Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh
But despite this isolation and this long sojourn in a strange world, I remained unchanged, still a small part of myself pretending to be whole. I discarded the experiences of those two years with my tropical kit and returned to New York as I had set out. I had a fine haul — eleven paintings and fifty odd drawings and when eventually I exhibited them in London, the art critics many of whom hitherto had been patronizing in tone, as my success invited, acclaimed a new and richer note in my work. Mr Ryder, the most respected of them wrote, rises like a fresh young trout to the hypodermic injection of a new culture and discloses a powerful facet in the vista of his potentialities….By focusing the frankly traditional battery of his elegance and erudition on the maelstrom of barbarism, Mr Ryder has at last found himself.
Grateful words, but, alas, not true by a long chalk. My wife, who crossed to New York to meet me and saw the fruits of our separation displayed in my agent’s office, summed the thing up better by saying: ‘Of course, I can see they’re perfectly brilliant and really rather beautiful in a sinister way, but somehow I don’t feel they are quite you.’
In Europe my wife was sometimes taken for an American because of her dapper and jaunty way of dressing, and the curiously hygienic quality of her prettiness; in America she assumed an English softness and reticence. She arrived a day or two before me, and was on the pier when my ship docked.
‘It has been a long time,’ she said fondly when we met.
She had not joined the expedition; she explained to our friends that the country was unsuitable and she had her son at home. There was also a daughter now, she remarked, and it came back to me that there had been talk of this before I started, as an additional reason for her staying behind. There had been some mention of it, too, in her letters.
‘I don’t believe you read my letters,’ she said that night, when at last, late, after a dinner party and some hours at a cabaret, we found ourselves alone in our hotel bedroom.
‘Some went astray. I remember distinctly your telling me that the daffodils in the orchard were a dream, that the nursery-maid was a jewel, that the Regency four-poster was a find, but frankly I do not remember hearing that your new baby was called Caroline’. Why did you call it that?’
‘After Charles, of course.’
‘I made Bertha Van Halt godmother. I thought she was safe for a good present. What do you think she gave?’
‘Bertha Van Halt is a well-known trap. What?’
‘A fifteen shilling book-token. Now that Johnjohn has a companion —’
‘Who?’
‘Your son, darling. You haven’t forgotten him, too?’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ I said, ‘why do you call him that?’
‘It’s the name he invented for himself. Don’t you think it sweet? Now that Johnjohn has a companion I think we’d better not have any more for some time, don’t you?’
‘Just as you please.’
‘Johnjohn talks of you such a lot. He prays every night for your safe return.’
She talked in this way while she undressed with an effort to appear at ease; then she sat at the dressing table, ran a comb through her hair, and with her bare back towards me, looking at herself in the glass, said: ‘Shall I put my face to bed?’
It was a familiar phrase, one that I did not like; she meant should she remove her make-up, cover herself with grease and put her hair in a net.
‘No,’ I said, ‘not at once.’
Then she knew what was wanted. She had neat, hygienic ways for that too, but there were both relief and triumph in her smile of welcome; later we parted and lay in our twin beds a yard or two distant, smoking. I looked at my watch; it was four o’clock, but neither of us was ready to sleep, for in that city there is neurosis in the air which the inhabitants mistake for energy.
‘I don’t believe you’ve changed at all, Charles.’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘D’you want to change?’
‘It’s the only evidence of life.’
‘But you might change so that you didn’t love me any more.’
‘There is that risk.’
‘Charles, you haven’t stopped loving me.’
‘You said yourself I hadn’t changed.’
‘Well, I’m beginning to think you have. I haven’t.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘no; I can see that.’
‘Were you at all frightened at meeting me today?’
‘Not the least.’
‘You didn’t wonder if I should have fallen in love with someone else in the meantime?’
‘No. Have you?’
‘You know I haven’t. Have you?’
‘No. I’m not in love.’
My wife seemed content with this answer. She had married me six years ago at the time of my first exhibition, and had done much since then to push our interests. People said she had ‘made’ me, but she herself took credit only for supplying me with a congenial background; she had firm faith in my genius and in the ‘artistic temperament’, and in the principle that things done on the sly are not really done at all.
Presently she said: ‘Looking forward to getting home?’ (My father gave me as a wedding present the price of a house, and I bought an. old rectory in my wife’s part of the country.) ‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve turned the old barn into a studio for you, so that you needn’t be disturbed by the children or when we have people to stay. I got Emden to do it. Everyone thinks it a great success. There was an article on it in Country Life; I bought it for you to see.’
She showed me the article: ‘…happy example of architectural good manners…Sir Joseph Emden’s tactful adaptation of traditional material to modern needs…’; there were some photographs; wide oak boards now covered the earthen floor; a high, stone-mullioned bay-window had been built in the north wall, and the great timbered roof, which before had been lost in shadow, now stood out stark, well lit, with clean white plaster between the beams; it looked like a village hall. I remembered the smell of the place, which would now be lost.
