I RETURNED to London in the spring of 1926 for the General Strike. It was the topic of Paris. The French, exultant1 as always at the discomfiture2 of their former friends, and transposing into their own precise terms our mistier3 notions from across the Channel, foretold4 revolution and civil war. Every evening the kiosks displayed texts of doom5, and, in the cafés, acquaintances greeted one half-derisively with: ‘Ha, my friend, you are better off here than at home, are you not?’ until I and several friends in circumstances like my own came seriously to believe that our country was in danger and that our duty lay there. We were joined by a Belgian Futurist, who lived under the, I think, assumed name of Jean de Brissac la Motte, and claimed the right to bear arms in any battle anywhere against the lower classes. We crossed together, in a high-spirited, male party, expecting to find unfolding before us at Dover the history so often repeated of late, with so few variations, from all parts of Europe, that I, at any rate, had formed in my mind a clear, composite picture of ‘Revolution’ - the red flag on the post office, the overturned tram, the drunken N.C.O.s, the gaol6 open and gangs of released criminals prowling the streets, the train from the capital that did not arrive. One had read it in the papers, seen it in the films, heard it at café tables again and again for six or seven years now, till it had become part of one’s experience, at second hand, like the mud of Flanders and the flies of Mesopotamia. Then we landed and met the old routine of the customs-shed, the punctual boat-train, the porters lining7 the platform at Victoria and converging8 on the first-class carriages; the long line of waiting taxis.
‘We’ll separate,’ we said, and see what’s happening. We’ll meet and compare notes at dinner,’ but we knew already in our hearts that nothing was happening; nothing, at any rate, which needed our presence.
‘Oh dear, ‘ said my father, meeting me by chance on the stairs, ‘how delightful9 to see you again so soon.’ (I had been abroad fifteen months.) ‘You’ve come at a very awkward time, you know. They’re having another of those strikes in two days - such a lot of nonsense - and I don’t know when you’ll be able to get away.’
I thought of the evening I was forgoing11, with the lights coming out along the banks of the Seine, and the company I should have had there - for I was at the time concerned with two emancipated12 American girls who shared a gar?onnière in Auteuil - and wished I had not come.
We dined that night at the Café Royal. There things were a little more warlike, for the Café was full of undergraduates who had come down for ‘National Service’. One group, from Cambridge, had that afternoon signed on to run messages for Trans-port House, and their table backed on another group’s, who were enrolled14 as special constables15. Now and then one or other party would shout provocatively16 over the shoulder, but it is hard to come into serious conflict back to back, and the affair ended with their giving each other tall glasses of lager beer.
‘You should have been in Budapest when Horthy marched in’ said Jean. ‘That was politics.’
A party was being given that night in Regent’s Park for the ‘Black Birds’ who had newly arrived in England. One of us had been asked and thither17 we all went. To us, who frequented Bricktop’s and the Bal Nègre in the Rue18 Blomet, there was nothing particularly remarkable19 in the spectacle; I was scarcely inside the door when I heard an unmistakable voice, an echo from what now seemed a distant past. ‘No,’ it said, ‘they are not animals in a zoo, Mulcaster, to be goggled20 at. They are artists, my dear, very great artists, to be revered21.’
Anthony Blanche and Boy Mulcaster were at the table where the wine stood. ‘Thank God here’s someone I know,’ said Mulcaster, as I joined them. ‘Girl brought me. Can’t see her anywhere.’
‘She’s given you the slip, my dear, and do you know why? Because you look ridiculously out of place, Mulcaster. It isn’t your kind of party at all; you ought not to be here; you ought to go away, you know, to the Old Hundredth or some lugubrious22 dance in Belgrave Square.’
‘Just come from one, ‘ said Mulcaster. ‘Too early for the Old Hundredth. I’ll stay on a bit. Things may cheer up.’
‘I spit on you,’ said Anthony. ‘Let me talk to you, Charles.’ We took a bottle and our glasses and found a comer in another room. At our feet five members of the ‘Black Birds’ orchestra squatted23 on their heels and threw dice24. ‘That one, ‘ said Anthony, ‘the rather pale one, my dear, conked Mrs Arnold Frickheimer the other morning on the nut, my dear, with a bottle of milk.’ Almost immediately, inevitably26, we began to talk of Sebastian. ‘My dear, he’s such a sot. He came to live with me in Marseille last year when you threw him over, and really it was as much as I could stand. Sip27, sip, sip like a dowager all day long. And so sly. I was always missing little things, my dear, things I rather liked; once I lost two suits that had arrived from Lesley and Roberts that morning. Of course, I didn’t know it was Sebastian - there were some rather queer fish, my dear, in and out of my little apartment. Who knows better than you my taste for queer fish? Well, eventually, my dear, we found the pawnshop where Sebastian was p-p-popping them and then he hadn’t got the tickets; there was a market for them, too, at the bistro.
‘I can see that puritanical28, disapproving29 look in your eye, dear Charles, as though you thought I had led the boy on. It’s one of Sebastian’s less lovable qualities that he always gives the impression of being l-1-led on - like a little horse at a circus. But I assure you I did everything. I said to him again and again, “Why drink? If you want to be intoxicated30 there are so many much more delicious things.” I took him to quite the best man; well, you know him as well as I do, Nada Alopov and Jean Luxmore and everyone we know has been to him for years - he’s always in the Regina Bar - and then we had trouble over that because Sebastian gave him a bad cheque - a s-s-stumer, my dear - and a whole lot of very menacing men came round to the flat thugs, my dear - and Sebastian was making no sense at the time and it was all most unpleasant.’ Boy Mulcaster wandered towards us and sat down, without encouragement, by my side.
‘Drink running short in there,’ he said, helping32 himself from our bottle and emptying it. ‘Not a soul in the place I ever set eyes on before - all black fellows.’ Anthony ignored him and continued: ‘So then we left Marseille and went to Tangier, and there, my dear, Sebastian took up with his new friend. How can I describe him? He is like the footman in Warning Shadows - a great clod of a German who’d been in the Foreign Legion. He got out by shooting off his great toe. It hadn’t healed yet. Sebastian found him, starving as tout33 to one of the houses in the Kasbah, and brought him to stay with us. It was too macabre34. So back I came, my dear, to good old England - Good old England,’ he repeated, embracing with a flourish of his hand the Negroes gambling35 at our feet, Mulcaster staring blankly before him, and our hostess who, in pyjamas36, now introduced herself to us.
‘Never seen you before,’ she said. ‘Never asked you. Who are all this white trash, anyway? Seems to me I must be in the wrong house.’ ‘A time of national emergency,’ said Mulcaster. ‘Anything may happen.’ ‘Is the party going well?’ she asked anxiously. ‘D’you think Florence Mills would sing? We’ve met before,’ she added to Anthony.
‘Often, my dear, but you never asked me tonight.’
‘Oh dear, perhaps I don’t like you. I thought I liked everyone.’ ‘Do you think,’ asked Mulcaster, when our hostess had left us, ‘that it might be witty37 to give the fire alarm?’
‘Yes, Boy, run away and ring it.’
‘Might cheer things up, I mean.’
‘Exactly.’
So Mulcaster left us in search of the telephone.
