mercoledì 6 agosto 2008

Brideshead Revisited: Book I. Et in Arcadia Ego. Chapter One

BOOK I

ET IN ARCADIA EGO

Chapter One

"I have been here before," I said; I had been there before;first with
Sebastian morethan twenty years ago on a cloudlessday in June,when the
ditches werewhitewith fool's-parsley and meadowsweet andtheair heavy
with allthe scents of summer; it was a dayof peculiar splendour, such as
our climate ar-fordsonce, or twice a year, when leaf andflowerand bird
andsun-litstone and shadowseem all toproclaimthe glory qf God; and
though Ihad been there sooften, in so manymoods, it was tothat first
visit that my heart returned on this,my latest. That day, too,I had come
not knowing my destination. It was Eights Week. Oxford -- submerged nowand
obliterated,irrecoverableas Lyonnesse, so quickly havethewaters come
flooding in--Oxford, in thosedays, wasstill a city of aquatint. In her
spacious and quiet streets men walked and spoke as they had done in Newman's
day;her autumnalmists, her greyspringtime, andthe rare gloryof her
summer days -- such asthat daywhen the chestnutwasin flowerand the
bells rang out high and clear over her gables and cupolas, exhaled thesoft
vapours of athousand years of learning. It wasthiscloistral hush which
gave our laughter its resonance,and carriedit still, joyously,over the
intervening clamour.Here,discordantly, in Eights Week, came a rabbleof
womankind, some hundreds strong, twittering and fluttering over thecobbles
and upthe steps, sight-seeingandpleasure-seeking, drinking claret cup,
eatingcucumbersandwiches; pushedin puntsabout theriver,herded in
droves to the collegebarges;greetedin the Isis andin the Unionby a
suddendisplayofpeculiar,facetious,whollydistressing
Gilbert-and-Sullivan badinage, and by peculiar choral effects in the college
chapels. Echoesoftheintruders penetrated every corner,andin my own
college was no echo, butan originalfount of the grossest disturbance. We
were giving a ball. Thefront quad, where I lived, was floored andtented;
palmsand azaleaswere banked round the porter's lodge; worst of all,the
don wholivedaboveme,a mouseofa manconnected withtheNatural
Sciences, had lent hisrooms for a Ladies' Cloakroom, and a printednotice
proclaiming this outrage hung not six inches from my oak.

No one felt more strongly about it than my scout.

"Gentlemen who haven't got ladies are asked as faras possible to take
their meals out in the next few days," heannounced despondently. "Will you
be lunching in?"

"No, Lunt."

"So as to give the servants a chance, they say. What a chance! I've got
tobuyapin-cushion for the Ladies' Cloakroom. Whatdotheywant with
dancing? I don'tseethe reason in it.There neverwas dancing before in
Eights Week. Commcm. now is another matter being in the vacation, but not in
Eights Week as if teas and the river wasn't enough. If you ask me, sir, it's
all on account of the war. It couldn't have happened but for that." For this
was 1923 and for Lunt, as for thousands of others, things could never be the
same as they had beenin 1914."Now wine in the evening," he continued, as
was his habit, half in and half out of the door, "or one or two gentlemen to
luncheon, there's reason in.But not dancing. It all camein with themen
back from the war. They were too oldand they didn't know and they wouldn't
learn. That's the truth.And there's sorne even goesdancing with the town
at the Masonic --but the proctors will get them, you see. . . . Well, here's
Lord Sebastian. I mustn't stand heretalking when there'spin-cushionsto
get."

Sebastian entered -- dove-grey flannel, white crepe-de-chine, a Charvet
tie, mytie as it happened, a pattern of postage stamps-- "Charles, what in
theworld'shappening atyourcollege?Isthereacircus? I'veseen
everything exceptelephants. I must say the whole of Oxford has become most
peculiar suddenly.Last night it was pullulating with women. You're to come
awayatonce, outofdanger. I'vegotamotor-carandabasketof
strawberries and abottle of Chateau Peyraguey -- which isn't a wine you've
ever tasted, so don't pretend. It's heaven with strawberries."

