THE languor1 of Youth - how unique and quintessential it is! How quickly, how irrecoverably, lost! The zest2, 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 relaxation3 of yet unwearied sinews, the mind sequestered4 and self-regarding that belongs to Youth alone and dies with it. Perhaps in the mansions5 of Limbo6 the heroes enjoy some such compensation for their loss of the Beatific7 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 ravening9 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 enchanted10 palace; Sebastian in his wheel chair spinning down the box-edged walks of the kitchen gardens in search of alpine11 strawberries and warm figs12, propelling himself through the succession of hothouses, from scent13 to scent and climate to climate, to cut the muscat grapes and choose orchids14 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 complacently15 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 colonnade16, as he was now, and I in a hard chair beside him, trying to draw the fountain.
‘Is the dome17 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 aesthetic18 education to live within those walls, to wander from room to room, from the Soanesque library to the Chinese drawing, adazzle with gilt19 pagodas20 and nodding mandarins, painted paper and Chippendale fretwork, from the Pompeian parlour to the great tapestry21-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, standing23 by the balustrade, one could have dropped a pebble24 into the first of them immediately below one’s feet. It was embraced by the two arms of the colonnade; beyond the pavilions groves25 of lime led to the wooded hillsides. Part of the terrace was paved, part planted with flower-beds and arabesques26 of dwarf27 box; taller box grew in a dense28 hedge, making a wide oval, cut into niches29 and interspersed30 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 piazza31 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 fronds32; through them ran a dozen streams that counterfeited33 springs, and round them sported fantastic tropical animals, camels and camelopards and an ebullient34 lion, all vomiting35 water; on the rocks, to the height of the pediment, stood an Egyptian obelisk36 of red sandstone - but, by some odd chance, for the thing was far beyond me, I brought it off and, by judicious37 omissions38 and some stylish39 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 brasses41 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 insular42 and medieval.
This was my conversion43 to the Baroque. Here under that high and insolent44 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 feats45 of daring and invention, I felt a whole new system of nerves alive within me, as though the water that spurted46 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 smears47 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 Rococo48 panels and the roof was prettily49 groined. Here, in one of the smaller oval frames, I sketched50 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 rugged51 introduction to the receding52 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 sketches53. He called for a fête champêtre with a ribboned swing and a Negro page and a shepherd playing the pipes, but the thing languished54. I knew it was good chance that had made my landscape, and that this elaborate pastiche55 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 bins56 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 bin40, and it was during those tranquil57 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, swirled58 the wine round, nursed it in our hands, held it to the light, breathed it, sipped59 it, filled our mouths with it, and rolled it over the tongue, ringing it on the palate like a coin on a counter, tilted60 our heads back and let it trickle61 down the throat. Then we talked of it and nibbled62 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 flute63 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.’
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 pouchy65 colonel, who crossed our path occasionally and once came to tea. Usually we managed to hide from him. On Sundays a monk66 was fetched from a neighbouring monastery67 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 enchantment68 to me that I expected everything and everyone to be unique; Father Phipps was in fact a bland69, bun-faced man with, an interest in county cricket which he obstinately70 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 induction71 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 varied72 solace73.
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 enigma74 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 chapel75 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 devout76. 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 exhaustion77 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 virtuous78 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 ass22.’
‘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 influential79 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 Hull80 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, sunbathing81 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 gathering82 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 livestock83; the largest marquee was for refreshments84, and there the farmers congregated85 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 tenants86, 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 eldest87 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 frightful88 to do - monks89 and monsignori running round the house like mice, and Brideshead just sitting glum90 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 Oxford91 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 fervent93, Catholics; he’s miserable94, 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 clique95 - as a matter of fact, they’re at least four cliques96 all blackguarding each other half the time - but they’ve got an entirely97 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 robust98 child of ten or eleven; she had the unmistakable family characteristics, but had them ill-arranged in a frank and chubby99 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 fixed100 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 perfectly101 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 spoke92, in their voice, with a gravity and restraint which in my cousin jasper would have sounded pompous102 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 grudging103 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 torment104 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 nun105.’ ‘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 hoots106 whether I put my gym shoes on the left or the right of my dancing shoes. Reverend Mother was livid. ‘Our Lady cares about obedience107.’
‘Bridey, you mustn’t be pious,’ said Sebastian. ‘We’ve got an atheist108 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 inevitable109 topic that day. For some time we talked about the Agricultural Show. Then Brideshead said, ‘I saw the Bishop110 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 aesthetically111?’
