性的仪式。 我知道朱莉娅的客舱就在我们下面一层。我在主甲板扶梯旁边等着她；她来了后我们就围着这块散步场兜了一圈；我扶住栏杆；她挽住我另外的一只胳膊。走起来很不容易；透过流淌着雨水的玻璃，我们看到一个被灰色的天和黑浊的海水扭曲了的世界。船又猛烈地摆动起来，我使她转过身来，使她能用另外一只手抓住栏杆；呼嚎的狂风减弱了，可是船由于张力而发出吱吱嘎嘎的声音。我们又兜了一圈，这时朱莉娅说道：“天气可真不好。那个女按摩师真把我折腾得够戗。我总觉得身子软极了。还是坐下来吧。” 休息厅的青铜大门从挂钩上扯开了，这时正随着船的晃动而摇摆着。大门有节奏地然而似乎又势不可挡地张开又合上，先是这扇门，随后又是那扇；每当运动了半周时门就停顿一下，然后又缓慢地开始移动起来，随着一声响亮的碰撞声飞速地往回摆。要通过这两扇大门并没有什么真正的危险，只要不滑倒，不被飞速的最后一下冲击碰撞上；不慌不忙地走过去时间是绰绰有余的，不过看到这么个失控的、沉重的金属家伙来回摆动也是很令人害怕的，也许令胆小的人畏缩不前或是太快地跳过去。在感觉到朱莉娅挽住我胳膊的那只手非常镇定，而且知道当我在她身边行走时她完全不害怕，我感到很高兴。 “妙极了，”坐在附近的一个男人看到我们说，“我承认我是从另一条路绕过来的。不知怎么搞的，我很不喜欢这两扇门的样子。他们一上午一直在设法把这两扇门固定住。” 那一天附近的人很少，而这几个人似乎是由于互相尊重的同志友谊才聚到一块的；他们只是愁眉苦脸地坐在扶手椅里，偶尔地喝一两口酒，互相祝贺彼此都没有晕船。 “你是我所见到的第一位不晕船的夫人。”那个男人说。 “我很幸运。” “我们都很幸运，”他说。当我们之间那块吸墨纸颜色的地板突然呼地往下一沉的时候，他起先像是一鞠躬，结果向前扑倒在膝盖上。这一次摇摆把我们从他旁边甩开了，我们紧紧地互相抓住，不过还是站住了，而且我们马上趁这次摇晃时在我们跳过去的地方坐下，在与人隔离得更远的那一边；休息厅里已经横着拉上了一条救生索，而我们都仿佛是拳击员，用绳子围进拳击场里面了。 服务员们走过来。“还是原样吗，先生？威士忌和温水，我想是这样吧。夫人要什么呢？我可以建议来一点儿香槟酒吗？” “你知道吧，事情糟就糟在我总是非常喜欢喝香槟酒，”朱莉娅说。“何等的人生享乐呵——玫瑰花，半个小时的按摩，现在又是香槟酒！” “我希望你不要再提什么玫瑰花了。首先这也并不是我的主意。是人家送给西莉娅的。” “哟，这可是两回事啦。这可使你完全说出来了。可是却把我的按摩给糟蹋了。” “那时我正在床上让人刮脸呢。” “我很喜欢那些玫瑰花，”朱莉娅说，“坦白地说，这些花可让我吃一惊。它使我想到我们一开始就不顺利。” 我懂得她话的意思，而这时我感到仿佛我多少抖落掉了那些冷冰冰的十年来落在我身上的一些尘埃和砂粒；那时侯是，而且总是这样；不管她怎么跟我说话，有时说半句话，有时说几个字，说当代流行的隐语，有时用眼睛、嘴唇、或是手的难以察觉的动作来表达，不管她的思想是多么难以表现，不管她的思想多么迅速而远远地从眼前的事物一瞥而过，不管她的思想怎样直接从表面沉入幽深迷茫之中，像她经常那样，我还是懂得她的意思；甚至在那天，我已经站在爱情最边缘的地方，我还懂得她是什么意思。 我们喝着葡萄酒，不大一会我们那位新朋友就沿着救生绳跌跌撞撞朝我们走过来。 “可以到你们这儿来吗？再没有什么比一场暴风雨更会促使人们聚到一起。这是我第十次渡过海峡，可从来没有碰见过这样的天气。年轻的夫人，我看得出你是一位经验丰富的旅客。” “不。事实上我除了去纽约以前还从来没有在海上航行过，当然啦，还是渡过英吉利海峡的。我并不觉得晕船，谢谢上帝，可是我觉得很累。起初我还以为是因为按摩呢，不过我现在断定是这条船的缘故。” “我妻子的情形可糟极了。而她可是一位老练的旅客。不过只是表面上罢了，是不是？” 他和我们一起吃了午饭，而我倒不太在意他是不是在旁边；很明显他已经喜欢上朱莉娅了，他还以为我们是夫妇呢；这种误解和他的殷勤反倒使我和她更亲密了。“昨天晚上我看到你们俩在船长的餐桌上，”他说道，“和那些名流在一起呵。” “非常无聊的名流。” “如果叫我来说，我就会说名流往往是乏味的。一旦碰上了这样的暴风雨，你们就会看出人们真的是什么材料构成的了。” “你对不晕船的旅客有所偏爱吧？” “嗯，要是这样说，我倒不知道我有什么偏爱——我的意思是说，暴风雨使得大家聚在一起罢了。” “不错。” “比如我们吧。要不是这场暴风雨，也许我们永远遇不见。在我的一生中，我曾经在海上碰到过几起非常浪漫的事情。假如这位夫人不怪罪我的话，我倒很愿意讲讲我在利翁湾碰到的一次小小艳遇，当时我比现在年轻一些。” 我们俩都很疲倦了；由于缺少睡眠，连续不断的噪声，一举一动所需要的过度劳力都使我们疲惫不堪。这天下午我们在各自的客舱里消磨过去。我睡了觉，醒来时海浪还像以往一样猛烈，墨染的乌云席卷而来，玻璃上依然淌着雨水，不过在睡眠中我已经习惯了暴风雨，并且把暴风雨的节奏变成了我的节奏，使自己变成暴风雨的一部分。所以我睡醒的时候，精力旺盛，充满了信心，我发现朱莉娅也已经起来了，和我的情绪一样。 “你看怎么样？”她说道，“那个人今天晚上要为所有不晕船的旅客在吸烟室里举行一次‘聚会’。他请我带我丈夫一起去。” “我们去吗？” “当然……我不知道我是否应当像我们那位朋友去巴塞罗那中途遇到的那位夫人那样，我不像她，查尔斯，一点都不像。” “聚会”上一共有十八个人。除了都不晕船以外，我们这些人毫无共同之处。我们喝着香槟酒，过了一会儿那位东道主说道：“我可要告诉你们啦，我这儿有一个轮盘赌的盘子。麻烦就出在我的妻子身上，我们不能去我的客舱里玩，而在公开的地方又不允许玩轮盘赌。” 于是聚会移到我的起居室里继续进行，我们以小赌注玩开，一直玩到深夜，当朱莉娅离开的时候，那位东道主已经喝得酩酊大醉，对于她和我原来并不在一间屋子里已经不感到惊讶了。大家都散去了，只有他一个人在椅子里睡着了，我也就让他待在那儿。这是我最后一次看见他，因为后来——当服务员把轮盘赌具送回到那个人的客舱里对我讲——他已经把股骨摔断了，在走廊里摔的，被抬到船上的医院里去了。 第二天一整天我和朱莉娅都是无人打搅地在一起度过的。我们谈着话，很少走动，由于海浪汹涌一直坐在椅子上。吃过了午饭，最后一批经得住折腾的旅客都去休息了，就剩了我们两人，仿佛这个地方是专为我们清理出来的，好像大家都极其机智，人人都踮着脚尖溜了出去，就剩下我们两个人。 休息厅那两扇青铜大门已经被固定住了，不过那是在两个海员受到重伤以后的事。他们试了各种各样的方法，先用绳子捆住，失败以后，就用钢缆缚住，可是无论什么东西都无法把这两扇大门捆紧；最后，他们把木楔子打进大门底下，趁两扇大门全张开的片刻静止时刻把木楔子打进去，于是两扇大门给固定住了。 吃晚饭以前，她回自己的客舱去做准备（这晚上没有人穿礼服），这时我跟着她，未经邀请，也没有遭到反对，倒是期待着，我随手把门关上，搂住她，第一次吻了她，下午的那种心情一直持续着。后来，我在床上随着轮船的上下颠簸辗转反侧，在这个漫长的、孤独的、睡意蒙胧的黑夜里，我心里反复思量这件事，同时我回忆起过去消逝了十年的求爱；我出去之前，一面打领带，把栀子花插在扣眼里，一面计划着这个晚上，并且考虑在这样那样的时候，利用这样那样的机会，我将冲出起跑线，不计成败地进攻：“这个阶段的战役拖的时间够长了，”我反复地想，“必须作出决定了。”而对朱莉娅来说，却没有阶段，没有起跑线，而且完全没有什么战术。 可是那天晚上夜深时，她回去睡觉，我跟着她到她的门口时，她把我拦住了。 “不，查尔斯，还不。也许永远不。我不知道。我不知道我是不是需要爱。” 然后，有某种东西，某种从死去的十年残存下来的幽灵使我说（因为一个人死亡，即使是片刻，也不能不招致一些损失）：“爱吗？我不是要求爱。” “是的，查尔斯，你是要求爱。”她说着，抬起手温柔地抚摸了一下我的脸颊；然后把她的舱门关上了。 我往回走，沿着漫长的、光线柔和而又空荡荡的走廊，先是靠在这边墙壁上，后来又靠在那边。暴风雨似乎采取了一种环形形式；白天一整天我们都是航行在暴风雨的平静中心里；而这时我们又一次处在狂暴的大风中——这一夜比前一夜的风浪更加汹涌了。 长达十个小时的谈话：我们有些什么要说的呢？大部分是明显的事实，是我们两个人的生活经历，长时间相隔遥远，而现在又联结为一体，在这个狂风暴雨的夜晚，我整夜都在背诵她跟我说的那些话；这时她不再是那个轮番变幻的魔女和前夜星空灿烂的幻影；她已经把她过去所有可以转移的东西都交给我保存了；她把自己的恋爱和结婚的经过告诉了我，这前面我已经讲过，她仿佛在钟爱地翻阅一本当年保育室记事本似的，给我讲她的童年，于是我伴随她在草地上共同度过了充满阳光的悠长白昼，霍金斯保姆坐在轻便折凳上，科迪莉娅睡在婴儿车里，每天她安睡在圆屋顶下，摇床的四周都是已经褪色的宗教绘画，灯阑夜尽，壁炉里唯余灰烬。她还告诉我她和雷克斯的生活，和这次秘密的、邪恶的、灾难性的出走美国，她也同样有她死去的十年；她告诉我说，为了是否要一个孩子，她和雷克斯曾经长期争执不休；最初她想要一个，可薀妄了一年以后她知道为了能生孩子需要动手术；而这时她和雷克斯已经没有爱情了，可是他还要孩子，她终于同意了，可是她生下来的是个死婴。 “雷克斯倒从来没有存心对我不好，”她说道，“问题只是他根本就不是一个真正的人。他只不过是人的几种高度发展的本能罢了；其余的一切简直没有。当我们从伦敦度完蜜月回来两个月后，我发现他和布伦达·钱皮恩还藕断丝连，他竟想象不到这会叫我多么伤心。” “当我发现西莉娅并不忠实的时候我倒很高兴呢，”我说，“我觉得这么一来我讨厌她就是理所当然的了。” “她不忠实？你高兴？那我很高兴。我也不喜欢她。那你为什么和她结婚呢？” “生理上的吸引力吧。还有野心。所有的人都认为她是画家的理想妻子。因为孤独，失去了塞巴斯蒂安。” “你爱他，是吗？” “是的。他是一个序幕。” 朱莉娅理解了。 轮船发出吱吱嘎嘎的声音，颤抖着，忽而升起，忽而跌下，我的妻子从隔壁的门里叫我：“查尔斯，你在那儿吗？” “在。” “我睡了好长时间。现在几点了？” “三点半了。” “天气还不见好，是吗？” “更坏了。” “可是我觉得好些了。你认为如果我打铃的话，他们会给我端来点茶水之类的东西吗？” 我从夜班服务员那里给她弄到茶和饼干。 “你晚上过得有意思吗？” “大家都晕船了。” “可怜的查尔斯。将来会是很愉快的旅行的。也许明天天气会好一些吧。” 我把灯关了，然后关上我们之间那扇门。 我一会儿醒来，一会又堕入梦境，漫长的黑夜始终令人极度紧张，海船嘎吱作响，忽起忽落，我大力地伸开胳膊腿控制住摇晃，牢稳地仰卧着，我睁着眼睛，望着黑暗的地方，想着朱莉娅。 “我原来以为妈妈过世后爸爸也许会回英国，或者再结婚，可是他的生活仍然一如既往。我和雷克斯现在经常去看他。我渐渐喜欢起他来……塞巴斯蒂安完全杳无音信……科迪莉娅跟着一个战地救护队去了西班牙……布赖德还过着他自己那种奇怪的日子。妈妈去世以后，他打算关闭布赖兹赫德，可是爸爸出于某种原因不愿意这样，所以现在我和雷克斯住在那儿，布赖德在上面穹顶里挨着保姆霍金斯占了两间屋子，原来是育婴室的一部分。他很像契诃夫作品中的人物，我们有时在图书室外面或者在楼梯上遇见他——我根本不知道他什么时候在家——他有时突如其来地进来吃晚饭，就像一个幽灵，一个不速之客。 “……哦，雷克斯那伙人呀！无非是政治和金钱。除非为了搞钱，他们什么也不干。如果他们沿着池塘散步，那他们就非得打赌他们看到多少只天鹅……一坐就到夜里两点钟，拿雷克斯带来的姑娘们开心逗乐，听着她们闲聊，十五子棋的棋盘嗒嗒地响个不停，那些男人们玩着扑克牌，吸着雪茄烟。臒蜕雪茄烟烟味！我早上醒来的时候就能在我头发里闻到雪茄烟味。晚上换衣服的时候，衣服里也有这种气味。现在我身上还有烟味吗？你觉得给我按摩的那个女人今天会不会闻出我的皮肤里有烟味？ “……最初我常常跟着雷克斯去他那些朋友家里小住。现在他不再要我去了。当他发现我没有显出他希望我显出的样子来，这时他就觉得脸上不光彩，上了当。我可不是他廉价买来的东西呀。他看不出我的优点，可是每当他认定我没有什么长处时，他就觉得很舒服。但是他大吃一惊——他所敬重的那些男人，甚至还有一些女人很喜欢我，他突然看出我和他们理解的东西很多，而他却一无所知……我一出走，他就心烦意乱。要能使我回去他会很快乐。我一直对他很忠实，直至发生最后这件事情。没有什么比得上良好的教养。你知道吗，去年，当我想我要有孩子了的时候，我决定把他教育成一个天主教徒。以前我从没有考聼妄宗教信仰问题；打那以后也没有再考聼妄；可是恰恰在我等候分娩的时候，我想，这是我可以给她的一种东西。宗教似乎没有给我带来很多好处，但是我的孩子应当有宗教信仰。说来也怪，一个人竟想把自己失掉了的东西送给别人。然而，到头来我甚至连这种东西也无法给了：我甚至不能给她生命。我没有看见过她；我病得太厉害了，以致无法知道发生了什么事情，后来过了很长时间，直到现在，我都一直不愿意谈到她——她是个小女孩，所以她死了雷克斯也不大在乎。 “我因为和雷克斯结婚多少受到了些惩罚。你知道，像这类事情我没法从脑子里完全排除掉，尤其是——死亡，最后审判，地狱，保姆霍金斯，还有《教义问答》等等。如果一个人从小就得到这类东西，它就会成为一个人的一部分了。而且我还希望我的孩子也具有这些东西……现在我觉得我终有一天会因为我的所作所为而受到惩罚的。这也许就是你我像这样在这里聚会的原因吧……这是几分天意。” 这是我要到下面舱里去把她留在舱门口时她说的最后的话——这是几分天意。 第二天风势又减弱了，而我们又在摇摆颠簸中晃来晃去。大家很少谈到晕船的事，更多地谈到摔断骨头的事了；夜晚人们被摔在地上，在洗澡间的地板上就已经发生了多起令人不愉快的事故。 这一天，因为我和朱莉娅前一天已经说了那么多了，又因为我们不得不说的只需要几个字，所以我们很少说话。我们都带着书；这时朱莉娅发现了她喜欢的一种游戏。经过长时间的沉默，我们一说起来就发现我们的思想竟是齐头并进的。 有一次我说道：“你在守卫着你的哀伤。” “这就是我得到的一切。你昨天说过。我的报酬呵。” “这是从生活中得到的一张借据。一张见票即付的凭证。” 中午时分雨停了。到了傍晚，浓云消散，太阳从船后突然射进休息厅里我们坐的地方，使所有的灯光都黯然失色了。 “夕阳西下，”朱莉娅说，“也是我们的活动时期的终结。” 她站起身，尽管船的摇晃和颠簸似乎并没有减弱，她却把我带到船甲板上。她挽住我的胳膊，她的手放在我的手里，揣进我的大衣口袋。甲板上是干的，没有人，只有船快速前进时引起的风吹拂着。我们东倒西歪费力地向前走着，躲开从烟囱里飞出来的黑煤烟末儿，我们俩轮流地冲撞着，然后又紧紧地拥抱住，接着又几乎被扯开，我扶住了栏杆，朱莉娅紧紧地抓住我，我们的手指和胳膊都盘结在一起，又冲撞到一起，又被拉开，在一次更猛烈的颠簸中，我觉得自己被抛到她身上，把她紧紧地压在栏杆上，为了避开她，我用胳膊抱住她的两侧免得碰撞她，当船下沉到了底仿佛是要积蓄着力量再上升而停顿了那样的时刻，我们就这样拥抱着站着，就在露天里，脸颊贴着脸颊，她的头发吹到了我的眼睛上；原来海水翻腾的黑暗的海平线上，这时放出金灿灿的光彩，滞留在我们上面，接着又席卷而下，我透过朱莉娅乌黑的头发凝视着辽阔的金黄色的天空，她被甩过来贴在我的胸口上，也被我的手支撑在栏杆上，她的脸依然紧紧地贴在我的脸上。 这时候，她的嘴唇贴在我的耳朵上，她那热乎乎的气息夹在咸腥味的海风中，虽然我一直没有开口，朱莉娅却说：“好吧，现在。”而当船恢复平稳暂时冲入平静的海水上的时候，朱莉娅就带我下到舱里去了。 馥郁华贵的芳香还不是时令，到了时候，芳香自会来临，伴随着燕子和橙花。而这时在波涛汹涌的海上，就要遵守礼仪，仅此而已。仿佛占有她的纤细腰身的转让契约已经拟定并且盖了章。我作为一笔财产的完全保有者而正在把它记入我的第一笔账目中，这笔财产我要从容地享用和开发。 那个晚上我们在船的最高部分，在餐馆里吃的晚饭，我们从船头的窗户望见星星显现出来，横扫天空，就像我记得的自己也曾看见过星星在牛津大学的塔楼和三角形屋顶上掠过一样。服务员们断言说，第二天晚上乐队将会又演奏，并且这里一定客满。他们说，如果我们要占一张好桌子，最好现在定好座。 “亲爱的，”朱莉娅说，“在好天气里我们能躲藏到哪儿呢？我们是暴风雨的两个孤儿。” 这个晚上我离不开她，不过第二天清晨，当我又一次沿着走廊回去的时候，我发现走起路来毫不费力了；轮船在平静的海面上平稳地航行，我明白我们与世隔绝的生活结束了。 我的妻子从她的客舱里高兴地叫道：“查尔斯，查尔斯，我觉得好极了。你知道我正在吃什么早饭吗？” 我走过去看。她正在吃一块牛排。 “我已经和发型师预约好时间了——你知道他们要到下午四点才能给我做呢，他们突然间这么忙？所以我要到傍晚才能露面，不过今天早晨有很多人来看咱们，我已经请了迈尔斯和珍妮特来我们的起居室一块吃午饭。恐怕这两天我对你已经成了一位毫无用处的妻子了。你一直在做什么？” “一个快活的晚上，”我说道，“我们玩了轮盘赌，一直玩到两点钟，就在隔壁的起居室里玩的，我们那位东道主昏了过去。” “天哪。听起来真够不体面的。查尔斯，你过得规矩吗？你没有结识海上迷人的女妖吧？” “几乎一个女人也没有。大部分时间我都是和朱莉娅过的。” “噢，那好。我一向希望把你们弄到一起。我知道她是我的一个你会喜欢的朋友。我希望你会是天赐给她的朋友。她近来的生活忧闷极了。我估计她不会提这些事的，不过……”这时我的妻子开始讲起关于朱莉娅纽约之行当前的看法。“今天早晨，我要请她来参加鸡尾酒会。”她作出了决定。 朱莉娅和其他的人一起来，现在只要挨近朱莉娅，我就感到十分幸福。 “听说你一直替我照料我丈夫来着。”我的妻子说。 “是啊，我们已经非常友好啦。我和他，还有一个我们不知名字的男人。” “克拉姆先生，你的胳膊怎么搞的？” “就怪洗澡间的地板。”克拉姆说道，他详细解释他是怎么摔倒的。 这天晚上船长在他的桌子上吃饭，这一聚会的人就都到齐了，有两个要求参加这个聚会的人坐到主教的右手，这是两个日本人，他们对主教的世界亲善计划表现了浓厚的兴趣。船长一个劲儿地拿朱莉娅在暴风雨中的忍耐力说笑打趣，表示要雇她当一名水手。多年的远洋航行使这位船长在什么场合都能开玩笑。我的妻子从美容室出来时容光焕发，丝毫没有留下三天来倍受折磨的痕迹，在许多人的眼里，似乎比朱莉娅更加光艳照人，而朱莉娅呢，哀伤忧愁的样子已经没有了，却被一种不可言传的满意和宁静所代替了；除了对我，对所有人都是不可言传的。我和她被众人隔开，被人紧紧包围住单独坐在一起，就像前天晚上我们互相搂抱着那样。 这天晚上船上到处是节日的气氛。尽管一到天亮大家就要起身收拾行装，可是所有的人还是打定主意，这一个晚上要好好享受一番被暴风雨剥夺掉的快乐。没有一个清净的地方。船上每个角落都是人头攒动；到处是舞曲和高昂热烈的谈话，服务员们端着放满玻璃杯的托盘四处穿插，还可以听到那个负责发行汤博拉彩票的高级船员的声音——“凯利眼睛，一号；两腿，十一号；我们可要‘摇口袋’啦”——施托伊弗桑特·奥格兰德夫人戴着一顶纸帽子，克拉姆缠着绷带，那两个日本人彬彬有礼地扔着纸飘带，发出像鹅叫一样的声音。 我没有跟朱莉娅说话，整个晚上都是一个人独自待着。 第二天我们在右舷谈了几分钟，这时大家都拥挤在左舷去看一些出现在船上的高级官员们，而且眺望远处德文郡绿色的海岸线。 “你有些什么打算？” “在伦敦待几天。” “西莉娅要直接回家去。她想看孩子们。” “你也回家吗？” “不。” “那么就在伦敦。” “查尔斯，那个红头发的矮个子男人——那就是福尔纳夫。你看见他吗？两个便衣警察把他带走了。” “我错过了。当时船那边人太多了。” “我已经看了火车时刻表，并且拍了个电报。吃晚饭的时候我们就可以到家了。孩子们会睡着了。也许我们可以叫醒约翰约翰，就这一次。” “你回去吧，”我说道，“我还得在伦敦耽搁几天呢。” “唔，可是查尔斯，你非回去不可。你还没见过卡罗琳呢。” “难道过一两个星期她就会变了很大模样不成？” “亲爱的，她每天都在变样子呢。” “为什么非要现在见她不可呢？我很抱歉，亲爱的，可是我必须把这些画解开包，看看经过这一趟旅行这些画怎么样了。我还得立刻把展览的事商定下来。” “你必须这样吗？”她说道。我知道，当我求助我这个职业的玄妙力量的时候，她的执拗就土崩瓦解了。“这多叫人扫兴啊。再说，我还不知道安德鲁和辛西娅是否会离开那套公寓。他们原来是租到这个月底的。” “我可以去住旅馆。” “可是这样也太不讲情分了。第一天晚上回家就让你一个人，我可受不了。我也要去住一晚，明天再回家。” “你不可以让孩子们失望啊。” “不可以。”她的孩子们，我的艺术，这是我们之间交易的两桩秘密。 “那你回来过周末吗？” “如果可能。” “所有持英国护照的人请到吸烟室去。”一个服务员喊道。 “我已经和那个跟我们一个桌子吃饭的挺可爱的外国官员商量好了，请他带我们早些下船。”我的妻子说。