"Where are we going?"

"To see a friend."

"Who?"

"Name of Hawkins. Bring somemoneyin case we see anything we want to
buy.The motor-car is the property of a man called Hardcastle.Returnthe
bits to him if I kill myself; I'm not very good at driving."

Beyondthe gate, beyondthe wintergarden that wasonce thelodge,
stood an open,two-seater Morris-Cowley. Sebastian'sTeddy-bear sat at the
wheel. We put him between us --"Take care he's ndt sick"--and drove off.
The bells ofSt.Mary'swere chimingnine; we escaped collisionwitha
clergyman,black-straw-hatted,white-bearded,pedallingquietly down the
wrong side of the High Street, crossedCarfax, passed the station, and were
soon in opencountry on the Botley Road; open country was easily reached in
those days.

"Isn't it early?" said Sebastian. "The women arestill doingwhatever
women dotothemselves before they come downstairs. Sloth has undone them.
We're away. God bless Hardcastle."

"Whoever he may be."

"He thought hewa,s comingwithus. Sloth undid him too. Well, I did
tell him ten. He's a very gloomy man in my college. Heleads a double life.
AtleastI assume he does.He couldn't goon being Hardcastle,dayand
night, always, couldhe? Or he'd dieof it.He sayshe knows myfather,
which is impossible."

"Why?"

"No one knows Papa. He's a social leper. Hadn't you heard?"

"It's a pity neither of us can sing," I said.

AtSwindonwe turned off the main roadand, as themounted high, we
were among dry-stone walls and ashlar ho It was about eleven when Sebastian,
without warning, turned the! car into a carttrack and stopped. It washot
enough now toj make usseekthe shade. On a sheep-cropped knoll under aI
clumpof elms weate the strawberries and drank the wine --asSebastian
promised, they were delicious together -- and we lit fat, Turkish cigarettes
and lay on our backs, Sebastian's eyes on the leaves above him, mineon his
profile,while the blue-grey smoke rose,untroubledbyany wind, tothe
blue-green shadowsoffoliage, and thesweet scent of thetobacco merged
with the sweet! summerscents around us and thefumes of the sweet, golden
wine seemedto liftusafinger's breadthabovetheturf andhold us
suspended.

"Just theplace to bury acrock of gold," saidSebastian. "Ishould
like to bury something precious in everyplace where I'vebeenhappyand
then, when I was old and ugly and miserable, I could come back and dig it up
and remember."

This was my third term since matriculation, butI datemy Oxford life
from my first meeting with Sebastian, which hadhappened, by chance, in the
middleof theterm before. Wewere in differentcollegesandcame from
different schools; Imightwell have spentmy three or fouryears in the
University andnever have met him, butfor the chance of his getting drunk
oneevening in my college and ofmy having ground-floor rooms in the front
quadrangle.

Ihadbeen warned against the dangersoftheserooms by mycousin
Jasper, who alone, when I first cameup, thoughtme a suitable subject for
detailed guidance. My father offered me none. Then,as always,he eschewed
serious conversation with me. It was notuntil Iwas within a fortnight of
going upthat hementioned thesubject at all;thenhe said, shylyand
ratherslyly: "I've been talking about you. I met your future Warden at the
Athenaeum. I wanted to talk about Etruscan notions of immortality; he wanted
totalkabout extensionlectures for the working-class; so we compromised
andtalked about you. I asked him whatyour allowance should be.He said,
'Threehundred a year; on no account givehimmore; that'sallmost men
have.' I thought that a deplorable answer./ had more than most menwhen /
wasup, andmy recollection is that nowhere elsein the world andatno
other time, doa few hundred pounds,oneway orthe other, makeso much
difference to one'simportanceandpopularity. Itoyed with the ideaof
giving you six hundred," said my father, snuffling a little, ashe did when
he was amused, "but I reflected that, should theWarden come to hear of it,
it might sound deliberately impolite.So I shall give you fivehundred and
fifty."