‘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 warily112. ‘I think it’s a remarkable113 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 liking114 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 promotion115 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 gorging116 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 bunked117 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 missionary118 priest started last term. You send five bob to some nuns119 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 uprooted120; the trampled121 grass began to regain122 its colour; the month that had started in leisurely123 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 sleeper124. 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 dunes125; 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 submission126 to authority - and sailors returning from leave. We slept fitfully, jolting127 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 buffet128, 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 flask129 of Orvieto bought from a trolley130 (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, ebbing131 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 gondola132 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 plaques133 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 facade134, mossy steps, a dark archway of rusticated135 stone. One boatman leapt ashore136, made fast to the post, rang the bell; the other stood on the prow137 keeping the craft in to the steps. The doors opened; a man in rather raffish138 summer livery of striped linen139 led us up the stairs from shadow into light; the piano nobile was in full sunshine, ablaze140 with frescoes141 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 misty142, gilt-framed mirror, and no other furniture. The floor was of bare marble slabs143.
‘A bit bleak144?’ asked Sebastian.
‘Bleak? Look at that.’ I led him again to the window and the incomparable pageant145 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 antiquated146 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 windows. Presently the argument came to an, end and a woman and child appeared, who smiled at us, scowled147 at the butler, and put on Sebastian’s press I a silver basin and ewer148 of boiling water. The butler meanwhile unpacked149 and folded our clothes and, lapsing150 into Italian, told us of the unrecognized merits of the geyser, until suddenly cocking his head sideways he became alert, said ‘II marchese,’ and darted151 downstairs. ‘We’d better look respectable before meeting papa,’ said Sebastian. ‘We needn’t dress.
I gather he’s alone at the moment.’
I was full of curiosity to meet Lord Marchmain. When I did so I was first struck by his normality, which, as I saw more of him, I found to be studied. It was as though he were conscious of a Byronic aura, which he considered to be in bad taste and was at pains to suppress. He was standing on the balcony of the saloon and, as he turned to greet us, his face was in deep shadow. I was aware only of a tall and upright figure. ‘Darling papa,’ said Sebastian, ‘how young you are looking!’ He kissed Lord Marchmain on the cheek and I, who had not kissed my father since I left the nursery, stood shyly behind him.
‘This is Charles. Don’t you think my father very handsome, Charles?’
Lord Marchmain shook my hand.
‘Whoever looked up your train, ‘ he said - and his voice also was Sebastian’s - ‘made a bêtise. There’s no such one.’
‘We came on it.’
‘You can’t have. There was only a slow train from Milan at that time. I was at the Lido. I have taken to playing tennis there with the professional in the early evening. It is the only time of day when it is not too hot. I hope you boys will be fairly comfortable upstairs. This house seems to have been designed for the comfort of only one person, and I am that one. I have a room the size of this and a very decent dressing-room. Cara has taken possession of the other sizeable room.’
I was fascinated to hear him speak of his mistress so simply and casually152; later I suspected that it was done for effect, for me.
‘How is she?’
‘Cara? Well, I hope. She will be back with us tomorrow. She is visiting some American friends at a villa8 on the Brenta canal. Where shall we dine? We might go to the Luna, but it is filling up with English now. Would you be too dull at home? Cara is sure to want to go out tomorrow, and the cook here is really quite excellent.’ He had moved away from the window and now stood in the full evening sunlight, with the red damask of the walls behind him. It was a noble face, a controlled one, just, it seemed, as he planned it to be; slightly weary, slightly sardonic153, slightly voluptuous154. He seemed in the prime of life- it was odd to think that he was only a few years younger than my father.
We dined at a marble table in the windows; everything was either of marble, or velvet155, or dull, gilt gesso, in this house. Lord Marchmain said, ‘And how do you plan your time here? Bathing or sight-seeing?’
‘Some sight-seeing, anyway,’ I said.
‘Cara will like that - she, as Sebastian will have told you, is your hostess here. You can’t do both, you know. Once you go to the Lido there is no escaping - you play backgammon, you get caught at the bar, you get stupefied by the sun. Stick to the churches.’
‘Charles is very keen on painting,.’ said Sebastian.
‘Yes?’ I noticed the hint of deep boredom156 which I knew so well in my own father.
‘Yes? Any particular Venetian painter?’
‘Bellini,’ I answered rather wildly.
‘Yes? Which?’
‘I’m afraid that I didn’t know there were two of them.’ ‘Three to be precise. You will find that in the great ages painting was very much a family business. How did you leave England?’
‘It has been lovely,’ said Sebastian.