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Chapter 10
IT was my wife’s idea to hold the private view on Friday.  ‘We are out to catch the critics this time, I she said. ‘It’s high time they began to take you seriously, and they know it. This is their chance. If you open on Monday, they’ll most of them have just come up from the country, and they’ll dash off a few paragraphs before dinner - I’m only worrying about the weeklies of course. If we give them the week-end to think about it, we shall have them in an urbane Sunday-in-the-country mood. They’ll settle down after a good luncheon, tuck up their cuffs, and turn out a nice, leisurely full-length essay, which they’ll reprint later in a nice little book. Nothing less will do this time.’

She was up and down from the Old Rectory several times during the month of preparation, revising the list of invitations and helping with the hanging.  On the morning of the private view I telephoned to Julia and said: ‘I’m sick of the pictures already and never want to see them again, but I suppose I shall have to put in an appearance.’

‘D’you want me to come?’

‘I’d much rather you didn’t.’

‘Celia sent a card with “Bring everyone” written across it in green ink. When do we meet?’

‘In the train. You might pick up my luggage.’

‘If you’ll have it packed soon I’ll pick you up, too, and drop you at the gallery. I’ve got a fitting next door at twelve.’

When I reached the gallery my wife was standing looking through the window to the street. Behind her half a dozen unknown picture-lovers were moving from canvas to canvas, catalogue in hand; they were people who had once bought a wood: cut and were consequently on the gallery’s list of patrons.

‘No one has come yet,’ said my wife. ‘I’ve been here since ten and it’s been very dull.

Whose car was that you came in?’

‘Julia’s.’

‘Julia’s? Why didn’t, you bring her in? Oddly enough, I’ve just been talking about Brideshead to a funny little man who seemed to know us very well. He said he was called Mr Samgrass. Apparently he’s one of Lord Copper’s middle-aged young men on the Daily Beast. I tried to feed him some paragraphs, but he seemed to know more about you than I do. He said he’d met me years ago at Brideshead. I wish Julia had come in; then we could have asked her about him.’

‘I remember him well.He’s a crook.’

‘Yes, that stuck out a mile. He’s been talking all about what he calls the “’Brideshead set”, Apparently Rex Mottram has made the place a nest of party mutiny. Did you know? What would Teresa Marchmain have thought?’ ‘I’m going there tonight.’

‘Not tonight, Charles; you can’t go there tonight. You’re expected at home. You promised, as soon as the exhibition was ready, you’d come home. Johnjohn and Nanny have made a banner with “Welcome” on it. And you haven’t seen Caroline yet.’



‘I’m sorry, it’s all settled.’

‘Besides, Daddy will think it so odd. And Boy is home for Sunday. And you haven’t seen the new studio. You can’t go tonight. Did they ask me?’ ‘Of course; but I knew you wouldn’t be able to come.’ ‘I can’t now. I could have, if you’d let me know earlier. I should adore to see the “Brideshead set” at home. I do think you re perfectly beastly, but this is no time for a family rumpus. The Clarences promised to come in before luncheon; they may be here any minute.’

We were interrupted, however, not by royalty, but by a woman reporter from one of the dailies, whom the manager of the gallery now led up to us. She had not come to see the pictures but to get a “human story” of the dangers of my journey. I left her to my wife, and next day read in her paper: ‘Charles “Stately Homes” Ryder steps off the map.  That the snakes and vampires of the jungle have nothing on Mayfair is the opinion of socialite artist Ryder, who has, abandoned the houses of the great for the ruins of equatorial Africa...’

The rooms began to fill and I was soon busy being civil. My wife was everywhere, greeting people, introducing people, deftly transforming the crowd into a party. I saw her lead friends forward one after another to the subscription list that had been opened for the book of Ryder’s Latin America I heard her say: ‘No, darling, I’m not at all surprised, but you wouldn’t expect me to be, would you? You see Charles lives for one thing - Beauty. I think he got bored with finding it ready-made in England; he had to go and create it for himself. He wanted new worlds to conquer. After all,

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Chapter 11
‘Do you remember, said Julia, in the tranquil, lime-scented evening, ‘do you remember the storm?’

‘The bronze doors banging.’

‘The roses in cellophane.’

‘The man who gave the “get-together” party and was never seen again.’ ‘Do you remember how the sun came out on our last evening just as it has done today?’

It had been an afternoon of low cloud and summer squalls, so overcast that at times I had stopped work and roused Julia from the light trance in which she sat - she had sat so often; I never tired of painting her, forever finding in her new wealth and delicacy - until at length we had gone early to our baths and, on coming down, dressed for dinner, in the last half-hour of the day, we found the world transformed; the sun had emerged; the wind had fallen to a soft breeze which gently stirred the blossom in the limes and carried its fragrance, fresh from the late rains, to merge with the sweet breath of box and the drying stone. The shadow of the obelisk spanned the terrace.

I had carried two garden cushions from the shelter of the colonnade and put them on the rim of the fountain. There Julia sat, in a tight little gold tunic and a white gown, one hand in the water idly turning an emerald ring to catch the fire of the sunset; the carved

animals mounted over her dark head in a cumulus of green moss and glowing stone and dense shadow, and the waters round them flashed and bubbled and broke into scattered flames.

‘...So much to remember,’ she said. ‘How many days have there been since then, when we haven’t seen each other; a hundred, do you think?’ ‘Not so many.’

‘Two Christmases’ - those bleak, annual excursions into propriety. Boughton, home of my family, home of my cousin Jasper, with what glum memories of childhood I revisited its pitch-pine corridors and dripping walls! How querulously my father and I, seated side by side in my uncle’s Humber, approached the avenue of Wellingtonias knowing that at the end of the drive we should find my uncle, my aunt, my Aunt Phillippa, my cousin Jasper, and, of recent years, Jasper’s wife and children; and besides them, perhaps already arrived, perhaps every moment expected, my wife and my children. This annual sacrifice united us; here among the holly and mistletoe and the cut spruce, the parlour game’s ritually performed, the brandy-butter and the Carlsbad plums, the village choir in the pitch-pine minstrels’ gallery, gold twine and sprigged wrapping-paper, she and I were accepted, whatever ugly rumours had been afloat in tile past year, as man and wife. ‘We must keep it up, whatever it costs us, for the sake of the children my wife said.

‘Yes, two Christmases...And the three days, of good taste before I followed you to Capri.’

‘Our first summer.’

‘Do you remember how I hung about Naples, then followed, how we met by arrangement on the hill path and how flat it fell?’

‘I went back to the villa and said, “Papa, who do you think has arrived at the hotel?” and he said, “Charles Ryder, I suppose.” I said, “Why did you think of him?” and papa replied, “Cara came back from Paris with the news that you and he were inseparable. He seems to have a penchant for my children. However, bring him here; I think we have the room.”

‘There was the time you had jaundice and wouldn’t let me see you.’

‘And when I had flu and you were afraid to come.’

‘Countless visits to Rex’s constituency.’

‘And Coronation Week, when you ran away from London. Your goodwill mission to your father-in-law. The time you went to Oxford to paint the picture they didn’t like.  Oh, yes, quite a hundred days.’

‘A hundred days wasted out of two years and a bit...not a day’s coldness or mistrust or disappointment.’

‘Never that.’

We fell silent; only the birds spoke in a multitude of small, clear voices in the lime-trees; only the waters spoke among their carved stones.  Julia took the handkerchief from my breast pocket and dried her hand; then lit a cigarette. I feared to break the spell of memories, but for once our thoughts had not kept pace together, for when at length Julia spoke, she said sadly: ‘How many more? Another hundred?’

‘A lifetime.’

‘I want to marry you, Charles.’

‘One day; why now?’

‘War,’ she said, ‘this year, next year, sometime soon. I want a day or two with you of real peace.’

‘Isn’t this peace?’

The sun had sunk now to the line of woodland beyond the valley; all the opposing slope was already in twilight, but the lakes below us were aflame; the light grew in strength and splendour as it neared death, drawing long shadows across the pasture, falling full on the rich stone spaces of the house, firing the panes in the windows, glowing on cornices and colonnade and dome, spreading out all the stacked merchandise of colour and scent from earth and stone and leaf, glorifying the head and golden shoulders of the woman beside me.

‘What do you mean by “peace”, if not this?’

‘So much more’; and then in a chill, matter-of-fact tone she continued: ‘Marriage isn’t a thing we can take when the impulse moves us. There must be a divorce - two divorces.  We must make plans.’

‘Plans, divorce, war - on an evening like this.’

‘Sometimes said Julia, ‘I feel the past and the future pressing so hard on either side that there’s no room for the present at all.’ Then Wilcox came down the steps into the sunset to tell us that dinner was ready.

Shutters were up, curtains drawn, candles lit, in the Painted Parlour.

‘Hullo, it’s laid for three,’

‘Lord Brideshead arrived half an hour ago, my lady. He sent a message would you please not wait dinner for him as he may be a little late.’ ‘It seems months since he was here last,’ said Julia. ‘What does he do in London?’ It was often a matter for speculation between us - giving birth to many fantasies, for Bridey was a mystery; a creature from underground; a hard-snouted, burrowing, hibernating animal who shunned the light. He had been completely without action in all his years of adult life; the talk of his going into the army and into parliament and into a monastery, had all come to nothing. All that he was known with certainty to have done and this because in a season of scant news it had formed the subject of a newspaper article entitled ‘Peer’s Unusual Hobby’ - was to form a collection of match-boxes; he kept them mounted on boards, card-indexed, yearly occupying a larger and larger space in his small house in Westminster. At first he was bashful about the notoriety which the newspaper caused, but later greatly pleased, for he found it the means of his getting into touch with other collectors in all parts of the world with whom he now corresponded and swapped duplicates. Other than this he was not known to have any interests. He remained joint Master of the Marchmain and hunted with them dutifully on their two days a week when he was at home; he never hunted with the neighbouring pack, who had the better country. He had no real zest for sport, and had not been out a dozen times that season; he had few friends; he visited his aunts; he went to public dinners held in the Catholic interest. At Brideshead he performed all unavoidable local duties, bringing with him to platform and fête and committee room his own thin mist of clumsiness and - aloofness.

‘There was a girl found strangled with a piece of barbed wire at Wandsworth last week,’ I said, reviving an old fantasy.

‘That must be Bridey. He is naughty.’

When we had been a quarter of an hour at the table, he joined us, coming ponderously into the room in the bottle-green velvet smoking suit which he kept at Brideshead and always wore when he was there. At thirty-eight he had grown heavy and bald, and might have been taken for forty-five.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘well, only you two; I hoped to find Rex here.’

I often wondered what he made of me and of my continual presence; he seemed to accept me, without curiosity, as one of the household. Twice in the past two years he had surprised me by what seemed to be acts of friendship; that Christmas he had sent me a photograph of himself in the robes of a Knight of Malta, and shortly afterwards asked me to go with him to a dining club. Both acts had an explanation: he had had more copies of his portrait printed than he knew what to do with; he was proud of his club. It was a surprising association of men quite eminent in their professions who met once a month for an evening of ceremonious buffoonery; each had his sobriquet Bridey was called ‘Brother Grandee’ - and a specially designed jewel worn like an order of chivalry, symbolizing it; they had club buttons for their waistcoats and an elaborate ritual for the introduction of guests; after dinner a paper was read and facetious speeches were made. There was plainly some competition to bring guests of distinction and since Bridey had few friends, and since I was tolerably well known, I was invited. Even on that convivial evening I could feel my host emanating little magnetic waves of social uneasiness, creating, rather, a pool of general embarrassment about himself in which, he floated with log-like calm.

He sat down opposite me and bowed his sparse, pink head over his plate.

‘Well, Bridey. What’s the news?’

‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘I have some news. But it can wait.’

‘Tell us now.’

He made a grimace which I took to mean ‘not in front of the servants’, and said, ‘How is the painting, Charles?’

‘Which painting?’

‘Whatever you have on the stocks.’

‘I began a sketch of Julia, but the light was tricky all today.’ ‘Julia? I thought you’d done her before. I suppose it’s a change from architecture, and much more difficult.’

His conversation abounded in long pauses during which his mind seemed to remain motionless; he always brought one back with a start to the exact point where he had stopped. Now after more than a minute he said: ‘The world is full of different subjects.’ ‘Very true, Bridey.’