‘I rather liked that barn.’ I said.
‘But you’ll be able to work there, won’t you?’
‘After squatting in a cloud of sting-fly,’ I said, ‘under a sun which scorched the paper off the block as I drew, I could work on the top of an omnibus. I expect the vicar would like to borrow the place for whist drives.’
‘There’s a lot of work waiting for you. I promised Lady Anchorage you would do Anchorage House as soon as you got back. That’s coming down, too, you know — shops underneath and two-roomed flats above. You don’t think, do you, Charles, that all this exotic work you’ve been doing, is going to spoil you for that sort of thing?’
‘Why should it?’
‘Well, it’s so different. Don’t be cross.’
‘It’s just another jungle closing in.’
‘I know just how you feel, darling. The Georgian Society made such a fuss, but we couldn’t do anything…Did you ever get my letter about Boy?’
‘Did I? What did it say?’
(‘Boy’ Mulcaster was her brother.)
‘About his engagement. It doesn’t matter now because it’s all off, but father and mother were terribly upset. She was an awful girl. They had to give her money in the end.’
‘No, I heard nothing of Boy.’
‘He and Johnjohn are tremendous friends, now. It’s so sweet to see them together. Whenever he comes the first thing he does is to drive straight to the Old Rectory. He just walks into the house, pays no attention to anyone else, and hollers out: “Where’s my chum Johnjohn?” and Johnjohn comes tumbling downstairs and off they go into the spinney together and play for hours. You’d think, to hear them talk to each other, they were the same age. It was really Johnjohn who made him see reason about that girl; seriously, you know, he’s frightfully sharp. He must have heard mother and me talking because next time Boy came he said: “Uncle Boy shan’t marry horrid girl and leave J
I crossed the room and tried once more, ineffectively, to moderate the heat of the radiators; I drank some iced water and opened the window, but, besides the sharp night air, music was borne in from the next room where they were playing the wireless. I shut it and turned back towards my wife.
At length she began talking again, more drowsily ‘The garden’s come on a lot…The box hedges you planted grew five inches last year…I had some men down from London to put the tennis court right…first-class cook at the moment…’
As the city below us began to wake, we both fell asleep, but not for long; the telephone rang and a voice of hermaphroditic gaiety said: ‘Savoy-Carlton-Hotel-goodmorning. It is now a quarter of eight.’
‘I didn’t ask to be called, you know.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’
‘You’re welcome.’
As I was shaving, my wife from the bath said: ‘Just like old times. I’m not worrying any more, Charles.’
‘Good.’
‘I was so terribly afraid that two years might have made a difference. Now I know we can start again exactly where we left off.’
‘When?’ I asked. ‘What? When we left off what?’
When you went away, of course.’
‘You are not thinking of something else, a little time before?’
‘Oh, Charles, that’s old history. That was nothing. It was never anything. It’s all over and forgotten.’
‘I just wanted to know,’ I said. ‘We’re back as we were the day I went abroad, is that it?’
So we started that day exactly where we left off two years before, with my wife in tears.
My wife’s softness and English reticence, her very white, small regular teeth, her neat rosy finger-nails, her schoolgirl air of innocent mischief and her schoolgirl dress, her modern jewellery, which was made at great expense to give the impression, at a distance, of having been mass produced, her ready, rewarding smile, her deference to me and her zeal in my interests, her motherly heart which made her cable daily to the nanny at home — in short, her peculiar charm — made her popular among the Americans, and our cabin on the day of departure was full of cellophane packages — flowers, fruit, sweets, books, toys for the children — from friends she had known for a week. Stewards, like sisters in a nursing home, used to judge their passengers’ importance by the number and value of these trophies; we therefore started the voyage in high esteem.
My wife’s first thought on coming aboard was of the passenger list.
‘Such a lot of friends,’ she said. ‘It’s going to be a lovely trip. Let’s have a cocktail party this evening.’
The companion-ways were no sooner cast off than she was busy with the telephone.
‘Julia. This is Celia — Celia Ryder. It’s lovely to find you on board. What have you been up to? Come and have a cocktail this evening and tell me all about it.’
‘Julia who?’
‘Mottram. I haven’t seen her for years.’
