MY divorce case, or rather my wife’s, was due to be heard at about the same time as Brideshead was to be married. Julia’s would not come up till the following term; meanwhile the game of General Post - moving my property from the Old Rectory to my flat, my wife’s from my flat to the Old Rectory, Julia’s from Rex’s house and from Brideshead to my flat, Rex’s from Brideshead to his house, and Mrs Muspratt’s from Falmouth to Brideshead - was in full swing and we were all, in varying degrees, homeless, when a halt was called and Lord Marchmain, with a taste for the dramatically inopportune which was plainly the prototype of his elder son’s, declared his intention, in view of the international situation, of returning to England and passing his declining years, in his old home.
The only member of the family to whom this change promised any benefit was Cordelia, who had been sadly abandoned in the turmoil1. Brideshead, indeed, had made a formal request to her to consider his house her home for as long as it suited her, but when she learned that her sister-in-law proposed to install her children there for the holidays immediately after the wedding, in the charge of a sister of hers and the sister’s friend, Cordelia had decided3 to move, too, and was talking of setting up alone in London. She now found herself, Cinderella-like, promoted chatelaine, while her brother and his wife who had till that moment expected to find themselves, within a matter of days, in absolute command, were without a roof; the deeds of conveyance4, engrossed5 and ready for signing, were rolled up, tied, and put away in one of the black tin boxes in Lincoln’s Inn. It was bitter for Mrs Muspratt; she was not an ambitious woman; something very much less grand than Brideshead would have contented6 her heartily7, but she did aspire8 to find some shelter for her children over Christmas. The house at Falmouth was stripped and up for sale; moreover, Mrs Muspratt had taken leave of the place with some justifiably9 rather large talk of her new establishment; they could not return there. She was obliged in a hurry to move her furniture from Lady Marchmain’s room to a disused coach-house and to take a furnished villa10 at Torquay. She was not, as I have said, a woman of high ambition, but, having had her expectations so much raised, it was disconcerting to be brought so low so suddenly. In the village the working party who had been preparing the decorations for the bridal entry, began unpacking11 the Bs on the bunting and substitutin Ms, obliterating12 the Earl’s points and stencilling13 balls and strawberry leaves on the painted, coronets, in preparation for Lord Marchmain’s return. News of his intentions came first to the solicitors15, then to Cordelia, then to Julia and me, in a rapid succession of contradictory16 cables. Lord Marchmain would arrive in time for the wedding; he would arrive after the wedding, having seen Lord and Lady Brideshead on their way through Paris; he would see them in Rome. He was not well enough to travel at all; he was just starting; he had unhappy memories of winter at Brideshead and would not come until spring was well advanced and the heating apparatus17 overhauled18; he was coming alone; he was bringing his Italian household; he wished his return to be unannounced and to lead a life of complete seclusion19; he would give a ball. At last a date in January was chosen which proved to be the correct one. Plender preceded him by some days; there was a difficulty here. Plender was not an original member of the Brideshead household; he had been Lord Marchmain’s servant in the yeomanry, and had only once met Wilcox on the painful occasion of the removal of his master’s luggage when it was decided not to return from the war; then Plender had been valet, as, officially, he still was, but he had, in the past years introduced a kind of suffragan, a Swiss body-servant, to attend to the wardrobe and also, when occasion arose, lend a hand with less dignified20 tasks about the house, and had in effect become majordomo of that fluctuating and mobile household; sometimes he even referred to himself on the telephone as ‘the secretary’. There was an acre of thin ice between him and Wilcox.
Fortunately the two men took a liking21 to one another, and the thing was solved in a series of three-cornered discussions with Cordelia. Plender and Wilcox became joint22 grooms23 of the chambers24, like ‘Blues’ and Life Guards with equal precedence, Plender having as his particular province his Lordship’s own apartments and Wilcox a sphere of influence in the public rooms; the senior footman was given a black coat and promoted butler, the non-descript Swiss, on arrival, was to have plain clothes and full valet’s status there was a general increase in wages to meet the new dignities, and all were content. Julia and I, who had left Brideshead a month before, thinking we should not return, moved back for the reception. When the day came, Cordelia went to the station and we remained to greet him at home. It was a bleak25 and gusty26 day. Cottages and lodges27 were decorated; plans for a bonfire that night and for the village silver band to play on the terrace, were put down, but the house flag, that had not flown for twenty-five years, was hoisted28 over the pediment, and flapped sharply against the leaden sky. Whatever harsh voices might be bawling29 into the microphones of central Europe, and whatever lathes30 spinning in the armament factories, the return of Lord Marchmain was a matter of first importance in his own neighbourhood.
He was due at three o’clock. Julia and I waited in the drawing-room until Wilcox, who had arranged with the stationmaster to be kept informed, announced ‘the train is signalled’, and a minute later, ‘the train is in; his Lordship is on the way.’ Then we went to the front portico31 and waited there with the upper servants. Soon the Rolls appeared at the turn in the drive, followed at some distance by the two vans. It drew up; first Cordelia got out, then Cara; there was a pause, a rug was handed to the chauffeur32, a stick to the footman; then a leg was cautiously thrust forward. Plender was by now at the car door; another servant - the Swiss valet - had emerged from a van; together they lifted Lord Marchmain out and set him on his feet; he felt for his stick, grasped it, and stood for a minute collecting his strength for the few low steps which led to the front door.
Julia gave a little sigh of surprise and touched my hand. We had seen him nine months ago at Monte Carlo, when he had been an upright and stately figure, little changed from when I first met him in Venice. Now he was an old man. Plender had told us his master had been unwell lately: he had not prepared us for this. Lord Marchmain stood bowed and shrunken, weighed down by his great-coat, a white muffler fluttering untidily at his throat, a cloth cap pulled low on his forehead, his face white and lined, his nose coloured by the cold; the tears which gathered in his eyes came not from emotion but from the east wind; he breathed heavily. Cara tucked in the end of his muffler and whispered something to him. He raised a gloved hand - a schoolboy’s glove of grey wool - and made a small, weary gesture of greeting to the group at the door; then, very slowly, with his eyes on the ground before him, he made his way into the house.
They took off his coat and cap and muffler and the kind of leather jerkin which he wore under them; thus stripped he seemed more than ever wasted but more elegant; he had cast the shabbiness of extreme fatigue33. Cara straightened his tie; he wiped his eyes with -a bandanna34 handkerchief and shuffled35 with his stick to the hall fire. There was a little heraldic chair by the chimney-piece, one of a set which stood against the walls, a little, inhospitable, flat-seated thing, a mere36 excuse for the elaborate armorial painting on its back, on which, perhaps, no one, not even a weary footman, had ever sat since it was made; there Lord Marchmain sat and wiped his eyes. ‘It’s the cold,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten how cold it is in England. Quite bowled me over.’
‘Can I get you anything, my lord?’
‘Nothing, thank you. Cara, where are those confounded pills?’
‘Alex, the doctor said not more than three times a day.’
‘Damn the doctor. I feel quite bowled over.’