‘Was it? Was it? It has been my tragedy that I abominate157 the English countryside. I suppose it is a disgraceful thing to inherit great responsibilities and to be entirely indifferent to them. I am all the Socialists158 would have me be, and a great stumbling-block to my own party. Well, my elder son will change all that, I’ve no doubt, if they leave him anything to inherit...Why, I wonder, are Italian sweets always thought to be so good? There was always an Italian pastry-cook at Brideshead until my father’s day. He had an Austrian, so much better. And now I suppose there is some British matron with beefy forearms.’
After dinner we left the palace by the street door and walked through a maze159 of.bridges and squares and alleys160, to Florian’s for coffee, and watched the grave crowds crossing and recrossing under the campanile. ‘There is nothing quite like a Venetian crowd,’ said Lord Marchmain. ‘The city is crawling with Anarchists161, - but an American woman tried to sit here the other night with bare shoulders and they drove her away by coming to stare at her, quite silently; they were like circling gulls162 coming back and back to her, until she left. Our countrymen are much less dignified163 when they attempt to express moral disapproval164.’
An English party had just then come from the waterfront, made for a table near us, and then suddenly moved to the other side, where they looked askance at us and talked with their heads close together. ‘That is a man and his wife I used to know when I was in politics. A prominent member of your church, Sebastian.’ As we went up to bed that night Sebastian said: ‘He’s rather a poppet, isn’t he?’
Lord Marchmain’s mistress arrived next day. I was nineteen years old and completely ignorant of women. I could not with any certainty recognize a prostitute in the streets. I was therefore not indifferent to the fact of living under the roof of an adulterous couple, but I was old enough to hide my interest. Lord Marchmain’s mistress, therefore, found me with a multitude of conflicting expectations about her all of which were, for the moment, disappointed by her appearance. She was not a voluptuous, Toulouse-Lautrec odalisque; she was not a ‘little bit of fluff’; she was a middle-aged165, well-preserved, well-dressed, well-mannered woman such as I had seen in countless166 public places and occasionally met. Nor did she seem marked by any social stigma167. On the day of her arrival we lunched at the Lido, where she was greeted at almost every table. ‘Vittoria Corombona has asked us all to her ball on Saturday.’
‘It is very kind of her. You know I do not dance,’ said Lord Marchmain.
‘But for the boys? It is a thing to be seen - the Corombona palace lit up for the ball.
One does not know how many such balls there will be in the future.’
‘The boys can do as they like. We must refuse.’
‘And I have asked Mrs Hacking168 Brunner to luncheon169. She has a charming daughter.
Sebastian and his friend will like her.’
‘Sebastian and his friend are more interested in Bellini than heiresses.’ ‘But that is what I have always wished,’ said Cara, changing her point of attack adroitly170. ‘I have been here more times than I can count and Alex has not once let me inside San Marco, even. We will become tourists, yes?’ We became tourists; Cara enlisted171 as guide a midget Venetian nobleman to whom all doors were open and with him at her side and a guide book in her hand, she came with us, flagging sometimes but never giving up, a neat, prosaic172 figure amid the immense splendours of the place.
The fortnight at Venice passed quickly and sweetly - perhaps too sweetly; I was drowning in honey, stingless. On some days life kept pace with the gondola, as we nosed through the sidecanals and the boatman uttered his plaintive173 musical bird-cry of warning; on other days with the speed-boat bouncing over the lagoon174 in a stream of sun-lit foam175; it left a confused memory of fierce sunlight on the sands and cool, marble interiors; of water everywhere, lapping on smooth stone, reflected in a dapple of light on painted ceilings; of a night at the Corombona palace such as Byron might have known, and another Byronic night fishing for scampi in the shallows of Chioggia, the phosphorescent wake of the little ship, the lantern swinging in the prow, and the net coming up full of weed and sand and floundering fishes; of melon and prosciutto on the balcony in the cool of the morning; of hot cheese sandwiches and champagne176 cocktails177 at Harry’s bar.
I remember Sebastian looking up at the Colleoni statue and saying, ‘It’s rather sad to think that whatever happens you and I can never possibly get involved in a war.’ I remember most particularly one conversation towards the end of my visit.
Sebastian had gone to play tennis with his father and Cara at last admitted to fatigue178. We sat in the late afternoon at the windows overlooking the Grand Canal, she on the sofa with a piece of needlework, I in an armchair, idle. It was the first time we had been alone together.
‘I think you are very -fond of Sebastian,’ she said.
‘Why, certainly.’
