‘IT is typical of Oxford1,’ I said, ‘to start the new year in autumn.’
Everywhere, on cobble and gravel2 and lawn, the leaves were falling and in the college gardens the smoke of the bonfires joined the wet river mist, drifting across the grey walls; the flags were oily underfoot and as, one by one, the lamps were lit in the windows round the quad3, the golden lights were diffuse4 and remote, new figures in new gowns wandered through the twilight5 under the arches and the familiar bells now spoke6 of a year’s memories.
The autumnal mood possessed7 us both as though the riotous8 exuberance9 of June had died with the gillyflowers whose scent10 at my windows now yielded to the damp leaves, smouldering in a corner of the quad.
It was the first Sunday evening of term.
‘I feel precisely11 one hundred years old,’ said Sebastian. He had come up the night before, a day earlier than I, and this was our first meeting since we parted in the taxi.
‘I’ve had a talking to from Mgr Bell this afternoon. That makes the fourth since I came up - my tutor, the junior dean, Mr Samgrass of All Souls, and now Mgr Bell.’ ‘Who is Mr Samgrass of All Souls?’
‘Just someone of mummy’s. They all say that I made a very bad start last year, that I have been noticed, and that if I don’t mend my ways I shall get sent down. How does one mend one’s ways? I suppose one joins the League of Nations Union, and reads the Isis every week, and drinks coffee in the morning at the Cadena café, and smokes a great pipe and plays hockey and goes out to tea on Boar’s Hill and to lectures at Keble, and rides a bicycle with a little tray full of notebooks and drinks cocoa in the evening and discusses sex seriously. Oh, Charles, what has happened since last term? I feel so old.’
‘I feel middle-aged13. That is infinitely14 worse. I believe we have had all the fun we can expect here.’
We sat silent in the firelight as darkness fell.
‘Anthony Blanche has gone down.’
‘Why?’
‘He wrote to me. Apparently15 he’s taken a flat in Munich - he has formed an
attachment16 to a policeman there.’
‘I shall miss him.’
‘I suppose I shall, too, in a way.’
We fell silent again and sat so still in the firelight that a man who came in to see me, stood for a moment in the door and then went away thinking the room empty. ‘This is no way to start a new year,’ said Sebastian; but this sombre October evening seemed to breathe its chill, moist air over the succeeding-weeks. All that term and all that year Sebastian and I lived more and more in the shadows and, like a fetish, hidden first from the missionary17 and at length forgotten, the toy bear, Aloysius, sat unregarded on the chest-of-drawers in Sebastian’s bedroom.
There was a change in both of us. We had lost the sense of discovery which had infused the anarchy18 of our first year. I began to settle down.
Unexpectedly, I missed my cousin Jasper, who had got his first in Greats and was now cumbrously setting about a life of public mischief19 in London; I needed him to shock; without that massive presence the college seemed to lack solidity; it no longer provoked and gave point to outrage20 as it had done in the summer. Moreover, I had come back glutted21 and a little chastened; with the resolve to go slow. Never again would I expose myself to my father’s humour; his whimsical persecution22 had convinced me, as no rebuke23 could have done, of the folly24 of living beyond my means. I had had no talking-to this term; my success in History Previous and a beta minus in one of my Collections papers had put me on easy terms with my tutor which I managed to maintain without undue25 effort.
I kept a tenuous26 connection with the History School, wrote my two essays a week, and attended an occasional lecture. Besides this I started my second year by joining the Ruskin School of Art; two or three mornings a week we melt, about a dozen of us - half, at least, the daughters of north Oxford among the casts from the antique at the Ashmolean Museum; twice a week we drew from the nude27 in a small room over a teashop; some pains were taken by the authorities to exclude any hint of lubricity on these evenings, and the young woman who sat to us was brought from London for the day and not allowed to reside in the University city; one flank, that nearer the oil stove, I remember, was always rosy28 and the other mottled and puckered29 as though it had been plucked. There, in the smell of the oil lamp, we sat astride the donkey stools and evoked30 a barely visible wraith31 of Trilby. My drawings were worthless; in my own rooms I designed elaborate little pastiches32, some of which, preserved by friends of the period, come to light occasionally to embarrass me.
We were instructed by a man of about my age, who treated us with defensive33 hostility34; he wore very dark blue shirts, a lemon-yellow tie, and horn-rimmed glasses, and it was largely by reason of this warning that I modified my own style of dress until it approximated to what my cousin jasper would have thought suitable for country-house visiting. Thus soberly dressed and happily employed I became a fairly respectable member of my college.
With Sebastian it was different. His year of anarchy had filled a deep, interior need of his, the escape from reality, and as he found himself increasingly hemmed35 in, where he once felt himself free, he became at times listless and morose36, even with me.
We kept very much to our own company that term, each so much bound up in the other that we did not look elsewhere for friends. My cousin Jasper had told me that it was normal to spend one’s second year shaking off the friends of one’s first, and it happened as he said. Most of my friends were those I had made through Sebastian; together we shed them and made no others. There was no renunciation. At first we seemed to see them as often as ever; we went to parties but gave few of our own. I was not concerned to impress the new freshmen37 who, like their London sisters were here being launched in Society; there were strange faces now at every party and I, who a few months back had been voracious38 of new acquaintances, now felt surfeited39; even our small circle of intimates, so lively in the summer sunshine, seemed dimmed and muted now in the pervading40 fog, the river-borne twilight that softened41 and obscured all that year for me. Anthony Blanche had taken something away with him when he went; he had locked a door and hung the key on his chain; and all his friends, among whom he had always been a stranger, needed him now.
The Charity matinée was over, I felt; the impresario42 had buttoned his astrakhan coat and taken his fee and the disconsolate43 ladies of the company were without a leader.
Without him they forgot their cues and garbled44 their lines; they needed him to ring the curtain up at the right moment; they needed him to direct the lime-lights they needed his whisper in the wings, and his imperious eye on the leader of the band; without him there were no photographers from the weekly press, no prearranged goodwill45 and expectation of pleasure. No stronger bond held them together than common service; now the gold lace and velvet46 were packed away and returned to the costumier and the drab uniform of the day put on in its stead. For a few happy hours of rehearsal47, for a few ecstatic minutes of performance, they had played splendid parts, their own great ancestors, the famous paintings they were thought to resemble; now it was over and in the bleak48 light of day they must go back to their homes; to the husband who came to London too often, to the lover who lost at cards, and to the child who grew too fast. Anthony Blanche’s set broke up and became a bare dozen lethargic49, adolescent Englishmen. Sometimes in later life they would say: ‘Do you remember that extraordinary fellow we used all to know at Oxford - Anthony Blanche? I wonder what became of him.’ They lumbered50 back into the herd51 from which they had been so capriciously chosen and grew less and less individually recognizable. The change was not so apparent to them as to us, and they still congregated52 on occasions in our rooms; but we gave up seeking them. Instead we formed the taste for lower company and spent our evenings, as often as not, in Hogarthian little inns in St Ebb’s and St Clement’s and the streets between the old market and the canal, where we managed to be gay and were, I believe, well liked by the company. The Gardener’s Arms and the Nag’s Head, the Druid’s Head near the theatre, and the Turf in Hell Passage knew us well; but in the last of these we were liable to meet other undergraduates pub-crawling hearties53 from BNC - and Sebastian became possessed by a kind of phobia, like that which sometimes comes over men in uniform against their own service, so that many an evening was spoilt by their intrusion, and he would leave his glass half empty and turn sulkily back to college.