‘If I were a painter,’ he said, ‘I should choose an entirely different subject every time; subjects with plenty of action in them like...’ Another pause. What, I wondered was coming? The Flying Scotsman? The Charge of the Light Brigade? Henley Regatta?  Then surprisingly he said: ‘...like Macbeth.’ There was something supremely preposterous in the idea of Bridey as a painter of action pictures; he was usually preposterous yet somehow achieved a certain dignity by his remoteness and agelessness; he was still half-child, already half-veteran; there seemed no spark of contemporary life in him; he had a kind of massive rectitude and impermeability, an indifference to the world, which compelled respect. Though we often laughed at him, he was never wholly ridiculous; at times he was even formidable.  We talked of the news from central Europe until, suddenly cutting across this barren topic, Bridey asked: ‘Where are mummy’s jewels?’

‘This was hers,’ said Julia, ‘and this. Cordelia and I had all her own things. The family jewels went to the bank.’

‘It’s so long since I’ve seen them - I don’t know that I ever saw them all. What is there? Aren’t there some rather famous rubies, someone was telling me?’ ‘Yes, a necklace. Mummy used often to wear it, don’t you remember? And there are the pearls - she always had those out. But most of it stayed in the bank year after year.  There are some hideous diamond fenders, I remember, and a Victorian diamond collar no one could wear now. There’s a mass of good stones. Why?’ ‘I’d like to have a took at them some day.’



‘I say, papa isn’t going to pop them, is he? He hasn’t got into debt again?’

‘No, no, nothing like that.’

Bridey was a slow and copious eater. Julia and I watched him between the candles.  Presently he said: ‘If I was Rex’ - his mind seemed full of such suppositions: ‘If I was Archbishop of Westminster’, ‘If I was head of the Great Western Railway’, ‘If I was an actress’, as though it were a mere trick of fate that he was none of these things, and he might awake any morning to find the matter adjusted - ‘if I was Rex I should want to live in my constituency.’

‘Rex says it saves four days’ work a week not to.’

‘I’m so he’s not here. I have a little announcement to make.’

‘Bridey, don’t be so mysterious. Out with it.’

He made the grimace which seemed to mean ‘not before the servants.’ Later when port was on the table and we three were alone Julia said: ‘I’m not going till I hear the announcement.’

‘Well,’ said Bridey, sitting back in his chair and gazing fixedly at his glass. ‘You have only to wait until Monday to see it in black and white in the newspapers. I am engaged to be married. I hope you are pleased.’

‘Bridey. How...how very exciting! Who to?’

‘Oh, no one you know.’

‘Is she pretty?’

‘I don’t think you would exactly call her pretty; “comely” is the word I think of in her connection. She is a big woman.’

‘Fat?’

‘No, big. She is called Mrs Muspratt; her Christian name is Beryl. I have known her for a long time, but until last year she had a husband; now she is a widow. Why do you laugh?’

‘I’m sorry. It isn’t the least funny. It’s just so unexpected. Is she...is she about your own age?’

‘Just about, I believe. She has three children, the eldest boy has just gone to Ampleforth. She is not at all well off.’

‘But, Bridey, where did you find her?’

‘Her late husband, Admiral Muspratt, collected matchboxes he said with complete gravity.

Julia trembled on the verge of laughter, recovered her self-possession, and asked:

‘You’re not marrying her for her matchboxes?’

‘No, no; the whole collection was left to the Falmouth Town Library. I have a great affection for her. In spite of all her difficulties she is a very cheerful woman, very fond of acting. She is connected with the Catholic Players’ Guild.’ ‘Does papa know?’

‘I had a letter from him this morning giving me his approval. He has been urging me to marry for some time.’

It occurred both to Julia and myself simultaneously that we were allowing curiosity and surprise to predominate; now we congratulated him in gentler tones from which mockery was almost excluded.

‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘thank you. I think I am very fortunate.’ ‘But when are we going to meet her? I do think you might have brought her down with you.’

He said nothing, sipped and gazed.

‘Bridey,’ said Julia. ‘You sly, smug old brute, why haven’t you brought her here?’

‘Oh, I couldn’t do that, you know.’



‘Why couldn’t you? I’m dying to meet her. Let’s ring her up now and invite her. She’ll think us most peculiar leaving her alone at a time like this.’ ‘She has the children,’ said Brideshead. ‘Besides, you are peculiar, aren’t you?’

‘What can you mean?’

Brideshead raised his head and looked solemnly at his sister, and continued in the same simple way, as though he were saying nothing particularly different from what had gone before, ‘I couldn’t ask her here, as things are. It wouldn’t be suitable. After all, I am a lodger here. This is Rex’s house at the moment, so far as it’s anybody’s. What goes on here is his business. But I couldn’t bring Beryl here.’ ‘I simply don’t understand,’ said Julia rather sharply. I looked at her. All the gentle mockery had gone; she was alert, almost scared, it seemed. ‘Of course, Rex and I want her to come.’

‘Oh, yes, I don’t doubt that. The difficulty is quite otherwise.’ He finished his port, refilled his glass, and pushed the decanter towards me. ‘You must understand that Beryl is a woman of strict Catholic principle fortified by the prejudices of the middle class. I couldn’t possibly bring her here. It is a matter of indifference whether you choose to live in sin with Rex or Charles or both - I have always avoided inquiry into the details of your ménage - but in no case would Beryl consent to be your guest.’

Julia rose. ‘Why, you pompous ass... ‘ she said, stopped, and turned towards the door.  At first I thought she was overcome by laughter; then, as I opened the door to her, I saw with consternation that she was in tears. I hesitated. She slipped past me without a glance.

‘I may have given the impression that this was a marriage of convenience’ Brideshead continued placidly. I cannot speak for Beryl; no doubt the security of my position has some influence on her. Indeed, she has said as much. But for myself, let me emphasize, I am ardently attracted.’

‘Bridey, what a bloody offensive thing to say to Julia!’ ‘There was nothing she should object to. I was merely stating a fact well known to her.’

She was not in the library; I mounted to her room, but she was not there. I paused by her laden dressing table wondering if she would come. Then through the open window, as the light streamed out across the terrace into the dusk, to the fountain which in that house seemed always to draw us to itself for comfort and refreshment I caught the glimpse of a white skirt against the stones. It was nearly night. I found her in the darkest refuge, on a wooden seat, in a bay of the clipped box which encircled the basin. I took her in my arms and she pressed her face to my heart.

‘Aren’t you cold out here?’

She did not answer, only clung closer to me, and shook with sobs.  ‘My darling, what is it? Why do you mind? What does it matter what that old booby says?’

‘I don’t; it doesn’t. It’s just the shock. Don’t laugh at me.’ In the two years of our love, which seemed a lifetime, I had not seen her so moved or felt so powerless to help.  ‘How dare he speak to you like that?’ I said. ‘The cold-blooded old humbug...’ But I was failing her in sympathy.

‘No,’ she said ‘it’s not that. He’s quite right. They know all about it, Bridey and his widow; they’ve got it in black and white; they bought it for a penny at the church door.

You can get anything there for a penny, in black and white, and nobody to see that you

pay; only an old woman with a broom at the other end, rattling round the confessionals,



and a young woman lighting a candle at the Seven Dolours. Put a penny in the box, or not, just as you like; take your tract. There you’ve got it, in black and white.  ‘All in one word, too, one little, flat, deadly word that covers a lifetime.  ‘ “Living in sin”; not just doing wrong, as I did when I went to America; doing wrong, knowing it is wrong, stopping doing it, forgetting. That’s not what they mean. That’s not Bridey’s pennyworth. He means just what it says in black and white.

‘Living in sin, with sin, always the same, like an idiot child carefully nursed, guarded from the world. “Poor Julia,” they say, “she can’t go out. She’s got to take care of her sin. A pity it ever lived,”

they say, “but it’s so strong. Children like that always are.

Julia’s so good to her little, mad sin.” ‘

‘An hour ago,’ I thought, ‘under the sunset, she sat turning her ring in the water and counting the days of happiness; now under the first stars and the last grey whisper of day, all this mysterious tumult of sorrow! What had happened to us in the Painted Parlour? What shadow had fallen in the candlelight? Two rough sentences and a trite phrase.’ She was beside herself; her voice, now muffled in my breast, now clear and anguished, came to me in single words and broken sentences.  ‘Past and future; the years when I was trying to be a good wife, in the cigar smoke, while the counters clicked on the backgammon board, and the man who was “dummy” at the men’s table filled the glasses; when I was trying to bear his child, torn in pieces by something already dead; putting him away, forgetting him, finding you, the past two years with you, all the future with you, all the future with or without you, war coming, world ending - sin.

‘A word from so long ago, from Nanny Hawkins stitching by the hearth and the nightlight burning before the Sacred Heart. Cordelia and me with the catechism, in mummy’s room, before luncheon on Sundays. Mummy carrying my sin with her to church, bowed under it and the black lace veil, in the chapel; slipping out with it in London before the fires were lit; taking it with her through the empty streets, where the milkman’s ponies stood with their forefeet on the pavement; mummy dying with my sin eating at her, more cruelly than her own deadly illness.  ‘Mummy dying with it; Christ dying with it, nailed hand and foot; hanging over the bed in the night-nursery; hanging year after year in the dark little study at Farm Street with the shining oilcloth hanging in the dark church where only the old char-woman raises the dust and one candle burns; hanging at noon high among the crowds and the soldiers; no comfort except a sponge of vinegar and the kind words of a thief; hanging for ever; never the cool sepulchre and the grave clothes spread on the stone slab, never the oil and spices in the dark cave; always the midday sun and the dice clicking for the seamless coat.

‘No way back; the gates barred; all the saints and angels posted along the walls.  Thrown away, scrapped, rotting down; the old man with lupus and the forked stick who limps out at nightfall to turn the rubbish, hoping for something to put in his sack, something marketable, turns away with disgust.

‘Nameless and dead, like the baby they wrapped up and took away before I had seen her.’

Between her tears she talked herself into silence. I could do nothing; I was adrift in a strange sea; my hands on the metal-spun threads of her tunic were cold and stiff, my eyes dry; I was as far from her in spirit, as she clung to me in the darkness, as when years ago I had lit her cigarette on the way from the station; as far as when she was out of mind, in the dry, empty years at the Old Rectory, and in the jungle.  Tears spring from speech; presently in her silence her weeping stopped. She sat up, away from me, took my handkerchief, shivered, rose to her feet.



‘Well,’ she said, in a voice much like normal. ‘Bridey is one for bombshells, isn’t he?’

I followed her into the house and to her room; she sat at her looking-glass.  ‘Considering that I’ve just recovered from a fit of hysteria,’ she said, ‘I don’t call that at all bad.’ Her eyes seemed unnaturally large and bright, her cheeks pale with two spots of high colour, where, as a girl, she used to put a dab of rouge. ‘Most hysterical women look as if they had a bad cold. You’d better change your shirt before going down; it’s all tears and lipstick.’

‘Are we going down?’

‘Of course, we mustn’t leave poor Bridey on his engagement night.’ When I went back to her she said: ‘I’m sorry for that appalling scene, Charles. I can’t explain.’

Brideshead was in the library, smoking his pipe, placidly reading a detective story.

‘Was it nice out? If I’d known you were going I’d have come, too.’

‘Rather cold.’

‘I hope it’s not going to be inconvenient for Rex moving out of here. You see, Barton Street is much too small for us and the three children. Besides, Beryl likes the country.  In his letter papa proposed making over the whole estate right away.’ I remembered how Rex had greeted me on my first arrival at Brideshead as Julia’s guest. ‘A very happy arrangement,’ he had said. ‘Suits me down to the ground. The old boy keeps the place up; Bridey does all the feudal stuff with the tenants; I have the run of the house rent free. All it costs me is the food and the wages of the indoor servants.  Couldn’t ask fairer than that, could you?’

‘I should think he’ll be sorry to go,’ I said.

‘Oh, he’ll find another bargain somewhere, ‘ said Julia; ‘trust him.’ ‘Beryl’s got some furniture of her own she’s very attached to. I don’t know if it would go very well here. You know, oak dressers and coffin stools and things. I thought she could put it in mummy’s old room.

‘Yes, that would be the place.’

So brother and sister sat and talked about the arrangement of the house until bed-time. ‘An hour ago,’ I thought, ‘in the black refuge in the box hedge, she wept her heart out for the death of her God; now she is discussing whether Beryl’s children shall take the old smoking-room or the school-room for their own.’ I was all at sea.  ‘Julia,’ I said later, when Brideshead had gone upstairs, ‘have you ever seen a picture of Holman Hunt’s called “The Awakened Conscience” ‘ ‘No.’

I had seen a copy of Pre-Raphaelitism in the library some days before; I found it again and read her Ruskin’s description. She laughed quite happily.  ‘You’re perfectly right. That’s exactly what I did feel.’ ‘But, darling, I won’t believe that great spout of tears came just from a few words.of Bridey’s. You must have been thinking about it before.’ ‘Hardly at all; now and then; more, lately, with the Last Trump so near.’ ‘Of course it’s a thing psychologists could explain; a preconditioning from childhood; feelings of guilt from the nonsense you were taught in the nursery. You do know at heart that it’s all bosh, don’t you?’

‘How I wish it was!’

‘Sebastian once said almost the same thing to me.’

‘He’s gone back to the Church, you know. Of course, he never left it as definitely as I did. I’ve gone too far; there’s no turning back now; I know that, if that’s what you mean by thinking it all bosh. All I can hope to do is to put my life in some sort of order in a human way, before all human order comes to an end. That’s why I want to marry you. I should like to have a child. That’s one thing I can do...Let’s go out again. The moon should be up by now.’

The moon was full and high. We walked round the house; under the limes Julia paused and idly snapped off one of the long shoots, last year’s growth, that fringed their boles, and stripped it as she walked, making a switch, as children do, but with petulant movements that were not a child’s, snatching nervously at the leaves and crumbling them between her fingers; she began peeling the bark, scratching it with her nails.  Once more we stood by the fountain.

‘It’s like the setting of a comedy,’ I said. ‘Scene: a Baroque fountain in a nobleman’s grounds. Act one, sunset; act two, dusk; act three, moonlight. The characters keep assembling at the fountain for no very clear reason.’

‘Comedy?’

‘Drama. Tragedy. Farce. What you will. This is the reconciliation scene.’

‘Was there a quarrel?’

‘Estrangement and misunderstanding in act two.’

‘Oh, don’t talk in that damned bounderish way. Why must you see everything second-hand? Why must this be a play? Why must my conscience be a Pre-Raphaelite picture?’ ‘It’s a way I have.’

‘I hate it.’

Her anger was as unexpected as every change on this evening of swift veering moods.  Suddenly she cut me across the face with her switch, a vicious, stinging little blow as hard as she could strike.

‘Now do you see how I hate it?’

She hit me again.

‘All right,’ I said ‘go on.’

Then, though her hand was raised, she stopped and threw the half-peeled wand into the water, where it floated white and black in the moonlight.  ‘Did that hurt?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did it?...Did I?’

In the instant her rage was gone; her tears, newly flowing, were on my cheek. I held her at arm’s length and she put down her head, stroking my hand on her shoulder with her face, catlike, but, unlike a cat, leaving a tear there.

‘Cat on the roof-top,’ I said.

‘Beast!’

She bit at my hand, but when I did not move it and her teeth touched me, she changed the bite to a kiss, the kiss to a lick of her tongue.

‘Cat in the moonlight.’

This was the mood I knew. We turned towards the house. When we came to the lighted hall she said: ‘Your poor face,’ touching the weals with her fingers. ‘Will there be a mark tomorrow?’

‘I expect so.’

‘Charles, am I going crazy? What’s happened tonight? I’m so tired.’ She yawned; a fit of yawning took her. She sat at her dressing table, head bowed, hair over her face, yawning helplessly; when she looked up I saw over her shoulder in the glass a face that was dazed with weariness like a retreating soldier’s, and beside it my own, streaked with two crimson lines.

‘So tired,’ she repeated,, taking off her gold tunic and letting it fall to the floor, ‘tired and crazy and good for nothing.’

I saw her to bed; the blue lids fell over her eyes; her pale lips moved on the pillow but whether to wish me good night or to murmur a prayer - a jingle of the nursery that came to her now in the twilight world between sorrow and sleep: some ancient pious rhyme that had come down to Nanny Hawkins from centuries of bedtime whispering, through all the changes of language, from the days of pack-horses on the Pilgrim’s Way - I did not know.

Next night Rex and his political associates were with us.

‘They won’t fight.’

‘They can’t fight. They haven’t the money; they haven’t the oil.’

‘They haven’t the wolfram; they haven’t the men.’

‘They haven’t the guts.’

‘They’re afraid.’

‘Scared of the French; scared of the Czechs; scared of the Slovaks; scared of us.’

‘It’s a bluff.’

‘Of course it’s a bluff Where’s their tungsten? Where’s their manganese?’

‘Where’s their chrome?’

‘I’ll tell you a thing...’

‘Listen to this; it’ll be good; Rex will tell you a thing.’ Friend of mine motoring in the Black Forest only the other day, just came back and told me about it while we played a round of golf. Well, this friend driving along, turned down a lane into the high road. What should he find but a military convoy? Couldn’t stop, drove right into it, smack into a tank, broadside on. Gave himself up for dead...Hold on this is the funny part.’

‘This is the funny part.’

‘Drove clean through it, didn’t scratch his paint;. What do you think? It was made of canvas - a bamboo frame and painted canvas.’

‘They haven’t the steel.’

‘They haven’t the tools. They haven’t the labour. They’re half starving. They haven’t the fats. The children have rickets.’

‘The women are barren.’

‘The men are impotent.’

‘They haven’t the doctors.’

‘The doctors were Jewish.’

‘Now they’ve got consumption.’

‘Now they’ve got syphilis.’

‘Goering told a friend of mine...’

‘Goebbels told a friend of mine...’

‘Ribbentrop told me that the army just kept Hitler in power so long as he was able to get things for nothing. The moment anyone stands up to him, he’s finished. The army will shoot him.’

‘The Liberals will hang him.’

‘The Communists will tear him limb from limb.’

‘He’ll scupper himself.’

‘He’d do it now if it wasn’t for Chamberlain.’

‘If it wasn’t for Halifax.’

‘If it wasn’t for Sir Samuel Hoare.’

‘And the 1922Committee.’

‘Peace Pledge.’

‘Foreign Office.’

‘New York Banks.’



‘All that’s wanted is a good strong line.’

‘A line from Rex.’

‘We’ll give Europe a good strong line. Europe is waiting for a speech from Rex.’

‘And a speech from me.’

‘And a speech from me. Rally the freedom-loving peoples of the world. Germany will rise; Austria will rise. The Czechs and the Slovaks are bound to rise.’ ‘To a speech from Rex and a speech from me.’

‘What about a rubber? How about a whisky? Which of you chaps will have a big cigar? Hullo, you two going out?’

‘Yes, Rex, ‘ said Julia. ‘Charles and I are going into the moonlight.’ We shut the windows behind us and the voices ceased; the moonlight lay like hoar-frost on the terrace and the music of the fountain crept in our ears- the stone balustrade of the terrace might have been the Trojan walls, and in the silent park might have stood the Grecian tents where Cressid lay that night.