‘I think Sebastian and his lame38 chum went to French Morocco,’ continued Anthony. ‘They were in trouble with the Tangier police when I left them. The Marchioness has been a positive pest ever since I came to London, trying to make me get into touch with them. What a time that poor woman’s having! It only shows there’s some justice in life.’ Presently Miss Mills began to sing and everyone, except the crap players, crowded to the next room.
‘That’s my girl,’ said Mulcaster. ‘Over there, with that black fellow. That’s the girl who brought me.’
‘She seems to have forgotten you now.’
‘Yes. I wish I hadn’t come. Let’s go somewhere.’ Two fire engines drove up as we left and a host of helmeted figures joined the throng39 upstairs. ‘That chap, Blanche,’ said Mulcaster, ‘not a good fellow. I put him in Mercury once.’ We went to a number of night clubs. In two years Mulcaster seemed to have attained40 his simple ambition of being known and liked in such places. At the last of them he and I were kindled41 by a great flame of patriotism42.
‘You and I ‘ he said, ‘were too young to fight in the war. Other chaps fought, millions of them dead. Not us. We’ll show them. We’ll show the dead chaps we can fight, too.’ ‘That’s why I’m here,’ I said. ‘Come from overseas, rallying to old country in hour of need.’
‘Like Australians.’
‘Like the poor dead Australians.’
‘What you in?’
‘Nothing yet. War not ready.’
‘Only one thing to join - Bill Meadows’ show Defence Corps43. All good chaps. Being fixed44 in Bratt’s.’
‘I’ll join.’
‘You remember Bratt’s?’
‘No. I’ll join that, too.’
‘That’s right. All good chaps like the dead chaps.’
So I joined Bill Meadows’ show, which was a flying squad45, protecting food deliveries in the poorest parts of London. First I was enrolled in the Defence Corps, took an oath of loyalty46, and was given a helmet and truncheon; then I was put up for Bratt’s Club and, with a number of other recruits, elected at a committee meeting specially47 called for the occasion. For a week we sat under orders in Bratt’s and thrice a day we drove out in a lorry at the head of a convoy48 of milk vans. We were jeered49 at and sometimes pelted50 with muck but only once did we go into action.
We were sitting round after luncheon51 that day when Bill Meadows came back from the telephone in high spirits.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘There’s a perfectly52 good battle in the Commercial Road.’ We drove at great speed and arrived to find a steel hawser53 stretched between lamp posts, an overturned truck and a policeman, alone on the pavement, being kicked by half a dozen youths. On either side of this centre of disturbance54, and at a little distance from it, two opposing parties had formed. Near us, as we disembarked, a second policeman was sitting on the pavement, dazed, with his head in his hands and blood running through his fingers; two or three sympathizers were standing55 over him; on the other side of the hawser was a hostile knot of young dockers. We charged in cheerfully, relieved the policeman, and were just falling upon the main body of the enemy when we came into collision with a party of local clergy56 and town councillors who arrived simultaneously57 by another route to try persuasion58. They were our only victims, for just as they went down there was a cry of ‘Look out. The coppers,’ and a lorry-load of police drew up in our rear.
The crowd broke and disappeared. We picked up the peace-makers (only one of whom was seriously hurt), patrolled some of the side streets looking for trouble and finding none, and at length returned to Bratt’s. Next day the General Strike was called off and the country everywhere, except in the coal fields, returned to normal. It was as though a beast long fabled59 for its ferocity had emerged for an hour, scented60 danger, and slunk back to its lair61. It had not been worth leaving Paris. Jean, who joined another company, had a pot of ferns dropped on his head by an elderly widow in Camden Town and was in hospital for a week.
It was through my membership of Bill Meadows’ squad that Julia learned I was in England. She telephoned to say her mother was anxious to see me. ‘You’ll find her terribly ill,’ she said.
I went to Marchmain House on the first morning of peace. Sir Adrian Porson passed me in the hall, leaving, as I arrived; he held a bandanna62 handkerchief to his face and felt blindly for his hat and stick; he was in tears.
I was shown into the library and in less than a minute Julia joined me. She shook hands with a gentleness and gravity of a ghost.
‘It’s sweet of you to come. Mummy has kept asking for you, but I don’t know if she’ll be able to see you now, after all. She’s just said “good-bye” to Adrian Porson and it’s tired her.’
‘Good-bye?’
‘Yes. She’s dying. She may live a week or two or she may go at any minute. She’s so weak. I’ll go and ask nurse.’
The stillness of death seemed in the house already. No one ever sat in the library at Marchmain House. It was the one ugly room in either of their houses. The bookcases of Victorian oak held volumes of Hansard and obsolete63 encyclopedias64 that were never opened; the bare mahogany table seemed set for the meeting of a committee; the place had the air of being both public and unfrequented; outside lay the forecourt, the railings, the quiet cul-de-sac.
Presently Julia returned.
‘No, I’m afraid you can’t see her. She’s asleep. She may lie like that for hours; I can tell you what she wanted. Let’s go somewhere else. I hate this room.’ We went across the hall to the small drawing-room where luncheon parties used to assemble, and sat on either side of the fireplace. Julia seemed to reflect the crimson65 and gold of the walls and lose some of her warmness.
‘First, I know, mummy wanted to say how sorry she is she was so beastly to you last time you met. She’s spoken of it often. She knows now she was wrong about you. I’m quite sure you understood and put it out of your mind immediately, but it’s the kind of thing mummy can never forgive herself - it’s the kind of thing she so seldom did.’ ‘Do tell her I understood completely.’
‘The other thing, of course, you have guessed - Sebastian. She wants him. I don’t know if that’s possible. Is it?’
‘I hear he’s in a very bad way.’
‘We heard that, too. We cabled to the last address we had, but there was no answer. There still may be time for him to see her. I thought of you as the only hope, as soon, as I heard you were in England. Will you try and get him? It’s an awful lot to ask, but I think Sebastian would want it, too, if he realized.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘There’s no one else we can ask. Rex is so busy.’
‘Yes. I heard reports of all he’s been doing organizing the gas works.’ ‘Oh yes,’ Julia said with a touch of her old dryness. ‘He’s made a lot of kudos67 out of the strike.’
Then we talked for a few minutes about the Bratt’s squad. She told me Brideshead had refused to take any public service because he was not satisfied with the justice of the cause; Cordelia was in London, in bed now, as she had been watching by her mother all night. I told her I had taken up architectural painting and that I enjoyed it. All this talk was nothing; we had said all we had to say in the first two minutes; I stayed for tea and then left her.
Air France ran a service of a kind to Casablanca; there I took the bus to Fez, starting at dawn and arriving in the new town at evening. I telephoned from the hotel to the British Consul68 and dined with him that evening, in his charming house by the walls of the old town. He was a kind, serious man.
‘I’m delighted someone has come to took after young Flyte at last,’ he said. ‘He’s been something of a thorn in our sides here. This is no place for a remittance69 man. The French don’t understand him at all. They think everyone who’s not engaged in trade is a spy. It’s not as though he lived like a Milord. Things aren’t easy here. There’s war going on not thirty miles from this house, though you might not think it. We had some young fools on bicycles only last week who’d come to volunteer for Abdul Krim’s army.