It was thus that Lady Marchmain found us when, early in that Michaelmas term, she came for a week to Oxford. She found Sebastian subdued54, with all his host of friends reduced to one, myself. She accepted me as Sebastian’s friend and sought to make me hers also, and in doing so, unwittingly struck at the roots of our friendship. That is the single reproach I have to set against her abundant kindness to me. Her business in Oxford was with Mr Samgrass of All Souls, who now began to play an increasingly large part in our lives. Lady Marchmain was engaged in making a memorial book for circulation among her friends, about her brother, Ned, the eldest55 of three legendary56 heroes all killed between Mons and Passchendaele; he had left a, quantity of papers - poems, letters, speeches, articles; to edit them, even for a restricted circle, needed tact57 and countless58 decisions in which the judgement of an adoring sister was liable to err59. Acknowledging this, she had sought outside advice, and Mr Samgrass had been found to help her.
He was a young history don, a short, plump man, dapper in dress, with sparse60 hair brushed flat on an over-large head, neat hands, small feet, and the general appearance of being too often bathed. His manner was genial61 and his speech idiosyncratic. We came to know him well.
It was Mr Samgrass’s particular aptitude62 to help others with their work, but he was himself the author of several stylish63 little books. He was a great delver64 in muniment-rooms and had a sharp nose for the picturesque65. Sebastian spoke less than the truth when he described him as ‘someone of mummy’s’; he was someone of almost everyone’s who possessed anything to attract him.
Mr Samgrass was a genealogist66 and a legitimist; he loved dispossessed royalty67 and knew the exact validity of the rival claims of the pretenders to many thrones; he was not a man of religious habit, but he knew more than most Catholics about their Church; he had friends in the Vatican and could talk at length of policy and appointments, saying which contemporary ecclesiastics68 were in good favour, which in bad, what recent theological hypothesis was suspect, and how this or that Jesuit or Dominican had skated on thin ice or sailed near the wind in his Lenten discourses69; he had everything except the Faith, and later liked to attend benediction70 in the chapel71 of Brideshead and see the ladies of the family with their necks arched in devotion under their black lace mantillas; he loved forgotten scandals in high life and was an expert in putative72 parentage; he claimed to love the past, but I always felt that he thought all the splendid company, living or dead, with whom he associated slightly absurd; it was Mr Samgrass who was real, the rest were an insubstantial pageant73. He was the Victorian tourist, solid and patronizing, for whose amusement these foreign things were paraded. And there was something a little too brisk about his literary manners; I suspected the existence of a dictaphone somewhere in his panelled rooms.
He was with Lady Marchmain when I first met them, and I thought then that she could not have found a greater contrast to herself than this intellectual-on-the-make, nor a better foil to her own charm. It was not her way to make a conspicuous74 entry into anyone’s life, but towards the end of that week Sebastian said rather sourly: ‘You and mummy seem very thick,’ and I realized that in fact I was being drawn75 into intimacy76 by swift, imperceptible stages, for she was impatient of any human relationship that fell short of it. By the time that she left I had promised to spend all next vacation, except Christmas itself, at Brideshead.
One Monday morning a week or two later I was in Sebastian’s room waiting for him to return from a tutorial, when Julia walked in, followed by a large man whom she introduced as ‘Mr Mottram’ and addressed as ‘Rex’. They were motoring up from a house where they had spent the week-end, they explained. Rex Mottram was warm and confident in a check ulster; Julia cold and rather shy in furs; she made straight for the fire and crouched77 over it shivering.
‘We hoped Sebastian might give us luncheon78,’ she said. ‘Failing him we can always try Boy Mulcaster, but I somehow thought we should eat better with Sebastian, and we’re very hungry. We’ve been literally79 starved all the week-end at the Chasms80.’ ‘He and Sebastian are both lunching with me. Come too.’ So, without demur81, they joined the party in my rooms, one of the last of the old kind that I gave. Rex Mottram exerted himself to make an impression. He was a handsome fellow with dark hair growing low on his forehead and heavy black eyebrows82. He spoke with an engaging Canadian accent. One quickly learned all that he wished one to know about him, that he was a lucky man with money, a member of parliament, a gambler, a good fellow; that he played golf regularly with the Prince of Wales and was on easy terms with ‘Max’ and ‘F.E.’ and ‘Gertie’ Lawrence and Augustus John and Carpentier - with anyone, it seemed, who happened to be mentioned. Of the University he said: ‘No, I was never here. It just means you start life three years behind the other fellow.’ His life, so far as he made it known, began in the war, where he had got a good M.C. serving with the Canadians and had ended as A.D.C. to a popular general. He cannot have been more than thirty at the time we met him, but he seemed very old to us in Oxford. Julia treated him, as she seemed to treat all the world, with mild disdain83, but with an air of possession. During luncheon she sent him to the car for her cigarettes, and once or twice when he was talking very big, she apologized for him, saying: ‘Remember he’s a colonial,’ to which he replied with boisterous84 laughter. When he had gone I asked who he was.
‘Oh, just someone of Julia’s,’ said Sebastian.
We were slightly surprised a week later to get a telegram from him asking us and Boy Mulcaster to dinner in London on the following night for ‘a party of Julia’s’. ‘I don’t think he knows anyone young,’ said Sebastian; ‘all his friends are leathery old sharks in the City and the House of Commons. Shall we go?’ We discussed it, and because our life at Oxford was now so much in the shadows, we decided85 that we would.
‘Why does he want Boy?’
‘Julia and I have known him all our lives. I suppose, finding him at lunch with you, he thought he was a chum.’
We had no great liking86 for Mulcaster, but the three of us were in high spirits when, having got leave for the night from our colleges, we drove off on the London road in Hardcastle’s car.
We were to spend the night at Marchmain House. We went there to dress and, while we dressed, drank a bottle of champagne87, going in and out of one another’s rooms which were together three floors up and rather shabby compared with the splendours below. As we came downstairs Julia passed us going up to her room still in her day clothes. ‘I’m going to be late,’ she said; ‘you boys had better go on to Rex’s. It’s heavenly of you to come.’
‘What is this party?’
‘A ghastly charity ball I’m involved with. Rex insisted on giving a dinner party for it.
See you there.’
Rex Mottram lived within walking distance of Marchmain House.
‘Julia’s going to be late,’ we said, ‘she’s only just gone up to dress.’ ‘That means an hour. We’d better have some wine.’ A woman who was introduced as ‘Mrs Champion’ said: ‘I’m sure she’d sooner we started, Rex.’ ‘Well, let’s have some wine first anyway.’
‘Why a Jeroboam, Rex?’ she said peevishly88. ‘You always want to have everything too big.’
‘Won’t be too big for us,’ he said, taking the bottle in his own hands and easing the cork89.
There were two girls there, contemporaries of Julia’s; they all seemed involved in the management of the ball. Mulcaster knew them of old and they, without much relish90 I thought, knew him. Mrs Champion talked to Rex. Sebastian and I found ourselves drinking alone together as we always did.