‘A few days, a few months.’

‘No time to be lost.’

‘A lifetime between the rising of the moon and its setting. Then the dark.’

“你还记得吗，”朱莉娅在一个静谧的散发着橙花香味的夜晚说，“还记得那次暴风雨吗？”

“青铜大门乒乒乓乓地响。”

“玻璃纸包的玫瑰花。”

“举办那次聚会，后来再没有看见过的那个人。”

“你还记得吗，最后一天的傍晚，太阳不正像今天下午一样露出来？”

那是个乌云低垂的下午，刮着夏天伴有雨雹的暴风，天色晦暗，因此我有时不得不停下工作，把坐在那里昏昏欲睡的朱莉娅唤醒——她常常这样坐着。给她画像我从来不感到厌倦，在她身上永远能够发现新的富丽而优美的姿态——我们终于早早地去洗了澡，下楼的时候，又换上了吃晚饭

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Chapter 12
‘AND of course Celia will have custody of the children.’

‘Of course.’

‘Then what about the Old Rectory? I don’t imagine you’ll want to settle down with Julia bang at our gates. The children look on it as their home, you know. Robin’s got no place of his own till his uncle dies. After all, you never used the studio, did You? Robin was saying only the other day what a good playroom it would make - big enough for Badminton.’

‘Robin can have the Old Rectory.’

‘Now with regard to money, Celia and Robin naturally don’t want to accept anything for themselves, but there’s the question of the children’s education.’ ‘That will be all right. I’ll see the lawyers about it.’

‘Well, I think that’s everything,’ said Mulcaster. ‘You know, I’ve seen a few divorces in my time, and I’ve never known one work out so happily for all concerned. Almost always, however matey people are at the start, bad blood crops up when they get down to detail. Mind you, I don’t mind saying there have been times in the last two years when I thought you were treating Celia a bit rough. It’s hard to tell with one’s own sister, but I’ve always thought her a jolly attractive girl, the sort of girl any chap would be glad to have - artistic, too, just down your street. But I must admit you’re a good picker. I’ve always had a soft spot for Julia. Anyway, as things have turned out everyone seems satisfied. Robin’s been mad about Celia for a year or more. D’you know him?’ ‘Vaguely. A half-baked, pimply youth as I remember him.’ ‘Oh, I wouldn’t quite say that. He’s rather young, of course, but the great thing is that Johnjohn and Caroline adore him. You’ve got two grand kids there, Charles. Remember me to Julia; wish her all the best for old times’ sake.’

‘So you’re being divorced,’ said my father. ‘Isn’t that rather unnecessary, after you’ve been happy together all these years?’

‘We weren’t particularly happy, you know.’

‘Weren’t you? Were you not? I distinctly remember last Christmas seeing you

together and thinking how happy you looked, and wondering why. You’ll find it very

disturbing, you know, starting off again. How old are you - thirty-four? That’s no age to be starting. You ought to be settling down. Have you made any plans?’ ‘Yes. I’m marrying again as soon as the divorce is through.’ ‘Well, I do call that a lot of nonsense. I can understand a man, wishing he hadn’t married and trying to get out of it - though I never felt anything of the kind myself - but to get rid of one wife and take up with another immediately, is beyond all reason. Celia was always perfectly civil to me. I had quite a liking for her, in a way. If you couldn’t be happy with her, why on earth should you expect to be happy with anyone else? Take my advice, my dear boy, and give up the whole idea.’

‘Why bring Julia and me into this?’ asked Rex. ‘If Celia wants to marry again, well and good; let her. That’s your business and hers. But I should have thought Julia and I were quite happy as we are. You can’t say I’ve been difficult. Lots of chaps would have cut up nasty. I hope I’m a man of the world. I’ve had my own fish to fry, too. But a divorce is a different thing altogether; I’ve never known a divorce do anyone any good.’ ‘That’s your affair and Julia’s.’

‘Oh, Julia’s set on it. What I hoped was, you might be able to talk her round. I’ve tried to keep out of the way as much as I could; if I’ve been around too much, just tell me; I shan’t mind. But there’s too much going on altogether at the moment, what with Bridey wanting me to clear out of the house; it’s disturbing, and I’ve got a lot on my mind.’ Rex’s public life was approaching a climacteric. Things had not gone as smoothly with him as he had planned. I knew nothing of finance, but I heard it said that his dealings were badly looked on by orthodox Conservatives; even his good qualities of geniality and impetuosity counted against him, for his parties at Brideshead got talked about. There was always too much about him in the papers; he was one with the Press lords and their sad-eyed, smiling hangers-on; in his speeches he said the sort of thing which ‘made a story’ in Fleet Street, and that did him no good with his party chiefs; only war could put Rex’s fortunes right and carry him into power. A divorce would do him no great harm; it was rather that with a big bank running he could not look up from the table.

‘If Julia insists on a divorce, I suppose she must have it,’ he said. ‘But she couldn’t have chosen a worse time. Tell her to hang on a bit, Charles, there’s a good fellow.’

‘Bridey’s widow said: “So you’re divorcing one divorced man and marrying another.  It sounds rather complicated, but my dear” - she called me “my dear” about twenty times - “I’ve usually found every Catholic family has one lapsed member, and it’s often the nicest.” ‘ Julia had just returned from a luncheon party given by Lady Rosscommon in honour of Brideshead’s engagement.

‘What’s she like?’

‘Majestic and voluptuous; common, of course; husky voice, big mouth, small eyes, dyed hair - I’ll tell you one thing, she’s lied to Bridey about her age. She’s a good forty-five. I don’t see her providing an heir. Bridey can’t take his eyes off her. He was gloating on her in the most revolting way all through luncheon.’ ‘Friendly?’

‘Goodness, yes, in a condescending way. You see, I imagine she’s been used to bossing things rather in naval circles, with flag-lieutenants trotting round and young officers on-the-make sucking up to her. Well, she clearly couldn’t do a great deal of bossing at Aunt Fanny’s, so it put her rather at ease to have me there as the black sheep.

She concentrated on me in fact, asked my advice about shops and things, said, rather pointedly, she hoped to see me often in London. I think Bridey’s scruples only extend to her sleeping under the same roof with me. Apparently I can do her no serious harm in a hat-shop or hairdresser’s or lunching at the Ritz. The scruples are all on Bridey’s part, anyway; the widow is madly tough.’

‘Does she boss him?’

‘Not yet, much. He’s in an amorous stupor, poor beast, and doesn’t quite know where he is. She’s just a good-hearted woman who wants a good home for her children and isn’t going to let anything get in her way. She’s playing up the religious stuff at the moment for all it’s worth. I daresay she’ll go easier when she’s settled.’

The divorces were much talked of among our friends; even in that summer of general alarm there were still corners where private affairs commanded first attention. My wife was able to make it understood that the business was at the same time a matter of congratulation for her and reproach for me; that she had behaved wonderfully, had stood it longer than anyone but she would have done. Robin was seven years younger and a little immature for his age, they whispered in their private corners, but he was absolutely devoted to poor Celia, and really she deserved it after all she had been through. As for Julia and me, that was an old story. ‘To put it crudely,’ said my cousin Jasper, as though he had ever in his life put anything otherwise: ‘I don’t see why you bother to marry.’

Summer passed; delirious crowds cheered Neville Chamberlain’s return from Munich; Rex made a rabid speech in the House of Commons which sealed his fate one way or the other; sealed it, as is sometimes done with naval orders, to be opened later at sea. Julia’s family lawyers, whose black, tin boxes, painted ‘Marquis of Marchmain’, seemed to fill a room, began the slow process of her divorce; my own, brisker firm, two doors down, were weeks ahead with my affairs. It was necessary for Rex and Julia to separate formally, and since, for the time being, Brideshead was still her home, she remained there and Rex removed his trunks and valet to their house in London.  Evidence was taken against Julia and me in my flat. A date was fixed for Brideshead’s wedding, early in the Christmas holidays, so that his future step-children might take part.

One afternoon in November Julia and I stood at a window in the drawing-room watching the wind at work stripping the lime trees, sweeping down the yellow leaves, sweeping them up and round and along the terrace and lawns, trailing them through puddles and over the wet grass, pasting them on walls and window-panes, leaving them at length in sodden piles against the stonework.

‘We shan’t see them in spring,’ said Julia; ‘perhaps never again.’

‘Once before,’ I said, ‘I went away, thinking I should never return.’

‘Perhaps years later, to what’s left of it, with what’s left of us...’ A door opened and shut in the darkling room behind us. Wilcox approached through the firelight into the dusk about the long windows.

‘A telephone message, my Lady, from Lady Cordelia.’

‘Lady Cordelia! -Where was she?’

‘In London, my Lady.’

‘Wilcox, how lovely! Is she coming home?’

‘She was just starting for the station. She will be here after dinner.’ ‘I haven’t seen her for twelve years,’ I said - not since the evening when we dined together and she spoke of being a nun; the evening when I painted the drawing-room at Marchmain House. ‘She was an enchanting child.’

‘She’s had an odd life. First, the convent; then, when that was no good, the war in Spain. I’ve not seen her since then. The other girls, who went with the ambulance came back when the war was over; she stayed on, getting people back to their homes, helping in the prison-camps. An odd girl. She’s grown up quite plain, you know.’ ‘Does she know about us?’

‘Yes, she wrote me a sweet letter.’

It hurt to think of Cordelia growing up ‘quite plain’; to think of all that burning love spending itself on serum-injections and delousing powder. When she arrived, tired from her journey, rather shabby, moving in the manner of one who has no interest in pleasing, I thought her an ugly woman. It was odd, I thought, how the same ingredients, differently dispensed, could produce Brideshead, Sebastian, Julia, and her. She was unmistakably their sister, without any of Julia’s or Sebastian’s grace, without Brideshead’s gravity. She seemed brisk and matter-of-fact, steeped in the atmosphere of camp and dressing-station, so accustomed to gross suffering as to lose the finer shades of pleasure. She looked more than her twenty-six years; hard living had roughened her; constant intercourse in a foreign tongue had worn away the nuances of speech; she straddled a little as she sat by the fire, and when she said, ‘It’s wonderful to be home,’ it sounded to my ears like the grunt of an animal returning to its basket.  Those were the impressions of the first half hour, sharpened by the contrast with Julia’s white skin and silk and jewelled hair and with my memories of her as a child.  ‘My job’s over in Spain,’ she said; ‘the authorities were very polite, thanked me for all I’d done, gave me a medal, and sent me packing. It ‘ looks as though there’ll be plenty of the same sort of work over here soon.’

Then she said: ‘Is it too late to see nanny?’

‘No, she sits up to all hours with her wireless.’

We went up, all three together, to the old nursery. Julia and I always spent part -of our day there. Nanny Hawkins and my father were two people who seemed impervious to change, neither an hour older than when I first knew them. A wireless set had now been added to Nanny Hawkins’ small -assembly of pleasures - the rosary, the Peerage with its neat brown-paper wrapping protecting the red and gold covers, the photographs, and holiday souvenirs - on her table. When we broke it to her that Julia and I were to be married, she said: ‘Well, dear, I hope it’s all for the best,’ for it was not part of her religion to question the propriety of Julia’s actions.

Brideshead had never been a favourite with her; she greeted the news of his engagement with: ‘He’s certainly taken long enough to make up his mind,’ and, when the search through Debrett afforded no information about Mrs Muspratt’s connections:

‘She’s caught him, I daresay.’

We found her, as always in the evening, at the fireside with her teapot, and the wool rug she was making.

‘I knew you’d be up,’ she said. ‘Mr Wilcox sent to tell me you were coming.’

‘I brought you some lace.’

‘Well, dear, that is nice. Just like her poor Ladyship used to wear at mass. Though why they made it black I never did understand, seeing lace is white naturally. That is very welcome, I’m sure.’

‘May I turn off the wireless, nanny?’

‘Why, of course; I didn’t notice it was on, in the pleasure of’ seeing you. What have you done to your hair?’

‘I know it’s terrible. I must get all that put right now I’m back. Darling nanny.’ As we sat there talking, and I saw Cordelia’s fond eyes on all of us, I began to realize that she, too, had a beauty of her own.



‘I saw Sebastian last month.’

‘What a time he’s been gone! Was he quite well?’

‘Not very. That’s why I went. It’s quite near you know from Spain to Tunis. He’s with the monks there.’

‘I hope they look- after him properly. I expect they find him a regular handful. He always sends to me at Christmas, but it’s not the same as having him home. Why you must all always be going abroad I never did understand. Just like his Lordship. When there was that talk about going to war with Munich, I said to myself, “There’s Cordelia and Sebastian and his Lordship all abroad; that’ll be very awkward for them.” ‘ ‘I wanted him to come home with me, but he wouldn’t. He’s got a beard now, you know, and he’s very religious.’

‘That I won’t believe, not even if I see it. He was always a little heathen. Brideshead was one for church, not Sebastian. And a beard, only fancy; such a nice fair skin as he had; always looked clean though he’d not been near water all day, while Brideshead there was no doing anything with, scrub as you might.’

‘It’s frightening,’ Julia once said, ‘to think how completely you have forgotten Sebastian.’

‘He was the forerunner.’

‘That’s what you said ‘in the storm. I’ve thought since, perhaps I am only a forerunner, too.’

‘Perhaps,’ I thought, while her words still hung in the air between us like a wisp of tobacco smoke - a thought to fade and vanish like, smoke without a trace - ‘perhaps all our loves are merely hints and symbols; vagabond-language scrawled on gate-posts and paving-stones along the weary road that other have tramped before us; perhaps you and I are types and this sadness which sometimes falls between us springs from disappointment in. our search, each straining through and beyond the other, snatching a glimpse now and then of the shadow which turns the corner always a pace or two ahead of us.’

I had not forgotten Sebastian. He was with me daily in Julia; or rather it was Julia I had known in him, in those distant Arcadian days.

‘That’s cold comfort for a girl,’ she said when I tried to explain. ‘How do I know I shan’t suddenly turn out to be somebody else? It’s an easy way to chuck.’ I had not forgotten Sebastian; every stone of the house had a memory of him, and hearing him spoken of by Cordelia as someone she had seen a month ago, my lost friend filled my thoughts. When we left the nursery, I said, ‘I want to hear all about Sebastian.’ ‘Tomorrow. It’s a long story.’

And next day, walking through the windswept park, she told me:

‘I heard he was dying, ‘ she said. ‘A journalist in Burgos told me, who’d just arrived from North Africa. A down-and-out called Flyte, who people said was an English lord, whom the fathers had found starving and taken in at a monastery near Carthage. That was how the story reached me. I knew it couldn’t be quite true - however little we did for Sebastian, he at least got his money sent him - but I started off at once.

‘It was all quite easy. I went to the consulate first and they knew all about him; he was in the infirmary of the head house of some missionary fathers. The consul’s story was that Sebastian had turned up in Tunis one day in a motor bus from Algiers, and had applied to be taken on as a missionary lay-brother. The Fathers took one look at him and turned him down. Then he started drinking. He lived in a little hotel on the edge of the Arab quarter. I went to see the place later; it was a bar with a few rooms over it, kept by a Greek, smelling of hot oil and garlic and stale wine and old clothes, a place where the small Greek traders came and played draughts and listened to the wireless. He stayed there a month drinking Greek absinthe, occasionally wandering out, they didn’t know where, coming back and drinking again. They were afraid he would come to harm -and followed him sometimes, but he only went to the church or took a car to the monastery outside the town. They loved him there. He’s still loved, you see, wherever he goes, whatever condition he’s in. It’s a thing about him he’ll never lose. You should have heard the proprietor and his family talk of him, tears running down their cheeks; they’d clearly robbed him right and left, but they’d looked after him and tried to make him eat his food. That was the thing that shocked them about him; that he wouldn’t eat; there he was with all that money, so thin. Some of the clients of the place came in while we were talking in very peculiar’ French; they all had the same story; such a good man, they said, it made them unhappy to see him so low. They thought very ill of his family for leaving him like that; it couldn’t happen with their people, they said, and I daresay they’re right.  ‘Anyway, that was later; after the consulate I went straight to the monastery and saw the Superior. He was a grim old Dutchman who had spent fifty years in Central Africa.  He told me his part of the story; how Sebastian had turned up, just as the consul said, with his beard and a suitcase, and asked to be admitted as a lay brother. “He was very earnest,” the Superior said’ Cordelia imitated his-guttural tones; she had an aptitude for mimicry, I remembered, in the schoolroom - ‘ “Please do not think there is any doubt of that - he is quite sane and -quite in earnest.” He wanted to go to the bush, as far away as he could get, among the simplest people, to the cannibals. The Superior said: “We have no cannibals in our missions.” He said, well, pygmies would do, or just a primitive village somewhere on a river, or lepers, lepers would do best of anything. The Superior said: “We have plenty of lepers, but they live in our settlements with doctors and nuns.  It is all very orderly.” He thought again, and said perhaps lepers were not what he wanted, was there not some small church by a river - he always wanted a river you see which he could look after when the priest was away. The Superior said: “Yes, there are such churches. Now tell me about yourself.” “Oh, I’m nothing,” he said. “We see some queer fish,” ‘ Cordelia lapsed again into mimicry; ‘ “he was a queer fish but he was very earnest.” The Superior told him about the novitiate and the training and said: “You are not a young man. You do not seem strong to me.” He said: “No, I don’t want to be trained. I don’t want to do things that need training.” The Superior said: “My friend, you need a missionary for yourself,” and he said: “Yes, of course.” Then he sent him away.  ‘Next day he came back again. He had been drinking. He said he had decided to become a novice and be trained. “Well,” said the Superior, “there are certain things that are impossible for a man in the bush. One of them is drinking. It is not the worst thing, but it is nevertheless quite fatal. I sent him away.” Then he kept coming two or three times a week, always drunk, until the Superior gave orders that the porter was to keep him out. I said, “Oh dear, I’m afraid he was a terrible nuisance to you,” but of course that’s a thing they don’t understand in a place like that. The Superior simply said, “I did not think there was anything I could do to help him except pray.” He was a very holy old man and recognized it in others.’

‘Holiness?’

‘Oh yes, Charles, that’s what you’ve got to understand about Sebastian.  ‘Well, finally one day they found Sebastian lying outside the main gate unconscious, he had walked out - usually he took a car - and fallen down and lain there all night. At first they thought he was merely drunk again; then they realized he was very ill, so they put him in the infirmary, where he’s been ever since.

‘I stayed a fortnight with him till he was over the worst of his illness. He looked terrible, any age, rather bald with a straggling beard, but he had his old sweet manner.