‘I know of these romantic friendships of the English and the Germans. They are not Latin. I think they are very good if they do not go on too long.’ She was so composed and matter-of-fact that I could not take her amiss, but I failed to find an answer. She seemed not to expect one but continued stitching, pausing sometimes to match the silk from a work-bag at her side. ‘It is a kind of love that comes to children before they know its meaning. In England it comes when you are almost men; I think I like that. It is better to have that kind of love for another boy than for a girl. Alex you see had it for a girl, for his wife. Do you think he loves me?’
‘Really, Cara, you ask the most embarrassing questions. How should I know? I assume...’
‘He does not. But not the littlest piece. Then why does he stay with me? I will tell you; because I protect him from Lady Marchmain. He hates her; but you can have no conception how he hates her. You would think him so calm and English - the milord, rather blasé, all passion dead, wishing to be comfortable and not to be worried, following the sun, with me to look after that one thing that no man can do for himself. My friend, he is a volcano of hate. He cannot breathe the same air as she. He will not set foot in England because it is her home; he can scarcely be happy with Sebastian because he is her son. But Sebastian hates her too.’
‘I’m sure you’re wrong there.’
‘He may not admit it to you. He may not admit it to himself; they are full of hate - hate of themselves. Alex and his family...Why do you think he will never go into Society?’
‘I always thought people had turned against him.’
‘My dear boy, you are very young. People turn against a handsome, clever, wealthy man like Alex? Never in your life. It is he who has driven them away. Even now they come back again and again to be snubbed and laughed at. And all for Lady Marchmain. He will not touch a hand which may have touched hers. When we have guests I see him thinking, “Have they perhaps just come from Brideshead? Are they on their way to Marchmain House? Will they speak of me to my wife? Are they a link between me and her whom I hate?” But, seriously, with my heart, that is how he thinks. He is mad. And how has she deserved all this hate? She has done nothing except to be loved by someone who was not grown up. I have never met Lady Marchmain; I have seen her once only; but if you live with a man you come to know the other woman he has loved. I know Lady Marchmain very well. She is a good and simple woman who has been loved in the wrong way.
‘When people hate with all that energy, it is something in themselves they are hating. Alex is hating all the illusions of boyhood - innocence179, God, hope. Poor Lady Marchmain has to bear all that. A woman has not all these ways of loving. ‘Now Alex is very fond of me and I protect him from his own innocence. We are comfortable.
‘Sebastian is in love with his own childhood. That will make him very unhappy. His teddy-bear, his nanny and he is nineteen years old... ‘
She stirred on her sofa, shifting her weight so that she could look down at the passing boats, and said in fond, mocking tones: ‘How good it is to sit in the shade and talk of love,’ and then added with a sudden swoop180 to earth, ‘Sebastian drinks too much.’ ‘I suppose we both do.’
‘With you it does not matter. I have watched you together. With Sebastian it is different. He will be a drunkard if someone does not come to stop him. I have known so many. Alex was nearly a drunkard when he met me; it is in the blood. I see it in the way Sebastian drinks. It is not your way.’
We arrived in London on the day before term began. On the way from Charing181 Cross I dropped Sebastian in the forecourt of his mother’s house; ‘Here is “Marchers”,’ he said with a sigh which meant the end of a holiday. ‘I won’t ask you in, the place is probably full of my family. We’ll meet at Oxford’; I drove across the park to my home. My father greeted me with, his usual air of mild regret. ‘Here today,’ he said; ‘gone tomorrow. I seem to see very little of you. Perhaps it is dull for you here. How could it be otherwise? You have enjoyed yourself.’ ‘Very much. I went to Venice.’
‘Yes. Yes. I suppose so. The weather was fine?’ When he went to bed after an evening of silent study, he paused to ask: ‘The friend you were so much concerned about, did he die?’
‘No.’
‘I am very thankful. You should have written to tell me. I worried about him so much.’