At length Julia arrived, unhurried, exquisite91, unrepentant. ‘You shouldn’t have let him wait,’ she said. ‘It’s his Canadian courtesy.’
Rex Mottram was a liberal host, and by the end of dinner the three of us who had come from Oxford were rather drunk. While we were standing92 in the hall waiting for the girls to come down and Rex and Mrs Champion had drawn away from us, talking, acrimoniously93, in low voices, Mulcaster said, ‘I say, let’s slip away from this ghastly dance and go to Ma Mayfield’s.’
‘Who is Ma Mayfield?’
‘You know Ma Mayfield. Everyone knows Ma Mayfield of the Old Hundredth. I’ve got a regular there - a sweet little thing called Effie. There’d be the devil to pay if Effie heard I’d been to London and hadn’t been in to see her. Come and meet Effie at Ma Mayfield’s.’
‘All right,’ said Sebastian, ‘let’s meet Effie at Ma Mayfield’s.’ ‘We’ll take another bottle of pop off the good Mottram and then leave the bloody94 dance and go to the Old Hundredth. How about that?’
It was not a difficult matter to leave the ball; the girls whom Rex Mottram had collected had many friends there and, after we had danced together once or twice, our table began to fill up; Rex Mottram ordered more and more wine; presently the three of us were together on the pavement.
‘D’you know where this place is?’
‘Of course I do. A hundred Sink Street.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Just off Leicester Square. Better take the car.’
‘Why?’
‘Always better to have one’s own car on an occasion like this.’ We did not question this reasoning, and there lay our mistake. The car was in the forecourt of Marchmain House within a hundred yards of the hotel where we had been dancing. Mulcaster drove and, after some wandering, brought us safely to Sink Street. A commissionaire at one side of a dark doorway95 and a middle-aged man in evening dress on the other side of it, standing with his face to the wall cooling his forehead on the bricks, indicated our destination.
‘Keep out, you’ll be poisoned,’ said the middle-aged man.
‘Members?’ said the commissionaire.
‘The name is Mulcaster, ‘ said Mulcaster. ‘Viscount Mulcaster.’
‘Well, try inside,’ said the commissionaire.
‘You’ll be robbed, poisoned and infected and robbed,’ said the middle-aged man.
Inside the dark doorway was a bright hatch.
‘Members?’ asked a stout96 woman, in evening dress.
‘I like that,’ said Mulcaster. ‘You ought to know me by now.’
‘Yes, dearie,’ said the woman without interest. ‘Ten bob each.’
‘Oh, look here, I’ve never paid before.’
‘Daresay not, dearie. We’re full up tonight so it’s ten bob. Anyone who comes after you will have to pay a quid. You’re lucky.’
‘Let me speak to Mrs Mayfield.’
‘I’m Mrs Mayfield. Ten bob each.’
‘Why, Ma, I didn’t recognize you in your finery. You know Me, don’t you? Boy Mulcaster.’
‘Yes, duckie. Ten bob each.’
We paid, and the man who had been standing between us and the inner door now made way for us. Inside it was hot and crowded, for the Old Hundredth was then at the height of its success. We found a table and ordered a bottle; the waiter took payment before he opened it.
‘Where’s Effie tonight?’ asked Mulcaster.
‘Effie ‘oo?’
‘Effie, one of the girls who’s always here. The pretty dark one.’ ‘There’s lots of girls works here. Some of them’s dark and some of them’s fair. You might call some of them pretty. I haven’t the time to know them by name.’ ‘I’ll go and look for her,’ said Mulcaster.
While he was away two girls stopped near our table and looked at us curiously97.
‘Come on,’ said one to the other, we’re wasting our time. They’re only fairies.’ Presently Mulcaster returned in triumph with Effie to whom, without its being ordered, the waiter immediately brought a plate of eggs and bacon. ‘First bite I’ve had all the evening,’ she said. ‘Only thing that’s any good here is the breakfast; makes you fair peckish hanging about.’
‘That’s another six bob,’ said the waiter.
When her hunger was appeased98, Effie dabbed99 her mouth and looked at us.
‘I’ve seen you here before, often, haven’t I?’ she said to me.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘But I’ve seen you?’ to Mulcaster.
‘Well, I should rather hope so. You haven’t forgotten our little evening in September?’ ‘No, darling, of course not. You were the boy in the Guards who cut your toe, weren’t you?’
‘Now, Effie, don’t be a tease.’
‘No, that was another night, wasn’t it? I know - you were with Bunty the time the police were in and we all hid in the place they keep the dust-bins.’ ‘Effie loves pulling my leg, don’t you, Effie? She’s annoyed with me for staying away so long, aren’t you?’
‘Whatever you say, I know I have seen you before somewhere.’
‘Stop teasing.’
‘I wasn’t meaning to tease. Honest. Want to dance?’
‘Not at the minute.’
‘Thank the Lord. My shoes pinch something terrible tonight.’ Soon she and Mulcaster were deep in conversation. Sebastian leaned back and said to me: ‘I’m going to ask that pair to join us.’
The two unattached women who had considered us earlier, were again circling towards us. Sebastian smiled and rose to greet them: soon they, too, were eating heartily100. One had the face of a skull101, the other of a sickly child. The Death’s Head seemed destined102 for me. ‘How about a little party,’ she said, ‘just the six of us over at my place?’
‘Certainly,’ said Sebastian.
‘We thought you were fairies when you came in.’
‘That was our extreme youth.’
Death’s Head giggled104. ‘You’re a good sport,’ she said. ‘You’re very sweet really,’ said the Sickly Child. ‘I must just tell Mrs Mayfield we’re going out.’ It was still early, not long after midnight, when we regained105 the street. The commissionaire tried to persuade us to take a taxi. ‘I’ll look after your car, sir, I wouldn’t drive yourself, sir, really I wouldn’t.’
But Sebastian took the wheel and the two women sat one on the other beside him, to show him the way. Effie and Mulcaster and I sat in the back. I think we cheered a little as we drove off.
We did not drive far. We turned into Shaftesbury Avenue and were making for Piccadilly when we narrowly escaped a head-on collision with a taxi-cab. ‘For Christ’s sake, ‘ said Effie, ‘look where you’re going. D’you want to murder us all?’
‘Careless fellow that,’ said Sebastian.
‘It isn’t safe the way you’re driving,’ said Death’s Head. ‘Besides, we ought to be on the other side of the road.’
‘So we should,’ said Sebastian, swinging abruptly106 across.
‘Here, stop. I’d sooner walk.’
‘Stop? Certainly.’
He put on the brakes and we came abruptly to a halt broadside across the road. Two policemen quickened their stride and approached us.
‘Let me out of this,’ said Effie, and made her escape with a leap and a scamper107.
The rest of us were caught.
‘I’m sorry if I am impeding108 the traffic, officer,’ said Sebastian with care, ‘but the lady insisted on my stopping for her to get out. She would take no denial. As you will have observed, she was pressed for time. A matter of nerves you know.’ ‘Let me talk to him, ‘ said Death’s Head. ‘Be a sport, handsome; no one’s seen anything but you. The boys don’t mean any harm. I’ll get them into a taxi and see them home quiet.’