They’d given him a room to himself; it was barely more than a monk’s cell with a bed and a crucifix and white walls. At first he couldn’t talk much and was not at all surprised to see me; then he was surprised and wouldn’t talk much, until just before I was going, when he told me all that had been happening to him. It was mostly about Kurt, his German friend. Well, you met him, so you know all about that. He sounds gruesome, but as long as Sebastian had him to look after, he was happy. He told me he’d practically given up drinking at one time while he and Kurt lived together. Kurt was ill and had a wound that wouldn’t heal. Sebastian saw him through that. Then they went to Greece when Kurt got well. You know how Germans sometimes seem to discover a sense of decency when they get to a classical country. It seems to have worked With Kurt.  Sebastian says he became quite human in Athens. Then he got sent to prison; I couldn’t quite make out why; apparently it wasn’t particularly his fault - some brawl with an official. Once he was locked up the German authorities got at him. It was the time when they were rounding up all their nationals from all parts of the world to make them into Nazis. Kurt didn’t want to leave Greece, but the Greeks didn’t want him, and he was marched straight from prison with a lot of other toughs into a German boat and shipped home.

‘Sebastian went after him, and for a year could find no trace. Then in the end he ran him to earth dressed as a storm-trooper in a provincial town. At first he wouldn’t have anything to do with Sebastian; spouted all the official jargon about the rebirth of his country, and his belonging to his country, and finding self-realization in the life of the race. But it was only skin deep with him. Six years of Sebastian had taught him more than a year of Hitler; eventually he chucked it, admitted he hated Germany, and wanted to get out. I don’t know how much it was simply the call of the easy life, sponging on Sebastian, bathing in the Mediterranean, sitting about in cafés, having his shoes polished. Sebastian says it wasn’t entirely that; Kurt had just begun to grow up in Athens. It may be he’s right. Anyway, he decided to try and get out. But it didn’t work.  He always got into trouble whatever he did, Sebastian said. They caught him and put him in a concentration camp. Sebastian couldn’t get near him or hear a word of him; he couldn’t even find what camp he was in; he hung about for nearly a year in Germany, drinking again, until one day in his cups he took up with a man who was just out of the camp where Kurt had been, and learned that he had hanged himself in his hut the first week.

‘So that was the end of Europe for Sebastian. He went back to Morocco, where he had been happy, and gradually drifted down the coast, from place to place, until one day when he had sobered up - his drinking goes in pretty regular bouts now - he conceived the idea of escaping to the savages. And there he was.

‘I didn’t suggest his coming home. I knew he wouldn’t and he was too weak still to argue it out. He seemed quite happy by the time I left. He’ll never be able to go into the bush, of course, or join the order, but the Father Superior is going to take charge of him.  They had the idea of making him a sort of under-porter; there are usually a few odd hangers-on in a religious house, you know; people who can’t quite fit in either to the world or the monastic rule. I suppose I’m something of the sort myself But as I don’t happen to drink, I’m more employable.’

We had reached the turn in our walk, the stone bridge at the foot of the last and smallest lake, under which the swollen waters fell in a cataract to the stream below; beyond, the path doubled back towards the house. We paused at the parapet looking down into the dark water.

‘I once had a governess who jumped off this bridge and drowned herself.’

‘Yes, I know.’



‘How could you know?’

‘It was the first thing I ever heard about you - before I ever met you.’

‘How very odd...’

‘Have you told Julia this about Sebastian?’

‘The substance of it; not quite as I told you. She never loved him, you know, as we do.’

‘Do’. The word reproached me; there was no past tense in Cordelia’s verb ‘to love’.

‘Poor Sebastian!’ I said. ‘It’s too pitiful. How will it end?’ ‘I think I can tell you exactly, Charles. I’ve seen others like him, and I believe they are very near and dear to God. He’ll live on, half in, half out of, the community, a familiar figure pottering round with his broom and his bunch of keys. He’ll be a great favourite with the old fathers, something of a joke to the novices. Everyone will know about his drinking; he’ll disappear for two or three days every month or so, and they’ll all nod and smile and say in their various accents, “Old Sebastian’s on the spree again,” and then he’ll come back dishevelled and shamefaced and be more devout for a day or two in the chapel. He’ll probably have little hiding places about the garden where he keeps a bottle and takes a swig now and then on the sly. They’ll bring him forward to act as guide, whenever they have an English speaking visitor, and he will be completely charming so that before they go, they’ll ask about him and perhaps be given a hint that he has high connections at home. If he lives long enough, generations of missionaries in all kinds of remote places will think of him as a queer old character who was somehow part of the Home of their student days, and remember him in their masses. He’ll develop little eccentricities of devotion, intense personal cults of his own; he’ll be found in the chapel at odd times and missed when he’s expected. Then one morning, after one of his drinking bouts, he’ll be picked up at the gate dying, and show by a mere flicker of the eyelid that he is conscious when they give him the last sacraments. It’s not such a bad way of getting through one’s life.’

I thought of the youth with the teddy-bear under the flowering chestnuts. ‘It’s not what one would have foretold,’ I said. ‘I suppose he doesn’t suffer?’ ‘Oh, yes, I think he does. One can have no idea what the suffering may be, to be maimed as he is - no dignity, no power of will. No one is ever holy without suffering.  It’s taken that form with him...I’ve seen so much suffering in the last few years; there’s so much coming for everybody soon. It’s the spring of love...’ and then in condescension to my paganism, she added: ‘He’s in a very beautiful place you know by the sea - white cloisters, a bell tower, rows of green vegetables, and a monk watering them when the sun is low.’

I laughed. ‘You knew I wouldn’t understand?’

‘You and Julia...’ she said. And then, as we moved on towards the house, ‘When you met me last night did you think, “Poor Cordelia, such an engaging child, grown up a plain and pious spinster, full of good works”? Did you think “thwarted”?’ It was no time for prevarication. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I did; I don’t now, so much.’ ‘It’s funny,’ she said, ‘that’s exactly the word I thought of for you and Julia. When we were up in the nursery with nanny. “Thwarted passion,” I thought.’ She spoke with that gentle, infinitesimal inflection of mockery which descended to her from her mother, but later that evening the words came back to me poignantly.

Julia wore the embroidered Chinese robe which she often used when we were dining alone at Brideshead; it was a robe whose weight and stiff folds stressed her repose; her neck rose exquisitely from the plain gold circle at her throat; her hands lay still among the dragons in her lap. It was thus that I had rejoiced to see her nights without number, and that night, watching her as she sat between the firelight and the shaded lamp, unable to look away for love of her beauty, I suddenly thought, ‘When else have I seen her like this? Why am I reminded of another moment of vision?’ And it came back to me that this was how she had sat in the liner, before the storm; this was how she had looked, and I realized that s he had regained what I thought she had lost for ever, the magical sadness which had drawn me to her, the thwarted look that had seemed to say, ‘Surely I was made for some other purpose than this?’

That night I woke in the darkness and lay awake turning over in my mind the conversation with Cordelia. How I had said, ‘You knew I would not understand.’ How often, it seemed to me, I was brought up short, like a horse in full stride suddenly refusing an obstacle, backing against the spurs, too shy even to put his nose at it and look at the thing.

And another image came to me, of an arctic hut and a trapper alone with his furs and oil lamp and log fire; everything dry and ship-shape and warm inside, and outside the last blizzard of winter raging and the snow piling up against the door. Quite silently a great weight forming against the timber; the bolt straining in its socket; minute by minute in the darkness outside the white heap sealing the door, until quite soon when the wind dropped and the sun came out on the ice ‘ slopes and the thaw set in a block would move, slide, and tumble, high above, gather weight, till the whole hillside seemed to be falling, and the little lighted place would open and splinter and disappear, rolling with the avalanche into the ravine.

“当然西莉娅会照管孩子们。”

“那当然。”

“那么，旧教区长的房子怎么办？我想你不会愿意和朱莉娅住在那里，还要乒乒乓乓地敲我们的门吧。你知道，孩子们把这里看成了自己的家。而且罗宾要到他叔叔死后才会有自己的住所。而且你毕竟从来也没有用过那间画室吧？罗宾前几天还说这间画室可以布置成一间很好的儿童游戏室——那里大得足够打羽毛球的。”

“罗宾可以买下旧教区长的房子嘛。”

“现在，关于钱的问题，西莉娅和罗宾本人自然不愿接受任何东西，可是孩子们的教育却是问题。”

“这些事都会安排妥当的。这件事我会找律师谈的。”

“好吧，我想那是最重要的事情，”马尔卡斯特说道，“你知道，我一生中看到过几起离婚案件，可是我还没有见到过一次离婚案件解决得令有关双方都高高兴兴的。几乎总是这样，不管两人开始时多么友好，可是一旦涉及具体问题，就会产生仇恨。请注意，我冒昧地说一句，在这两年的时间里，有几次我认为你对待西荔娅的态度是有点粗暴的。说到自己的妹妹人是很难讲什么的，不过我一向认为她是一个十分迷人的姑娘，任何一个小伙子都会愿意得到她的——又爱好艺术，正好和你趣味相投。我得承认你的眼力出众。我一直对朱莉娅有偏爱。无论如何，事情落到这样的结局似乎也皆大欢喜了。有一年或一年多的时间，罗宾一直狂热地迷恋着西莉娅。你认识他吗？”

“模模糊糊。就我记得的。大概是一个没有多少学问、满脸长着疙瘩的青年。”

“哦，我要说的并不完全是这个。他相当年轻，当然啦，关键的问题是约翰约翰和卡罗琳都很喜欢他。查尔斯，你那里还有两个漂亮的儿女呀。代我向朱莉娅问好吧；为了过去，祝她事事如意。”

“这么说，你正在办离婚啦，”我父亲说道，“你们在一起过了这么多年幸福的生活，离婚实在没有什么必要吧？”

“你知道，我们并不很幸福。”

“你们不幸福？你们不幸福？我清楚记得去年圣诞节看到你们在一起，而且我认为看起来你们很幸福哩，当时还纳闷为什么呢。你会发现，你知道一切都要从新开始，这种事会把人搞得焦头烂额。你有多大岁数啦？——三十四岁了吧？这决不是从新开始生活的年龄啦。你应该渐渐安顿下来。你有什么计划吗？”

“有。一等离婚办妥了我立刻就结婚。”

“哦，我说这可太荒唐啦。我能够理解一个人希望他没有结婚，因而企图摆脱婚姻——虽然我自己从来没有过这样的体验——可是甩掉一个妻子，又赶快娶另外一个，这完全没有道理。再说，西莉娅一向对我很好。我在某种程度上也十分喜欢她。如果你和她在一起都不能幸福的话，那么你到底怎么能指望和别的人就会幸福呢？听我的劝告吧，亲爱的孩子，抛掉整个的想法吧。”

“为什么把朱莉娅和我扯进来？”雷克斯问道，“如果西莉娅想要再结婚的话，好，那很好；让她结去吧。这是你和她的事。�

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Chapter 13
MY divorce case, or rather my wife’s, was due to be heard at about the same time as Brideshead was to be married. Julia’s would not come up till the following term; meanwhile the game of General Post - moving my property from the Old Rectory to my flat, my wife’s from my flat to the Old Rectory, Julia’s from Rex’s house and from Brideshead to my flat, Rex’s from Brideshead to his house, and Mrs Muspratt’s from Falmouth to Brideshead - was in full swing and we were all, in varying degrees, homeless, when a halt was called and Lord Marchmain, with a taste for the dramatically inopportune which was plainly the prototype of his elder son’s, declared his intention, in view of the international situation, of returning to England and passing his declining years, in his old home.

The only member of the family to whom this change promised any benefit was Cordelia, who had been sadly abandoned in the turmoil. Brideshead, indeed, had made a formal request to her to consider his house her home for as long as it suited her, but when she learned that her sister-in-law proposed to install her children there for the holidays immediately after the wedding, in the charge of a sister of hers and the sister’s friend, Cordelia had decided to move, too, and was talking of setting up alone in London. She now found herself, Cinderella-like, promoted chatelaine, while her brother and his wife who had till that moment expected to find themselves, within a matter of  days, in absolute command, were without a roof; the deeds of conveyance, engrossed and ready for signing, were rolled up, tied, and put away in one of the black tin boxes in Lincoln’s Inn. It was bitter for Mrs Muspratt; she was not an ambitious woman; something very much less grand than Brideshead would have contented her heartily, but she did aspire to find some shelter for her children over Christmas. The house at Falmouth was stripped and up for sale; moreover, Mrs Muspratt had taken leave of the place with some justifiably rather large talk of her new establishment; they could not return there. She was obliged in a hurry to move her furniture from Lady Marchmain’s room to a disused coach-house and to take a furnished villa at Torquay. She was not, as I have said, a woman of high ambition, but, having had her expectations so much raised, it was disconcerting to be brought so low so suddenly. In the village the working party who had been preparing the decorations for the bridal entry, began unpacking the Bs on the bunting and substitutin Ms, obliterating the Earl’s points and stencilling balls and strawberry leaves on the painted, coronets, in preparation for Lord Marchmain’s return.  News of his intentions came first to the solicitors, then to Cordelia, then to Julia and me, in a rapid succession of contradictory cables. Lord Marchmain would arrive in time for the wedding; he would arrive after the wedding, having seen Lord and Lady Brideshead on their way through Paris; he would see them in Rome. He was not well enough to travel at all; he was just starting; he had unhappy memories of winter at Brideshead and would not come until spring was well advanced and the heating apparatus overhauled; he was coming alone; he was bringing his Italian household; he wished his return to be unannounced and to lead a life of complete seclusion; he would give a ball. At last a date in January was chosen which proved to be the correct one.  Plender preceded him by some days; there was a difficulty here. Plender was not an original member of the Brideshead household; he had been Lord Marchmain’s servant in the yeomanry, and had only once met Wilcox on the painful occasion of the removal of his master’s luggage when it was decided not to return from the war; then Plender had been valet, as, officially, he still was, but he had, in the past years introduced a kind of suffragan, a Swiss body-servant, to attend to the wardrobe and also, when occasion arose, lend a hand with less dignified tasks about the house, and had in effect become majordomo of that fluctuating and mobile household; sometimes he even referred to himself on the telephone as ‘the secretary’. There was an acre of thin ice between him and Wilcox.

Fortunately the two men took a liking to one another, and the thing was solved in a series of three-cornered discussions with Cordelia. Plender and Wilcox became joint grooms of the chambers, like ‘Blues’ and Life Guards with equal precedence, Plender having as his particular province his Lordship’s own apartments and Wilcox a sphere of influence in the public rooms; the senior footman was given a black coat and promoted butler, the non-descript Swiss, on arrival, was to have plain clothes and full valet’s status there was a general increase in wages to meet the new dignities, and all were content.  Julia and I, who had left Brideshead a month before, thinking we should not return, moved back for the reception. When the day came, Cordelia went to the station and we remained to greet him at home. It was a bleak and gusty day. Cottages and lodges were decorated; plans for a bonfire that night and for the village silver band to play on the terrace, were put down, but the house flag, that had not flown for twenty-five years, was hoisted over the pediment, and flapped sharply against the leaden sky. Whatever harsh voices might be bawling into the microphones of central Europe, and whatever lathes spinning in the armament factories, the return of Lord Marchmain was a matter of first importance in his own neighbourhood.

He was due at three o’clock. Julia and I waited in the drawing-room until Wilcox, who had arranged with the stationmaster to be kept informed, announced ‘the train is signalled’, and a minute later, ‘the train is in; his Lordship is on the way.’ Then we went to the front portico and waited there with the upper servants. Soon the Rolls appeared at the turn in the drive, followed at some distance by the two vans. It drew up; first Cordelia got out, then Cara; there was a pause, a rug was handed to the chauffeur, a stick to the footman; then a leg was cautiously thrust forward. Plender was by now at the car door; another servant - the Swiss valet - had emerged from a van; together they lifted Lord Marchmain out and set him on his feet; he felt for his stick, grasped it, and stood for a minute collecting his strength for the few low steps which led to the front door.

Julia gave a little sigh of surprise and touched my hand. We had seen him nine months ago at Monte Carlo, when he had been an upright and stately figure, little changed from when I first met him in Venice. Now he was an old man. Plender had told us his master had been unwell lately: he had not prepared us for this.  Lord Marchmain stood bowed and shrunken, weighed down by his great-coat, a white muffler fluttering untidily at his throat, a cloth cap pulled low on his forehead, his face white and lined, his nose coloured by the cold; the tears which gathered in his eyes came not from emotion but from the east wind; he breathed heavily. Cara tucked in the end of his muffler and whispered something to him. He raised a gloved hand - a schoolboy’s glove of grey wool - and made a small, weary gesture of greeting to the group at the door; then, very slowly, with his eyes on the ground before him, he made his way into the house.

They took off his coat and cap and muffler and the kind of leather jerkin which he wore under them; thus stripped he seemed more than ever wasted but more elegant; he had cast the shabbiness of extreme fatigue. Cara straightened his tie; he wiped his eyes with -a bandanna handkerchief and shuffled with his stick to the hall fire.  There was a little heraldic chair by the chimney-piece, one of a set which stood against the walls, a little, inhospitable, flat-seated thing, a mere excuse for the elaborate armorial painting on its back, on which, perhaps, no one, not even a weary footman, had ever sat since it was made; there Lord Marchmain sat and wiped his eyes.  ‘It’s the cold,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten how cold it is in England. Quite bowled me over.’

‘Can I get you anything, my lord?’

‘Nothing, thank you. Cara, where are those confounded pills?’

‘Alex, the doctor said not more than three times a day.’

‘Damn the doctor. I feel quite bowled over.’

Cara produced a blue bottle from her bag and Lord March main took a pill. Whatever was in it, seemed to revive him. He remained seated, his long legs stuck out before him, his cane between them, his chin on its ivory handle, but he began to take notice of us all, to greet us and to give orders.

‘I’m afraid I’m not at all the thing today; the joumey’s taken it out of me. Ought to have waited a night at Dover. Wilcox, what rooms have you prepared for me?’ ‘Your old ones, my Lord.’

‘Won’t do; not till I’m fit again. Too many stairs; must be on the ground floor.  Plender, get a bed made up for me downstairs.’ Plender and Wilcox exchanged an anxious glance.

‘Very good, my Lord. Which room shall we put it in?’ Lord Marchmain thought for a moment. ‘The Chinese drawing-room; and, Wilcox, the “Queen’s bed”.’ ‘The Chinese drawing-room, my lord, the “Queen’s bed”?’

‘Yes, yes. I may be spending some time there in the next few weeks.’