青春的柔情啊——它是何等的非凡，何等的完美！又何其迅速，不可挽回地失去了它！而热情、慷慨、幻想、绝望，所有这些青春的传统品性——除了青春的柔情以外的所有品性——都是与我们生命同生同灭的。这些感情就是生命的一个组成部分。可是青春的柔情呢——那种精力充沛的懒散，那种孤芳自赏的情怀——这些只属于青春，并且与青春一起消逝。也许，在悬狱的殿堂里，为了补偿英雄们失去的至福幻象，他们正享受着青春柔情；或许至福幻象本身就同这种平凡的体验有着某种淡薄的血缘关系；总而言之，我相信，在布赖兹赫德度过的充满青春柔情的日子就像在天堂一样。
“为什么管这所房子叫做‘城堡’呢？”
“拆迁以前这是座城堡。”
“你这话是什么意思？”
“就是这意思。在一英里以外，就在下边村子旁边，有一座城堡。我们喜欢这座山谷，就把那个城堡拆了，把城堡的石块运到这儿，盖了一所新住宅。我很喜欢他们这种做法，你不喜欢吗？”
“如果这所房子是我的，我就哪儿也不去了。”
“可是你知道，查尔斯，这儿并不是我的。只是眼下算是我的，可是这里经常住满了狼吞虎咽的野兽。假如这儿能够总像现在这样——总是夏天，总是一个人，果子总是熟的，而阿洛伊修斯脾气总是很好……”
因此，我爱回忆那个夏天，当我们一起在那座迷人的宫殿里漫步时塞巴斯蒂安的样子。塞巴斯蒂安坐在轮椅里，沿着果园两边长着黄杨的道路上疾驰，寻找高山草莓和新鲜的无花果；他转动轮椅穿过一间间气味不同、气候迥异的温室，剪下麝香葡萄，挑选兰花插在我们衣服的扣眼上；塞巴斯蒂安手舞足蹈，一瘸一拐地到育婴室去，我们并排坐在育婴室里一块磨旧了的绣花地毯上，除了一个玩具柜，四周空空的，保姆霍金斯在一个角落里怡然自得地缝缀着东西，她唠叨着：“你们和别人一样坏；你们这一对坏孩子哟。这就是学校教你们的吗？”在柱廊里，塞巴斯蒂安就像现在这样仰卧在洒满阳光的位子上，我坐在他旁边一把硬椅子上，试着把喷泉画下来。
“这个圆顶也是伊内果·琼斯设计的吗？它的建筑年代看起来要晚些。”
“得啦，查尔斯，别像个旅行家似的。只要它好看就行了，管它什么时候造的呢！”
“像这种事我就喜欢知道。”
“嗨，亲爱的，我还以为我已经把你这些毛病都矫正好了呢——糟糕的科林斯先生啊。”
住在这样的房子里，从这个房间转悠到那个房间，从索恩式的图书室到中国式的客厅，那些镀金的宝塔和点头哈腰的中国清朝官员，彩色壁纸和奇彭代尔的精工细雕的木器家具，真是令人眼花缭乱，还可以从庞贝式的客厅转悠到挂着壁毯的大走廊，这个大走廊依然保持着当年的风貌，与二百五十年前设计时一样；还可以一连几小时坐在阴凉的地方眺望外面的平台，欣赏这一切，真是一番美学教育。
这个平台是这所房子设计中最完美的杰作；它坐落在巨石的壁垒上，俯瞰着湖水。因此走廊通往湖边的台阶非常陡峭，好像悬在湖面上，凭栏俯视仿佛可以把块卵石垂直投入脚下第一个湖泊里。平台由两排柱廊环抱，在亭子外，欧椴树林一直伸到林木繁茂的山坡上。平台有一部分铺了地面，另一部分辟为花坛和用矮小的黄杨拼成的阿拉伯图案；稍高些的黄杨长成密密的树篱，围成一个很宽的椭圆形，中间还插进一些壁龛，并且散置着一些雕像，椭圆形的中央喷出一股泉水，它耸立在这片壮观的园地上；像这样的喷泉装置可能在意大利南部城市的广场上找到；而这座喷泉装置是一个世纪以前由塞巴斯蒂安的祖先发现的，发现后就买下来运进来，它便在异域的、然而适宜的气候中重新竖立起来了。
塞巴斯蒂安让我把喷泉画下来。对于一个业余画家来说，画下这个喷泉是一个雄心勃勃之举——一个椭圆形的水池，水池中央是经过斧凿的岩石岛，岛上布置有整齐的石雕热带植物以及英国野生蕨类植物的逼真的叶子；十几道溪流在岩石间流过，仿如泉水，珍奇的石雕热带动物在泉水旁边奔逐嬉戏，有骆驼，长颈鹿，还有张牙舞爪的狮子等等，全都在喷水。岩石堆上，人形山头的顶部，矗立着一个红沙岩的埃及方尖塔——这件东西远非我的能力所能画好的，但是靠了某种很奇怪的运气，我竟把它画了出来，并且以审慎的精炼和漂亮的手法产生了一种很不错的皮拉内西的效果。“我把这张画送给你母亲好吗？”我问。
“为什么？你并不认识她。”
“这样显得有礼貌。我现在住在她家里。”
“把这张画给保姆吧。”塞巴斯蒂安说。
我这样做了，她把它摆在五斗柜上她的收藏品中间，并说它画得很像。她常常听人称赞那喷泉，不过她自己从来也看不出它的美。
对我来说，这是新发现的美。
自从我是中学生的时候，我就常常骑着脚踏车去附近的教堂周围转悠，摸摸各种铜器，拍几张圣水盆的照片。从那时起，我就养成了热爱建筑物的习惯，虽然在观点上我和我这一代人一样，轻易地完成了这样一步飞跃，即从罗斯金的清教主义到罗杰·弗赖的清教主义，但是我内心的感情却是保守的，倾向于中世纪的。
我就这样转移到巴罗克的建筑上来。这里，在高高的傲视一切的穹顶下，镶板天花板下面；这里，当我穿过一道道拱门和残缺的古希腊式的山墙，来到用圆柱支撑着的阴蔽地方，我一连几个小时坐在喷泉前面，观察喷泉的种种阴影，追寻萦回不散的回声，尽情享受所有这些勇敢和创造的丰硕功绩时，我就感到精神焕发，仿佛那在石雕中汩汩喷流的水真是生命之泉。
一天， 我们在一只小橱里发现了一个还能使用的、涂着日本亮漆的铁皮油彩盒。
“这还是妈妈一两年前买的。有人跟她说，只有试着画画油画，才能够欣赏世界的美，为了这盒油彩，我们可把妈妈大大地嘲笑了一番。她根本不会画画儿，不管油彩在颜料管里有多么鲜亮，可是妈妈一把它们调和起来，就变成了土黄色了。”调色板上乱七八糟干了的污痕证实了这句话。“妈妈总是吩咐科迪莉娅去洗画笔。结果，我们都表示抗议，这才使妈妈歇手不干了。”
这盒颜料使我们起了把办事处装饰起来的念头；这是通柱廊的一间小屋子；它曾经用来办理地产事务，现在闲置起来，只存放了一些花园游戏用具和一桶干芦荟。这间屋子显然是为了住得舒服一些而设计的，也许是做一间茶室，或者是做一间书房；因为四壁的灰泥墙都装饰着雅致的洛可可式镶板，而屋顶也精致地做成圆拱形。就在这间屋子里，我在一个较小的椭圆形框子里勾出一幅富于浪漫情调的风景画，以后几天再涂上色彩，而且靠运气，也由于当时心情愉快，我居然把它画得很成功。不知怎的，好像要那支画笔怎么画它就怎么画。这是一幅没有人物的风景画，画的是白云蓝天的夏日风景，前景是一座爬满了常春藤的废墟，岩石和瀑布掩映着后面那片渐渐远去的园林。我不大懂油画技术，我一边画，一边学。一个星期后，画完了，这时塞巴斯蒂安急于要我在一块大的镶板上再画一幅。我就又画了一些草稿。他叫人取来一幅名叫“游园会”的画，上面画着一架用飘扬的丝带装饰着的秋千，一个黑人听差，还有一个吹风笛的牧羊人，但是画着画着我就没有兴趣了。我知道那幅风景画的成功是凭了好运气，而要画出这样精致的一幅模仿作品，却是我力所不能及的。
一天，我们和威尔科克斯一起下到地窖里，在那里看到一个贮存着大批葡萄酒的空空落落的壁洞；现在只有一个十字甬道还在使用着；甬道里的箱子装满了东西，有些箱子装着已经贮存了五十年的葡萄佳酿。
“自从爵爷出国后，就再也没有增添什么酒了，”威尔科克斯说。“有大量的陈葡萄酒该喝掉。本来贮藏个十八年或二十年也就够了。我收到酒商寄来的几封谈到这些酒的信，可是爵爷夫人却让我去问布赖兹赫德勋爵，而布赖兹赫德勋爵又让我去问爵爷，而爵爷又让我去问律师。事情就这样拖下来。照现在这样的速度来喝酒，存的酒够用十年了。可是到那时我们又会成什么样子了呢？”
威尔科克斯尽情款待我们；我们吩咐从每个箱子里分别取出一瓶酒来。在同塞巴斯蒂安一起度过的那些宁静夜晚，我和葡萄酒初次真的结交了，并且播下了丰收的种子，这样的丰收在以后许多百无聊赖的年月里成了我的精神支柱。他和我经常坐在“彩绘客厅”里，桌上摆着三瓶打开的葡萄酒，每人面前摆上三只玻璃杯。塞巴斯蒂安找到了一本论品尝葡萄酒的书，我们就按照详细指导来品尝葡萄酒。我们先把酒杯放在蜡烛火焰上温一下，然后把酒杯斟上三分之一的酒，接着把酒旋转起来，小心地捧在手里，随后把酒举到灯亮前照一照，嗅一嗅，呷一小口，再喝一大口，让酒在舌头上滚动，就像在柜台上滚动一个硬币那样，让酒在上腭上滚动，然后向后仰起脑袋，让酒一滴一滴流进喉咙。然后，我们就谈谈这种酒；咬一点巴斯·奥利弗牌饼干，接着再品尝另外一种葡萄酒；这种酒品尝完了，再回过来品尝最初的那种，然后再品尝一种新的，到后来这三种酒轮流着品尝过了，酒杯的顺序全乱了，哪个酒杯里到底盛的是哪种酒我们争论不休，酒杯在我们俩之间传过来递过去，直到这六个酒杯中有的已经掺进了我们从不一样的酒瓶里倒进来的混合酒，直到我们不得不每人用三只干净酒杯重新开始，酒瓶空了，而我们对酒的赞扬也更加放肆更加出奇了。
“……这酒稍微有一点羞涩，像一头大眼睛的羚羊。”
“像一个矮妖精。”
“有花纹的妖精出现在织锦般的草地上。”
“就像寂静水边的一枝长笛。”
“……这是增长智慧的陈酒。”
“是山洞里一位先知。”
“……这是戴在雪白脖颈上的一串珍珠项链。”
“像一只天鹅。”
“像最后一匹独角兽。”
这时我们常常离开餐室里金黄色的烛光，到外面星光下，坐在喷泉边上，在水里冰一冰手，醉昏昏地谛听岩石上泉水的泼溅声和汩汩声。
“我们应该天天晚上都喝醉吗？”一天早晨塞巴斯蒂安这样问。
“不错，我想是这样。”
“我也是这么想的。”
我们很少见到生人。有一个是代理商，一个身材瘦长的上校，他有时在路上遇到我们，到我们这儿喝过一次茶。通常我们总是设法躲着他。每逢星期日都从附近一个修道院请来一位修道士做弥撒，并且让他和我们一起吃早饭。他是我平生遇到的第一位教士；我注意到他不像一位教区牧师，但是布赖兹赫德是一个使我着魔的地方，所以我希望那里的一切事情，一切的人都要不同凡响。实际上菲普斯神父是一个温和的、长着小圆面包脸孔的人，他对当地板球戏很感兴趣，而且顽固地认为我们也跟他一样喜欢板球。
“你知道，神父，查尔斯和我根本不懂得板球是怎么回事。”
“我真希望我能看到坦尼森上星期四是怎么赢五十八分的。那一定是很精彩的一局。《泰晤士报》的评论好极了，你们看过他同南非人对打吗？”
“我根本没有见过他。”
“我也没有见过他。我好多年没有看过一场第一流的比赛了——那年格雷夫斯神父带我去参加安普福尔斯的修道院院长就职仪式后，路过利兹，他带我去看了一次，以后就再也没有看过了。神父设法查出了一趟合适的火车班次，让我们有三个小时的时间，等着看下午迎战兰开夏的那场比赛。比赛是在下午。那一场的每个球我都记得。从那以后，我就只好靠报纸和看球赛了。你们很少去看板球吧？”
“从来不看，”我说，他看着我，表情又天真又惊讶，这种表情以后我常常在教徒的脸上看到，他奇怪像我们这些面对尘世种种危险的人们，竟然很少利用尘世间这些五花八门的东西来安慰自己。
塞巴斯蒂安常常去望弥撒，去望弥撒的人很少，布赖兹赫德并不是一个历史悠久的天主教中心。马奇梅因夫人领进来几个信天主教的仆人，可是大多数仆人和所有的村民，倘若要在什么地方祈祷的话，那就是在庄园门边那个灰色小教堂里面弗莱特家族的坟地中间。
塞巴斯蒂安的信仰当时在我看来是个迷。
收听单词发音 |
1
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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limbo
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| n.地狱的边缘；监狱 | |
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beatific
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| adj.快乐的，有福的 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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ravening
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| a.贪婪而饥饿的 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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orchids
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| n.兰花( orchid的名词复数 ) | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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colonnade
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| n.柱廊 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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pagodas
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| 塔，宝塔( pagoda的名词复数 ) | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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arabesques
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰( arabesque的名词复数 )；错综图饰；阿拉伯图案；阿拉贝斯克芭蕾舞姿（独脚站立，手前伸，另一脚一手向后伸） | |