‘Then the Moors70 are a tricky71 lot; they don’t hold with drink and our young friend, as you may know, spends most of his day drinking. What does he want to come here for? There’s plenty of room for him at Rabat or Tangier, where they cater72 for tourists. He’s taken a house in the native town, you know. I tried to stop him, but he got it from a Frenchman in the Department of Arts. I don’t say there’s any harm in him, but he’s an anxiety. There’s an awful fellow sponging on him - a German out of the Foreign Legion. A thoroughly73 bad hat by all accounts. There’s bound to be trouble. ‘Mind you, I like Flyte. I don’t see much of him. He used to come here for baths until he got fixed up at his house. He was always perfectly charming, and my wife took a great fancy to him. What he needs is occupation.’
I explained my errand.
‘You’ll probably find him at home now. Goodness knows there’s nowhere to go in the evenings in the old town. If you like I’ll send the porter to show you the way.’ So I set out after dinner, with the consular74 porter going ahead lantern in hand. Morocco was a new and strange country to me. Driving that day, mile after mile, up the smooth, strategic road, past the vineyards and military posts and the new, white settlements and the early crops already standing high in the vast, open fields, and the hoardings advertising75 the staples76 of France - Dubonnet, Michelin, Magasin du Louvre - I had thought it all very suburban77 and up-to-date; now, under the stars, in the walled city, whose streets were gentle, dusty stairways, and whose walls rose windowless on either side, closed overhead, then opened again to the stars; where the dust lay thick among the smooth paving stones and figures passed silently, robed in white, on soft slippers78 or hard, bare soles; where the air was scented with cloves79 and incense80 and wood smoke - now I knew what had drawn81- Sebastian here and held him so long. The consular porter strode arrogantly82 ahead with his light swinging and his tall cane83 banging; sometimes an open doorway84 revealed a silent group seated in golden lamplight round a brazier.
‘Very dirty peoples,’ the porter said scornfully, over his shoulder. ‘No education. French leave them dirty. Not like British peoples. My peoples,’ he said, ‘always very British peoples.’
For he was from the Sudan Police, and regarded this ancient centre of his culture as a New Zealander might regard Rome.
At length we came to the last of many studded doors, and the porter beat on it with his stick.
‘British Lord’s house,’ he said.
Lamplight and a dark face appeared at the grating. The consular porter spoke66 peremptorily85; bolts were withdrawn86 and we entered a small courtyard with a well in its centre and a vine trained overhead.
‘I wait here,’ said the porter. ‘You go with this native fellow.’ I entered the house, down a step and into the living-room I found a gramophone, an oil-stove and, between them, a young man. Later, when I looked about me, I noticed other, more agreeable things - the rugs on the floor, the embroidered87 silk on the walls, the carved and painted beams of the ceiling, the heavy, pierced lamp that hung from a chain and cast soft shadows of its own tracery about the room. But on first entering these three things, the gramophone for its noise - it was playing a French record of jazz band - the stove for its smell, and the young man for his wolfish look, struck my senses. He was lolling in a basket chair, with a bandaged foot stuck forward on a box; he was dressed in a kind of thin, mid-European imitation tweed with a tennis shirt open at the neck; the unwounded foot wore a brown canvas shoe. There was a brass88 tray by his side on wooden legs, and on it were two beer bottles, a dirty plate, and a saucer full of cigarette ends; he held a glass of beer in his hand and a cigarette lay on his lower lip and stuck there when he spoke. He had long fair hair combed back without a parting and a face that was unnaturally89 lined for a man of his obvious youth; one of his front teeth was missing, so that his sibilants came sometimes with a lisp, sometimes with a disconcerting whistle, which he covered with a giggle90; the teeth he had were stained with tobacco and set far apart.
This was plainly the ‘thoroughly bad hat’ of the consul’s description, the film footman of Anthony’s.
‘I’m looking for Sebastian Flyte. This is his house, is it not?’ I spoke loudly to make myself heard above the dance music, but he answered softly in English fluent enough to suggest that it was now habitual91 to him.
‘Yeth. But he isn’t here. There’s no one but me.’
‘I’ve come from England to see him on important business. Can you tell me where I can find him?’
The record came to its end. The German turned it over, wound up the machine and started it playing again before answering.
‘Sebastian’s sick. The brothers took him away to the Infirmary. Maybe they’ll let you thee him, maybe not. I got to go there myself one day thoon to have my foot dressed. I’ll ask them then. When he’s better they’ll let you thee him, maybe.’ There was another chair and I sat down on it. Seeing that I meant to stay, the German offered me some beer.
‘You’re not Thebastian’s brother?’ he said. ‘Cousin maybe? Maybe you married hith thister?’
‘I’m only a friend. We were at the university together.’ ‘I had a friend at the university. We studied History. My friend was cleverer than me; a little weak fellow - I used to pick him up and shake him when I was angry - but tho clever. Then one day we said: “What the hell? There is no work in Germany. Germany is down the drain,” so we said good-bye to our professors, and they said: “Yes, Germany is down the drain. There is nothing for a student to do here now,” and we went away and walked and walked and at last we came here. Then we said, “There is no army in Germany now, but we must be tholdiers,” so we joined the Legion. My friend died of dysentery last year, campaigning in the Atlas92. When he was dead, I said, “What the hell?” so I shot my foot. It is now full of pus, though I have done it one year.’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s very interesting. But my immediate25 concern is with Sebastian.
Perhaps you would tell me about him.’
‘He is a very good fellow, Sebastian. He is all right for me. Tangier was a stinking93 place. He brought me here - nice house, nice food, nice servant - everything is all right for me here, I reckon. I like it all right.’
‘His mother is very ill,’ I said. ‘I have come to tell him.’
‘She rich?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why don’t she give him more money? Then we could live at Casablanca, maybe, in a nice flat. You know her well.? You could make her give him more money?’ ‘What’s the matter with him?’
‘I don’t know. I reckon maybe he drink too much. The brothers will look after him.
It’s all right for him there. The brothers are good fellows. Very cheap there.’
He clapped his hands and ordered more beer.
‘You thee? A nice thervant to look after me. It is all right.’ When I had got the name of the hospital I left.
‘Tell Thebastian I am still here and all right. I reckon he’s worrying about me, maybe.’
The hospital, where I went next morning, was a collection of bungalows94, between the old and the new towns. It was kept by Franciscans. I made my way through a crowd of diseased Moors to the doctor’s room. He was a layman95, clean shaven, dressed in white, starched96 overalls97. We spoke in French, and he told me Sebastian was in no danger, but quite unfit to travel. He had had the grippe, with one lung slightly affected98; he was very weak; he lacked resistance; what could one expect? He was an alcoholic99. The doctor spoke dispassionately, almost brutally100, with the relish101 men of science sometimes have for limiting themselves to inessentials, for pruning102 back their work to the point of sterility103; but the bearded, barefooted brother in whose charge he put me, the man of no scientific pretensions104 who did the dirty jobs of the ward10, had a different story. ‘He’s so patient. Not like a young man at all. He ties there and never complains - and there is much to complain of. We have no facilities. The Government give us what they can spare from kind. There is a poor German boy with the soldiers. And he is so kind. There is a poor German boy with a foot that will not heal and secondary syphilis, who comes here for treatment. Lord Flyte found him starving in Tangier and took him in and gave him a home. A real Samaritan.’