Cara produced a blue bottle from her bag and Lord March main took a pill. Whatever was in it, seemed to revive him. He remained seated, his long legs stuck out before him, his cane37 between them, his chin on its ivory handle, but he began to take notice of us all, to greet us and to give orders.
‘I’m afraid I’m not at all the thing today; the joumey’s taken it out of me. Ought to have waited a night at Dover. Wilcox, what rooms have you prepared for me?’ ‘Your old ones, my Lord.’
‘Won’t do; not till I’m fit again. Too many stairs; must be on the ground floor. Plender, get a bed made up for me downstairs.’ Plender and Wilcox exchanged an anxious glance.
‘Very good, my Lord. Which room shall we put it in?’ Lord Marchmain thought for a moment. ‘The Chinese drawing-room; and, Wilcox, the “Queen’s bed”.’ ‘The Chinese drawing-room, my lord, the “Queen’s bed”?’
‘Yes, yes. I may be spending some time there in the next few weeks.’
The Chinese drawing-room was one I had never seen used; in fact one could not normally go further into it than a small roped area round the door, where sight-seers were corralled on the days the house was open to the public; it was a splendid, uninhabitable museum of Chippendale carving38 and porcelain’ and lacquer and painted hangings; the Queen’s bed too, was an exhibition piece, a vast velvet39 tent like the baldachino at St Peter’s. Had Lord Marchmain planned this lying-in-state for himself, I wondered, before he left the sunshine of Italy? Had he thought of it during the scudding40 rain of his long, fretful journey? Had it come to him at that moment, an awakened41 memory of childhood, a dream in the nursery - ‘When I’m grown up I’ll sleep in the Queen’s bed in the Chinese drawing-room’ - the apotheosis42 of adult grandeur43? Few things, certainly, could have caused more stir in the house. What had been foreseen as a day of formality became one of fierce exertion44; housemaids began making a fire, removing covers, unfolding linen- men in aprons45, never normally seen, shifted furniture; the estate carpenters were collected to dismantle46 the bed. It came down the main staircase in pieces, at intervals47 during the afternoon; huge sections of Rococo48, velvet-covered cornice; the twisted, gilt49 and velvet columns which formed its posts; beams of unpolished wood, made not to be seen, which performed invisible structural50 functions below the draperies; plumes51 of dyed feathers, which sprang from gold-mounted ostrich52 eggs and crowned the canopy53; finally, the mattresses54 with four toiling55 men to each. Lord Marchmain seemed to derive56 comfort from the consequences of his whim57; he sat by the fire watching the bustle58, while we stood in a half circle - Cara, Cordelia, Julia, and I - and talked to him.
Colour came back to his checks and light to his eyes. ‘Brideshead and his wife dined with me in Rome,’ he said. ‘Since we are all members of the family’ - and his eye moved ironically from Cara to me - ‘I can speak without reserve. I found her deplorable. Her former consort59, I understand, was a seafaring man and, presumably, the less exacting60, but how my son, at the ripe age of thirty-eight, with, unless things have changed very much, a very free choice among the women of England, can have settled on - I suppose I must call her so - Beryl...’ He left the sentence eloquently61 unfinished. Lord Marchmain showed no inclination62 to move, so presently we drew up chairs - the little, heraldic chairs, for everything else in the hall was ponderous63 - and sat round him. ‘I daresay I shall not be really fit again until summer comes, he said. ‘I look to you four to amuse me.’ There seemed little we could do at the moment to lighten the rather sombre mood; he, indeed, was the most cheerful of us. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘the circumstances of Brideshead’s courtship.’
We told him what we knew.
‘Match-boxes,’ he said. ‘Match-boxes. I think she’s past childbearing.’
Tea was brought us at the hall fireplace.
‘In Italy,’ he said, ‘no one believes there will be a war. They think it will all be “arranged”. I suppose, Julia, you no longer have access to political information? Cara, here, is fortunately a British subject by marriage. It is not a thing she customarily mentions, but it may prove valuable. She is legally Mrs Hicks, are you not, my dear? We know little of Hicks, but we shall be grateful to him, none the less, if it comes to war. And you,’ he said, turning the attack to me, ‘you will no doubt become an official artist?’
‘No. As a matter of fact I am negotiating now for a commission in the Special Reserve.’
‘Oh, but you should be an artist. I had one with my squadron during the last war, for weeks - until we went up to the line.’ This waspishness was new. I had always been aware of a frame of malevolence64 under his urbanity; now it protruded65 like his own sharp bones through the sunken skin.
It was dark before the bed was finished; we went to see it, Lord Marchmain stepping quite briskly now through the intervening rooms.
‘I congratulate you. It really looks remarkably66 well. Wilcox, I seem to remember a silver basin and ewer67 - they stood in a room we called “the Cardinal’s dressing68-room”, I think - suppose we had them here on the console. Then if you will send Plender and Gaston to me, the luggage can wait till tomorrow - simply the dressing case and what I need for the night. Plender will know. If you will leave me with Plender and Gaston, I will go to bed. We will meet later; you will dine here and keep me amused.’ We turned to go; as I was at the door he called me back.
‘It looks very well, does it not?’
‘Very well.’
‘You might paint it, eh - and call it the Death Bed?’
‘Yes,’ said Cara, ‘he has come home to die.’
‘But when he first arrived he was talking so confidently of recovery. ‘That was because he was so ill. When he is himself, he knows he is dying and accepts it. His sickness is up and down, one day, sometimes for several days on end, he is strong and lively and then he is ready for death, then he is down and afraid. I do not know how it will be when he is more and more down. That must come in good time. The doctors in Rome gave him less than a year. There is someone coming from London, I think tomorrow, who will tell us more.’
‘What is it?’
‘His heart; some long word at the heart. He is dying of a long word.’ That evening Lord Marchmain was in good spirits; the room had a Hogarthian aspect, with the dinner-table set for the four of us by the grotesque69, chinoiserie chimney-piece, and the old man propped70 among his pillows, sipping71 champagne72, tasting, praising, and failing to eat, the succession of dishes which had been prepared for his homecoming. Wilcox had brought out for the occasion the gold plate, which I had not before seen in use; that, the gilt mirrors, and the lacquer and the drapery of the great bed and Julia’s mandarin73 coat gave the scene an air of pantomime, of Aladdin’s cave. Just at the end, when the time came for us to go, his spirits flagged. ‘I shall not sleep,’ he said. ‘Who is going to sit with me? Cara, carissima, you are fatigued74. Cordelia, will you watch for an hour in this Gethsemane?’ Next morning I asked her how the night had passed.
‘He went to sleep almost at once. I came in to see him at two to make up the fire; the lights were on, but he was asleep again. He must have woken up and turned them on; he had to get out of bed to do that. I think perhaps he is afraid of the dark.’ It was natural, with her hospital experience, that Cordelia should take charge of her father. When the doctors came that day they gave their instructions to her, instinctively75. ‘Until he gets worse,’ she said, ‘I and the valet can look after him. We don’t want nurses in the house before they are needed.’ At this stage the doctors had nothing to recommend except to keep him comfortable and administer certain drugs when his attacks came on.
‘How long will it be?’