The policemen looked us over, deliberately109, forming their own judgement. Even then everything might have been well had not Mulcaster joined in. ‘Look here, my good man,’ he said. ‘There’s no need for you to notice anything. We’ve just come from Ma Mayfield’s. I reckon she pays you a nice retainer to keep your eyes shut. Well, you can keep ‘em shut on us too, and you won’t be the losers by it.’ That resolved any doubts which the policemen may have felt. In a short time we were in the cells.
I remember little of the journey there or the process of admission. Mulcaster, I think, protested vigorously and, when we were made to empty our pockets, accused his gaolers of theft. Then we were locked in, and my first clear memory is of tiled walls with a lamp set high up under thick glass, a bunk110, and a door which had no handle on my side. Somewhere to the left of me Sebastian and Mulcaster were raising Cain. Sebastian had been steady on his legs and fairly composed on the way to the station; now, shut in, he seemed in a frenzy111 and was pounding the door, and. shouting: ‘Damn you, I’m not drunk. Open this door. I insist on seeing the doctor. I tell you I’m not drunk,’ while Mulcaster, beyond, cried: ‘My God, you’ll pay for this! You’re making a great mistake, I can ‘tell you. Telephone the Home Secretary. Send for my solicitors112. I will have habeas corpus.’ Groans113 of protest rose from the other cells where various tramps and pickpockets114 were trying to get some sleep: ‘Aw, pipe down!’ ‘Give a man some peace, can’t yer?’...’Is this a blinking lock-up or a looney-house?’ - and the sergeant115, going his rounds, admonished116 them through the grille. ‘You’ll be here all night if you don’t sober up.’
. I sat on the bunk in low spirits and dozed117 a little. Presently the racket subsided118 and Sebastian called: ‘I say, Charles, are you there?’
‘Here I am.’
‘This is the hell of a business.’
‘Can’t we get bail119 or something?’
Mulcaster seemed to have fallen asleep.
‘I tell you the man - Rex Mottram. He’d be in his element here.’ We had some difficulty in getting in touch with him; it was half an hour before the policeman in charge answered my bell. At last he consented, rather sceptically, to send a telephone message to the hotel where the ball was being held. There was another long delay and then our prison doors were opened.
Seeping120 through the squalid air of the police station, the sour smell of dirt and disinfectant, came the sweet, rich smoke of a Havana cigar - of two Havana cigars, for the sergeant in charge was smoking also.
Rex stood in the charge-room looking the embodiment indeed, the burlesque121 - of power and prosperity; he wore a fur-lined overcoat with broad astrakhan lapels and a silk hat. The police were deferential122 and eager to help. ‘We had to do our duty,’ they said. ‘Took the young gentlemen into custody123 for their own protection.’
Mulcaster looked crapulous and began a confused complaint that he had been denied legal representation and civil rights. Rex said: ‘Better leave all the talking to me.’ I was clear-headed now and watched and listened with fascination124 while Rex settled our business. He examined the charge sheets, spoke affably to the men who had made the arrest; with the slightest perceptible nuance125 he opened the way for bribery126 and quickly covered it when he saw that things had now lasted too long and the knowledge had been too widely shared; he undertook to deliver us at the magistrate127’s court at ten next morning, and then led us away. His car was outside. ‘It’s no use discussing things tonight. Where are you sleeping.?’
‘Marchers, ‘ said Sebastian.
‘You’d better come to me. I can fix you up for tonight. Leave everything to me.’
It was plain that he rejoiced in his efficiency.
Next morning the display was even more impressive. I awoke with the startled and puzzled sense of being in a strange room, and in the first seconds of consciousness the memory of the evening before returned, first as though of a nightmare, then of reality. Rex’s valet was unpacking128 a suitcase. On seeing me move he went to the wash-hand stand and poured something from a bottle. ‘I think I have everything from Marchmain House,’ he said. ‘Mr Mottram sent round to Heppell’s for this.’ I took the draught129 and felt better.
A man was there from Trumper’s to shave us.
Rex joined us at breakfast. ‘It’s important to make a good appearance at the court,’ he said. ‘Luckily none of you look much the worse for wear.’ After breakfast the barrister arrived and Rex delivered a summary of the case. ‘Sebastian’s in a jam,’ he said. ‘He’s liable to anything up to six months’ imprisonment130 for being drunk in charge of a car. You’ll come up before Grigg unfortunately. He takes rather a grim view of cases of this sort. All that will happen this morning is that we shall ask to have Sebastian held over for a week to prepare the defence. You two will plead guilty, say you’re sorry, and pay your five bob fine. I’ll see what can be done about squaring the evening papers. The Star may be dffficult. ‘Remember, the important thing is to keep out all mention of the Old Hundredth. Luckily the tarts131 were sober and aren’t being charged, but their names have been taken as witnesses. If we try and break down the police evidence, they’ll be called. We’ve got to avoid that at all costs, so we shall have to swallow the police story whole and appeal to the magistrate’s good nature not to wreck132 a young man’s career for a single boyish indiscretion. It’ll work all right. We shall need a don to give evidence of good character. Julia tells me you have a tame one called Samgrass. He’ll do. Meanwhile your story is simply that you came up from Oxford for a perfectly133 respectable dance, weren’t used to wine, had too much, and lost the way driving home.
‘After that we shall have to see about fixing things with your authorities at Oxford.’ ‘I told them to call my solicitors,’ said Mulcaster, ‘and they refused. They’ve put themselves hopelessly in the wrong, and I don’t see why they should get away with it.’ ‘For heaven’s sake don’t start any kind of argument. Just plead guilty and pay up.
Understand?’
Mulcaster grumbled134 but submitted.
Everything happened at court as Rex had predicted. At half past ten we stood in Bow Street, Mulcaster and I free men, Sebastian bound over to appear in a week’s time. Mulcaster had kept silent about his grievance135; he and I were admonished and fined five shillings each and fifteen shillings costs. Mulcaster was becoming rather irksome to us, and it was with relief that we heard his plea of other business in London. The barrister bustled136 off and Sebastian and I were left alone and disconsolate. ‘I suppose mummy’s got to hear about it,’ he said. ‘Damn, damn, damn! It’s cold. I won’t go home. I’ve nowhere to go. Let’s just slip back to Oxford and wait for them to bother us’ The raffish137 habitués of the police court came and went, up and down the steps; still we stood on the windy comer, undecided.
‘Why not get hold of Julia?’
‘I might go abroad.’
‘My dear Sebastian, you’ll only be given a talking-to and fined a few pounds.’ ‘Yes, but it’s all the bother - mummy and Bridey and all the family and the dons. I’d sooner go to prison. If I just slip away abroad they can’t get me back, can they? That’s what people do when the police are after them. I know mummy will make it seem she has to bear the whole brunt of the business.’
‘Let’s telephone Julia and get her to meet us somewhere and talk it over.’ We met at Gunter’s in Berkeley Square. Julia, like most women then, wore a green hat pulled down to her eyes with a diamond arrow in it; she had a small dog under her arm, three-quarters buried in the fur of her coat. She greeted us with an unusual show of interest.
‘Well, you are a pair of pickles138; I must say you look remarkably139 well on it. The only time I got tight I was paralysed all the next day. I do think you might have taken me with you. The ball was positively140 lethal141, and I’ve always longed to go to the Old Hundredth. No one will ever take me. Is it heaven?’