‘Poor simple monk,’ I thought, ‘poor booby.’ God forgive me! Sebastian was in the wing kept for Europeans, where the beds were divided by low partitions into cubicles105 with some air of privacy. He was lying with his hands on the quilt staring at the wall, where the only ornament106 was a religious oleograph. ‘Your friend,’ said the brother.
He looked round slowly.
‘Oh, I thought he meant Kurt. What are you doing here, Charles?’ He was more than ever emaciated107; drink, which made others fat and red, seemed to wither108 Sebastian. The brother left us, and I sat by his bed and talked about his illness. ‘I was out of my mind for a day or two,’ he said. ‘I kept thinking I was back in Oxford109. You went to my house? Did you like it? Is Kurt still there? I won’t ask you if you liked Kurt; no one does. It’s funny - I couldn’t get on without him, you know.’
Then I told him about his mother. He said nothing for some time, but lay gazing at the oleograph of the Seven Dolours. Then:
‘Poor mummy. She really was a femme fatale, wasn’t she? She killed at a touch.’ I telegraphed to Julia that Sebastian was unable to travel and stayed a week at Fez, visiting the hospital daily until he was well enough to move. His first sign of returning strength, on the second day of my visit, was to ask for brandy. By next day he had got some, some how, and kept it under the bedclothes.
The doctor said: ‘Your friend is drinking again. It is forbidden here. What can I do? This is not a reformatory school. I cannot police the wards31. I am here to cure people, not to protect them from vicious habits, or teach them self-control. Cognac will not hurt him now. It will make him weaker for the next time he is ill, and then one day some little trouble will carry him off, pouff. This is not a home for inebriates110. He must go at the end of the week.’
The lay-brother said: ‘Your friend is so much happier today, it is like one transfigured.’
‘Poor simple monk,’ I thought, ‘poor booby’; but he added, ‘You know why? He has a bottle of cognac in bed with him. It is the second I have found. No sooner do I take one away than he gets another. He is so naughty. It is the Arab boys who fetch it for him. But it is good to see him happy again when he has been so sad.’
On my last afternoon I said, ‘Sebastian, now your mother’s dead’ - for the news had reached us that morning - ‘do you think of going back to England?’ ‘It would be lovely, in some ways,’ he said, ‘but do you think Kurt would like it?’
‘For God’s sake,’ I said, ‘you don’t mean to spend your life with Kurt, do you?’ ‘I don’t know. He seems to mean to spend it with me. “It’th all right for him, I reckon, maybe,”’ he said, mimicking111 Kurt’s accent, and then he added what, if I had paid more attention, should have given me the key I lacked; at the time I heard and remembered it, without taking notice. ‘You know, Charles,’ he said, ‘it’s rather a pleasant change when all your life you’ve had people looking after you, to have someone to look after yourself. Only of course it has to be someone pretty hopeless to need looking after by me.’ I was able to straighten his money affairs before I left. He had lived till then by getting into difficulties and then telegraphing for odd sums to his lawyers. I saw the branch manager of the bank and arranged for him, if funds were forthcoming from London, to receive Sebastian’s quarterly allowance and pay him a weekly sum of pocket money with a reserve to be drawn in emergencies. This sum was only to be given to Sebastian personally, and only when the manager was satisfied that he had a proper use for it. Sebastian agreed readily to all this.
‘Otherwise,’ he said, ‘Kurt will get me to sign a cheque for the whole lot when I’m tight and then he’ll go off and get into all kinds of trouble.’ I saw Sebastian home from the hospital. He seemed weaker in his basket chair than he had been in bed. The two sick men, he and Kurt, sat opposite one another with the gramophone between them.
‘It was time you came back, ‘ said Kurt. ‘I need you.’
‘Do you, Kurt?’
‘I reckon so. It’s not so good being alone when you’re sick. That boy’s a lazy fellow - always slipping off when I want him. Once he stayed out all night and there was no one to make my coffee when I woke up. It’s no good having a foot full of pus. Times I can’t sleep good. Maybe another time I shall slip off, too, and go where I can be looked after.’ He clapped his hands but no servant came. ‘You see?’ he said.
‘What d’you want?’
‘Cigarettes. I got some in the bag under my bed.’
Sebastian began painfully to rise from his chair.
‘I’ll get them,’ I said. ‘Where’s his bed?’
‘No, that’s my job,’ said Sebastian.
‘Yeth, ‘ said Kurt, ‘I reckon that’s Sebastian’s job.’
So I left him with his friend in the little enclosed house at the end of the alley112. There was nothing more I could do for Sebastian.
I had meant to return direct to Paris, but this business of Sebastian’s allowance meant that I must go to London and see Brideshead. I travelled by sea, taking the P. & 0. from Tangier, and was home in early June.
‘Do you consider,’ asked Brideshead, ‘that there is anything vicious in my brother’s connection with this German?’
‘No. I’m sure not. It’s simply a case of two waifs coming together.’
‘You say he is a criminal?’
‘I said “a criminal type”. He’s been in the military prison and was dishonourably discharged.’
‘And the doctor says Sebastian is killing113 himself with drink?’
‘Weakening himself. He hasn’t D.T.s or cirrhosis.’
‘He’s not insane?’
‘Certainly not. He’s found a companion he happens to like and a place where he happens to like living.’
‘Then he must have his allowance as you suggest. The thing is quite clear.’ In some ways Brideshead was an easy man to deal with. He had a kind of mad certainty about everything which made his decisions swift and easy. ‘Would you like to paint this house?’ he asked suddenly. ‘A picture of the front, another of the back on the park, another of the staircase, another of the big drawing-room? Four small oils; that is what my father wants done for a record, to keep at Brideshead. I don’t know any painters. Julia said you specialized114 in architecture.’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I should like to very much.’
‘You know it’s being pulled down? My father’s selling it. They are going to put up a block of flats here. They’re keeping the name - we can’t stop them apparently115.’ ‘What a sad thing.’
‘Well, I’m sorry of course. But you think it good architecturally?’
‘One of the most beautiful houses I know.’
‘Can’t see it. I’ve always thought it rather ugly. Perhaps your pictures will make me see it differently.’
This was my first commission; I had to work against time, for the contractors116 were only waiting for the final signature to start their work of destruction. In spite, or perhaps, because, of that for it is my vice13 to spend too long on a canvas, never content to leave well alone - those four paintings are particular favourites of mine, and it was their success, both with myself and others, that confirmed me in what has since been my career.
I began in the long drawing-room, for they were anxious to shift the furniture, which had stood there since it was built. It was a long, elaborate, symmetrical Adam room, with two bays of windows opening into Green Park. The light, streaming in from the west on the afternoon when I began to paint there, was fresh green from the young trees outside.
I had the perspective set out in pencil and the detail carefully placed. I held back from painting, like a diver on the water’s edge; once in I found myself buoyed117 and exhilarated. I was normally a slow and deliberate painter; that afternoon and all next day, and the day after, I worked fast. I could do nothing wrong. At the end of each passage I paused, tense, afraid to start the next, fearing, like a gambler, that luck must turn and the pile be lost. Bit by bit, minute by minute, the thing came into being. There were no difficulties; the intricate multiplicity of light and colour became a whole; the right colour was where I wanted it, on the palette; each brush stroke, as soon as it was complete, seemed to have been there always.