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dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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29
niches
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| 壁龛( niche的名词复数 )； 合适的位置[工作等]； （产品的）商机； 生态位（一个生物所占据的生境的最小单位） | |
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30
interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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fronds
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| n.蕨类或棕榈类植物的叶子( frond的名词复数 ) | |
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counterfeited
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| v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的过去分词 ) | |
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34
ebullient
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| adj.兴高采烈的，奔放的 | |
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35
vomiting
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| 吐 | |
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obelisk
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| n.方尖塔 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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38
omissions
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| n.省略( omission的名词复数 )；删节；遗漏；略去或漏掉的事（或人） | |
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stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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40
bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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41
brasses
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| n.黄铜( brass的名词复数 )；铜管乐器；钱；黄铜饰品（尤指马挽具上的黄铜圆片） | |
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insular
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| adj.岛屿的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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44
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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spurted
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| （液体，火焰等）喷出，（使）涌出( spurt的过去式和过去分词 )； （短暂地）加速前进，冲刺 | |
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47
smears
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| 污迹( smear的名词复数 )； 污斑； （显微镜的）涂片； 诽谤 | |
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rococo
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| n.洛可可；adj.过分修饰的 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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50
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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51
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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52
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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53
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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54
languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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55
pastiche
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| n.模仿 ； 混成 | |
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56
bins
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| n.大储藏箱( bin的名词复数 )；宽口箱（如面包箱，垃圾箱等）v.扔掉，丢弃( bin的第三人称单数 ) | |
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57
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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58
swirled
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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61
trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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62
nibbled
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的过去式和过去分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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63
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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64
unicorn
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| n.(传说中的)独角兽 | |
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65
pouchy
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| adj.多袋的，袋状的，松垂的 | |
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66
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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67
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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68
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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69
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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70
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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71
induction
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| n.感应，感应现象 | |
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72
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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73
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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74
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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75
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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76
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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77
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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78
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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79
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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80
hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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81