I thanked him.

"Yes, it's indulgent of me,but it all comes out of capital, you know.
... I suppose this is the time I shouldgive you advice.Ineverhad any
myself except once from your cousin Alfred. Do you know in the summer before
I was going up, your cousin Alfredrode over to Boughton especially to give
me a piece of advice? And do youknow what that advice was? 'Ned,' he said,
'there'sone thing I mustbeg of you. Alwaysweara tallhat on Sundays
duringterm. It is by that,more than anything, that a man is judged.' And
do you know," continued my father, snuffling deeply, "I always did? Some men
did,some didn't.Ineversaw anydifference between themorheard it
commentedon, but I always wore mine. Itonly shows what effectjudicious
advice can have, properlydelivered at the right moment. I wish Ihad some
for you, but I haven't."

My cousinJasper madegood the loss; he was thesonofmy father's
elder brother, to whom he referred more than once, only half facetiously, as
"the Head of the Family"; hewas in his fourth yearand,the term before,
hadcome within appreciable distanceofgettinghis rowing blue; hewas
secretary of the Canningandpresident ofthe J.C.R.--aconsiderable
person in college. He called onme formally during my first week and stayed
to tea;he ate a very heavy meal of honey-buns, anchovy toast-andPuller's
walnut cake, then he lit his pipe and,lying back in the basket-chair, laid
down the rules of conduct which I should follow;hecovered most subjects;
even to-day I could repeatmuch of what he said, word for word. "... You're
readingHistory? A perfectly respectableschool. The very worst is English
Literature and the next worst is Modern Greats. You want either a first or a
fourth. There is no value in anything between.Timespent on a good second
is time thrownaway. You shouldgo to the bestlectures--Arkwright on
Demosthenes for instance-- irrespective of whether they are in your school
or not.....Clothes. Dress as you do in acountry house. Neverwear a tweed
coat and flannel trousers -- always a suit.Andgo to a London tailor; you
get better cut and longer credit. .. . Clubs. Join the Carlton now and the
Grid at the beginning of your secondyear. If you want to run for the Union
-- andit's not a bad thing to do -- make your reputation outside first, at
the Canning orthe Chatham, and begin by speaking on the paper. . .. Keep
clear of Boar's Hill . . ." The sky over the opposing gables glowed and then
darkened; I put morecoal on the fire and turned on the light, revealing in
their respectability his London-made plus foursandhis Leander tie. . . .
"Don'ttreatdons like schoolmasters; treat them as you would the vicar at
home. .. . You'll find you spendhalfyour second yearshakingoff the
undesirablefriendsyoumadeinyourfirst....Bewareofthe
Anglo-Catholics -- they're allsodomites with unpleasantaccents. In fact,
steer clear of all the religious groups; they do nothing but harm. . . ."

Finally, justas he was going,he said, "Onelast point. Change your
rooms."Theywerelarge,withdeeplyrecessedwindowsandpainted,
eighteenth-century panelling; I was lucky asa freshman to get them."I've
seen many a man ruined through having ground-floor rooms in the front quad,"
said my cousinwithdeep gravity. "Peoplestartdropping in. Theyleave
theirgowns here andcome andcollect them before hall; youstart giving
them sherry. Before you know where you are, you've opened a free bar for all
the undesirables of the college."

I do not knowthat I ever, consciously, followed any o this advice. I
certainlynever changed my rooms; there were gillyflowers growing below the
windows which on summer evenings filled them with fragrance.