‘So you know all about that, too?’
‘Rex telephoned me this morning and told me everything. What were your girl friends like?’
‘Don’t be prurient,’ said Sebastian.
‘Mine was like a skull.’
‘Mine was like a consumptive.’
‘Goodness.’ It had clearly raised us in Julia’s estimation that we had been out with women; to her they were the point of interest.
‘Does mummy know?’
‘Not about your skulls142 and consumptives. She knows you were in the clink. I told her. She was divine about it, of course. You know anything Uncle Ned did was always perfect, and he got locked up once for taking a bear into one of Lloyd George’s meetings, so she really feels quite human about the whole thing. She wants you both to lunch with her.’
‘Oh God!’
‘The only trouble is the papers and the family. Have you got an awful family, Charles?’
‘Only a father. He’ll never hear about it.’
‘Ours are awful. Poor mummy is in for a ghastly time with them. They’ll be writing letters and paying visits of sympathy, and all the time at the back of their minds one half will be saying, “That’s what comes of bringing the boy up a Catholic,” and the other half will say, “That’s what comes of sending him to Eton instead of Stonyhurst.” Poor mummy can’t get it right.
We lunched with Lady Marchmain. She accepted the whole thing with humorous resignation. Her only reproach was: ‘I can’t think why you went off and stayed with Mr Mottram. You might have come and told me about it first.’ ‘How am I going to explain it to all the family?’ she asked. ‘They will be so shocked to find that they’re more upset about it than I am. Do you know my sister-in-law, Fanny Rosscommon? She has always thought I brought the children up badly. Now I am beginning to think she must be right.’
When we left I said: ‘She couldn’t have been more charming. What were you so worried about?’
‘I can’t explain,’ said Sebastian miserably143.
A week later when Sebastian came up for trial he was fined ten pounds. The newspapers reported it with painful prominence144, one of them under the ironic145 headline:
‘Marquis’s son unused to wine’. The magistrate said that it was only through the prompt action of the police that he was not up on a grave charge.
‘It is purely146 by good fortune that you do not bear the responsibility of a serious
accident...’ Mr Samgrass gave evidence that Sebastian bore an irreproachable148 character
and that a brilliant future at the University was in jeopardy149. The papers took hold of this
too - ‘Model Student’s Career at Stake. But for Mr Samgrass’s evidence, said the magistrate, he would have been disposed to give an exemplary sentence; the law was the same for an Oxford undergraduate as for any young hooligan; indeed the better the home the more shameful150 the offence...
It was not only at Bow Street that Mr Samgrass was of value. At Oxford he showed all the zeal151 and acumen152 which were Rex Mottram’s in London. He interviewed the college authorities, the proctors, the Vice-Chancellor153; he induced Mgr Bell to call on the Dean of Christ Church; he arranged for Lady Marchmain to talk to the Chancellor himself; and, as a result of all this, the three of us were gated for the rest of the term. Hardcastle, for no clear reason, was again deprived of the use of his car, and the affair blew over. The most lasting154 penalty we suffered was our intimacy with Rex Mottram and Mr Samgrass, but since Rex’s life was in London in a world of politics and high finance and Mr Samgrass’s nearer to our own at Oxford, it was from him we suffered the more.
For the rest of that term he haunted us. Now that we were ‘gated’ we could not spend our evenings together, and from nine 0’clock onwards were alone and at Mr Samgrass’s mercy. Hardly an evening seemed to paw but he called on one o r the other of us. He spoke of ‘our little escapade’ as though he, too, had been in the cells, and had that bond with us...Once I climbed out of college and Mr Samgrass found me in Sebastian’s rooms after the gate was shut and that, too, he made into a bond. It did not surprise me, therefore, when I arrived at Brideshead, after Christmas, to find Mr Samgrass, as though in wait for me, sitting alone before the fire in the room they called the ‘Tapestry Hall’. ‘You find me in solitary155 possession,’ he said, and indeed he seemed to possess the hall and the sombre scenes of venery that hung round it, to possess the caryatids on either side of the fireplace, to possess me, as he rose to take my hand and greet me like a host:
‘This morning,’ he continued, ‘we had a lawn meet of the Marchmain Hounds - a deliciously archaic156 spectacle and all our young friends are fox-hunting, even Sebastian who, you will not be surprised to hear, looked remarkably elegant in his pink coat. Brideshead was impressive rather than elegant; he is joint-master with a local figure of fun named Sir Walter Strickland-Venables. I wish the two of them could be included in these rather humdrum157 tapestries158 - they would give a note of fantasy. ‘Our hostess remained at home; also a convalescent Dominican who has read too much Maritain and too little Hegel; Sir Adrian Porson, of course, and two rather forbidding Magyar cousins - I have tried them in German and in French, but in neither tongue are they diverting. All these have now driven off to visit a neighbour. I have been spending a cosy159 afternoon before the fire with the incomparable Charlus. Your arrival emboldens160 me to ring for some tea. How can I prepare you for the party? Alas161, it breaks up tomorrow. Lady Julia departs to celebrate the New Year elsewhere, and takes the beau-monde with her. I shall miss the pretty creatures about the house - particularly one Celia; she is the sister of our old companion in adversity, Boy Mulcaster, and wonderfully unlike, him. She has a bird-like style of conversation, pecking away at the subject in a way I find most engaging, and a school-monitor style of dress which I can only call “saucy”. I shall miss her, for I do not go tomorrow. Tomorrow I start work in earnest on our hostess’s book - which, believe me, is a treasure-house of period gems163; pure authentic164 I9I4.’
Tea was brought and, soon after it, Sebastian returned; he had lost the hunt early, he said, and hacked165 home; the others were not long after him, having been fetched by car at the end of the day; Brideshead was absent; he had business at the kennels166 and Cordelia had gone with him. The rest filled the hall and were soon eating scrambled167 eggs and crumpets; and Mr Samgrass, who had lunched at home and dozed all the afternoon before the fire, ate eggs and crumpets with them. Presently Lady Marchmain’s party returned, and when, before we went upstairs to dress for dinner, she said ‘Who’s coming to chapel for the Rosary?’ and Sebastian and Julia said they must have their baths at once, Mr Samgrass went with her and the friar.
‘I wish Mr Samgrass would go,’ said Sebastian, in his bath; ‘I’m sick of being grateful to him.’
In the course of the next fortnight distaste for Mr Samgrass came to be a little unspoken secret throughout the house; in his presence Sir Adrian Porson’s fine old eyes seemed to search a distant horizon and his lips set in classic pessimism168. Only the Hungarian cousins who, mistaking the status of tutor, took him for an unusually privileged upper servant, were unaffected by his presence.
Mr Samgrass, Sir Adrian Porson, the Hungarians, the friar, Brideshead, Sebastian, Cordelia were all who remained of the Christmas party. Religion predominated in-the house; not only in its practices - the daily mass and Rosary, morning and evening in the chapel - but in all its intercourse169. ‘We must make a Catholic of Charles,’ Lady Marchmain said, and we had many little talks together during my visits when she delicately steered170 the subject into a holy quarter. After the first of these Sebastian said: ‘Has mummy been having one of her “little talks” with you? She’s always doing it. I wish to hell she wouldn’t.’