Presently on the last afternoon I heard a voice behind me say: ‘May I stay here and watch?’
I turned and found Cordelia.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘if you don’t talk,’ and I worked on, oblivious118 of her, until the failing sun made me put up my brushes.
‘It must be lovely to be able to do that.’
I had forgotten she was there.
‘It is.’
I could not even now leave my picture, although the sun was down and the room fading to monochrome. I took it from the easel and held it up to the windows, put it back and lightened a shadow. Then, suddenly weary in head and eyes and back and arm, I gave it up for the evening and turned to Cordelia.
She was now fifteen and had grown tall, nearly to her full height, in the last eighteen months. She had not the promise of Julia’s full quattrocento loveliness; there was a touch of Brideshead already in her length of nose and high cheekbone; she was in black, mourning for her mother.
‘I’m tired,’ I said.
‘I bet you are. Is it finished?’
‘Practically. I must go over it again tomorrow.’
‘D’you know it’s long past dinner time? There’s no one here to cook anything now. I only came up today, and didn’t realize how far the decay had gone. You wouldn’t like to take me out to dinner, would, you?’
We left by the garden door, into the park, and walked in the twilight119 to the Ritz Grill120.
‘You’ve seen Sebastian? He won’t come home, even now?’ I did not realize till then that she had understood so much. I said so ‘Well, I love him more than anyone,’ she said. ‘It’s sad about Marchers, isn’t it? Do you know they’re going to build a block of flats, and that Rex wanted to take I what he called a “penthouse” at the top. Isn’t it like him? Poor Julia. That was too much for her. He couldn’t understand at all; he thought she would like to keep up with her old home. Things have all come to an end very quickly, haven’t they? Apparently papa has been terribly in debt for a long time. Selling Marchers has put him straight again and saved I don’t know how much a year in rates. But it seems a shame to pull it down. Julia says she’d sooner that than to have someone else live there.’ ‘What’s going to happen to you?’
‘What, indeed? There are all kinds of suggestions. Aunt Fanny Rosscommon wants me to live with her. Then Rex and Julia talk of taking over half Brideshead and living there. Papa won’t come back. We thought he might, but no. ‘They’ve closed the chapel121 at Brideshead, Bridey and the Bishop122; mummy’s Requiem123 was the last mass said there. After she was buried the priest came in - I was there alone. I don’t think he saw me - and took out the altar stone and put it in his bag; then he burned the wads of wool with the holy oil on them and threw the ash outside; he emptied the holy-water stoop and blew out the lamp in the sanctuary124, and left the tabernacle open, and empty, as though from now on it was always to be Good Friday. I suppose none of this makes any sense to you, Charles, poor agnostic. I stayed there till he was gone, and then, suddenly, there wasn’t any chapel there any more, just an oddly decorated room. I can’t tell you what it felt like. You’ve.never been to Tenebrae, I suppose?’
‘Never.’
‘Well, if you had you’d know what the Jews felt about their temple. Quomodo sedet sola civitas...it’s a beautiful chant. You ought to go once, just to hear it.’ ‘Still trying to convert me, Cordelia?’
‘Oh, no. That’s all over, too. D’you know what papa said when he became a Catholic? Mummy told me once. He said to her: “You have brought back my family to the faith of their ancestors.” Pompous125, you know. It takes people different ways. Anyhow, the family haven’t been very constant, have they? There’s him gone and Sebastian gone and Julia gone. But God won’t let them go for long, you know. I wonder if you remember the story mummy read us the evening Sebastian first got drunk I mean the bad evening. “Father Brown” said something like “I caught him” (the thief) “with an unseen hook and an invisible line which is long enough to let him wander to the ends of the world and still to bring him back with a twitch126 upon the thread.”’ We scarcely mentioned her mother. All the time we talked, she ate voraciously127. Once she said:
‘Did you see Sir Adrian Porson’s poem in The Times? It’s funny: he knew her best of anyone - he loved her all his life, you know - and yet it doesn’t seem to have anything to do with her at all.
‘I got on best with her of any of us, but I don’t believe I ever really loved her. Not as she wanted or deserved. It’s odd I didn’t, because I’m full of natural affections.’ ‘I never really knew your Mother,’ I said.
‘You didn’t like her. I sometimes think when people wanted to hate God they hated mummy.’
‘What do you mean by that, Cordelia?’
‘Well, you see, she was saintly but she wasn’t a saint. No one could really hate a saint, could they? They can’t really hate God either. When they want to hate him and his saints, they have to find something like themselves and pretend it’s God and hate that. I suppose you think that’s all bosh.’
‘I heard almost the same thing once before - from someone very different.’
‘Oh, I’m quite serious. I’ve thought about it a lot. It seems to explain poor mummy.’ Then this odd child tucked into her dinner with renewed relish. ‘First time I’ve ever been taken out to dinner alone at a restaurant,’ she said. Later: ‘When Julia heard they were selling Marchers she said: “Poor Cordelia. She won’t have her coming-out ball there after all.” It’s a thing we used to talk about - like my being her bridesmaid. That didn’t come off either. When Julia had her ball I was allowed down for an hour, to sit in the corner with Aunt Fanny, and she said, “In six years’ time you’ll have all this.”...I hope I’ve got a vocation128.’ ‘I don’t know what that means.’
‘It means you can be a nun129. If you haven’t a vocation it’s no good however much you want to be; and if you have a vocation, you can’t get away from it, however much you hate it. Bridey thinks he has a vocation and hasn’t. I used to think Sebastian had and hated it - but I don’t know now. Everything has changed so much suddenly.’ But I had no patience with this convent chatter130. I had felt the brush take life in my hand that afternoon; I had had my finger in the great, succulent pie of creation. I was a man of the Renaissance131 that evening - of Browning’s renaissance. I, who had walked the streets of Rome in Genoa velvet132 and had seen the stars through Galileo’s tube, spurned133 the friars, with their dusty tomes and their sunken, jealous eyes and their crabbed134 hairsplitting speech.
‘You’ll fall in love,’ I said.
‘Oh, pray not. I say, do you think I could have another of those scrumptious meringues?’