The Chinese drawing-room was one I had never seen used; in fact one could not normally go further into it than a small roped area round the door, where sight-seers were corralled on the days the house was open to the public; it was a splendid, uninhabitable museum of Chippendale carving and porcelain’ and lacquer and painted hangings; the Queen’s bed too, was an exhibition piece, a vast velvet tent like the baldachino at St Peter’s. Had Lord Marchmain planned this lying-in-state for himself, I wondered, before he left the sunshine of Italy? Had he thought of it during the scudding rain of his long, fretful journey? Had it come to him at that moment, an awakened memory of childhood, a dream in the nursery - ‘When I’m grown up I’ll sleep in the Queen’s bed in the Chinese drawing-room’ - the apotheosis of adult grandeur?  Few things, certainly, could have caused more stir in the house. What had been foreseen as a day of formality became one of fierce exertion; housemaids began making a fire, removing covers, unfolding linen- men in aprons, never normally seen, shifted furniture; the estate carpenters were collected to dismantle the bed. It came down the main staircase in pieces, at intervals during the afternoon; huge sections of Rococo, velvet-covered cornice; the twisted, gilt and velvet columns which formed its posts; beams of unpolished wood, made not to be seen, which performed invisible structural functions below the draperies; plumes of dyed feathers, which sprang from gold-mounted ostrich eggs and crowned the canopy; finally, the mattresses with four toiling men to each. Lord Marchmain seemed to derive comfort from the consequences of his whim; he sat by the fire watching the bustle, while we stood in a half circle - Cara, Cordelia, Julia, and I - and talked to him.

Colour came back to his checks and light to his eyes. ‘Brideshead and his wife dined with me in Rome,’ he said. ‘Since we are all members of the family’ - and his eye moved ironically from Cara to me - ‘I can speak without reserve. I found her deplorable. Her former consort, I understand, was a seafaring man and, presumably, the less exacting, but how my son, at the ripe age of thirty-eight, with, unless things have changed very much, a very free choice among the women of England, can have settled on - I suppose I must call her so - Beryl...’ He left the sentence eloquently unfinished.  Lord Marchmain showed no inclination to move, so presently we drew up chairs - the little, heraldic chairs, for everything else in the hall was ponderous - and sat round him.  ‘I daresay I shall not be really fit again until summer comes, he said. ‘I look to you four to amuse me.’ There seemed little we could do at the moment to lighten the rather sombre mood; he, indeed, was the most cheerful of us. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘the circumstances of Brideshead’s courtship.’

We told him what we knew.

‘Match-boxes,’ he said. ‘Match-boxes. I think she’s past childbearing.’

Tea was brought us at the hall fireplace.

‘In Italy,’ he said, ‘no one believes there will be a war. They think it will all be “arranged”. I suppose, Julia, you no longer have access to political information? Cara, here, is fortunately a British subject by marriage. It is not a thing she customarily mentions, but it may prove valuable. She is legally Mrs Hicks, are you not, my dear?  We know little of Hicks, but we shall be grateful to him, none the less, if it comes to war. And you,’ he said, turning the attack to me, ‘you will no doubt become an official artist?’

‘No. As a matter of fact I am negotiating now for a commission in the Special Reserve.’

‘Oh, but you should be an artist. I had one with my squadron during the last war, for weeks - until we went up to the line.’ This waspishness was new. I had always been aware of a frame of malevolence under his urbanity; now it protruded like his own sharp bones through the sunken skin.

It was dark before the bed was finished; we went to see it, Lord Marchmain stepping quite briskly now through the intervening rooms.

‘I congratulate you. It really looks remarkably well. Wilcox, I seem to remember a silver basin and ewer - they stood in a room we called “the Cardinal’s dressing-room”, I think - suppose we had them here on the console. Then if you will send Plender and Gaston to me, the luggage can wait till tomorrow - simply the dressing case and what I need for the night. Plender will know. If you will leave me with Plender and Gaston, I will go to bed. We will meet later; you will dine here and keep me amused.’ We turned to go; as I was at the door he called me back.

‘It looks very well, does it not?’

‘Very well.’

‘You might paint it, eh - and call it the Death Bed?’

‘Yes,’ said Cara, ‘he has come home to die.’

‘But when he first arrived he was talking so confidently of recovery.  ‘That was because he was so ill. When he is himself, he knows he is dying and accepts it. His sickness is up and down, one day, sometimes for several days on end, he is strong and lively and then he is ready for death, then he is down and afraid. I do not know how it will be when he is more and more down. That must come in good time.  The doctors in Rome gave him less than a year. There is someone coming from London, I think tomorrow, who will tell us more.’

‘What is it?’

‘His heart; some long word at the heart. He is dying of a long word.’ That evening Lord Marchmain was in good spirits; the room had a Hogarthian aspect, with the dinner-table set for the four of us by the grotesque, chinoiserie chimney-piece, and the old man propped among his pillows, sipping champagne, tasting, praising, and failing to eat, the succession of dishes which had been prepared for his homecoming.  Wilcox had brought out for the occasion the gold plate, which I had not before seen in use; that, the gilt mirrors, and the lacquer and the drapery of the great bed and Julia’s mandarin coat gave the scene an air of pantomime, of Aladdin’s cave.  Just at the end, when the time came for us to go, his spirits flagged.  ‘I shall not sleep,’ he said. ‘Who is going to sit with me? Cara, carissima, you are fatigued. Cordelia, will you watch for an hour in this Gethsemane?’ Next morning I asked her how the night had passed.

‘He went to sleep almost at once. I came in to see him at two to make up the fire; the lights were on, but he was asleep again. He must have woken up and turned them on; he had to get out of bed to do that. I think perhaps he is afraid of the dark.’ It was natural, with her hospital experience, that Cordelia should take charge of her father. When the doctors came that day they gave their instructions to her, instinctively.  ‘Until he gets worse,’ she said, ‘I and the valet can look after him. We don’t want nurses in the house before they are needed.’ At this stage the doctors had nothing to recommend except to keep him comfortable and administer certain drugs when his attacks came on.

‘How long will it be?’

‘Lady Cordelia, there are men walking about in hearty old age whom their doctors gave a week to live. I have learned one thing in medicine; never prophesy.’ These two men had made a long journey to tell her this; the local doctor was there to accept the same advice in technical phrases.

That night Lord Marchmain reverted to the topic of his new daughter-in-law; it had never been long out of his mind, finding expression in various sly hints throughout the day; now he lay back in his pillows and talked of her at length.  ‘I have never been much moved by family piety until now,’ he said, ‘but I am frankly appalled at the prospect of - of Beryl taking what was once my mother’s place in this house. Why should that uncouth pair sit here childless while the place crumbles about their ears? I will not disguise from you that I have taken a dislike to Beryl.

‘Perhaps it was unfortunate that we met in Rome. Anywhere else might have been more sympathetic. And yet, if one comes to consider it, where could I have met her without repugnance? We dined at Ranieri’s; it is a quiet little restaurant I have frequented for years - no doubt you know it. Beryl seemed to fill the place. I, of course, was host, though to hear Beryl press my son with food you might have thought otherwise. Brideshead was always a greedy boy- a wife who has his best interests at heart should seek to restrain him. However, that is a matter of small importance.  ‘She had no doubt heard of me as a man of irregular life. I can only describe her manner to me as roguish. A naughty old man, that’s what she thought I was. I suppose she had met naughty old admirals and knew how they should be humoured...I could not attempt to reproduce her conversation. I will give you one example.  ‘They had been to an audience at the Vatican that morning; a blessing for their marriage - I did not follow attentively something of the kind had happened before, I gathered, some previous husband, some previous Pope. She described, rather vivaciously, how on this earlier occasion she had gone with a whole body - of newly married couples, mostly Italians of all ranks, some or the simpler girls in their wedding dresses, and how each had appraised the other, the bridegrooms looking the brides over, comparing their own with one another’s, and so forth. Then she said, “This time, of course, we were in private, -but do you know, Lord Marchmain, I felt as though it was I who was leading in the bride.”

‘It was said with great indelicacy. I have not yet quite fathomed her meaning. Was she making a play on my son’s name, or was she, do you think, referring to his undoubted virginity? I fancy the latter. Anyway, it was with pleasantries of that kind that we passed the evening.

‘I don’t think she would be quite in her proper element here, do you? Who shall I leave it to? The entail ended with me, you know. Sebastian, alas, is out of the question.  Who wants it? Quis? Would you like it, Cara? No, of course you would not. Cordelia? I think I shall leave it to Julia and Charles.’

‘Of course not, papa, it’s Bridey’s.’

‘And...Beryl’s? I will have Gregson down one day soon and go over the matter. It is time I brought my will up to date; it is full of anomalies and anachronisms...I have rather a fancy for the idea of installing Julia here; so beautiful this evening, my dear; so beautiful always; much, much more suitable.’

Shortly after this he sent to London for his solicitor, but, on the day he came, Lord Marchmain was suffering from an attack and would not see him. ‘Plenty of time,’ he said, between painful gasps for breath, ‘another day, when I am stronger,’ but the choice of his heir was constantly in his mind, and he referred often to the time when Julia and I should be married and in possession.

‘Do you think he really means to leave it to us?’ I asked Julia.

‘Yes, I think he does.’

‘But it’s monstrous for Bridey.’

‘Is it? I don’t think he cares much for the place. I do, you know. He and Beryl would be much more content in some little house somewhere.’ ‘You mean to accept it?’

‘Certainly. It’s papa’s to leave as he likes. I think you and I could be very happy here.’

It opened a prospect; the prospect one gained at the turn of the avenue, as I had first seen it with Sebastian, of the secluded valley, the lakes falling away one below the other, the old house in the foreground, the rest of the world abandoned and forgotten; a world of its own of peace and love and beauty; a soldier’s dream in a foreign bivouac; such a prospect perhaps as a high pinnacle of the temple afforded after the hungry days in the desert and the jackal-haunted nights. Need I reproach myself if sometimes I was taken by the vision?

The weeks of illness wore on and the life of the house kept pace with the faltering strength of the sick man. There were days when Lord Marchmain was dressed, when he stood at the window or moved on his valet’s arm from fire to fire through the rooms of the ground floor, when visitors came and went neighbours and people from the estate, men of business from London - parcels of new books were opened and discussed, a piano was moved into the Chinese drawing-room; once at the end of February, on a single, unexpected day of brilliant sunshine, he called for a car and got as far as the hall, had on his fur coat, and reached the front door. Then suddenly he lost interest in the drive, said ‘Not now. Later. One day in the summer,’ took his man’s arm again and was led back to his chair. Once he had the humour of changing his room and gave detailed orders for a move to the Painted Parlour; the chinoiserie, he said, disturbed his rest - he kept the lights full on at night - but again lost heart, countermanded everything, and kept his room.

On other days the house was hushed as he sat high in bed, propped by his pillows, with labouring breath; even then he wanted to have us round him; night or day he could not bear to be alone; when he could not speak his eyes followed us, and if anyone left the room he would look distressed, and Cara, sitting often for hours at a time by his side against the pillows with an arm in his, would say, ‘It’s all right, Alex, she’s coming back.’

Brideshead and his wife returned from their honeymoon and stayed a few nights; it was one of the bad times, and Lord Marchmain refused to have them near him. It was Beryl’s first visit, and she would have been unnatural if she had shown no curiosity about what had nearly been, and now again promised soon to be, her home. Beryl was natural enough, and surveyed the place fairly thoroughly in the days she was there. In the strange disorder caused by Lord Marchmain’s illness, it must have seemed capable of much improvement; she referred once or twice to the way in which establishments of similar size had been managed at various Government Houses she had visited.  Brideshead took her visiting among the tenants by day, and in the evenings, she talked to me of painting, or to Cordelia of hospitals, or to Julia of clothes, with cheerful assurance. The shadow of betrayal, the knowledge of how precarious were their just expectations, was all one-sided. I was not easy with them; but that was no new thing to Brideshead; in the little circle of shyness in which he was used to move, my guilt passed unseen.

Eventually it became clear that Lord Marchmain did not intend to see more of them.

Brideshead was admitted alone for a minute’s leave-taking; then they left.

‘There’s nothing we can do here,’ said Brideshead, ‘and it’s very distressing for Beryl.

We’ll come back if things get worse.’

The bad spells became longer and more frequent; a nurse was engaged. ‘I never saw such a room, ‘ she said, ‘nothing like it anywhere; ‘no conveniences of any sort.’ She tried to have her patient moved upstairs, where there was running water, a dressing-room for herself, a ‘sensible’ narrow bed she could ‘get round’ - what she was used to - but Lord Marchmain would not budge. Soon, as days and nights became indistinguishable to him, a second nurse was installed; the specialists came again from London; they recommended a new and rather daring treatment, but his body seemed weary of all drugs and did not respond. Presently there were no good spells, merely brief fluctuations in the speed of his decline.

Brideshead was called. It was the Easter holidays and Beryl was busy with her children. He came alone, and having stood silently for some minutes beside his father, who sat silently looking at him, he left the room and, joining the rest of us, who were in the library, said, ‘Papa must see a priest.’

It was not the first time the topic had come up. In the early days, when Lord Marchmain first arrived, the parish priest since the chapel was shut there was a new church and presbytery in Mel stead - had come to call as a matter of politeness. Cordelia had put him off with apologies and excuses, but when he was gone she said: ‘Not yet.  Papa doesn’t want him yet.’

Julia, Cara, and I were there at the time; we each had something to say, began to speak, and thought better of it. It was never mentioned between the four of us, but Julia, alone with me, said, ‘Charles, I see great Church troubles ahead.’ ‘Can’t they even let him die in peace?’

‘They mean something so different by “peace”.’

‘It would be an outrage. No one could have made it clearer, all his life, what he thought of religion. They’ll come now, when his mind’s wandering and he hasn’t the strength to resist, and claim him as a death-bed penitent. I’ve had a certain, respect for their Church up till now. If they do a thing like that I shall know that everything stupid people say about them is quite true - that it’s all superstition and trickery.’ Julia said nothing. ‘Don’t you agree?’ Still Julia said nothing. ‘Don’t you agree?’ ‘I don’t know, Charles. I simply don’t know.’

And, though none of us spoke of it, I felt the question ever present, growing through all the weeks of Lord Marchmain’s illness; I saw it when Cordelia drove off early in the mornings to mass; I saw it as Cara took to going with her; this little cloud, the size of a man’s hand, that was going to swell into a storm among us.  Now Brideshead, in his heavy, ruthless way, planted the problem down before us.

‘Oh, Bridey, do you think he would?’ asked Cordelia.

‘I shall see that he does, ‘ said Brideshead. ‘I shall take Father Mackay in to him tomorrow.’

Still the clouds gathered and did not break; none of us spoke. Cara and Cordelia went back to the sick-room; Brideshead looked for a book, found one, and left us.  ‘Julia,’ I said, ‘how can we stop this tomfoolery?’

She did not answer for some time; then: ‘Why should we.?’

‘You know as well as I do. It’s just -just an unseemly incident.’ ‘Who am I to object to unseemly incidents?’ she asked sadly. ‘Anyway, what harm can it do? Let’s ask the doctor.’

We asked the doctor, who said: ‘It’s hard to say. It might alarm him of course; on the other hand, I have known cases where it has had a wonderfully soothing effect on a patient; I’ve even known it act as a positive stimulant. It certainly is usually a great comfort to the relations. Really I think it’s a thing for Lord Brideshead to decide. Mind you, there is no need for immediate anxiety. Lord Marchmain is very weak today; tomorrow he may be quite strong again. Is it not usual to wait a little?’ ‘Well, he wasn’t much help,’ I said to Julia, when we left him.  ‘Help? I really can’t quite see why you’ve taken it so much to heart that my father shall not have the last sacraments.’

‘It’s such a lot of witchcraft and hypocrisy.’

‘Is it? Anyway, it’s been going on for nearly two thousand years. I don’t know why you should suddenly get in a rage now.’ Her voice rose; she was swift to anger of late months. ‘For Christ’s sake, write to The Times; get up and make a speech in Hyde Park; start a “No Popery” riot, but don’t bore me about it. What’s it got to do with you or me whether my father sees his parish priest?’

I knew these fierce moods of Julia’s, such as had overtaken her at the fountain in moonlight, and dimly surmised their origin; I knew they could not be assuaged by words. Nor could I have spoken, for the answer to her question was still unformed; the sense that the fate of more souls than one was at issue; that the snow was beginning to shift on the high slopes.

Brideshead and I breakfasted together next morning with the night-nurse, who had just come off duty.

‘He’s much brighter today,’ she said. ‘He slept very nicely for nearly three hours.

When Gaston came to shave him he was quite chatty.’ ‘Good,’ said Brideshead. ‘Cordelia went to mass. She’s driving Father Mackay back here to breakfast.’

I had met Father Mackay several times; he was a stocky, middle-aged, genial Glasgow-Irishman who, when we met, was apt to ask me such questions as, ‘Would you say now, Mr Ryder, that the painter Titian was more truly artistic than the painter Raphael?’ and, more disconcertingly still, to remember my answers: ‘To revert, Mr Ryder, to what you said when last I had the pleasure to meet you, would it be right now to say that the painter Titian...’ usually ending with some such reflection as: ‘Ah, it’s a grand resource for a man to have the talent you have, Mr Ryder, and the time to indulge it.’ Cordelia could imitate him.

This morning he made a hearty breakfast, glanced at the headlines of the paper, and then said with professional briskness: ‘And now, Lord Brideshead, would the poor soul be ready to see me, do you think?’

Brideshead led him out; Cordelia followed, and I was left alone among the breakfast things. In less than a minute I heard the voices of all three outside the door.  ‘...can only apologize.’

‘...poor soul. Mark you, it was seeing a strange face; depend upon it, it was that - an unexpected stranger. I well understand it.’

‘...Father, I am sorry...bringing you all this way...’

‘Don’t think about it at all, Lady Cordelia. Why, I’ve had bottles thrown at me in the Gorbals...Give him time. I’ve known worse cases make beautiful deaths. Pray for him...I’ll come again...and now if you’ll excuse me I’ll just pay a little visit to Mrs Hawkins. Yes, indeed, I know the way well.’

Then Cordelia and Brideshead came into the room.

‘I gather the visit was not a success.’

‘It was not. Cordelia, will you drive Father Mackay home when he comes down from nanny? I’m going to telephone to Beryl and see when she needs me home.’ ‘Bridey, it was horrible. What are we to do?’

‘We’ve done everything we can at the moment.’ He left the room.  Cordelia’s face was grave; she took a piece of bacon from the dish, dipped it in mustard and ate it. ‘Damn Bridey,’ she said, ‘I knew it wouldn’t work.’ ‘What happened?’

‘Would you like to know? We walked in there in a line; Cara was reading the paper aloud to papa. Bridey said, “I’ve brought Father Mackay to see you”; papa said, “Father Mackay, I am afraid you have been brought here under a misapprehension. I am not in extremis, and I have not been a practising member of your Church for twenty-five years.  Brideshead, show Father Mackay the way out.” Then we all turned about and walked away, and I heard Cara start reading the paper again, and that, Charles, was that.’ I carried the news to Julia, who lay with her bed-table amid a litter of newspapers and envelopes. ‘Mumbo-jumbo is off,’ I said. ‘The witch-doctor has gone.’