One was never summoned for a little talk, or consciously led to it; it merely happened, when she wished to speak intimately, that one found oneself alone with her, if it was summer, in a secluded171 walk by the lakes or in a corner of the walled rose-gardens; if it was winter, in her sitting-room172 on the first floor. This room was all her own; she had taken it for herself and changed it so that, entering, one seemed to be in another house. She had lowered the ceiling and the elaborate cornice which, in one form or another, graced every room was lost to view; the walls, one panelled in brocade, were stripped and washed blue and spotted173 with innumerable little water-colours of fond association; the air was sweet with the fresh scent of flowers and musty potpourri174; her library in soft leather covers, well-read works of poetry and piety175, filled a small rosewood bookcase; the chimney-piece was covered with small personal treasures - an ivory Madonna, a plaster St Joseph, posthumous176 miniatures of her three soldier brothers. When Sebastian and I lived alone at Brideshead during that brilliant August we had kept out of his mother’s room. Scraps177 of conversation come back to me with the memory of her room. I remember her saying: ‘When I was a girl we were comparatively poor, but still richer than most of the world, and when I married I became very rich. It used to worry me, and I thought it wrong to have so many beautiful things when others had nothing. Now I realize that it is possible for the rich to sin by coveting178 the privileges of the poor. The poor have always been the favourites of God and his saints, but I believe that it is one of the special achievements of Grace to sanctify the whole of life, riches included. Wealth in pagan Rome was necessarily something cruel; it’s not any more.’ I said something about a camel and the eye of a needle and she rose happily to the point.
‘But of course,’ she said, ‘it’s very unexpected for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, but the gospel is simply a catalogue of unexpected things. It’s not to be expected that an ox and an ass12 should worship at the crib. Animals are always doing the oddest things in the lives of the saints. It’s all part of the poetry, the Alice-in-Wonderland side, of religion.’
But I was as untouched by her faith as I was by her charm: or, rather, I was touched by both alike. I had no mind then for anything except Sebastian, and I saw him already as being threatened, though I did not yet know how black was the threat. His constant, despairing prayer was to be let alone. By the blue waters and rustling179 palms of his own mind he was happy and harmless as a Polynesian; only when the big ship dropped anchor beyond the coral reef, and the cutter beached in the lagoon180, and, up the slope that had never known the print of a boot, there trod the grim invasion of trader, administrator181, missionary, and tourist - only then was it time to disinter the archaic weapons of the tribe and -sound the drums in the hills; or, more easily, to turn from the sunlit door and lie alone in the darkness, , where the impotent, painted deities182 paraded the walls in vain and cough his heart out among the rum bottles. And, since Sebastian counted among the intruders his own conscience and all claims of human affection, his days in Arcadia were numbered. For in this, to me, tranquil183 time Sebastian took fright. I knew him well in that mood of alertness and suspicion, like a deer suddenly lifting his head at the far notes of the hunt; I had seen him grow wary184 at the thought of his family or his religion, now I found I, too, was suspect. He did not fail in love, but he lost his joy of it, for I was no longer part of his solitude185. As my intimacy with his family grew, I became part of the world which he sought to escape; I became one of the bonds which held him. That was the part for which his mother, in all our little talks, was seeking to fit me. Everything was left unsaid. It was only dimly and at rare moments that I suspected what was afoot.
Outwardly Mr Samgrass was the only enemy. For a fortnight Sebastian and I remained at Brideshead, leading our own life. His brother was engaged in sport and estate management; Mr Samgrass was at work in the library on Lady Marchmain’s book; Sir Adrian Porson demanded most of Lady Marchmain’s time. We saw little of them except in the evenings; there was room under that wide roof for a wide variety of independent lives.
After a fortnight Sebastian said: ‘I can’t stand Mr Samgrass any more. Let’s go to London,’ so he came to stay with me and now began to use my home in preference to ‘Marchers’. My father liked him. ‘I think your friend very amusing,’ he said. ‘Ask him often.’
Then, back at Oxford, we took up again the life that seemed to be shrinking in the cold air. The sadness that had been strong in Sebastian the term before gave place to kind of sullenness186, even towards me. He was sick at heart somewhere, I did not know how, and I grieved for him, unable to help.
When he was gay now it was usually because he was drunk, and when drunk he developed an obsession188 of ‘mocking Mr Samgrass’. He composed a ditty of which the refrain was, ‘Green arse, Samgrass - Samgrass green arse’, sung to the tune147 of St Mary’s chime, and he would thus serenade him, perhaps once a week, under his windows. Mr Samgrass was distinguished189 as being the first don to have a private telephone installed in his rooms. Sebastian in his cups used to ring him up and sing him this simple song. And all this Mr Samgrass took in good part, as it is called, smiling obsequiously190 when we met, but with growing confidence, as though each outrage in some way strengthened his hold on Sebastian.
It was during this term that I began to realize that Sebastian was a drunkard in quite a different sense to myself I got drunk often, but through an excess of high spirits, in the love of the moment, and the wish to prolong and enhance it; Sebastian drank to escape.
As we together grew older and more serious I drank less, he more. I found that
sometimes after I had gone back to my college, he sat up late and alone, soaking. A
succession of disasters came on him so swiftly and with such unexpected violence that it is hard to say when exactly I recognized that my friend was in deep trouble. I knew it well enough in the Easter vacation.
Julia used to say, ‘Poor Sebastian. It’s something chemical in him.’ That was the cant191 phrase of the time, derived192 from heaven knows what misconception of popular science. ‘There’s something chemical between them’ was used to explain the over-mastering hate or love of any two people. It was the old concept in a new form. I do not believe there was anything chemical in my friend. The Easter party at Brideshead was a bitter time, culminating in a small but unforgettably painful incident. Sebastian got very drunk before dinner in his mother’s house, and thus marked the beginning of a new epoch193 in his melancholy194 record, another stride in the flight from his family which brought him to ruin. It was at the end of the day when the large Easter party left Brideshead. It was called the Easter party, though in fact it began on the Tuesday of Easter Week, for the Flytes all went into retreat at the guest-house of a monastery195 from Maundy Thursday until Easter. This year Sebastian had said he would not go, but at the last moment had yielded, and came home in a state of acute depression from which I totally failed to raise him.
He had been drinking very hard for a week - only I knew how hard - and drinking in a nervous, surreptitious way, totally unlike his old habit. During the party there was always a grog tray in the library, and Sebastian took to slipping in there at odd moments during the day without saying anything even to me. The house was largely deserted196 during the day. I was at work painting another panel in the little garden-room in the colonnade197. Sebastian complained of a cold, stayed in, and during all that time was never quite sober; he escaped attention by being silent. Now and then I noticed him attract curious glances, but most of the party knew him too slightly to see the change in him, while his own family were occupied, each with their particular guests. When I remonstrated198 he said, ‘I can’t stand all these people about,” but it was when they finally left and he had to face his family at close quarters that he broke down. The normal practice was for a cocktail199 tray to be brought into the drawing-room at six; we mixed our own drinks and the bottles were removed when we went to dress; later, just before dinner, cocktails200 appeared again, this time handed round by the footmen.
Sebastian disappeared after tea; the light had gone and I spent the next hour playing mah-jongg with Cordelia. At six I was alone in the drawing-room, when he returned; he was frowning in a way I knew all too well, and when he spoke I recognized the drunken thickening in his voice.
