Brideshead Revisited

  I watched the champagne go round the table. When it came to Sebastian he said: ‘I’ll have whisky, please,’ and I saw Wilcox glance over his head to Lady Marchmain and saw her give a tiny, hardly perceptible nod. At Brideshead they used small individual spirit decanters which held about a quarter of a bottle, and were always placed, full, before anyone who asked for it; the decanter which Wilcox put before Sebastian was half-empty. Sebastian raised it very deliberately, tilted it, looked at it, and then in silence poured the liquor into his glass, where it covered two fingers. We all began talking at once, all except Sebastian, so that for a moment Mr Samgrass found himself talking to no one, telling the candlesticks about the Maronites; but soon we fell silent again, and he had the table until Lady Marchmain and Julia left the room.

  ‘Don’t be long, Bridey,’ she said, at the door, as she always said, and that evening we had no inclination to delay. Our glasses were filled with port and the decanter was at once taken from the room. We drank quickly and went to the drawing-room, where Brideshead asked his mother to read, and she read The Diary of a Nobody with great spirit until ten o’clock, when she closed the book and said she was unaccountably tired, so tired that she would not visit the chapel that night.

  ‘Who’s hunting tomorrow?’ she asked.

  ‘Cordelia,’ said Brideshead. ‘I’m taking that young horse of Julia’s, just to show him the hounds; I shan’t keep him out more than a couple of hours.’

  ‘Rex is arriving some time,’ said Julia. ‘I’d better stay in to greet him.’

  ‘Where’s the meet?’ said Sebastian suddenly.

  ‘Just here at Flyte St Mary.’

  ‘Then I’d like to hunt, please, if there’s anything for me.’

  ‘Of course. That’s delightful. I’d have asked you, only you always used to complain so of being made to go out. You can have Tinkerbell. She’s been going very nicely this season.’

  Everyone was suddenly pleased that Sebastian wanted to hunt; it seemed to undo some of the mischief of the evening. Brideshead rang the bell for whisky.

  ‘Anyone else want any?’

  ‘Bring me some, too,’ said Sebastian, and, though it was a footman this time and not Wilcox, I saw the same exchange of glance and nod between the servant and Lady Marchmain. Everyone had been warned. The two drinks were brought in, poured out already in the glasses, like ‘doubles’ at a bar, and all our eyes followed the tray, as though we were dogs in a dining-room smelling game.

  The good humour engendered by Sebastian’s wish to hunt persisted, however; Brideshead wrote out a note for the stables, and we all went to bed quite cheerfully.

  Sebastian got straight to bed; I sat by his fire and smoked a pipe. I said: ‘I rather wish I was coming out with you tomorrow.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you wouldn’t see much sport. I can tell you exactly what I’m going to do. I shall leave Bridey at the first covert, hack over to the nearest good pub, and spend the entire day quietly soaking in the bar parlour. If they treat me like a dipsomaniac, they can bloody well have a dipsomaniac. I hate hunting, anyway.’

  ‘Well, I can’t stop you.’

  ‘You can, as a matter of fact — by not giving me any money. They stopped my banking account, you know, in the summer. It’s been one of my chief difficulties. I pawned my watch and cigarette case to ensure a happy Christmas, so I shall have to come to you tomorrow for my day’s expenses.’

  ‘I won’t. You know perfectly well I can’t.’

  ‘Won’t you, Charles? Well, I daresay I shall manage on my own somehow. I’ve got rather clever at that lately — managing on my own. I’ve had to.’

  ‘Sebastian, what have you and Mr Samgrass been up to?’

  ‘He told you at dinner — ruins and guides and mules, that’s what Sammy’s been up to. We decided to go our own ways, that’s all. Poor Sammy’s really behaved rather well so far. I hoped he would keep it up, but he seems to have been very indiscreet about my happy Christmas. I suppose he thought if he gave too good an account of me, he might lose his job as keeper.

  ‘He makes quite a good thing out of it, you know. I don’t mean that he steals. I should think he’s fairly honest about money. He certainly keeps an embarrassing little notebook in which he puts down the travellers’ cheques he cashes and what he spends it on, for mummy and the lawyer to see. But he wanted to go to all these places, and it’s very convenient for him to have me to take him in comfort, instead of going as dons usually do. The only disadvantage was having to put up with my company, and we soon solved that for him.