‘Lady Cordelia, there are men walking about in hearty76 old age whom their doctors gave a week to live. I have learned one thing in medicine; never prophesy77.’ These two men had made a long journey to tell her this; the local doctor was there to accept the same advice in technical phrases.
That night Lord Marchmain reverted79 to the topic of his new daughter-in-law; it had never been long out of his mind, finding expression in various sly hints throughout the day; now he lay back in his pillows and talked of her at length. ‘I have never been much moved by family piety80 until now,’ he said, ‘but I am frankly81 appalled82 at the prospect83 of - of Beryl taking what was once my mother’s place in this house. Why should that uncouth84 pair sit here childless while the place crumbles85 about their ears? I will not disguise from you that I have taken a dislike to Beryl.
‘Perhaps it was unfortunate that we met in Rome. Anywhere else might have been more sympathetic. And yet, if one comes to consider it, where could I have met her without repugnance86? We dined at Ranieri’s; it is a quiet little restaurant I have frequented for years - no doubt you know it. Beryl seemed to fill the place. I, of course, was host, though to hear Beryl press my son with food you might have thought otherwise. Brideshead was always a greedy boy- a wife who has his best interests at heart should seek to restrain him. However, that is a matter of small importance. ‘She had no doubt heard of me as a man of irregular life. I can only describe her manner to me as roguish. A naughty old man, that’s what she thought I was. I suppose she had met naughty old admirals and knew how they should be humoured...I could not attempt to reproduce her conversation. I will give you one example. ‘They had been to an audience at the Vatican that morning; a blessing88 for their marriage - I did not follow attentively89 something of the kind had happened before, I gathered, some previous husband, some previous Pope. She described, rather vivaciously90, how on this earlier occasion she had gone with a whole body - of newly married couples, mostly Italians of all ranks, some or the simpler girls in their wedding dresses, and how each had appraised91 the other, the bridegrooms looking the brides over, comparing their own with one another’s, and so forth92. Then she said, “This time, of course, we were in private, -but do you know, Lord Marchmain, I felt as though it was I who was leading in the bride.”
‘It was said with great indelicacy. I have not yet quite fathomed93 her meaning. Was she making a play on my son’s name, or was she, do you think, referring to his undoubted virginity? I fancy the latter. Anyway, it was with pleasantries of that kind that we passed the evening.
‘I don’t think she would be quite in her proper element here, do you? Who shall I leave it to? The entail94 ended with me, you know. Sebastian, alas95, is out of the question. Who wants it? Quis? Would you like it, Cara? No, of course you would not. Cordelia? I think I shall leave it to Julia and Charles.’
‘Of course not, papa, it’s Bridey’s.’
‘And...Beryl’s? I will have Gregson down one day soon and go over the matter. It is time I brought my will up to date; it is full of anomalies and anachronisms...I have rather a fancy for the idea of installing Julia here; so beautiful this evening, my dear; so beautiful always; much, much more suitable.’
Shortly after this he sent to London for his solicitor14, but, on the day he came, Lord Marchmain was suffering from an attack and would not see him. ‘Plenty of time,’ he said, between painful gasps96 for breath, ‘another day, when I am stronger,’ but the choice of his heir was constantly in his mind, and he referred often to the time when Julia and I should be married and in possession.
‘Do you think he really means to leave it to us?’ I asked Julia.
‘Yes, I think he does.’
‘But it’s monstrous97 for Bridey.’
‘Is it? I don’t think he cares much for the place. I do, you know. He and Beryl would be much more content in some little house somewhere.’ ‘You mean to accept it?’
‘Certainly. It’s papa’s to leave as he likes. I think you and I could be very happy here.’
It opened a prospect; the prospect one gained at the turn of the avenue, as I had first seen it with Sebastian, of the secluded98 valley, the lakes falling away one below the other, the old house in the foreground, the rest of the world abandoned and forgotten; a world of its own of peace and love and beauty; a soldier’s dream in a foreign bivouac; such a prospect perhaps as a high pinnacle99 of the temple afforded after the hungry days in the desert and the jackal-haunted nights. Need I reproach myself if sometimes I was taken by the vision?
The weeks of illness wore on and the life of the house kept pace with the faltering100 strength of the sick man. There were days when Lord Marchmain was dressed, when he stood at the window or moved on his valet’s arm from fire to fire through the rooms of the ground floor, when visitors came and went neighbours and people from the estate, men of business from London - parcels of new books were opened and discussed, a piano was moved into the Chinese drawing-room; once at the end of February, on a single, unexpected day of brilliant sunshine, he called for a car and got as far as the hall, had on his fur coat, and reached the front door. Then suddenly he lost interest in the drive, said ‘Not now. Later. One day in the summer,’ took his man’s arm again and was led back to his chair. Once he had the humour of changing his room and gave detailed101 orders for a move to the Painted Parlour; the chinoiserie, he said, disturbed his rest - he kept the lights full on at night - but again lost heart, countermanded102 everything, and kept his room.
On other days the house was hushed as he sat high in bed, propped by his pillows, with labouring breath; even then he wanted to have us round him; night or day he could not bear to be alone; when he could not speak his eyes followed us, and if anyone left the room he would look distressed103, and Cara, sitting often for hours at a time by his side against the pillows with an arm in his, would say, ‘It’s all right, Alex, she’s coming back.’
Brideshead and his wife returned from their honeymoon104 and stayed a few nights; it was one of the bad times, and Lord Marchmain refused to have them near him. It was Beryl’s first visit, and she would have been unnatural105 if she had shown no curiosity about what had nearly been, and now again promised soon to be, her home. Beryl was natural enough, and surveyed the place fairly thoroughly106 in the days she was there. In the strange disorder107 caused by Lord Marchmain’s illness, it must have seemed capable of much improvement; she referred once or twice to the way in which establishments of similar size had been managed at various Government Houses she had visited. Brideshead took her visiting among the tenants108 by day, and in the evenings, she talked to me of painting, or to Cordelia of hospitals, or to Julia of clothes, with cheerful assurance. The shadow of betrayal, the knowledge of how precarious109 were their just expectations, was all one-sided. I was not easy with them; but that was no new thing to Brideshead; in the little circle of shyness in which he was used to move, my guilt110 passed unseen.
Eventually it became clear that Lord Marchmain did not intend to see more of them.
Brideshead was admitted alone for a minute’s leave-taking; then they left.
‘There’s nothing we can do here,’ said Brideshead, ‘and it’s very distressing111 for Beryl.
We’ll come back if things get worse.’
The bad spells became longer and more frequent; a nurse was engaged. ‘I never saw such a room, ‘ she said, ‘nothing like it anywhere; ‘no conveniences of any sort.’ She tried to have her patient moved upstairs, where there was running water, a dressing-room for herself, a ‘sensible’ narrow bed she could ‘get round’ - what she was used to - but Lord Marchmain would not budge112. Soon, as days and nights became indistinguishable to him, a second nurse was installed; the specialists came again from London; they recommended a new and rather daring treatment, but his body seemed weary of all drugs and did not respond. Presently there were no good spells, merely brief fluctuations113 in the speed of his decline.