‘Haven’t they brought the cocktails yet?’ He pulled clumsily on the bell-rope.
I said, ‘Where have you been?’
‘Up with nanny.’
‘I don’t believe it. You’ve been drinking somewhere.’
‘I’ve been reading in my room. My cold’s worse today.’ When the tray arrived he slopped gin and vermouth into a tumbler and carried it out of the room with him. I followed him upstairs, where he shut his bedroom door in my face and turned the key. I returned to the drawing-room full of dismay and foreboding.
The family assembled. Lady Marchmain said: ‘What’s become of Sebastian?’
‘He’s gone to lie down. His cold is worse.’
‘Oh dear, I hope he isn’t getting flu. I thought he had a feverish201 look once or twice lately. Is there anything he wants?’
‘No, he particularly asked not to be disturbed.’
I wondered whether I ought to speak to Brideshead, but that grim, rock-crystal mask forbade all confidence. Instead, on the way upstairs to dress, I told Julia. ‘Sebastian’s drunk.’
‘He can’t be. He didn’t even come for a cocktail.’
‘He’s been drinking in. his room all the afternoon.’
‘How very peculiar202! What a bore he is! Will he be all right for dinner?’
‘No.’
‘Well, you must deal with him. It’s no business of mine. Does he often do this?’
‘He has lately.’
‘How very boring.’
I tried Sebastian’s door, found it locked, and hoped he was sleeping, but, when I came back from my bath, I found him sitting in the chair before my fire; he was dressed for dinner, all but his shoes, but his tie was awry203 and his hair on end; he was very red in the face and squinting204 slightly. He spoke indistinctly.
‘Charles, what you said was quite true. Not with nanny. Been drinking whisky up here. None in the library now party’s gone. Now party’s gone and only mummy. Feeling rather drunk. Think I’d better have something-on-a-tray up here. Not dinner with mummy.’
‘Go to bed,’ I told him. ‘I’ll say your cold’s worse.’
‘Much worse.’
I took him to his room which was next to mine and tried to get him to bed, but he sat in front of his dressing205 table squinnying at himself in the glass, trying to remake his bow-tie. On the writing table by the fire was a half-empty decanter of whisky. I took it up, thinking he would not see, but he spun206 round from the mirror and said: ‘You put that down.’
‘Don’t be an ass, Sebastian. You’ve had enough.’
‘What the devil’s it got to do with you? You’re only a guest here - my guest. I drink what I want to in my own house.’ He would have fought me for it at that moment. ‘Very well,’ I said, putting the decanter back, ‘Only for God’s sake keep out of sight.’ ‘Oh, mind your own business. You came here as my friend; now you’re spying on me for my mother, I know. Well, you can get out and tell her from me that I’ll choose my friends and she her spies in future.’
So I left him and went down to dinner.
‘I’ve been in to Sebastian,’ I said. ‘His cold has come on rather badly. He’s gone to bed and says he doesn’t want anything.’
‘Poor Sebastian,’ said Lady Marchmain. ‘He’d better have a glass of hot whisky. I’ll go and have a look at him.’
‘Don’t mummy, I’ll go,’ said Julia rising.
‘I’ll go,’ said Cordelia, who was dining down that night, for a treat to celebrate the departure of the guests. She was at the door and through it before anyone could stop her. Julia caught my eye and gave a tiny, sad shrug207.
In a few minutes Cordelia was back, looking grave. ‘No, he doesn’t seem to want anything,’ she said.
‘How was he?’
‘Well, I don’t know, but I think he’s very drunk’ she said.
‘Cordelia.’
Suddenly the child began to giggle103. ‘”Marquis’s Son Unused to Wine”,’ she quoted.
“’Model Student’s Career Threatened”.’
‘Charles, is this true?’ asked Lady Marchmain.
‘Yes.’
Then dinner was announced, and we went to the dining-room where the subject was not mentioned.
When, Brideshead and I were left alone he said: ‘Did you say Sebastian was drunk?’
‘Yes.’
‘Extraordinary time to choose. Couldn’t you stop him?’
‘No.’
‘No,’ said Brideshead, ‘I don’t suppose you could. I once saw my father drunk, in this room. I wasn’t more than about ten at the time. You can’t stop people if they want to get drunk. My mother couldn’t stop my father, you know.’ He spoke in his odd, impersonal208 way. The more I saw of this family, I reflected, the more singular I found them. ‘I shall ask my mother to read to us tonight.’ It was the custom, I learned later, always to ask Lady Marchmain to read aloud on evenings of family tension. She had a beautiful voice and great humour of expression. That night she read part of The Wisdom of Father Brown. Julia sat with a stool covered with manicure things and carefully revarnished her nails; Cordelia nursed Julia’s Pekinese; Brideshead played patience; I sat unoccupied studying the pretty group they made, and mourning my friend upstairs.
But the horrors of that evening were not yet over.
It was sometimes Lady Marchmain’s practice, when the family were alone, to visit the chapel before going to bed. She had just closed her book and proposed going there when the door opened and Sebastian appeared. He was dressed as I had last seen him, but now instead of being flushed he was deathly pale.
‘Come to apologize,’ he said.
‘Sebastian, dear, do go back to your room,’ said Lady Marchmain. ‘We can talk about it in the morning.’
‘Not to you. Come to apologize to Charles. I was bloody to him and he’s my guest.
He’s my guest and my only friend and I was bloody to him.’ A chill spread over us. I led him back to his room; his family went to their prayers. I noticed when we got upstairs that the decanter was now empty. ‘It’s time you were in bed,’ I said.
Sebastian began to weep. ‘Why do you take their side against me? I knew you would if I let you meet them. Why do you spy on me?’
He said more than 1 can bear to remember, even at twenty years’ distance. At last I got him to sleep and very sadly went to bed myself.
Next morning, he came to my room very early, while the house still slept; he drew the curtains and the sound of it woke me, to find him there fully162 dressed, smoking, with his back to me, looking out of the windows to where the long dawn-shadows lay across the dew and the first birds were chattering209 in the budding tree-tops. When I spoke he turned a face which showed no ravages210 of the evening before, but was fresh and sullen187 as a disappointed child’s.
.’Well,’ I said. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Rather odd. I think perhaps I’m still a little drunk. I’ve just been down to the stables trying to get a car but everything was locked. We’re off.’ He drank from the water-bottle by my pillow, threw his cigarette from the window, and lit another with hands which trembled like an old man’s. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I don’t know. London, I suppose. Can I come and stay with you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, get dressed. They can send our luggage on by train.’
‘We can’t just go like this.’
‘We can’t stay.’
He sat on the window seat looking away from me, out of the window. Presently he said: ‘There’s smoke coming from some of the chimneys. They must have opened the stables now. Come on.’
I can’t go,’ I said. ‘I must say good-bye to your mother.’
‘Sweet bulldog.’
‘Well, I don’t happen to like running away.’
‘And I couldn’t care less. And I shall go on running away, as far and as fast as I can.
You can hatch up any plot you like with my mother; I shan’t come back.’
‘That’s how you talked last night.’
‘I know. I’m sorry, Charles. I told you I was still drunk. If it’s any comfort to you, I absolutely detest211 myself.’