‘Poor papa.’

‘It’s great sucks to Bridey.’

I felt triumphant. I had been right, everyone else had been wrong, truth had prevailed; the threat that I had felt hanging over Julia and me ever since that evening at the fountain, had been averted, perhaps dispelled for ever; and there was also - I can now confess it - another unexpressed, inexpressible, indecent little victory

“窗户都敞开着呢，老爷。” 一只氧气筒放到他床边来了，上面有一个长长的软管，一个面罩，还有洋他可以自己操作的小活塞。他老是说：“里面空了；护士瞧吧，没有什么气出来了。” “不，马奇梅因勋爵，里面满极了，请看这个球形玻璃管里的气泡就知道了；压力也很足，请听，你没有听见里面发出的嘶嘶声吗？马奇梅因勋爵，试着慢慢呼吸，要从从容容地，这样你就会得到好处了。” “像空气那样自由，大家都这么说——‘像空气那样自由’。而现在却把我的空气装在一只铁筒里给我。” 有一次他说：“科迪莉娅，那个小教堂怎么样了？” “爸爸，妈妈死了的时候他们已经把它关闭了。” “那小教堂是她的，是我送给她的。我们一向是我们家族里的建筑者。我为她建的这座小教堂，就建在亭子背阴的地方；那是在旧围墙后面用旧石料重建的；这是建成的新房子的最后一部分，也是第一个消失的。在战争爆发以前一直有一位牧师。你们还记得他吗？” “那时我还太小呢。” “然后我走了——留下她一个人在这个小教堂里祈祷。这教堂是她的。这是她的地方。我从来没有回来打搅她祈祷。人们都说我们是为自由而奋斗。我获得了自己的胜利。这是罪过吗？” “我想是的，爸爸。” “在向苍天呼喊复仇吗？你想想，这不就是他们把我关在这个洞穴里，带着一罐空气，伴着沿着墙站着的、没有空气也能生活的黄皮肤的小人们的原因吗？你是这样想的吗，孩子？不过风不久就会来的，也许是明天，到那时我们又可以呼吸了。坏事对我倒成了好事。我明天会好些。” 就这样，直到七月中旬，马奇梅因勋爵躺着奄奄一息了，为活下去而进行的挣扎把他拖得完全精疲力竭。后来，由于预计不会迅速恶化，科迪莉娅就去伦敦到她的那个妇女组织看看有没有什么“紧急情况”。这天马奇梅因勋爵的情况突然恶化了。他默默地躺着，一点儿声息也没有，费力地喘着气；只有他那睁着的眼睛，不时扫一扫屋子四处，表示他还有知觉。 “是不是快不行了？”朱莉娅问。 “这可没法断定。”医生回答，“当他快要死的时候，很可能就像现在这个样子。他也许还能从现在的发作中缓过来。关键是千万别打搅他。一点点惊扰也会是致命的。” “我要去找麦凯神父。”她说。 我并不诧异。整个夏天我看出来她想的就是这个。她走了以后我对医生说：“我们必须制止这种瞎胡闹。” 他说：“我的责任薀蛙病人的身体。我的责任不是同人家辩论活着好还是死了好，或者争论一个人死了以后怎么样。我只是想方设法让他活着。” “你刚才说的是，任何惊扰都会置他于死地。而对于一个怕死的人来说，比如就像他这样怕死，难道还有什么能比给他带来一位神父——这位神父又是他有精力时曾经赶走的——还有什么比这更糟的事吗？” “我想，这也许会置他于死地。” “那么你还不加以制止吗？” “我没有权利制止任何事情。我只能提供意见。” “卡拉，你是怎么想的。” “我不愿意使他不快乐。现在只有一个希望了；希望他不知不觉地去世。但是我还是愿意这儿有一位神父。” “那你可不可以好好劝劝朱莉娅让神父别进来——一直等到他不行了才来？那以后神父进来也就没有危害了。” “我会请求她让亚力克斯快乐，好吧。” 过了半小时，朱莉娅带着麦凯神父回来了。我们大家在图书室里见了面。 “我已经打电报告诉布赖德和科迪莉娅了，”我说，“希望你能够同意，等大家都到齐了以后再说。” “他们要在这儿就好了。”朱莉娅说。 “你不能单独承担责任。”我说，“其他的人都反对你。格兰德医生，请你把你刚才对我说的话告诉她。” “刚才我说看到神父引起的震惊，可能会置他于死地；如果不惊吓他，他也许会熬过这次发作。作为一个医生，做任何惊扰他的事情，我一概反对。” “卡拉，你呢？” “朱莉娅，亲爱的，我知道你是想尽力把事情办得很好，可你要知道，亚力克斯并不是一个信教的人；对宗教的态度他向来是嘲弄的。我们万万不能趁着他现在身体虚弱的机会，以此来安慰我们自己的良心。如果他没有了知觉时麦凯神父再到他跟前去的话，那么就可以用妥当的方式把他安葬，是这样吗，神父？” “我去看看他现在怎么样了。”医生说完就离开了我们。 “麦凯神父，”我说，“你也知道你上次来时马奇梅因勋爵是怎么对待你的，难道你以为他现在可能改变了吗？” “感谢上帝，靠神的恩典，是可能改变的。” “也许如此，”卡拉说，“在他睡着了的时候你可以溜进去看看，对他念念赦罪文；他不会知道的。” “我见过许多男男女女去世，”神父说，“我从来没见过谁在临终时刻会不愿意我在身边。” “可是他们是天主教徒啊，而马奇梅因勋爵除了名义上，根本就不是个天主教徒——无论如何，已经有很多年不是了。他是一个天主教的嘲弄者，卡拉就是这么说的。” “基督来召唤的不是善人完人，而是要罪人来忏悔。” 这时医生回来说：“没有什么变化。” “喂，医生，”神父说，“我怎么会惊扰什么人呢？”他先是把他那漠然的、纯洁的、乏味的面孔转向医生，随后又转向我们，“你们知道我要做什么吗？这件事情很小，没有什么排场。你知道，我没有穿专门的服装。我就像现在这样去。他看过我现在的打扮。没有什么使人惊恐的。我只打算问问他是否对他自己的罪孽感到追悔。我希望他做出很小的一点同意的表示；不管怎样，我希望他不要拒绝我；然后我就祈求上帝饶恕他。然后，虽然这一点并不很重要，我还希望给他举行涂油式。这没有什么，只是用手指碰一碰，只是从这个小盒里蘸一点油，看，对他完全没有害处。” “哦，朱莉娅，”卡拉说，“我们应该怎么说呢？让我去跟他讲一讲吧。” 她去了中国式客厅；我们默默地等着。在我和朱莉娅之间隔着一道无形的墙。不一会儿卡拉回来了。 “我觉得他并没有听见，”她说，“我认为我知道该怎么向他说的。我说：‘亚力克斯，你还记得从梅尔斯蒂德来的那个神父吗。他来看你时，你非常任性。你伤了他的感情。现在他又在这儿了。我希望你就看在我的面上见见他，做个朋友。’但是他没有回答。如果他失去知觉，那么看到一位神父也就不会让他不高兴了吧，是不是，医生？” 原来一直默默地站着不动的朱莉娅这时突然移动了。 “医生，非常感谢你的劝告。”她说道，“无论发生了什么事情，我都承担全部责任。麦凯神父，现在请你来看看我父亲吧，”她连看也没有看我一眼，就带着神父向门口走去。 我们大家也跟着去了。马奇梅因勋爵还像我早晨看到时那样躺着，不过这时他的眼睛阖上了；他的双手放在被单上面，手心向上；那个护士的手指在给其中一只手诊脉。“请进，”她乐观地说道，“你们现在不会打搅他啦。” “你是说……” “不，不，但是任何事情他都注意不到了。” 她拿起那个氧气装置凑到他脸前，只听见床边逸出的氧气发出嘶嘶声。 神父向马奇梅因勋爵俯下身去，为他祝福。朱莉娅和卡拉在床脚边跪下来。医生、护士，和我就站在他们身后。 “现在，”神父说道，“我知道你为你一生中种种罪恶深感悔恨，是不是？如果能够，请你做个表示。你悔恨了，是不是？”可是病人什么表示也没有。“努力回忆你的罪恶吧，对上帝说，你已经悔恨了。我就要给你举行忏悔仪式了。当我给你举行仪式的时候，请告诉上帝你因为违犯了他的旨意而悔恨。”接着他开始用拉丁文念叨起来。我听出这些话是“以天父的名义我宣布你无罪……”我看到神父划十字。这时我也跪下来，并且祷告：“啊，上帝，如果真有上帝，请宽恕他的罪恶吧，如果真有罪恶这种东西。”这时躺在床上的人睁了睁眼睛，发出了一声叹息，这种叹息我以前认为是人们临死的时候发出来的，但是他的眼睛动了动，所以我们看出他的身上还有生命。 这时我突然感到渴望有所表示，即使只是处于礼貌，即使只是为了我爱恋着的那个跪在我前面正在祈祷的女人。她祈求的就是一个表示。我看，要求的事情很小，只是承认收到了一件礼物，在人群里点点头。我的祷告更加简单：“请上帝宽恕他的罪过吧”和“请上帝使他接受你的宽恕吧”。 祈求的是那样微不足道的事情。 神父从他的口袋里掏出那只小银盒，又用拉丁文念叨起来，同时用一小团蘸了油的东西碰碰这个临死的人。他干完了他该干的事情，就收起小盒子来，念诵起最后的祈祷。突然马奇梅因把手移向自己的额头；我以为他感觉到了圣油的触感，要把油揩掉。“啊，上帝，”我祷告，“千万别让他这样做。”但是完全不必担心，那只手缓慢地移到胸前，又移到肩膀，马奇梅因勋爵做出了划十字的表示来。这时我才明白，原来我所请求的那种表示并非一桩小事，也不是一种随随便便的点头招呼，这时我想起儿童时代听到的一句话来，圣殿的帷幔从头到底被撕开。 事情过去了。我们站起来，护士又去弄那个氧气筒，医生俯下身检查病人。朱莉娅小声对我说道：“你送麦凯神父出去好吗？我在这儿待一会儿。” 门外麦凯神父又变成了我以前认识的那个单纯、和蔼的人了。“喂，你瞧，这件事看起来很美，我以前一次又一次看见过。魔鬼抵抗到最后一刻，然而神恩对他是浩荡无边的。赖德先生，我想你并不是一个天主教徒，可是你至少会因为女士们得到宽慰而高兴吧。” 我们等司机的时候，我猛然想起麦凯神父应该得到举行仪式的报酬。我颇为狼狈地问他。“喏，赖德先生，不必操心，这是一种快乐，”他说，“不过无论你赠送什么，在我这样的教区里都是用得着的。”我发现我的皮夹子里还有三个英镑，就把这些钱给了他。“唷，你实在太慷慨了，上帝赐福给你，赖德先生。我会再来的，不过我认为那个可怜的人会不久人世啦。” 朱莉娅一直在中国式客厅里，直到傍晚五点钟，她的父亲去世，证实了神父和医生的那场争执双方都是正确的。 到这里，我来谈谈我和朱莉娅之间的最后一些零碎的话，我的最后的回忆吧。 朱莉娅的父亲去世后，她在他的遗体旁边待了几分钟。护士到隔壁来宣布去世的消息，这时我从敞开的门向里面瞥见了她一眼，她跪在床边，卡拉坐在她身旁。过了一会儿两个女人一块走出来，朱莉娅对我说：“现在不。我要带卡拉上楼去她的房间，以后再说。” 当她还在楼上的时候，布赖兹赫德和科迪莉娅从伦敦赶来了；最后当我和朱莉娅单独见面的时候，像是年轻的、秘密的恋人。 朱莉娅说：“就在这个阴暗的地方，在这个楼梯拐角——用一分钟来告别吧。” “经过这么长时间就说这么一句话。” “你已经知道了吗？” “从今天早晨起；从今天早晨以前起；从今年一年以来。” “到今天早晨我才明白。啊，亲爱的，但愿你能够理解。这样我就能够忍受分离了，或者说，能更好地忍受了。我得说我的心已经碎了，如果我相信心会碎的话。我不能跟你结婚，查尔斯，我再也不能和你在一起了。” “我知道。” “你怎么会知道。” “你今后怎么办？” “就这样下去——一个人过。我怎么知道今后怎么办呢？你了解整个的我。你知道我这个人不是会伤心一辈子的人。我一向很坏。很可能我以后还会很坏，还会受到惩罚。不过我越坏，我就越需要上帝。我不能拒绝上帝的慈悲。这话的意思就是这样；和你开始过活，离开那个人。人只能希望看到前面一步。但是今天我看到一件不可饶恕的事——像在教室里犯的错误，严重得没法惩罚，只有妈妈才能处理——这件坏事我正要做，但是我还没有坏到那种程度，不能干。我要开始从事一件比得上上帝的至善的好事。为什么让我理解了这一点，而不是让你呢，查尔斯？也许是因为妈妈，保姆，科迪莉娅，塞巴斯蒂安——也许还有布赖德和马斯普拉特夫人——他们一直都在为我祈祷；也许这是我和上帝之间的一桩个人交易，即如果我放弃了这件唯一的、我日夜想念的事情的话，那么不管我有多么坏，上帝到头来是不会对我完全绝望的。 “现在我们两个都要单独过了，而且我也没有办法让你理解了。” “我不希望使你对这件事抱着轻松一些的态度，”我说，“我希望你的心是会碎的；可是我的确理解。” 雪崩滚下来，崩雪扫荡净了它后面的山坡；最后的回声消失在白茫茫的山坡上；那新的土丘闪着光，静静地躺在死寂的山谷里。