Brideshead was called. It was the Easter holidays and Beryl was busy with her children. He came alone, and having stood silently for some minutes beside his father, who sat silently looking at him, he left the room and, joining the rest of us, who were in the library, said, ‘Papa must see a priest.’
It was not the first time the topic had come up. In the early days, when Lord Marchmain first arrived, the parish priest since the chapel114 was shut there was a new church and presbytery in Mel stead - had come to call as a matter of politeness. Cordelia had put him off with apologies and excuses, but when he was gone she said: ‘Not yet. Papa doesn’t want him yet.’
Julia, Cara, and I were there at the time; we each had something to say, began to speak, and thought better of it. It was never mentioned between the four of us, but Julia, alone with me, said, ‘Charles, I see great Church troubles ahead.’ ‘Can’t they even let him die in peace?’
‘They mean something so different by “peace”.’
‘It would be an outrage115. No one could have made it clearer, all his life, what he thought of religion. They’ll come now, when his mind’s wandering and he hasn’t the strength to resist, and claim him as a death-bed penitent116. I’ve had a certain, respect for their Church up till now. If they do a thing like that I shall know that everything stupid people say about them is quite true - that it’s all superstition117 and trickery.’ Julia said nothing. ‘Don’t you agree?’ Still Julia said nothing. ‘Don’t you agree?’ ‘I don’t know, Charles. I simply don’t know.’
And, though none of us spoke118 of it, I felt the question ever present, growing through all the weeks of Lord Marchmain’s illness; I saw it when Cordelia drove off early in the mornings to mass; I saw it as Cara took to going with her; this little cloud, the size of a man’s hand, that was going to swell119 into a storm among us. Now Brideshead, in his heavy, ruthless way, planted the problem down before us.
‘Oh, Bridey, do you think he would?’ asked Cordelia.
‘I shall see that he does, ‘ said Brideshead. ‘I shall take Father Mackay in to him tomorrow.’
Still the clouds gathered and did not break; none of us spoke. Cara and Cordelia went back to the sick-room; Brideshead looked for a book, found one, and left us. ‘Julia,’ I said, ‘how can we stop this tomfoolery?’
She did not answer for some time; then: ‘Why should we.?’
‘You know as well as I do. It’s just -just an unseemly incident.’ ‘Who am I to object to unseemly incidents?’ she asked sadly. ‘Anyway, what harm can it do? Let’s ask the doctor.’
We asked the doctor, who said: ‘It’s hard to say. It might alarm him of course; on the other hand, I have known cases where it has had a wonderfully soothing120 effect on a patient; I’ve even known it act as a positive stimulant121. It certainly is usually a great comfort to the relations. Really I think it’s a thing for Lord Brideshead to decide. Mind you, there is no need for immediate2 anxiety. Lord Marchmain is very weak today; tomorrow he may be quite strong again. Is it not usual to wait a little?’ ‘Well, he wasn’t much help,’ I said to Julia, when we left him. ‘Help? I really can’t quite see why you’ve taken it so much to heart that my father shall not have the last sacraments.’
‘It’s such a lot of witchcraft122 and hypocrisy123.’
‘Is it? Anyway, it’s been going on for nearly two thousand years. I don’t know why you should suddenly get in a rage now.’ Her voice rose; she was swift to anger of late months. ‘For Christ’s sake, write to The Times; get up and make a speech in Hyde Park; start a “No Popery” riot, but don’t bore me about it. What’s it got to do with you or me whether my father sees his parish priest?’
I knew these fierce moods of Julia’s, such as had overtaken her at the fountain in moonlight, and dimly surmised124 their origin; I knew they could not be assuaged125 by words. Nor could I have spoken, for the answer to her question was still unformed; the sense that the fate of more souls than one was at issue; that the snow was beginning to shift on the high slopes.
Brideshead and I breakfasted together next morning with the night-nurse, who had just come off duty.
‘He’s much brighter today,’ she said. ‘He slept very nicely for nearly three hours.
When Gaston came to shave him he was quite chatty.’ ‘Good,’ said Brideshead. ‘Cordelia went to mass. She’s driving Father Mackay back here to breakfast.’
I had met Father Mackay several times; he was a stocky, middle-aged126, genial127 Glasgow-Irishman who, when we met, was apt to ask me such questions as, ‘Would you say now, Mr Ryder, that the painter Titian was more truly artistic128 than the painter Raphael?’ and, more disconcertingly still, to remember my answers: ‘To revert78, Mr Ryder, to what you said when last I had the pleasure to meet you, would it be right now to say that the painter Titian...’ usually ending with some such reflection as: ‘Ah, it’s a grand resource for a man to have the talent you have, Mr Ryder, and the time to indulge it.’ Cordelia could imitate him.
This morning he made a hearty breakfast, glanced at the headlines of the paper, and then said with professional briskness129: ‘And now, Lord Brideshead, would the poor soul be ready to see me, do you think?’
Brideshead led him out; Cordelia followed, and I was left alone among the breakfast things. In less than a minute I heard the voices of all three outside the door. ‘...can only apologize.’
‘...poor soul. Mark you, it was seeing a strange face; depend upon it, it was that - an unexpected stranger. I well understand it.’
‘...Father, I am sorry...bringing you all this way...’
‘Don’t think about it at all, Lady Cordelia. Why, I’ve had bottles thrown at me in the Gorbals...Give him time. I’ve known worse cases make beautiful deaths. Pray for him...I’ll come again...and now if you’ll excuse me I’ll just pay a little visit to Mrs Hawkins. Yes, indeed, I know the way well.’
Then Cordelia and Brideshead came into the room.
‘I gather the visit was not a success.’
‘It was not. Cordelia, will you drive Father Mackay home when he comes down from nanny? I’m going to telephone to Beryl and see when she needs me home.’ ‘Bridey, it was horrible. What are we to do?’
‘We’ve done everything we can at the moment.’ He left the room. Cordelia’s face was grave; she took a piece of bacon from the dish, dipped it in mustard and ate it. ‘Damn Bridey,’ she said, ‘I knew it wouldn’t work.’ ‘What happened?’
‘Would you like to know? We walked in there in a line; Cara was reading the paper aloud to papa. Bridey said, “I’ve brought Father Mackay to see you”; papa said, “Father Mackay, I am afraid you have been brought here under a misapprehension. I am not in extremis, and I have not been a practising member of your Church for twenty-five years. Brideshead, show Father Mackay the way out.” Then we all turned about and walked away, and I heard Cara start reading the paper again, and that, Charles, was that.’ I carried the news to Julia, who lay with her bed-table amid a litter of newspapers and envelopes. ‘Mumbo-jumbo is off,’ I said. ‘The witch-doctor has gone.’
‘Poor papa.’
‘It’s great sucks to Bridey.’
I felt triumphant130. I had been right, everyone else had been wrong, truth had prevailed; the threat that I had felt hanging over Julia and me ever since that evening at the fountain, had been averted131, perhaps dispelled132 for ever; and there was also - I can now confess it - another unexpressed, inexpressible, indecent little victory that I was furtively133 celebrating. I guessed that that morning’s business had put Brideshead some considerable way further from his rightful inheritance. In that I, was correct; a man was sent for from the solicitors in London; in a day or two he came and it was known throughout the house that Lord Marchmain had made a new will. But I was wrong in thinking that the religious controversy134 was quashed; it flamed up again after dinner on Brideshead’s last evening.