  ‘We began very much on a Grand Tour, you know, with letters to all the chief people everywhere, and stayed with the Military Governor at Rhodes and the Ambassador at Constantinople. That was what Sammy had signed on for in the first place. Of course, he had his work cut out keeping his eye on me, but he warned all our hosts beforehand that I was not responsible.’

  ‘Sebastian.’

  ‘Not quite responsible — and as I had no money to spend I couldn’t get away very much. He even did the tipping for me, put the note into the man’s hand and jotted the amount down then and there in his note-book. My lucky time was at Constantinople. I managed to make some money at cards one evening when Sammy wasn’t looking. Next day I gave him the slip and was having a very happy hour in the bar at the Tokatlian when who should come in but Anthony Blanche with a beard and a Jew boy. Anthony lent me a tenner just before Sammy came panting in and recaptured me. After that I didn’t get a minute out of sight; the Embassy staff put us in the boat to Piraeus and watched us sail away. But in Athens it was easy. I simply walked out of the Legation one day after lunch, changed my money at Cook’s, and asked about sailings to Alexandria just to fox Sammy, then went down to the port in a bus, found a sailor who spoke American, lay up with him till his ship sailed, and popped back to Constantinople, and that was that.

  ‘Anthony and the Jew boy shared a very nice, tumbledown house near the bazaars. I stayed there till it got too cold, then Anthony and I drifted south till we met Sammy by appointment in Syria three weeks ago.’

  ‘Didn’t Sammy mind?’

  ‘Oh, I think he quite enjoyed himself in his own ghastly way only of course there was no more high life for him. I think he was a bit anxious at first. I didn’t want him to get the whole Mediterranean Fleet out, so I cabled him from Constantinople that I was quite well and would he send money to the Ottoman Bank. He came hopping over as soon as he got my cable. Of course he was in a difficult position, because I’m of age and not certified yet, so he couldn’t have me arrested. He couldn’t leave me to starve while he was living on my money, and he couldn’t tell mummy without looking pretty silly. I had him all ways, poor Sammy. My original idea had been to leave him flat, but Anthony was very helpful about that, and said it was far better to arrange things amicably; and he did arrange things very amicably. So here I am.’

  ‘After Christmas.’

  ‘Yes, I was determined to have a happy Christmas.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘I think so. I don’t remember it much, and that’s always a good sign, isn’t it?’

  Next morning at breakfast Brideshead wore scarlet; Cordelia, very smart herself, with her chin held high over her white stock, wailed when Sebastian appeared in a tweed coat: ‘Oh, Sebastian, you can’t come out like that. Do go and change. You look so lovely in hunting clothes.’

  ‘Locked away somewhere. Gibbs couldn’t find them.’

  ‘That’s a fib. I helped get them out myself before you were called.’

  ‘Half the things are missing.’

  ‘It just encourages the Strickland-Venableses. They’re behaving rottenly. They’ve even taken their grooms out of top hats.’

  It was a quarter to eleven before the horses were brought round, but no one else appeared downstairs; it was as though they were in hiding, listening for Sebastian’s retreating hooves before showing themselves.

  Just as he was about to start, when the others were already mou
nted, Sebastian beckoned me into the hall. On the table beside his hat, gloves, whip, and sandwiches, lay the flask he had put out to be filled. He picked it up and shook it; it was empty.

  ‘You see,’ he said, ‘I can’t even be trusted that far. It’s they who are mad, not me. Now you can’t refuse me money.’ I gave him a pound.

  ‘More,’ he said.

  I gave him another and watched him mount and trot after his brother and sister.

  Then, as though it were his cue on the stage, Mr Samgrass came to my elbow, put an arm in mine, and led me back to the fire. He warmed his neat little hands and then turned to warm his seat.

  ‘So Sebastian is in pursuit of the fox,’ he said, ‘and our little problem is shelved for an hour or two?’

  I was not going to stand this from Mr Samgrass.