我在一九二六年的春天由于当时的总罢工回到了伦敦。
这次总罢工是巴黎的一个话题。法国人对旧日朋友的窘困处境总是眉飞色舞，而且把海峡对面我们那些相当含糊不清的概念都变成了他们自己十分精确的术语，预言将在英国发生革命和内战。每天傍晚报摊上都要宣扬这场厄运的消息，老相识们在咖啡馆里半带嘲讽地打着招呼：“哈，我的朋友，你在这儿总比在国内强多了，是吧？”直到我和几个与我处境相同的朋友真的相信我们的祖国处在危急中，而且我们的责任就在祖国那边为止。我们这伙人中还加进了一位比利时未来主义派，平时他是用一个我认为是假的名字：吉恩·德·布里萨克·拉·莫特，他宣称在任何地方任何战争中有权拿起武器对下层阶级作战。
我们这些人走到一起来了，都是精神抖擞的男子汉，大家盼望着到了多佛尔。在我们面前展现出近些年来在欧洲各地反复出现而且没有什么变化的历史情景，这种情景在我脑海里勾画出一幅清晰然而是拼凑出来的“革命”的画面——邮政局上红旗飘扬，有轨电车被推翻在地，到处是醉醺醺的兵士们，监狱被打开，被释放的犯人成群结伙在街头游荡，从首都开出的火车到不了目的地。这种情形人们在报纸上读到过，在电影里看到过，并且在咖啡馆的桌子旁边反复听了六七年，这种情形现在成为一个人的亲身经历，以前都是间接听来的，例如所谓佛兰德的泥淖和美索不达米亚的苍蝇这一类的东西。
后来我们靠岸下船，遇到的却是旧时海关那套例行手续，正点到达的邮船联运列车，在维多利亚火车站的月台上排成一行的、聚集在头等车厢旁的搬运工人，以及排成长队等待客人的出租汽车。
“我们要分手啦，”大家说道，“看看在发生什么事啦。晚饭的时候再碰碰头，那时再交换情况。”不过我们心里已经明白什么事也没有发生；至少没有发生需要我们参加的事情。
“噢，亲爱的，”我父亲说道，他碰巧在楼梯碰见我，“这么快又见到你，多叫人高兴。”（我去国外已经有十五个月了。）“你回来正赶上困难的时候，知道吧。两天以后他们还要举行一次总罢工——全都是胡闹——所以我也说不准什么时候你才能够离开这里。”
我想起我放弃了的本来要在塞纳河畔路灯亮时举行的一个晚会和那里的同伴们——当时我正惦念着两位解放了的美国姑娘，她们合住在奥特伊尔区的单身宿舍里——这么一想，我真希望我没回来就好了。
这天晚上我们在皇家咖啡馆吃的饭。那天气氛倒多少有些战争的味道，咖啡馆里挤满了到伦敦来服国民义务兵役的没有毕业的大学生。从剑桥来的一伙学生整个下午都在签名当运输部门的送信人，而他们桌子后面的另一伙学生则被录用为特种警察了。这一伙或那一伙不时地会回过头来对那一伙挑衅地叫嚷，不过像这种背对背的叫喊并不会导致严重的冲突，后来他们互相敬了高杯的淡啤酒就算完事了。
“你们应该在霍尔蒂开进布达佩斯的时候到达那儿才对。”吉恩说，“那才叫政治呢。”
这天晚上瑞琴特公园里有一个为刚刚抵达英国的“黑鸟”乐队举行的集会。我们中的一个受到邀请，于是我们也跟着去了。
对于我们这些经常出入“砖顶”咖啡馆和布洛海街黑人舞厅的人来说，那里的景象并没有什么特殊的地方；当我刚走进公园大门我就听到了一个决不会弄错的嗓音，此时听起来就像从遥远的过去传来的一个回声。
“不，”这个嗓音说道，“他们并不是动物园里给人瞪着眼睛看的动物，马尔卡斯特。他们是艺术家，亲爱的，非常伟大的艺术家，应当受到尊敬。”
安东尼·布兰奇和博伊·马尔卡斯特这时正坐在桌子边，桌子上摆着葡萄酒。
“谢天谢地，幸亏我这儿还有认识的人。”马尔卡斯特说，这时我和他们坐到了一起。“原来是个姑娘带我来的，现在不知她跑到哪去了。”
“她溜掉啦，亲爱的，你知道原因吗？因为你看上去可笑地不适当，马尔卡斯特。这里压根儿就不是你这种人来的地方；你不应该在这儿，知道吧，应该去老一百号，再不就去贝尔格雷夫街参加那种悲惨的舞会。”
“就是从一个舞会来这儿的，”马尔卡斯特说，“去老一百号现在还太早。我还得在这儿再耽搁会儿。也许会热闹起来的。”
“我真不屑理你，”安东尼说，“查尔斯，还是跟你说说话吧。”
我们拿上酒瓶和杯子到另一间屋子里找到了一个角落。我们的脚边有五个“黑鸟”管弦乐队的人蹲着掷骰子玩。
“那边的一个，”安东尼说，“就是脸色稍微苍白一些的那个，亲爱的，有天早晨他给阿诺德·弗里克海姆太太的脑袋上梆地来了一下，亲爱的，是用牛奶瓶打的。”
差不多是立刻地、也是必然地，我们谈起了塞巴斯蒂安。
“亲爱的，他已经成了那种酒鬼了。去年你把他甩了以后他就跟我一起住在马赛，也真够我受的。整天就像个有钱的老贵妇，喝呀，喝呀，喝呀。而且还偷偷摸摸。我总是丢失一些小东西，亲爱的，那都是我很喜欢的东西。那天早晨，我丢了两套衣服，是莱斯利和罗伯茨送来的。当然啦，我并不知道就是塞巴斯蒂安干的——因为我那套小公寓进进出出的差不多都是些阴阳怪气的家伙。我偏爱这种家伙你知道的最清楚了。嘿，末了，我们发现了塞巴斯蒂安把我东西当——当——当掉的那家当铺，可是后来他手里可没有什么当票了；当票也是有销路的，在小酒馆里就可以卖掉。
“我看得出来你眼睛里那种清教徒式的、不以为然的神色，亲爱的查尔斯，大概你以为我是在教唆那个小家伙吧。这就是塞巴斯蒂安不太招人喜欢的一个品质，他给人的印象总好像有人在教——教——教唆他——好像马戏团的小马驹子被牵着跑似的。可是我向你担保，我一切都做了。我一再苦口婆心地对他说：‘干吗喝酒？如果你想要陶醉陶醉的话，开心的事可多啦。’我带他去找那个挺不错的人；对啦，你跟我一样，对那个人也是很了解的，纳达·阿罗波夫，琼·勒克斯莫尔，所有我们认识的一切人，都和他有过好几年的来往——他总是去女王酒吧——可是后来，我们都为此出了麻烦，因为塞巴斯蒂安给他一张空头支票——一张假——假——假支票，亲爱的——一大帮子凶神恶煞样的家伙闯到公寓里来了——都是些暴徒，亲爱的——当时塞巴斯蒂安还懵懵懂懂的呢，反正这事情可真让人扫兴透了。”
这时博伊·马尔卡斯特朝我们这边蹭过来，他坐下来，不请自来，坐到了我旁边。
“那边的酒快喝光了。”他说着，自己从我们的酒瓶里倒出酒来，把酒瓶倒空了。“这个地方我连一个人也没有见过——都是些黑家伙。”
安东尼不理睬他，接着说下去：“这以后我们就离开了马赛，又去了丹吉尔，在那儿，亲爱的，塞巴斯蒂安和他那位新结识的朋友可真是打得火热。我怎么形容他呢？他很像电影《警告的阴影》里的那位男仆人——德国人的那种大块头，在外籍军团干过。由于他的大脚趾被打掉了就离开外籍军团了。到现在伤口还没有好呢。塞巴斯蒂安发现他时，他正在卡斯巴大街的一家商号当推销员，正在饿肚子。样子可怕极了。塞巴斯蒂安把他带来和我们住在一起。太可怕了。所以我就回来了，亲爱的，回到善良古老的英格兰——善良古老的英格兰。”他重复了一遍，还把手一挥，把在我们脚边赌博的黑人也包括了进去，这时马尔卡斯特呆呆地望着前边，我们那位身穿着睡衣睡裤的女主人向我们做自我介绍。
“以前从没有见到过你们呀，”她说，“也从来没有请过你们。不管怎样，这些穷酸白人都是什么人？我好像走错了地方呢。”
“国难当头，”马尔卡斯特说，“什么事情都可能发生的。”
“聚会进行得挺好吧？”她焦虑地问道，“你们觉得今晚弗洛伦斯·米尔斯会唱歌吗？我们以前见过面，”她又对安东尼说道。
“常见，我亲爱的，可是今儿晚上你没请我来啊。”
“咦，亲爱的，大概是因为我不喜欢你吧。我原以为我谁都喜欢。”
“你们觉得怎么样，”女主人走后马尔卡斯特问道，“去报火警是不是很有趣呢？”
“不错，博伊，快跑去打电话吧。”
“我的意见是，这样也许会热闹起来。”
“完全对。”
马尔卡斯特离开我们去找电话。
“我认为塞巴斯蒂安和他那位瘸腿的好朋友去了法属摩洛哥了，”安东尼继续说道，“我离开他们的时候，丹吉尔的警察正在找他们的麻烦呢。自从我回到伦敦，侯爵夫人可真招人讨厌，她想让我和他们联系上。这个可怜的女人过的是什么日子！这只说明生活里还有点正义哩。”
过了一会儿米尔斯小姐开始唱歌了，除了那一伙掷骰子赌博玩的人以外，大家都拥到隔壁房间里去了。
“那个就是我的女孩子，”马尔卡斯特说，“和那个黑人在一起的那个。就是那个女孩子把我带来的。”
“她好像已经把你忘掉啦。”
“是忘了。我还不如不来呢。咱们去别的地方吧。”
当我们走开的时候，开来了两辆救火车，一大群戴着防护帽的人拥到水泄不通的楼上。
“那个家伙，布兰奇，”马尔卡斯特说，“可不是个好东西。有一次我把他丢进池子里去了。”
我们又去了几家夜总会。在两年的时间里马尔卡斯特看来已经实现了他的那个简单的抱负，他在这种地方出了名，受到欢迎。在最后一家夜总会，我和他由于一股爱国主义的热情都激动起来了。
“你和我嘛，”他说道，“都还太年轻，不能上前线去打仗。而别的小伙子们去战斗，几百万人都阵亡了。牺牲的不是我们。我们要让他们看看。我们要向那些死去的人证明，我们也能打仗。”
“我就是为这个回来的，”我说道，“从海外归来，在危急时刻聚集在古老的祖国身边。”
“就像澳大利亚人一样。”
“像那些可怜的阵亡了的澳大利亚人一样。”
“你在哪个部门？”
“还没有定。还没有做好备战工作。”
“要去就去一个地方——那就是比尔·梅多斯队——保卫团。那里全是好小伙子。都安排在布拉特俱乐部里了。”
“我参加。”
“你记得布拉特俱乐部吗？”
“不记得，我也参加。”
“那好极了。所有的好小伙子都会像那些已经死了的小伙子们一样。”
我就这样参加了比尔·梅多斯队，这是一个配备汽车的警察追捕队，保护在伦敦最贫穷地区的食品运输。起先我被编入保卫团，还宣誓效忠皇室，并且发给了一个头盔和一根警棍；随后我又被提名为布拉特俱乐部的会员，并且和其他会员一起在一个专门为对付这种形势而召集的一个委员会会议上入选了。我们一个星期一直待在布拉特俱乐部里整装待命，有时一天出动三次，坐在卡车上给我们护送的运牛奶车开路。我们受到嘲笑，有时还受到恶言恶语的辱骂，不过我们只有一次采取了行动。
那天吃完了午饭，我们正围坐在一起，这时比尔·梅多斯精神抖擞地打完了电话回来。
“出动，”他说道，“商业路上有一场恶战。”
我们飞速地开车而去，到了那儿只见两根灯柱子间拉起了一根钢缆，一辆卡车被推翻在地，人行道上只剩下了一个警察，正遭到五六个青年拳打脚踢。在这打成一团的人两边，隔得不太远，聚集起互相敌对的两伙人马。当我们跳下车的时候，离我们很近，又有一个警察坐在人行道上，两眼发呆，双手捂住脑袋，鲜血顺着手指缝流出来；两三个同情的人严密监视着他；在钢缆的那一边，是一小伙满怀敌意的码头工人。我们兴高采烈地冲进去，把那个警察解救出来，当我们刚刚冲进敌人堆里的时候，这时却和从另一路同时赶到企图进行劝说的一伙地方教士和城市地方议会议员发生了冲突。在他们刚赶到的时候，有人喊了一声“留神点，警察来了。”这时一辆满载警察的卡车在我们后方停下，于是这伙教士和议员就成了我们的唯一牺牲品。
人群一哄而散，消失了踪影。我们把这些调解人捉了起来（其中只有一个人伤势严重），我们又去了一些偏僻的街道上巡视一遍，看看还有没有什么动乱，由于没有发现什么事，我们最后都回到了布拉特俱乐部。第二天总罢工宣布取消了，除了煤田，全国所有地方都恢复了正常。就好像传说的一头野兽要出来恣意横行，它露出头来一个小时，嗅出了危险，就悄悄溜回了它的巢穴。所以我离开巴黎并不值得。
吉恩参加了另一个连队，在坎登城由于被一个老年寡妇的栽着羊齿植物的花盆打在脑袋上，在医院里住了一个星期。
因为我是比尔·梅多斯的警察追捕队的成员，所以朱莉娅知道我回到了英国。她打电话来说她母亲迫切想见我。
“你会看到她病得很重了。”她说。
和平后的第一天上午，我就去了马奇梅因公馆。当我到达的时候，艾德里安·波森爵士在大厅从我身边走过，他正要离开；他把一方大花手帕捂住脸，盲目地摸索着他的帽子和手杖；他在流泪。
我被带进图书室，不到一分钟，朱莉娅就来到我面前。她带着新奇的文雅而严肃的神情和我握了握手，在这间阴暗的房间里，她仿佛是一个幽灵。
“你来了真好，妈妈一直在问你，可是我却不知道她现在究竟能不能见你。她刚刚跟艾德里安·波森告了别，这已经使她精疲力竭了。”
“告别？”
“是啊，她快死了。也许还能活一两个星期，也许随时就不行了。她太衰弱了。我去问一问护士。”
死亡的沉寂似乎已经笼罩着这栋房子。在马奇梅因公馆里，已经没有人来图书室里坐着了。在他们家的两处住宅里，图书室都是个很阴沉的屋子。那个维多利亚时代的橡木书架上摆着许多卷英国议会会议记录，还有从来没有打开过的老式的百科全书；那张光秃秃的桃花心木的桌子摆在那里似乎是为了一个委员会开会用的；这地方的气氛，既像是门庭若市，又像是车马冷落；图书室外面是院子，围栏，还有一条静寂的死胡同。
过了一会儿朱莉娅回来了。
“不行啦，恐怕你见不上她了。她睡着了。她可能像这样一连躺上好几个小时；她所希望的事我可以告诉你。咱们到别处去吧。我讨厌这间屋子。”
我们穿过大厅来到那间常常聚在一起吃午饭的小客厅，我们分坐在壁炉两边。朱莉娅的脸上似乎映照着墙壁上深红和金黄的色彩，她好像失去了一些热情。
“首先，我知道妈妈想说她多么对不起你，和你最后一次见面时对你太粗暴了。她经常提到这件事。现在她知道错怪了你。我完全相信你会谅解这一点，并且你很快就把这件事丢到脑后的，可是为了这种事，妈妈永远不会原谅她自己——这是她难得做的一种事。”
“请告诉她说，我完全谅解了。”
“另一件事，你当然已经猜到了——是关于塞巴斯蒂安。她很想见他。我不知道这是否可能。可能吗？”
“我听说他的情况很糟。”
“我们也听说了。我们拍了海底电报到我们所得到的最后一个地址，可是没有答复。他也许还来得及见她。我一听说你在英国，我就想到你是唯一的希望了。你能不能想法把他找来呢？这种要求是太难启齿了，不过我想如果塞巴斯蒂安明白了的话，他也会想见她的。”
“我来试试吧。”
“我们再也没有旁的人可求了。雷克斯忙得很。”
“知道。我从报道中听说了他正在忙着组建煤气厂。”
“是的，”她说道，露出她一向那种干巴巴的口气。“他从这次罢工中得到很多称赞。”
接着我们又闲谈了几分钟布拉特追捕队的事。她告诉我说布赖兹赫德拒绝担任任何公职，因为他认为这事业缺乏正义性；科迪莉娅在伦敦，现在正在睡觉，她守侯了母亲整整一夜。我告诉她说我已经从事建筑绘画了，并且说我很喜欢这种工作。这些话全是无关紧要的；该说的话我们在头一两分钟里已经说完了；我留下来喝茶，然后就离开了她。
法国航空公司有飞卡萨布兰卡的业务；我到了卡萨布兰卡又搭公共汽车去非斯，天蒙蒙亮就动身了，傍晚的时候才到这座新兴的城市。我从旅馆里给英国领事打了电话，这天晚上在他那栋挨着旧城墙的住宅里和他一道吃了晚饭。他人很和气，也很严肃。