‘...What papa said was, “I am not in extremis, I have not been a practising member of the Church for twenty-five years.” ‘
‘Not “the Church”, “your Church”.’
‘I don’t see the difference.’
‘There’s every difference.’
‘Bridey, it’s quite plain what he meant.’
‘I presume he meant what he said. He meant that he had not been accustomed regularly to receive the sacraments, and since he was not at the moment dying, he did not mean to change his ways - yet.’
‘That’s simply a quibble.’
‘Why do people always think that one is quibbling when one tries to be precise? His plain meaning was that he did not want to see a priest that day, but that he would when he was “in extremis”.’
‘I wish someone would explain to me,’ I said, ‘quite what the significance of these sacraments is. Do you mean that if he dies alone he goes to hell, and that if a priest puts oil on him - ‘ ‘Oh, it’s not the oil,’ said Cordelia, ‘that’s to heal him.’ ‘Odder still - well, whatever it is the priest does - that he then goes to heaven. Is that what you believe?’
Cara then interposed: ‘I think my nurse told me, someone did anyway, that if the priest got there before the body was cold it was all right. That’s so, isn’t it?’ The others turned to her.
‘No, Cara, it’s not.’
‘Of course not.’
‘You’ve got it all wrong, Cara.’
‘Well, I remember when Alphonse de Grenet died, Madame de Grenet had a priest hidden outside the door - he couldn’t bear the sight of a priest - and brought him in before the body was cold; she told me herself, and they had a full Requiem135 for him, and I went to it.’
‘Having a Requiem doesn’t mean you go to heaven necessarily.’
‘Madame de Grenet thought it did.’
‘Well, she was wrong.’
‘Do any of you Catholics know what good you think this priest can do?’ I asked. ‘Do you simply want to arrange it so that your father can have Christian136 burial? Do you want to keep him out of hell? I only want to be told.’
Brideshead told me at some length, and when he had finished Cara slightly marred137 the unity138 of the Catholic front by saying in simple wonder, ‘I never heard that before.’
‘Let’s get this clear,’ I said; ‘he has to make an act of will; he has to be contrite139 and wish to be reconciled; is that right? But only God knows whether he has really made an act of will; the priest can’t tell; and if there isn’t a priest there, and he makes the act of will alone, that’s as good as if there were a priest. And it’s quite possible that the will may still be working when a man is too weak to make any outward sign of it; is that right? He may be lying, as though for dead, and willing all the time, and being reconciled, and God understands that; is that right?’
‘More or less, ‘ said Brideshead.
‘Well, for heaven’s sake.’ I said, ‘what is the priest for?’ There was a pause in which Julia sighed and Brideshead drew breath as though to start further subdividing140 the propositions. In the silence Cara said, ‘All I know is that I shall take very good care to have a priest.’
‘Bless you,’ said Cordelia, ‘I believe that’s the best answer.’ And we let the argument drop, each for different reasons, thinking it had been inconclusive.
Later Julia said: ‘I wish you wouldn’t start these religious arguments.’
‘I didn’t start it.’
‘You don’t convince anyone else and you don’t really convince yourself.’
‘I only want to know what these people believe. They say it’s all based on logic141.’
‘If you’d let Bridey finish, he would have made it all quite logical.’
‘There were four of you,’ I said. ‘Cara didn’t know the first thing it was about, and may or may not have believed it; you knew a bit and didn’t believe a word; Cordelia knew about as much and believed it madly; only poor Bridey knew and believed, and I thought he made a pretty poor show when it came to explaining. And people go round saying, “At least Catholics know what they believe.” We had a fair cross-section tonight - ‘
‘Oh, Charles, don’t rant87. I shall begin to think you’re getting doubts yourself.’
The weeks passed and still Lord Marchmain lived on. In June my divorce was made absolute and my former wife married for the second time. Julia would be free in September. The nearer our marriage got, the more wistfully, I noticed, Julia spoke of it; war was growing nearer, too - we neither of us doubted that - but Julia’s tender, remote, it sometimes seemed, desperate longing142 did not come from any uncertainty143 outside herself; it suddenly darkened, too, into brief accesses of hate when she seemed to throw herself against the restraints of her love for me like a caged animal against the bars. I was summoned to the War Office, interviewed, and put on a list in case of emergency; Cordelia also, on another list; lists were becoming part of our lives once more, as they had been at school. Everything was being got ready for the coming ‘Emergency’. No one in that dark office spoke the word ‘war’; it was taboo144; we should be called for if there was ‘an emergency’ - not in case of strife145, an act of human will; nothing so clear and simple as wrath146 or retribution; an emergency- something coming out of the waters, a monster with sightless face and thrashing tail thrown up from the depths.
Lord Marchmain took little interest in events outside his own room; we took him the papers daily and made the attempt to read to him, but he turned his head on the pillows and with his eyes followed the intricate patterns about him. ‘Shall I go on?’ ‘Please do if it’s not boring you.’ But he was not listening; occasionally at a familiar name he would whisper: ‘Irwin...I knew him - a mediocre147 fellow’; occasionally some remote comment:
‘Czechs make good coachmen; nothing else’; but his mind was far from world affairs; it was there, on the spot, turned in on himself; he had no strength for any other war than his own solitary148 struggle to keep alive.
I said to the doctor, who was with us daily. ‘He’s got a wonderful will to live, hasn’t he?’
‘Would you put it like that? I should say a great fear of death.’
‘Is there a difference?’
‘Oh dear, yes. He doesn’t derive any strength from his fear, you know. It’s wearing him out.’
Next to death, perhaps because they are like death, he feared darkness and loneliness. He liked to have us in his room and the lights burnt all night among the gilt figures; he did not wish us to speak much, but he talked himself, so quietly that we often could not hear him; he talked, I think, because his was the only voice he could trust, when it assured him that he was still alive; what he said was not for us, nor for any ears but his own.
‘Better today. Better today. I can see now, in the comer of the fireplace, where the mandarin is holding his gold bell and the crooked149 tree is in flower below his feet, where yesterday I was confused and took the little tower for another man. Soon I shall see the bridge and the three storks150 and know where the path leads over the hill. ‘Better tomorrow. We live long in our family and marry late. Seventy-three is no great age. Aunt Julia, my father’s aunt, lived to be eighty-eight, born and died here, never married, saw the fire on beacon151 hill for the battle of Trafalgar, always called it “the New House”; that was the name they had for it in the nursery and in the fields when unlettered men had long memories. You can see where the old house stood near the village church; they call the field “Castle Hill”, Horlick’s field where the ground’s uneven152 and half of it is waste, nettle153, and brier in hollows too deep for ploughing. They dug to the foundations to carry the stone for the new house; the house that was a century old when Aunt Julia was born. Those were our roots in the waste hollows of Castle Hill, in the brier and nettle; among the tombs in the old church and the chantry where no clerk sings.