sunbathing
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| n.日光浴 | |
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82
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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83
livestock
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| n.家畜，牲畜 | |
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84
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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85
congregated
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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87
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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88
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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89
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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90
glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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91
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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92
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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93
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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94
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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95
clique
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| n.朋党派系，小集团 | |
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96
cliques
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| n.小集团，小圈子，派系( clique的名词复数 ) | |
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97
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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98
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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99
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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100
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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101
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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102
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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103
grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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104
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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105
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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106
hoots
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| 咄，啐 | |
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107
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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108
atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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109
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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110
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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111
aesthetically
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| adv.美地，艺术地 | |
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112
warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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113
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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114
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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115
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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116
gorging
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的现在分词 )；作呕 | |
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117
bunked
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| v.（车、船等倚壁而设的）铺位( bunk的过去式和过去分词 )；空话，废话 | |
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118
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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119
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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120
uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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121
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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122
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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123
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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124
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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125
dunes
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| 沙丘( dune的名词复数 ) | |
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126
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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127
jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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128
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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129
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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130
trolley
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| n.手推车，台车；无轨电车；有轨电车 | |
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131
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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132
gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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133
plaques
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| （纪念性的）匾牌( plaque的名词复数 )； 纪念匾； 牙斑； 空斑 | |
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134
facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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135
rusticated
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| v.罚（大学生）暂时停学离校( rusticate的过去式和过去分词 )；在农村定居 | |
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136
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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137
prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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138
raffish
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| adj.名誉不好的，无赖的，卑鄙的，艳俗的 | |
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139
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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140
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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141
frescoes
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| n.壁画( fresco的名词复数 )；温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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142
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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143
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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144
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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145
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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146
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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147
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
ewer
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| n.大口水罐 | |
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149
unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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150
lapsing
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| v.退步( lapse的现在分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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151
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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152
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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153
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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154
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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155
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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156
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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157
abominate
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| v.憎恨，厌恶 | |
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158
socialists
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| 社会主义者( socialist的名词复数 ) | |
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159
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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160
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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161
anarchists
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| 无政府主义者( anarchist的名词复数 ) | |
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162
gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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163
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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164
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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165
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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166
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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167
stigma
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| n.耻辱，污名；(花的)柱头 | |
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168
hacking
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| n.非法访问计算机系统和数据库的活动 | |
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169
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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170
adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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171
enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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172
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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173
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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174
lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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175
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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176
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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177
cocktails
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| n.鸡尾酒( cocktail的名词复数 )；餐前开胃菜；混合物 | |
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178
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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179
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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180
swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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181
charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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