“我很高兴终于有人来照看年轻的弗莱特了，”他说，“他在这里可使我们伤透了脑筋。这里可不是靠国内汇款生活的人待的地方。法国人对他完全不理解。他们认为，凡是不做买卖的，就一定是间谍。他的生活也真不像一个英国绅士。这儿的日子也不好过。虽然你可能没有想到，但是离这栋房子不到三十哩的地方就在进行战争。上个星期我们这儿来了几个骑自行车的小傻瓜，他们是志愿参加阿卜杜勒·克里姆的军队的。
“再说那些摩尔人是一帮狡猾透顶的家伙；他们不赞成喝酒，而我们这位年轻的朋友，你也许知道，差不多一天到晚都泡在酒里。他到这里来干什么呢？他在拉巴特和丹吉尔有的是地方住，那里的人们爱投合旅游者所好。他在当地城里租了一间房子，你知道。我想阻止他，可是他从一个在艺术品部门工作的法国人手上租到了那间房子。我并不是说他在那里有什么坏处，但是他的确是让人担心的。还有一个依赖他过活的坏小子——一个从外籍军团出来的德国人。大家说，那人可真是个地地道道的坏蛋。肯定会惹出麻烦来的。
“请注意，我是喜欢弗莱特的。我和他见面的时候不多。过去他常常到这儿来
收听单词发音 |
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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mistier
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| misty（多雾的，被雾笼罩的）的比较级形式 | |
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foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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forgoing
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| v.没有也行，放弃( forgo的现在分词 ) | |
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emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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enrolled
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| adj.入学登记了的v.[亦作enrol]( enroll的过去式和过去分词 )；登记，招收，使入伍（或入会、入学等），参加，成为成员；记入名册；卷起，包起 | |
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constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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provocatively
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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goggled
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| adj.戴护目镜的v.睁大眼睛瞪视， （惊讶的）转动眼珠( goggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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puritanical
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| adj.极端拘谨的；道德严格的 | |
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disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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macabre
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| adj.骇人的，可怖的 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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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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squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pelted
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| （连续地）投掷( pelt的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续抨击； 攻击； 剥去…的皮 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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52
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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53
hawser
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| n.大缆；大索 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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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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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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58
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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59
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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61
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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62
bandanna
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| n.大手帕 | |
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obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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64
encyclopedias
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| n.百科全书， （某一学科的）专科全书( encyclopedia的名词复数 ) | |
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65
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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66
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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kudos
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| n.荣誉，名声 | |
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consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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69
remittance
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| n.汇款，寄款，汇兑 | |
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70
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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71
tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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72
cater
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| vi.(for/to)满足，迎合；(for)提供饮食及服务 | |
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73
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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74
consular
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| a.领事的 | |
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75
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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76
staples
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| n.（某国的）主要产品( staple的名词复数 )；钉书钉；U 形钉；主要部份v.用钉书钉钉住( staple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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77
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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78
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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79
cloves
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| n.丁香（热带树木的干花，形似小钉子，用作调味品，尤用作甜食的香料）( clove的名词复数 )；蒜瓣(a garlic ~|a ~of garlic) | |
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80
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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81
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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82
arrogantly
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| adv.傲慢地 | |
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83
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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84