‘Aunt Julia knew the tombs, cross-legged knight154 and doubleted earl, marquis like a Roman senator, limestone155, alabaster156, and Italian marble; tapped the escutcheons with her ebony cane, made the casque ring over old Sir Roger. We were knights157 then, barons158 since Agincourt, the larger honours came with the Georges. They came the last and they’ll go the first; the barony goes on. When all of you are dead Julia’s son will be called by the name his fathers bore before the fat days; the days of wool shearing159 and the wide corn lands, the days of growth and building, when the marshes160 were drained and the waste land brought under the plough, when one built the house, his son added the dome161, his son spread the wings and dammed the river. Aunt Julia watched them build the fountain; it was old before it came here, weathered two hundred years by the suns of Naples, brought by man-o’-war in the days of Nelson. Soon the fountain will be dry till the rain fills it, setting the fallen leaves afloat in the basin; and over the lakes the reeds will spread and close. Better today.
‘Better today. I have lived carefully, sheltered myself from the cold winds, eaten moderately of what was in season, drunk fine claret, slept in my own sheets; I shall live long. I was fifty when they dismounted us and sent us into the line; old men stay at the base, the orders said, but Walter Venables, my commanding officer, my nearest neighbour, said: “You’re as fit as the youngest of them, Alex.” So I was; so I am now, if I could only breathe.
‘No air; no wind stirring under the velvet canopy. When the summer comes,’ said
Lord Marchmain, oblivious162 of the deep corn and swelling163 fruit and the surfeited164 bees who slowly sought their hives in the heavy afternoon sunlight outside his windows, ‘when the summer comes I shall leave my bed and sit in the open air and breathe more easily.
‘Who would have thought that all these little gold men, gentlemen in their own country, could live so long without breathing? Like to toads165 in the coal, down a deep mine, untroubled. God take it, why have they dug a hole for me? Must a man stifle166 to death in his own cellars? Plender, Gaston, open the windows.’ ‘The windows are all wide open, my lord.’
A cylinder167 of oxygen was placed beside his bed, with a long tube, a face-piece, and a little stop-cock he could work himself. Often he said: ‘It’s empty- look nurse, there’s nothing comes out.’
‘No, Lord Marchmain, it’s quite full; the bubble here in the glass bulb shows that; it’s at full pressure; listen, don’t you hear it hiss168? Try and breathe slowly, Lord Marchmain; quite gently, then you get the benefit.’
‘Free as air; that’s what they say - “free as air”. Now they bring me my air in an iron barrel.’
Once he said: ‘Cordelia, what became of the chapel?’
‘They locked it up, papa, when mummy died.’
‘It was hers, I gave it to her. We’ve always been builders in our family. I built it for her; in the shade of the pavilion; rebuilt with the old stones behind the old walls; it was the last of the new house to come, the first to go. There used to be a chaplain until the war. Do you remember him?’
‘I was too young.’
‘Then I went away - left her in the chapel praying. It was hers. It was the place for her. I never came back to disturb her prayers. They said we were fighting for freedom; I had my own victory. Was it a crime?’
‘I think it was, papa.’
‘Crying to heaven for vengeance169? Is that why they’ve locked me in this cave, do you think, with a black tube of air and the little yellow men along the walls, who live without breathing? Do you think that, child? But the wind will come soon, tomorrow perhaps, and we’ll breathe again. The ill wind that will blow me good. Better tomorrow.’ Thus, till mid-July, Lord Marchmain lay dying, wearing himself down in the struggle to-live. Then, since there was no reason to expect an immediate change, Cordelia went to London to see her women s organization about the coming ‘emergency’. That day Lord Marchmain became suddenly worse. He lay silent and quite still, breathing laboriously170; only his open eyes, which sometimes moved about the room, gave any sign of consciousness.
‘Is this the end?’ Julia asked.
‘It is impossible to say,’ the doctor answered; ‘when he does die it will probably be like this. He may recover from the present attack. The only thing is not to disturb him. The least shock will be fatal.’
‘I’m going for Father Mackay,’ she said.
I was not surprised. I had seen it in her mind all the summer. When she had gone I said to the doctor, ‘We must stop this nonsense.’
He said: ‘My business is with the body. It’s not my business to argue whether people are better alive or dead, or what happens to them after death. I only try to keep them alive.’
‘And you said just now any shock would kill him. What could be worse for a man who fears death, as he does, than to have a priest brought to him - a priest he turned out when he had the strength?’
‘I think it may kill him.’
‘Then will you forbid it?’
‘I’ve no authority to forbid anything. I can only give my opinion.’
‘Cara, what do you think?’
‘I don’t want him made unhappy. That is all there is to hope for now; that he’ll die without knowing it. But I should like the priest there, all the same.’ ‘Will you try and persuade Julia to keep him away - until the end? After that he can do no harm.’
‘I will ask her to leave Alex happy, yes.’
In half an hour Julia was back with Father Mackay. We all met in the library. ‘I’ve telegraphed for Bridey and Cordelia,’ I said. ‘I hope you agree that nothing must be done till they arrive.’
‘I wish they were here, ‘ said Julia.
‘You can’t take the responsibility alone,’ I said; ‘everyone else is against you. Doctor Grant, tell her what you said to me just now.’
‘I said that the shock of seeing a priest might well kill him; without that he may survive this attack. As his medical man I must protest against anything being done to disturb him.’
‘Cara?’
‘Julia, dear, I know you are thinking for the best, but, you know, Alex was not a religious man. He scoffed171 always. We mustn’t take advantage of him, now he’s weak, to comfort our own consciences. If Father Mackay comes to him when he is unconscious, then he can be buried in the proper way, can he not, Father?’ ‘I’ll go and see how he is, ‘ said the doctor, leaving us.
‘Father Mackay,’ I said. ‘You know how Lord Marchmain greeted you last time you came; do you think it possible he can have changed now?’ ‘Thank God, by his grace it is possible.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Cara, ‘you could slip in while he is sleeping, say the words of absolution over him; he would never know.’
‘I have seen so many men and women die,’ said the priest; ‘I never knew them sorry to have me there at the end.’
‘But they were Catholics; Lord Marchmain has never been one except in name - at any rate, not for years. He was a scoffer172, Cara said so.’ ‘Christ came to call, not the righteous, but sinners to repentance173.’
The doctor returned. ‘There’s no change,’ he said.
‘Now doctor,’ said the priest, ‘how would I be a shock to anyone?’ He turned his bland174, innocent, matter-of-fact face first on the doctor, then upon the rest of us. ‘Do you know what I want to do? It is something so small, no show about it. I don’t wear special clothes, you know. I go just as I am. He knows the look of me now. There’s nothing alarming. I just want to ask him if he is sorry for his sins. I want him to make some little sign of assent175; I want him, anyway, not to refuse me; then I want to give him God’s pardon. Then, though that’s not essential, I want to anoint him. It is nothing, a touch of the fingers, just some oil from this little box, look it is nothing to hurt him.’ ‘Oh, Julia,’ said Cara, ‘what are we to say? Let me speak to him.’ She went to the Chinese drawing-room; we waited in silence; there was a wall of fire between Julia and me. Presently Cara returned.