Epilogue BRIDESHEAD REVISITED ‘THE worst place we’ve struck yet,’ said the commanding officer; ‘no facilities, no amenities, and Brigade sitting right on top of us. There’s one pub in Flyte St Mary with capacity for about twenty - that, of course, will be out of bounds for officers; there’s a Naafi in the camp area. I hope to run transport once a week to Melstead Carbury.  Marchmain is ten miles away and damn-all when you get there. It will therefore be the first concern of company officers to organize recreation for their men. M.O., I want you to take a look at the lakes to see if they’re fit for bathing.’ ‘Very good, sir.’ ‘Brigade expects us to clean up the house for them. I should have thought some of those half-shaven scrim-shankers I see lounging round Headquarters might have saved us the trouble; however...Ryder, you will find a party of fifty and report to the Quartering Comandant at the house at 1045 hours; he’ll show you what we’re taking over.’ ‘Very good, sir.’ ‘Our predecessors do not seem to have been very enterprising. The valley has great potentialities for an assault course and a mortar range. Weapon-training officer, make a recce this morning and get something laid on before Brigade arrives.’ ‘Very good, sir.’ ‘I’m going out myself with the adjutant to recce training areas. Anyone happen to know this district?’ I said nothing. ‘That’s all then, get cracking.’ ‘Wonderful old place in its way,’ said the Quartering Commandant; ‘pity to knock it about too much.’ He was an old, retired, re-appointed lieutenant-colonel from some miles away. We met in the space before the main doors, where I had my half-company fallen-in, waiting for orders. ‘Come in. I’ll soon show you over. It’s a great warren of a place, but we’ve only requisitioned the ground floor and half a dozen bedrooms. Everything else upstairs is still private property, mostly cram-full of furniture; you never saw such stuff, priceless some of it. ‘There’s a caretaker and a couple of old servants live at the top - they won’t be any trouble to you - and a blitzed R.C. padre whom Lady Julia gave a home to -jittery old bird, but no trouble. He’s opened the chapel; that’s in bounds for the troops; surprising lot use it, too. ‘The place belongs to Lady Julia Flyte, as she calls herself now. She was married to Mottram, the Minister of-whatever-it-is. She’s abroad in some woman’s service, and I try to keep an eye on things for her. Queer thing the old marquis leaving everything to her - rough on the boys. ‘Now this is where the last lot put the clerks; plenty of room, anyway. I’ve had the walls and fireplaces boarded up you see valuable old work underneath. Hullo, someone seems to have been making a beast of himself here; destructive beggars, soldiers are!  Lucky we spotted it, or it would have been charged to you chaps.  ‘This is another good-sized room, used to be full of tapestry. I’d advise you to use this for conferences.’ ‘I’m only here to clean up, sir. Someone from Brigade will allot the rooms.’ ‘Oh, well, you’ve got an easy job. Very decent fellows the last lot. They shouldn’t have done that to the fireplace though. How did they manage it? Looks solid enough. I wonder if it can be mended? ‘I expect the brigadier will take this for his office; the last did. It’s got a lot of painting that can’t be moved, done on the walls. As you see, I’ve covered it up as best I can, but soldiers get through anything - as the brigadier’s done in the corner. There was another painted room, outside under pillars - modern work but, if you ask me, the prettiest in the place; it was the signal office and they made absolute hay of it; rather a shame.  ‘This eyesore is what they used as the mess; that’s why I didn’t cover it up; not that it would matter much if it did get damaged; always reminds me of one of the costlier knocking-shops, you know - “ Maison Japonaise”...and this was the ante-room...’ It did not take us long to make our tour of the echoing rooms. Then we went outside on the terrace. ‘Those are the other ranks’ latrines and wash-house; can’t think why they built them just there; it was done before I took the job over. All this used to be cut off from the front. We laid the road through the trees joining it up with the main drive; unsightly but very practical; awful lot of transport comes in and out; cuts the place up, too. Look where one careless devil went smack through the box-hedge and carried away all that balustrade; did it with a three-ton lorry, too; you’d think he had a Churchill tank at least.  ‘That fountain is rather a tender spot with our landlady; the young officers used to lark about in it on guest nights and it was looking a bit the worse for wear, so I wired it in and turned the water off. Looks a bit untidy now; all the drivers throw their cigarette-ends and the remains of the sandwiches there, and you can’t get to it to clean it up, since I put the wire round it. Florid great thing, isn’t it?... ‘Well, if you’ve seen everything I’ll push off. Good day to you.’ His driver threw a cigarette into the dry basin of the fountain; saluted and opened the door of the car. I saluted and the Quartering Commandant drove away through the new, metalled gap in the lime trees. ‘Hooper,’ I said, when I had seen my men started, ‘do you think I can safely leave you in charge of the work-party for half an hour?’ ‘I was just wondering where we could scrounge some tea.’ ‘For Christ’s sake,’ I said, ‘they’ve only just begun work.’ ‘They’re awfully browned off.’ ‘Keep them at it.’ ‘Rightyoh.’ I did not spend long in the desolate ground-floor rooms, but went upstairs and wandered down the familiar corridors, trying doors that were locked, opening doors into rooms piled to the ceiling with furniture. At length I met an old housemaid carrying a cup of tea. ‘Why,’ she said, ‘isn’t it Mr Ryder?’ ‘It is. I was wondering when I should meet someone I know.’ ‘Mrs Hawkins is up in her old room. I was just taking her some tea.’ ‘I’ll take it for you, I said, and passed through the baize doors, up the uncarpeted stairs, to the nursery. Nanny Hawkins did not recognize me until I spoke, and my arrival threw her into some confusion; it was not until I had been sitting some time by her fireside that she recovered her old calm. She, who had changed so little in all the years I knew her, had lately become greatly aged. The changes of the last years had come too late in her life to be accepted and understood; her sight was failing, she told me, and she could see only the coarsest needlework. Her speech, sharpened by years of gentle conversation, had reverted now to the soft, peasant tones of its origin. ‘...only myself here and the two girls and poor Father Membling who was blown up, not a roof to his head nor a stick of furniture till Julia took him in with the kind heart she’s got, and his nerves something shocking...Lady Brideshead, too, Marchmain it is now, who I ought by rights to call her Ladyship now, but it doesn’t come natural, it was the same with her. First, when Julia and Cordelia left to the war, she came here with the two boys and then the military turned them out, so they went to London, nor they hadn’t been in their house not a month, and Bridey away with the yeomanry the same as his poor Lordship, when they were blown up too, everything gone, all the furniture she brought here and kept in the coach-house. Then she had another house outside London, and the military took that, too, and there she is now, when I last heard, in a hotel at the seaside, which isn’t the same as your own home, is it? It doesn’t seem right.  ‘...Did you listen to Mr Mottram last night? Very nasty he was about Hitler. I said to the girl Effie who does for me: “If Hitler was listening, and if he understands English, which I doubt, he must feel very small.” Who would have thought of Mr Mottram doing so well? And so many of his friends, too, that used to stay here? I said to Mr Wilcox, who comes to see me regular on the bus from Melstead twice a month, which is very good of him and I appreciate it, I said: “We were entertaining angels unawares,” because Mr Wilcox never liked Mr Mottram’s friends, which I never saw, but used to hear about from all of you, nor Julia didn’t like them, but they’ve done very well, haven’t they?’ At last I asked her: ‘Have you heard from Julia?’ ‘From Cordelia, only last week, and they’re together still as they have been all the time, and Julia sent me love at the bottom of the page. They’re both very well, though they couldn’t say where, but Father Membling said, reading between the lines, it was Palestine, which is where Bridey’s yeomanry is, so that’s very nice for them all. Cordelia said they were looking forward to coming home after the war, which I am sure we all are, though whether I live to see it, is another story.’ I stayed with her for half an hour, and left promising to return often. When I reached the hall I found no sign of work and Hooper looking guilty.  ‘They had to go off to draw the bed-straw. I didn’t know till Sergeant Block told me. I don’t know whether they’re coming back.’ ‘Don’t know? What orders did you give?’ ‘Well, I told Sergeant Block to bring them back if he thought it was worthwhile; I mean if there was time before dinner.’ It was nearly twelve. ‘You’ve been hotted again, Hooper. That straw was to be drawn any time before six tonight.’ ‘Oh Lor; sorry, Ryder. Sergeant Block - ‘ ‘It’s my own fault for going away...Fall in the same party immediately after dinner, bring them back here and keep them here till the job’s done.’ ‘Rightyoh. I say, did you say you knew this place before?’ ‘Yes, very well. It belongs to friends of mine,’ and as I said the words they sounded as odd in my I ears as Sebastian’s had done, when, instead of saying, ‘It is my home,’ he said, ‘It is where my family live.’ ‘It doesn’t seem to make any sense - one family in a place this size. What’s the use of it?’ ‘Well, I suppose Brigade are finding it useful.’ ‘But that’s not what it was built for, is it?’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘not what it was built for. Perhaps that’s one of the pleasures of building, like having a son, wondering how he’ll grow up. I don’t know; I never built anything, and I forfeited the right to watch my son grow up. I’m homeless, childless, middle-aged, loveless, Hooper.’ He looked to see if I was being funny, decided that I was, and laughed. ‘Now go back to camp, keep out of the C.O.’s way, if he’s back from his recce, and don’t let on to anyone that we’ve made a nonsense of the morning.’ ‘Okey, Ryder.’ There was one part of the house I had not yet visited, and I went there now. The chapel showed no ill-effects of its long neglect; the art-nouveau paint was as fresh and bright as ever; the art-nouveau lamp burned once more before the altar. I said a prayer, an ancient, newly-learned form of words, and left, turning towards the camp; and as I walked back, and the cook-house bugle sounded ahead of me, I thought: ‘The builders did not know the uses to which their work would descend; they made a new house with the stones of the old castle; year by year, generation after generation, they enriched and extended it; year by year the great harvest of timber in the park grew to ripeness; until, in sudden frost, came the age of Hooper; the place was desolate and the work all brought to nothing; Quomodo sedet sola civitas. Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. ‘And yet,’ I thought, stepping out more briskly towards the camp, where the bugles after a pause had taken up the second call and were sounding ‘Pick-em-up, pick-em-up, hot potatoes’, ‘and yet that is not the last word; it is not even an apt word; it is a dead word from ten years back. ‘Something quite remote from anything the builders intended, has come out of their work, and out of the fierce little human tragedy in which I played; something none of us thought about at the time; a small red flame - a beaten-copper lamp of deplorable design relit before the beaten-copper doors of a tabernacle; the flame which the old knights saw from their tombs, which they saw put out; that flame burns again for other soldiers, far from home, farther, in heart, than Acre or Jerusalem. It could not have been lit but for the builders and the tragedians, and there I found it this morning, burning anew among the old stones.’ I quickened my pace and reached the hut which served us for our ante-room. ‘You’re looking unusually cheerful today,’ said the second-in-command. “到现在为止，这是我们到过的最糟糕的地方了。”那个指挥官说道，“没有便利设备，又没有什么可玩儿的，旅部就驻在我们的上头。弗莱特圣玛丽地方有个小酒店，大概能坐二十来人——当然啦，这地方是不准许军官进去的；在营地还有一个三军小卖部。我希望一个星期去梅尔斯蒂德—卡伯里跑一趟运输。马奇梅因家的宅邸离这儿有十英里路，等你到了那儿一切也都完蛋啦。所有军官们首先关心的事情就是给他们连队的士兵们组织娱乐活动。军医官，我希望你去看看那些水池，看看那儿适不适合洗澡。” “是，长官。” “旅部指望我们把这所房子给他们打扫干净。我本来认为我看见的一些胡子拉碴的、在司令部附近游逛、什么事儿也不干的那些军官们会免了咱们这件麻烦事。但是……赖德，你去找五十人一组的杂役，然后在十点四十五分的时候去那所房子向营指挥官报到；他会向你们交代任务的。” “是，长官。” “看来我们前任的气魄并不是很大。这个山谷有很大潜力来进行突击训练和迫击炮射击的。武器训练官，今天上午去侦察，在旅部到达前把东西布置好。” “是，长官。” “我要亲自和副官出去侦察一下训练地区。有谁熟悉这个地方？” 我没说话。 “那么就完了，开始干吧。” “就它本身说，这个旧宅可真了不起，”营指挥官说，“可惜毁得太厉害了。” 他是一位上了年纪的、退了伍又重新任命的陆军中校，从几英里路外来的。我们在大门前一块空地上见面，我率领着我的集合起来的半连兵士在这儿待命。“请进。我带去到处看看。这地方的房子很多，不过我们只征用了一楼，还有五六间卧室。楼上其余的一切还是私人财产，大部分都塞满了家具。你决没有见过那样的东西，有些可是无价之宝哩。 “楼的顶层还住着一个看房人和两个老仆人——他们决不会麻烦你的——还有一个受了闪电战袭击影响的红十字会随军牧师，朱莉娅小姐给了他一间屋子——一个惶惶不可终日的老家伙，不过也不碍事。他已经开放了那个小教堂；那地方准许部队进去；利用这个小教堂的人可多极啦。 “这个地方是属于朱莉娅·弗莱特小姐的，现在她这样称呼自己。她原来嫁给了莫特拉姆，不知道是个什么部的部长。她现在在国外的某个妇女服务部门工作，我尽力给她照管这些东西。说来也怪，那个老侯爵把所有的东西都留给她了——对儿子们可狠啦。 “现在这是最后一处安顿办事员的地方了；不管怎样，还有很多房间。你看，我已经叫人把墙壁和壁炉都用木板盖住了——那下面是很有价值的古老的作品。喂，好像有人在这儿捣蛋呢，一批搞破坏的穷要饭的，这些士兵们！幸亏我们发现了这个地方，否则就会让你们把这地方糟蹋了。 “这是另一间大房子，过去里面都薀鸵毯和绒绣。我建议你把这间屋子做会议室。” “我只是来这儿打扫的，长官。以后旅部的人会来分配房间。” “哦，嗯，你可捞了一件轻松的活儿；最后来到的这批人可真是很不错。可是他们不该把壁炉弄成这个样子。他们怎么弄的？壁炉看来是很结实的。不知道这壁炉能不能修好？ “我估计旅长会把这间屋子当他们办公室的；上一个长官就是这样做的。这间屋子里有许多画没法移走，那是画在墙上的。像你看到的，我已经尽可能把墙都覆盖起来了，可是当兵的什么事都干得出来——就像旅长在那个角落里干的那样。另外还有一间画了画的屋子，在外面廊柱下——都是现代画，你要问我的话，我得说那是这所宅院最最出色的东西了；原来这儿当了通讯部，他们把这里弄得乱七八糟，真太不像话了。 “这个难看的房间是他们原来当饭厅用的，所以我没有把这间屋子的墙盖住；即使遭到毁害，倒也不会有太大的关系。这地方总使我想起一家颇豪华的拍卖商店，你知道——叫‘日本式房间’……这是接待室……” 没费多长时间我们就浏览了这些发出回声的空房间。随后，我们出来走到平台上。 “这间房子是其他军阶的军官的厕所和盥洗室，真猜不透他们为什么偏偏要把厕所建在这个地方。我接管这项工作以前这地方就搞成这样了。这里和前边原来是隔断的。我们铺设了穿过树林那条小路，使它与大路连接起来，虽然不很雅观，却很实用。进进出出的运输车辆多极了，也把这地方弄得乱七八糟的。看看，不知哪个冒失鬼不偏不倚正从黄杨树篱中间穿过去，把所有的栏杆都撞倒了；还是一辆三吨卡车干的。你还会以为至少是一辆丘吉尔型坦克干的。 “那个喷泉是我们女主人最心爱的一处地方。每逢招待宾客的夜晚，青年军官们经常在里面嬉闹，这个喷泉装置有点破烂不堪了，所以我就用铁丝网把它围起来，并且把水源关掉。看起来现在还是有些不整洁。司机们都把烟蒂和吃剩的三明治扔到里面，你们无法进里面去打扫，因为我在四周拉了铁丝网。真是个漂亮的、了不起的地方，是不是……” “喂，如果你所有的地方都看过了，那我可就走了。祝你今天顺利。” 他的司机把一支烟卷扔进了喷泉干涸了的池里，行了一个礼，然后打开了小汽车的车门。我行了礼，这位营指挥官的车就开走了，穿过了橙树林中那条新开的碎石铺路的豁口。 “胡珀，”我叫道，这时我已经看到我的人开始干起来了，“你看我把这伙人让你管半小时行不行？” “刚才我一直在琢磨，不知道我们能在什么地方搞到一些茶叶。” “看在基督的面上，”我说道，“他们才刚刚开始干活哩。” “大家都厌倦透了。” “叫他们别松劲儿。” “好嘞。” 我在凄凉萧索的一楼逗留的时间不长，我上了楼，徘徊在那熟悉的走廊里，我试着推开锁着的门，打开没锁的门进去看看，里面的家具一直堆到天花板。最后我终于碰见了一位老女仆，她手里端着一杯茶。“哎呀，”她说道，“这不是赖德先生吗？” “是我。我正在想什么时候能碰到一个熟人呢。” “霍金斯太太正在上面她原来的屋子里呢。我这是给她端茶去。” “我替你拿吧。”我说，穿过一扇扇挂着粗呢布的门，走上没有铺地毯的楼梯，就到了育婴室。 保姆霍金斯直到我说话才认出我来，我的到来一时使她有点慌乱。直到我在炉边挨着她坐了一会儿，她才恢复了原来的那种平静。她在我认识她的这些年中变化不大，但近来也显得老态龙钟了。最近几年的种种变故在她的晚年发生，所以很难让她接受和理解。她告诉我说，她的眼力已经不行了，只能做一些粗针线活计。她的声音由于多年温柔的谈话边的尖锐了，现在却又恢复了原来那种柔和而悦耳的声调了。 “……只有我自己还在这儿，还有两个年轻的女仆，和那个可怜的蒙布灵神父，他的家遭了轰炸，炸得简直上无片瓦，一点家具也没有，后来朱莉娅菩萨心肠把他带到这儿来住，他的神经受到些刺激……还有布赖兹赫德夫人，现在是马奇梅因夫人了，照理说，我该尊称她‘夫人’的，可是这么叫她，我感到很别扭，她也很别扭。起先，朱莉娅和科迪莉娅打仗去了，她就带着两个男孩到这儿来了，后来军队把他们赶出去了，他们就去了伦敦。他们在家里连一个月都没有住到，布赖德就像可怜的爵爷一样，跟义勇骑兵队走了，他们的家也遭了轰炸，所有的东西都没了，她过去搬到这儿的、存放在马车房里的家具也统统没有了。她在伦敦郊区又弄到一所房子，后来也被军队占用了。我最后听说，她现在住在海边一家旅馆里，那种地方总归和自己家一不一样吧？这也似乎不怎么合适啦。 “……你昨天晚上没有听莫特拉姆先生的讲话吧？他把希特勒骂得狗血喷头。我对服侍我的女仆艾菲说：‘如果希特勒在听他的讲话，如果他听得懂英语的话，虽然我不太相信，那他一定也会觉得没脸见人啦。’谁想得到莫特拉姆会干得这么漂亮呢？还有他的那么多在这儿住过的朋友也干得不错。威尔科克斯先生经常按时搭公共汽车从梅尔斯蒂德来看我，每个月两次，他人可真好，我很感激。我对他说：‘真没想到，我们招待的还是一帮子天使呢。’因为威尔科克斯先生从来也不喜欢莫特拉姆先生那帮子朋友，我没有看见过那些人，还都是听你们说的，朱莉娅也不喜欢他们，不过他们干得很漂亮，不是吗？” 最后我问她：“你接到过朱莉娅的信吗？” “科迪莉娅来过信，是在上星期，她们一直在一起。朱莉娅在信纸下边附了一句问候我的话。她们两个都很好，尽管她们不能说在什么地方，可是蒙布灵神父说，从字里行间体会到那地方是巴勒斯坦，布赖德的义勇骑兵队也在那个地方，这样对他们来说可就好了。科迪莉娅说，她们盼望打完仗回家来，我相信我们大家都盼着这一天呢，不过我活不活得到那一天，就是另一回事了。” 我在她那儿待了半个小时，离开时答应常来看她。我走到走廊时，发现人们没有干活的迹象，胡珀一脸内疚的神色。 “他们都得去拉垫床的草去了。布洛克中士告诉我时，我才知道。我不知道他们是不是快回来了。” “不知道？你怎么下达的命令的？” “噢，我告诉布洛克中士说，如果他认为还值得拉的话，那就把士兵的垫草拉回来，我的意思是说如果晚饭前还有时间的话。” 这时已经将近十二点了。“胡珀，你们又心血来潮了。下午六点以前，有的是时间去拉草呀。” “唉，上帝，对不起，赖德，布洛克中士——” “都怪我自己走开了……一吃完中饭把那批人集合起来带到这儿来，把活干完了才能放他们走。” “好咧——啊，喂，你不是说你以前认识这个地方吗？” “认识，很熟悉这儿。它是我的一位朋友的。”当我说出这几个字的时候，这几个字在我听起来就像塞巴斯蒂安说这话时一样的古怪，那时他没有说“这是我的家”，而是说“这是我的家住的地方”。 “这似乎没有什么意思吧——一个家住在这么大的地方。有什么用呢？” “嗯，我想旅长觉得它很有用处的。” “可是当初这所房子可不是为了这个用途造的吧？” “不是，”我说，“当然不是为这个用途造的。也许只是出于一种建筑方面的乐趣而已，就像生一个儿子，却不知道他会怎么长大成人。我也不知道；我什么也没有建筑过，而且我也失去了把我的儿子抚养成人的权利。我没有家，没有儿女，到了中年，没有爱情，胡珀。”他望了望我，看看我是不是在说笑话，后来断定我真是如此，就笑了起来。“现在回营房去吧，避开指挥官，如果他搜索完了回来，别向任何人透露出我们一上午干的蠢事。” “好咧——啊，赖德。” 这所住宅有一处我还没有去过，现在我去了那里。小教堂并没有露出年久失修的凋敝景象；那幅“新艺术”绘画还像以前那样新鲜和光泽照眼；那“新艺术”的灯又在祭坛前点燃起来。我念了一句祈祷文，那是一句古老的、新学来的祈祷词，念完了就离开了那儿，转身朝营房走去。在我往回走的路上，我听见前方炊事班号声响起来了，这时我想： “建筑者们不知道他们的建筑将会落得什么样的用场。他们用那个旧城堡的石块建造了一所新房子；年复一年，一代一代，他们装饰，扩建这所房子；一年年过去，园林里郁郁葱葱的树长大成材；直到后来严霜骤降，出现了胡珀的时代；于是这片地方萧条荒废，整个工程荡然无存；寂无人烟的城就像这样屹立在那里。空虚的空虚，一切都是空虚。 “但是，”我一边思索着，一边步履轻捷地走向营房，原来的号声停顿了一下，接着又开始响起来，发出“快来——吃哟，快来——吃哟，热乎乎的土豆哟”的号声，“但是这还不是最后的话；甚至也还不是恰当的话；而是十年前一个死去了的字眼。 “建造者们最初未料到的东西已经从他们的建筑中产生，从我在其中扮演了个角色的剧烈的小小人间悲剧中产生；某种我们当时谁也没有想到的东西已经产生。一个小小的红色火光——一盏有着凄凉图案的铜箔灯盏在礼拜堂的铜箔大门前重新点燃，这薀团老的骑士从他们坟墓里看到点燃上、又看见熄灭掉的火光；这火光又为另外的士兵们点燃上，他们的心远离家庭，比亚克港、比耶路撒冷还要遥远。要不是为了建筑师们和悲剧演员们，这灯光不会重新点燃的，而今天早晨我找到了它，在古老的石块中间重新点燃起来。” 我加快了步子，到了那间供我们做会客室的小屋。 “今天你看起来非常愉快。”那位副指挥官说。