Nor had I; not, in fact, since my wedding day, not to speak to for any time, since the private view of my exhibition where the four canvases of Marchmain House, lent by Brideshead, had hung together attracting much attention. Those pictures were my last contact with the Flytes; our lives, so close for a year or two, had drawn apart. Sebastian, I knew, was still abroad; Rex and Julia, I sometimes heard said, were unhappy together. Rex was not prospering quite as well as had been predicted; he remained on the fringe of the Government, prominent but vaguely suspect. He lived among the very rich, and in his speeches seemed to incline to revolutionary policies, flirting, with Communists and Fascists. I heard the Mottrams’ names in conversation; I saw their faces now and again peeping from the Tatler, as I turned the pages impatiently waiting for someone to come, but they and I had fallen apart, as one could in England and only there, into separate worlds, little spinning planets of personal relationship; there is probably a perfect metaphor for the process to be found in physics, from the way in which, I dimly apprehend, particles of energy group and regroup themselves in separate magnetic systems; a metaphor ready to hand for the man who can speak of these things with assurance; not for me, who can only say that England abounded in these small companies of intimate friends, so that, as in this case of Julia and myself, we could live in the same street in London, see at times, a few miles distant, the rural horizon, could have a liking one for the other, a mild curiosity about the other’s fortunes, a regret, even, that we should be separated, and the knowledge that either of us had only to pick up the telephone and speak by the other’s pillow, enjoy the intimacies of the levee, coming in, as it were, with the morning orange juice and the sun, yet be restrained from doing so by the centripetal force of our own worlds, and the cold, interstellar space between them.
My wife, perched on the back of the sofa in a litter of cellophane and silk ribbons, continued telephoning, working brightly through the passenger list…’Yes, do of course bring him, I’m told he’s sweet…Yes, I’ve got Charles back from the wilds at last; isn’t it lovely…What a treat seeing your name in the list! It’s made my trip…darling, we were at the Savoy-Carlton, too; how can we have missed you?’…Sometimes she turned to me and said: ‘I have to make sure you’re still really there. I haven’t got used to it yet.’
I went up and out as we steamed slowly down the river to one of the great glass cases where the passengers stood to watch the land slip by. ‘Such a lot of friends,’ my wife had said. They looked a strange crowd to me; the emotions of leave-taking were just beginning to subside; some of them, who had been drinking till the last moment with those who were seeing them off, were still boisterous; others were planning where they, would have their deck chairs; the band played unnoticed — all were as restless as ants.
I turned into some of the halls of the ship, which were huge without any splendour, as though they had been designed for a railway coach and preposterously magnified. I passed through vast bronze gates on which paper-thin Assyrian animals cavorted; I trod carpets the colour of blotting paper; the painted panels of the walls were like blotting paper, too — kindergarten work in flat, drab colours — and between the walls were yards and yards of biscuit-coloured wood which no carpenter’s tool had ever touched, wood that had been bent round corners, invisibly joined strip to strip, steamed and squeezed and polished; all over the blotting-paper carpet were strewn tables designed perhaps by a sanitary engineer, square blocks of stuffing, with square holes for sitting in, and upholstered, it seemed, in blotting paper also; the light of the hall was suffused from scores of hollows, giving an even glow, casting no shadows — the whole place hummed from its hundred ventilators and vibrated with the turn of the great engines below.
‘Here I am,’ I thought, ‘back from the jungle, back from the ruins. Here where wealth is no longer gorgeous and power has no dignity. Quomodo sedet sola civitas’ (for I had heard that great lament, which Cordelia once quoted to me in the drawing-room of Marchmain House, sung by a half-caste choir in Guatemala, nearly a year ago).
A steward came up to me.
‘Can I get you anything, sir?’
‘A whisky and soda, not iced.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, all the soda is iced.’
‘Is the water iced, too?’
‘Oh yes, sir.’
‘Well, it, doesn’t matter.’
He trotted off, puzzled, soundless in the pervading hum.
‘Charles.’
I looked behind me. Julia was sitting in a cube of blotting paper, her hands folded in her lap, so still that I had passed by without noticing her.
‘I heard you were here. Celia telephoned to me. It’s delightful.’
‘What are you doing?’
She opened the empty hands in her lap with a little eloquent gesture. ‘Waiting. My
The steward returned with whisky and two jugs, one of iced water, the other of boiling water; I mixed them to the rig ht temperature. He watched and said: ‘I’ll remember that’s how you take it, sir.’
Most passengers had fads; he was paid to fortify their self-esteem. Julia asked for a cup of hot chocolate. I sat by her in the next cube.
‘I never see you now,’ she said. ‘I never seem to see anyone I like. I don’t know why.’
But she spoke as though it were a matter of weeks rather than of years; as though, too, before our parting we had been firm friends. It was dead contrary to the common experience of such encounters, when time is found to have built its own defensive lines, camouflaged vulnerable points, and laid a field of mines across all but a few well-trodden paths, so that, more often than not, we can only signal to one another from either side of the tangle of wire. Here she and I, who were never friends before, met on terms of long and unbroken intimacy.
‘What have you been doing in America?’
She looked up slowly from her chocolate and, her splendid, serious eyes in mine, said: ‘Don’t you know? I’ll tell you about it sometimes I’ve been a mug. I thought I was in love with someone, but it didn’t turn out that way.’ And my mind went back ten years to the evening at Brideshead, when that lovely, spidery child of nineteen, as though brought in for an hour from the nursery and nettled by lack of attention from the grown-ups, had said: ‘I’m causing anxiety, too, you know,’ and I had thought at the time, though scarcely, it now seemed to me, in long trousers myself, ‘How important these girls make themselves with their love affairs.’