‘I don’t think he heard,’ she said. ‘I thought I knew how to put it to him. I said: “’Alex, you remember the priest from Melstead. You were very naughty when he came to see you. You hurt his feelings very much. Now he’s here again. I want you to see him just
for my sake, to make friends.” But he didn’t answer. If he’s unconscious, it couldn’t make him unhappy to see the priest, could it, doctor?’ Julia, who had been standing176 still and silent, suddenly moved. ‘Thank you for your advice, doctor,’ she said. ‘I take full responsibility for whatever happens. Father Mackay, will you please come and see my father now,’ and without looking at me, led him to the door.
We all followed. Lord Marchmain was lying as I had seen him that morning, but his eyes were now shut; his hands lay, palms upwards177, above the bed-clothes; the nurse had her fingers on the pulse of one of them. ‘Come in,’ she said brightly, ‘you won’t disturb him now.’
‘D’you mean...’
‘No, no, but he’s past noticing anything.’
She held the oxygen apparatus to his face and the hiss of escaping gas was the only sound at the bedside.
The priest bent178 over Lord Marchmain and blessed him. Julia and Cara knelt at the foot of the bed. The doctor, the nurse, and I stood behind them. ‘Now,’ said the priest, ‘I know you are sorry for all the sins of your life, aren’t you? Make a sign, if you can. You’re sorry, aren’t you?’ But there was no sign. ‘Try and remember your sins; tell God you are sorry. I am going to give you absolution. While I am giving it, tell God you are sorry you have offended him.’ He began to speak in Latin. I recognized the words ‘ego te absolvo in nomine Patris...’ and saw the priest make the sign of the cross. Then I knelt, too, and prayed: ‘O God,.if there is a God, forgive him his sins, if there is such thing as sin,’ and the man on the bed opened his eyes and gave a sigh, the sort of sigh I had imagined people made at the moment of death, but his eyes moved so that we knew there was still life in him.
I suddenly felt the longing for a sign, if only of courtesy, if only for the sake of the woman I loved, who knelt in front of me, praying, I knew, for a sign. It seemed so small a thing that was asked, the bare acknowledgement of a present, a nod in the crowd. I prayed more simply; ‘God forgive him his sins’ and ‘Please God, make him accept your forgiveness.’
So small a thing to ask.
The priest took the little silver box from his pocket and spoke again in Latin, touching179 the dying man with an oil wad; he finished what he had to do, put away the box and gave the final blessing. Suddenly Lord Marchmain moved his hand to his forehead; I thought he had felt the touch of the chrism and was wiping it away. ‘O God,’ I prayed, ‘don’t let him do that.’ But there was no need for fear; the hand moved slowly down his breast, then to his shoulder, and Lord Marchmain made the sign of the cross. Then I knew that the sign I had asked for was not a little thing, not a passing nod of recognition, and a phrase came back to me from my childhood of the veil of the temple being rent from top to bottom.
It was over; we stood up; the nurse went back to the oxygen cylinder; the doctor bent over his patient. Julia whispered to me: ‘Will you see Father Mackay out? I’m staying here for a little.’
Outside the door Father Mackay became the simple, genial man I had known before. ‘Well, now, and that was a beautiful thing to me. I’ve known it happen that way again and again. The devil resists to the last moment and then the Grace of God is too much for him. You’re not a Catholic I think, Mr Ryder, but at least you’ll be glad for the ladies to have the comfort of it.’
As we were waiting for the chauffeur, it occurred to me that Father Mackay should be paid for his services. I asked him awkwardly. ‘Why, don’t think about it, Mr Ryder. It was a pleasure,’ he said, ‘but anything you care to give is useful in a parish like mine.’.I found I had three pounds in my note-case and gave them to him. ‘Why, indeed, that’s more than generous. God bless you, Mr Ryder. I’ll call again, but I don’t think the poor soul has 1ong for this world.’
Julia remained in the Chinese drawing-room until, at five o’clock that evening, her father died proving both, sides right in the dispute, priest and doctor.
Thus I come to the broken sentences which were the last words spoken between Julia and me, the last memories.
When her father died Julia remained some minutes with his body; the nurse came to the next room to announce the news and I had a glimpse of her through the open door, kneeling at the foot of the bed, and of Cara sitting by her. Presently the two women came out together, and Julia said to me: ‘Not now; I’m just taking Cara up to her room; later.’
While she was still upstairs Brideshead and Cordelia arrived from London; when at last we met alone it was by stealth, like young lovers.
Julia said: ‘Here in the shadow, in the corner of the stair - a minute to say good-bye.’
‘So long to say so little.’
‘You knew?’
‘Since this morning; since before this morning; all this year.’ ‘I didn’t know till today. Oh, my dear, if you could only understand. Then I could bear to part, or bear it better. I should say my heart was breaking, if I believed in broken hearts. I can’t marry you, Charles; I can’t be with you ever again.’ ‘I know.’
‘How can you know?’
‘What will you do?’
‘Just go on - alone. How can I tell what I shall do? You know the whole of me. You know I’m not one for a life of mourning. I’ve always been bad. Probably I shall be bad again, punished again. But the worse I am, the more I need God. I can’t shut myself out from his mercy. That is what it would mean; starting a life with you, without him. One can only hope to see one step ahead. But I saw today there was one thing unforgivable - like things in the school-room, so bad they were unpunishable, that only mummy could deal with - the bad thing I was on the point of doing, that I’m not quite bad enough to do; to set up a rival good to God’s. Why should I be allowed to understand that, and not you, Charles? It may be because of mummy, nanny, Cordelia, Sebastian - perhaps Bridey and Mrs Muspratt - keeping my name in their prayers; or it may be a private bargain between me and God, that if I give up this one thing I want so much, however bad I am, he won’t quite despair of me in the end.
‘Now we shall both be alone, and I shall have no way of making you understand.’ ‘I don’t want to make it easier for you,’ I said; ‘I hope your heart may break; but I do understand.’
The avalanche180 was down, the hillside swept barebehind it; the last echoes died on the white slopes; the new mound181 glittered and lay still in the silent valley.