  ‘I heard all about your Grand Tour, last night,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, I rather supposed you might have.’ Mr Samgrass was undismayed, relieved, it seemed, to have someone else in the know. ‘I did not harrow our hostess with all that. After all, it turned out far better than one had any right to expect. I did feel, however, that some explanation was due to her of Sebastian’s Christmas festivities. You may have observed last night that there were certain precautions.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You thought them excessive? I am with you, particularly as they tend to compromise the comfort of our own little visit. I have seen Lady Marchmain this morning. You must not suppose I am just out of bed. I have had a little talk upstairs with our hostess. I think we may hope for some relaxation tonight. Yesterday was not an evening that any of us would wish to have repeated. I earned less gratitude than I deserved, I think, for my efforts to distract you.’

  It was repugnant to me to talk about Sebastian to Mr Samgrass, but I was compelled to say: ‘I’m not sure that tonight would be the best time to start the relaxation.’

  ‘But surely? Why not tonight, after a day in the field under Brideshead’s inquisitorial eye? Could one choose better?’

  ‘Oh, I suppose it’s none of my business really.’

  ‘Nor mine strictly, now that he is safely home. Lady Marchmain did me the honour of consulting me. But it is less Sebastian’s welfare than our own I have at heart at the moment. I need my third glass of port; I need that hospitable tray in the library. And yet you specifically advise against it tonight. I wonder why. Sebastian can come to no mischief today. For one thing, he has no money. I happen to know. I saw to it. I even have his watch and cigarette case upstairs. He will be quite harmless…as long as no one is so wicked as to give him any…Ah, Lady Julia, good morning to you, good morning. And how is the peke this hunting morning?’

  ‘Oh, the peke’s all right. Listen. I’ve got Rex Mottram coming here today. We simply can’t have another evening like last night. Someone must speak to mummy.’

  ‘Someone has. I spoke. I think it will be all right.’

  ‘Thank God for that. Are you painting today, Charles?’

  It had been the custom that on every visit to Brideshead I painted a medallion on the walls of the garden-room. The custom suited me well, for it gave me a good reason to detach myself from the rest of the party; when the house was full, the garden-room became a rival to the nursery, where from time to time people took refuge to complain about the others; thus without effort I kept in touch with the gossip of the place. There were three finished medallions now, each rather pretty in its way, but unhappily each in a different way, for my tastes had changed and I had become more dexterous in the eighteen months since the series was begun. As a decorative scheme, they were a failure. That morning was typical of the many mornings when I had found the garden-room a sanctuary. There I went and was soon at work. Julia came with me to see me started and we talked, inevitably, of Sebastian.

  ‘Don’t you, get bored with the subject?’ she asked. ‘Why must everyone make such a Thing about it?’

  ‘Just because we’re fond of him.’

  ‘Well. I’m fond of him too, in a way, I suppose, only I wish he’d behave like anybody else. I’ve grown up with one family skeleton, you know — papa. Not to be talked of before the servants, not to be talked of before us when we were children. If mummy is going to start making a skeleton out of Sebastian, it’s too much. If he wants to be always tight, why doesn’t he go to Kenya or somewhere where it doesn’t matter?’

  ‘Why does it matter less being unhappy in Kenya than anywhere else?’

  ‘Don’t pretend to be stupid, Charles. You understand perfectly.’

  ‘You mean there won’t be so many embarrassing situations for you? Well, all I was trying to say was that I’m afraid there may be an embarrassing situation tonight if Sebastian gets the chance. He’s in a bad mood.’

  ‘Oh, a day’s hunting will put that all right.’

  It was touching to see the faith which everybody put in the value of a day’s hunting. Lady Marchmain, who looked in on me during the morning, mocked herself for it with that delicate irony for which she was famous.

  ‘I’ve always detested hunting,’ she said, ‘because it seems to produce a particularly gross kind of caddishness in the nicest people. I don’t know what it is, but the moment they dress up and get on a horse they become like a lot of Prussians. And so boastful after it. The evenings I’ve sat at dinner appalled at seeing the men and women I know, transformed into half-awake, self-opinionated, monomaniac louts!…and yet, you know — it must be something derived from centuries ago — my heart is quite light today to think of Sebastian out with them. “There’s nothing wrong with him really,” I say, “he’s gone hunting” — as though it were an answer to prayer.’