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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85
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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86
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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87
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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88
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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89
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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90
giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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91
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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92
atlas
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| n.地图册，图表集 | |
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93
stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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94
bungalows
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| n.平房( bungalow的名词复数 )；单层小屋，多于一层的小屋 | |
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95
layman
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| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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96
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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98
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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99
alcoholic
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| adj.（含）酒精的，由酒精引起的；n.酗酒者 | |
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100
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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101
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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102
pruning
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| n.修枝，剪枝，修剪v.修剪（树木等）( prune的现在分词 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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103
sterility
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| n.不生育，不结果，贫瘠，消毒，无菌 | |
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104
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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105
cubicles
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| n.小卧室，斗室( cubicle的名词复数 ) | |
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106
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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107
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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108
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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109
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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110
inebriates
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| vt.使酒醉，灌醉（inebriate的第三人称单数形式） | |
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111
mimicking
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的现在分词 )；酷似 | |
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112
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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113
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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114
specialized
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| adj.专门的，专业化的 | |
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115
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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116
contractors
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| n.（建筑、监造中的）承包人( contractor的名词复数 ) | |
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117
buoyed
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| v.使浮起( buoy的过去式和过去分词 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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118
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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119
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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120
grill
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| n.烤架，铁格子，烤肉；v.烧，烤，严加盘问 | |
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121
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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122
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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123
requiem
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| n.安魂曲，安灵曲 | |
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124
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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125
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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126
twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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127
voraciously
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| adv.贪婪地 | |
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128
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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129
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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130
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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131
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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132
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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133
spurned
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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