我的离婚案，或者毋宁说是我妻子的离婚案预定开审的时间大约和布赖兹赫德举行婚礼的时间相同。朱莉娅的离婚案要等到下一个开庭期才会提交审理；就在这时，大搬家的游戏全面开始了——我的东西从教区长旧宅搬到我的寓所，我妻子的东西从我的寓所搬到教区长旧宅，朱莉娅的东西从雷克斯的住宅并从布赖兹赫德搬到我的那套房间里，雷克斯的从布赖兹赫德搬到他的住宅，马斯普拉特夫人的从法尔默斯搬到布赖兹赫德——我们所有的人，程度不同地都无家可归了，这时候突然有人命令“停止”，因为显然是他长子行动楷模的、喜欢采取戏剧性的不合时宜行动的马奇梅因勋爵突然宣布，由于当前国际局势动乱，他打算回到英国，在家乡度过晚年。
这个家庭中，唯一会从大变动中得到好处的人就是科迪莉娅了，在这场喧闹中她可怜地受到冷落。布赖兹赫德的确曾向她正式提出过请她把他的住宅当作她自己的家，只要她愿意，但是听见她嫂子打算在婚礼之后立刻就要把她的孩子们安顿在布赖兹赫德庄园，让她的一个姐妹和她的朋友来照管，科迪莉娅就决定搬出去，而且说要独自住在伦敦。这时，她发现自己竟如灰姑娘一样，被提升为大别墅的女主人，而她的哥哥和嫂子一直指望他们自己几天之内就要成为庄园的主人，现在却成了上无片瓦下无立锥之地的人了；已经正式写成只等签字的庄园转让文契这时只好卷扎起来存放在林肯酒馆的一只黑铁皮箱子里。这件事真够让马斯普拉特夫人心酸的，她并非一个野心勃勃的女人，其实别的比布赖兹赫德规模小得多的地方也能够使她心满意足，她衷心希望的无非是给孩子们找到一处过圣诞节的藏身处罢了。现在，法尔默斯那所房子都已经搬空了，准备出卖；而且，马斯普拉特夫人已经向邻居告别了，同时无可非议地谈论了一番新居的阔气；他们不可能回到旧居去。马斯普拉特夫人不得不匆匆把她的家具从马奇梅因夫人的住房里搬到一个久已废弃的马车房里，又在托尔奎租了一套带家具的别墅。正如我说过的，她并不是个野心很大的女人，可是她自己的种种希望既然一度提到如此高的程度，而一下子却落到如此地步，也真叫她狼狈不堪了。村子里那一伙原来为准备迎接新娘进门而进行装饰工作的工人们，此时已经着手拆下旗帜上的Bs徽记，换上了Ms徽记，并且抹去了彩色花冠上标志着伯爵勋位的尖状物，再印上花球和草莓叶子，以此准备迎接马奇梅因勋爵归来。
有关马奇梅因勋爵种种计划的消息，通过一连串纷至沓来的自相矛盾的海底电报先到私人律师们那里，接着到科迪莉娅手里，然后到朱莉娅和我手里。马奇梅因勋爵将按时来参加婚礼；他将在婚礼之后抵达，因为在布赖兹赫德勋爵和夫人途经巴黎时他已和他们见过面；他将在罗马见到他们。他的身体不佳，完全不适于旅行；他正要启程；冬天的布赖兹赫德留给他十分不愉快的印象，因此要等到春暖花开，供暖设备彻底检修完才回来；他单独一个人回来；他要带他那位意大利同居者同回；他希望他归来不向外界公布，他要过与世隔绝的生活；他将要举行一次舞会。直到最后他才选定了在一月里的一个日子到家，后来证明这个日期是准确的。
普伦德比他提前几天到达，出现了一点纠葛。普伦德并不是布赖兹赫德宅子里的老班底；他原来在义勇骑兵队给马奇梅因勋爵当随从，在搬主人行李的一个狼狈场合下才同威尔科克斯见过一面，当时他已经决定打完仗不回家了；普伦德一直就是个贴身男仆，这一向是他的正式身分，不过在过去几年里，他引荐了一位副监督之类的人物，是一个瑞士侍从，让他料理勋爵的服装，而且每当事到临头，也帮着干一些家里有失身分的活儿，因此事实上，成了这个动荡不定四处漂流的家庭
收听单词发音 |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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2
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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3
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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4
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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5
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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6
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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7
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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8
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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9
justifiably
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| adv.无可非议地 | |
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10
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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11
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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12
obliterating
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| v.除去( obliterate的现在分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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13
stencilling
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| v.用模板印（文字或图案）( stencil的现在分词 )；型版 | |
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14
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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15
solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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16
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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17
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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18
overhauled
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| v.彻底检查( overhaul的过去式和过去分词 )；大修；赶上；超越 | |
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19
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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20
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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21
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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22
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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23
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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24
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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25
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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27
lodges
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| v.存放( lodge的第三人称单数 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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28
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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30
lathes
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| 车床( lathe的名词复数 ) | |
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31
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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32
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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33
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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34
bandanna
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| n.大手帕 | |
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35
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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36
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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37
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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38
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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39
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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40
scudding
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| n.刮面v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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41
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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42
apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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43
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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44
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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45
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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46
dismantle
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| vt.拆开，拆卸；废除，取消 | |
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47
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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48
rococo
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| n.洛可可；adj.过分修饰的 | |
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49
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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50
structural
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| adj.构造的，组织的，建筑（用）的 | |
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51
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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52
ostrich
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| n.鸵鸟 | |
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53
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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54
mattresses
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| 褥垫，床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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55
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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56
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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57
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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58
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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59
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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60
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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61
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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62
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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63
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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64
malevolence
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| n.恶意，狠毒 | |
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65
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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67
ewer
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| n.大口水罐 | |
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68
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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69
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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70
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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72
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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73
Mandarin
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| n.中国官话，国语，满清官吏；adj.华丽辞藻的 | |
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74
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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75
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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76
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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77
prophesy
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| v.预言；预示 | |
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78
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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79
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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80
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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81
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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82
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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83
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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84
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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85
crumbles
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| 酥皮水果甜点( crumble的名词复数 ) | |
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86
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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87
rant
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| v.咆哮；怒吼；n.大话；粗野的话 | |
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88
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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89
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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90
vivaciously
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| adv.快活地；活泼地；愉快地 | |
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91
appraised
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| v.估价( appraise的过去式和过去分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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92
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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93
fathomed
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| 理解…的真意( fathom的过去式和过去分词 )； 彻底了解； 弄清真相 | |
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94
entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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95
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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96
gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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97
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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98
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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99
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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100
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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101
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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102
countermanded
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| v.取消（命令），撤回( countermand的过去分词 ) | |
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103
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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104
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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105
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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106
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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107
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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108
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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109
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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110
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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111
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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112
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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113
fluctuations
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| 波动，涨落，起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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114
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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115
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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116
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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117
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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118
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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119
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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120
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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121
stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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122
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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123
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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124
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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125
assuaged
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| v.减轻( assuage的过去式和过去分词 )；缓和；平息；使安静 | |
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126
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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127
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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128
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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134
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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requiem
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| n.安魂曲，安灵曲 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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contrite
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| adj.悔悟了的，后悔的，痛悔的 | |
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subdividing
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| 再分，细分( subdivide的现在分词 ) | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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142
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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143
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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taboo
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| n.禁忌，禁止接近，禁止使用；adj.禁忌的；v.禁忌，禁制，禁止 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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storks
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| n.鹳( stork的名词复数 ) | |
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151
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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nettle
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| n.荨麻；v.烦忧，激恼 | |
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154
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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156
alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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157
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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barons
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| 男爵( baron的名词复数 )； 巨头； 大王； 大亨 | |
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shearing
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| n.剪羊毛，剪取的羊毛v.剪羊毛( shear的现在分词 )；切断；剪切 | |
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marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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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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toads
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆( toad的名词复数 ) | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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cylinder
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| n.圆筒，柱(面)，汽缸 | |
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hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scoffer
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| 嘲笑者 | |
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173
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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174
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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175
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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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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177
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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178
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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179
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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180
avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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181
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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