‘It’s no comfort at all.’
‘It must be a little, I should have thought. Well, if you won’t come, give my love to nanny.’
‘You’re really going?’
‘Of course.’
‘Shall I see you in London?’
‘Yes, I’m coming to stay with you.’
He left me but I did not sleep again; nearly two hours later a footman came with tea and bread and butter and set my clothes out for a new day.
Later that morning I sought Lady Marchmain; the wind had freshened and we stayed indoors; I sat near her before the fire in her room, while she bent212 over her needlework and the budding creeper rattled213 on the window panes214.
‘I wish I had not seen him, she said. ‘That was cruel. I do not mind the idea of his being drunk. It is a thing all men do when they are young. I am used to the idea of it. My brothers were wild at. his age. What hurt last night was that there was nothing happy about him.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ve never seen him like that before.’
And last night of all nights...when everyone had gone and there were only ourselves here - you see, Charles, I look on you very much as one of ourselves. Sebastian loves you - when there was no need for him to make an effort to be gay. And he wasn’t gay. I slept very little last night, and all the time I kept coming back to that one thing; he was so unhappy.’
It was impossible for me to explain to her what I only half understood myself; even then I felt, ‘She will learn it soon enough. Perhaps she knows it now.’ ‘It was horrible,’ I said. ‘But please don’t think that’s his usual way.’
‘Mr Samgrass told me he was drinking too much all last term.’
‘Yes, but not like that - never before.’
“这
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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quad
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| n.四方院；四胞胎之一；v.在…填补空铅 | |
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diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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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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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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exuberance
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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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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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glutted
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| v.吃得过多( glut的过去式和过去分词 )；（对胃口、欲望等）纵情满足；使厌腻；塞满 | |
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persecution
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rebuke
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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26
tenuous
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| adj.细薄的，稀薄的，空洞的 | |
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27
nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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28
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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29
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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31
wraith
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| n.幽灵；骨瘦如柴的人 | |
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32
pastiches
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| n.模仿作品( pastiche的名词复数 )；拼凑的艺术作品；集锦；模仿的艺术风格 | |
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33
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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34
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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35
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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36
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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37
freshmen
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| n.（中学或大学的）一年级学生( freshman的名词复数 ) | |
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38
voracious
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| adj.狼吞虎咽的，贪婪的 | |
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39
surfeited
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| v.吃得过多( surfeit的过去式和过去分词 )；由于过量而厌腻 | |
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40
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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41
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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42
impresario
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| n.歌剧团的经理人；乐团指挥 | |
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43
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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44
garbled
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| adj.（指信息）混乱的，引起误解的v.对（事实）歪曲，对（文章等）断章取义，窜改( garble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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46
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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47
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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48
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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49
lethargic
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|
| adj.昏睡的，懒洋洋的 | |
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50
lumbered
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| 砍伐（lumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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51
herd
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|
| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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52
congregated
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
hearties
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|
| 亲切的( hearty的名词复数 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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54
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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55
eldest
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|
| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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56
legendary
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|
| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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57
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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58
countless
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|
| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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59
err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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60
sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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61
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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62
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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63
stylish
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|
| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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64
delver
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| 有耐性而且勤勉的研究者，挖掘器 | |
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65
picturesque
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|
| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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66
genealogist
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| 系谱学者 | |
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67
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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68
ecclesiastics
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|
| n.神职者，教会，牧师( ecclesiastic的名词复数 ) | |
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69
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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70
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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71
chapel
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|
| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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72
putative
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|
| adj.假定的 | |
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73
pageant
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|
| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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74
conspicuous
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|
| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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75
drawn
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|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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76
intimacy
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|
| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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77
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
luncheon
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|
| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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79
literally
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|
| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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80
chasms
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|
| 裂缝( chasm的名词复数 )； 裂口； 分歧； 差别 | |
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81
demur
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|
| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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82
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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83
disdain
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|
| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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84
boisterous
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|
| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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85
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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86
liking
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|
| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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87
champagne
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|
| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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88
peevishly
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|
| adv．暴躁地 | |
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89
cork
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|
| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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90
relish
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|
| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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91
exquisite
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|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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92
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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93
acrimoniously
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|
| adv.毒辣地，尖刻地 | |
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94
bloody
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|
| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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95
doorway
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|
| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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97
curiously
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|
| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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98
appeased
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|
| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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99
dabbed
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|
| （用某物）轻触( dab的过去式和过去分词 )； 轻而快地擦掉（或抹掉）； 快速擦拭； （用某物）轻而快地涂上（或点上）… | |
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100
heartily
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|
| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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101
skull
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|
| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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102
destined
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|
| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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103
giggle
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|
| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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104
giggled
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|
| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
regained
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|
| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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106
abruptly
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|
| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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107
scamper
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|
| v.奔跑，快跑 | |
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108
impeding
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|
| a.(尤指坏事)即将发生的，临近的 | |
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109
deliberately
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|
| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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110
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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111
frenzy
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|
| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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112
solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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113
groans
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|
| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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114
pickpockets
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|
| n.扒手( pickpocket的名词复数 ) | |
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115
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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116
admonished
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|
| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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117
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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119
bail
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|
| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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120
seeping
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| v.（液体）渗( seep的现在分词 )；渗透；渗出；漏出 | |
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121
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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122
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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123
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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124
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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125
nuance
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| n.(意义、意见、颜色)细微差别 | |
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126
bribery
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| n.贿络行为，行贿，受贿 | |
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127
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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128
unpacking
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|
| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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129
draught
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|
| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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130
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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131
tarts
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| n.果馅饼( tart的名词复数 )；轻佻的女人；妓女；小妞 | |
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132
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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133
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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134
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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135
grievance
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|
| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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136
bustled
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|
| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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137
raffish
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| adj.名誉不好的，无赖的，卑鄙的，艳俗的 | |
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138
pickles
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| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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139
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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140
positively
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|
| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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141
lethal
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|
| adj.致死的；毁灭性的 | |
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142
skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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143
miserably
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|
| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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144
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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145
ironic
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|
| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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146
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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147
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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148
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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149
jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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150
shameful
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|
| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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151
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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152
acumen
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| n.敏锐，聪明 | |
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153
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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154
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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155
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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156
archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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157
humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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158
tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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159
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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160
emboldens
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的第三人称单数 ) | |
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161
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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162
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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163
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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164
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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165
hacked
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| 生气 | |
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166
kennels
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| n.主人外出时的小动物寄养处，养狗场；狗窝( kennel的名词复数 )；养狗场 | |
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167
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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168
pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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169
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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170
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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171
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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172
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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173
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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174
potpourri
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| n.混合之事物；百花香 | |
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175
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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176
posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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177
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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178
coveting
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| v.贪求，觊觎( covet的现在分词 ) | |
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179
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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180
lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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181
administrator
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| n.经营管理者，行政官员 | |
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182
deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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183
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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184
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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185
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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186
sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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187
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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188
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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189
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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190
obsequiously
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191
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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192
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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193
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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194
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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195
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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196
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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197
colonnade
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| n.柱廊 | |
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198
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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199
cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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200
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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201
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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202
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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203
awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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204
squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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205
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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206
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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207
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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208
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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209
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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210
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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211
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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212
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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213
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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214
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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