  She asked me about my life in Paris. I told her of my rooms with their view of the river and the towers of Notre Dame. ‘I’m hoping Sebastian will come and stay with me when I go back.’

  ‘It would have been lovely,’ said Lady Marchmain, sighing as though for the unattainable.

  ‘I hope he’s coming to stay with me in London.’

  ‘Charles, you know it isn’t possible. London’s the worst place. Even Mr Samgrass couldn’t hold him there. We have no secrets in this house. He was lost, you know, all through Christmas. Mr Samgrass only found him because he couldn’t pay his bill in the place where he was, so they telephoned our house. It’s too horrible. No, London is impossible; if he can’t behave himself here, with us…We must keep him happy and healthy here for a bit, hunting, and then send him abroad again with Mr Samgrass…You see, I’ve been through all this before.’

  The retort was there, unspoken, well-understood by both of us — ‘You couldn’t keep him; he ran away. So will Sebastian. Because they both hate you.’

  A horn and the huntsman’s cry sounded in the valley below.

  ‘There they go now, drawing the home woods. I hope he’s having a good day.’

  Thus with Julia and Lady Marchmain I reached deadlock, not because we failed to understand one another, but because we understood too well. With Brideshead, who came home to luncheon and talked to me on the subject — for the subject was everywhere in the house like a fire deep in the hold of a ship, below the water-line, black and red in the darkness, coming to in acrid wisps of smoke that oozed under hatches and billowed suddenly from the scuttles and air pipes — with Brideshead, I was in a strange world, a dead world to me, in a moon-landscape of barren lava, a high place of toiling lungs.

  He said: ‘I hope it is dipsomania. That is simply a great misfortune that we must all help him bear. What I used to fear was that he just got drunk deliberately when he liked and because he liked.’

  ‘That’s exactly what he did — what we both did. It’s what he does with me now. I can keep him to that, if only your mother would trust me. If you worry him with keepers and cures he’ll be a physical wreck in a few years.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong in being a physical wreck, you know. There’s no moral obligation to be Postmaster-General or Master of Foxhounds or to live to walk ten miles at eighty
.’

  ‘Wrong,’ I said. ‘Moral obligation — now you’re back on religion again.

  ‘I never left it, said Brideshead.

  ‘D’you know, Bridey, if I ever felt for a moment like becoming a Catholic, I should only have to talk to you for five minutes to be cured. You manage to reduce what seem quite sensible propositions to stark nonsense.’

  ‘It’s odd you should say that. I’ve heard it before from other people. It’s one of the many reasons why I don’t think I should make a good priest. It’s something in the way my mind works, I suppose.’

  At luncheon Julia had no thoughts except for her guest who was coming that day. She drove to the station to meet him and brought him home to tea.

  ‘Mummy, do look at Rex’s Christmas present.’

  It was a small tortoise with Julia’s initials set in diamonds in the living shell, and this slightly obscene object, now slipping impotently on the polished boards, now striding across the card-table, now lumbering over a rug, now withdrawn at a touch, now stretching its neck and swaying its withered, antediluvian head, became a memorable part of the evening, one of those needle-hooks of experience which catch the attention when larger matters are at stake.

  ‘Dear me,’ said Lady Marchmain. ‘I wonder if it eats the same sort of things as an ordinary tortoise.’

  ‘What will you do when it’s dead?’ asked Mr Samgrass. ‘Can you have another tortoise fitted into the shell?’

  Rex had been told about the problem of Sebastian — he could scarcely have endured in that atmosphere without — and had a solution pat. He propounded it cheerfully and openly at tea, and after a day of whispering it was a relief to hear the thing discussed. ‘Send him to Borethus at Zurich. Borethus is the man. He works miracles every day at that sanatorium of his. You know how Charlie Kilcartney used to drink.’

  ‘No,’ said Lady Marchmain, with that sweet irony of hers. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t know how Charlie Kilcartney drank.’