Itiseasy,retrospectively,toendowone's youthwithafalse
precocityora false innocence;totamperwiththe dates marking one's
statureonthe edge ofthedoor.Ishouldlike to think-- indeedI
sometimes do think --thatI decorated those rooms with Morrisstuffs and
Arundelprintsand that myshelves were filledwithseventeenth-century
foliosandFrenchnovels ofthesecondempireinRussia-leatherand
watered-silk.But this was not thetruth. On myfirst afternoon I proudly
hung a reproduction of Van Gogh's"Sunflowers"over the fire and set upa
screen, painted by Roger Fry with a Provencallandscape, which I had bought
inexpensively whenthe Omega workshopsweresoldup.I displayed also a
poster by McKnight Kauffer and Rhyme Sheetsfromthe Poetry Bookshop, and,
most painful torecall,a porcelain figure of PollyPeachumwhichstood
betweenblacktapersonthechimney-piece.Mybooksweremeagre and
commonplace -- Roger Fry's Visionand Design; the Medici Press edition of A
ShropshireLad;EminentVictorians;somevolumesofGeorgianPoetry;
Sinister Street; and South Wind -- and my earliest friends fitted wellinto
this background;they were Collins, aWykehamist, anembryo don, a man of
solidreadingandchildlikehumour,andasmallcircleofcollege
intellectuals,whomaintainedamiddlecourseof culturebetweenthe
flamboyant"aesthetes" andthe proletarian scholars who scrambled fiercely
for facts inthe lodging houses of the Iffley -Road andWellington Square.
It was by this circle that I found myself adopted during my first term; they
provided the kind of company I had enjoyed in thesixth form at school, for
which thesixth form had prepared me;but even in the earliest days,when
the whole businessofliving at Oxford, with roomsofmy own andmy own
cheque book, wasa source of excitement, I feltat heart that this was not
all that Oxford had to offer.

At Sebastian's approach these greyfigures seemed quietly to fade into
the landscape and vanish, like highland sheepin the misty heather. Collins
had exposed the fallacy of modern aesthetics to me: "... The whole argument'
from Significant Formstandsor falls by volume.If you allow Cezanneto
represent a third dimensiononhis two-dimensional canvas, thenyoumust
allow Landseer his gleam of loyalty in the spaniel's eye"-- but itwasnot
until Sebastian, idlyturning the page of Clive Bell'sArt,read: " 'Does
anyone feel thesame kind of emotion for a butterflyor aflowerthat he
feels for a cathedral or a picture?' Yes. I do," that my eyes were opened.

Iknew Sebastianby sight long before I met him. That was unavoidable
for, from hisfirst week, hewasthe most conspicuousman of his year by
reasonofhisbeauty,whichwas arresting,andhiseccentricities of
behaviour which seemed to knownobounds. My firstsight of him was as we
passed in the doorof Germer's, and, on that occasion, I was struck less by
his looks than by the fact that he was carrying a large Teddy-bear.

"That," saidthebarber,as I tookhis chair,"was LordSebastian
Flyte. A most amusing young gentleman."

"Apparently," I said coldly.

"TheMarquis ofMarchmain'ssecondboy. Hisbrother, theEarlof
Brideshead,wentdown lastterm. Now hewas very different, a very quiet
gentleman, quite like an old man. What do you suppose Lord Sebastian wanted?
A hair brush for hisTeddy-bear; it had to havevery stiff bristles,not,
Lord Sebastian said, to brush him with, but to threaten himwith a spanking
whenhe was sulky.He bought avery niceone with an ivory back and he's
having 'Aloysius' engraved on it -- that'sthe bear'sname." The man, who,
inhis time,had hadample chance to tireof undergraduatefantasy, was
plainly captivated byhim.I, however, remainedcensorious and subsequent
glimpsesof Sebastian, driving in a hansom cab and dining at the Georgein
false whiskers, did not soften me, although Collins, whowas reading Freud,
had a number of technical terms to cover everything.

Nor, when atlastwe met, were the circumstancespropitious. Itwas
shortly before midnight in early March; I had been entertainingthe college
intellectuals to mulled,claret;the fire was roaring, the airof my room
heavy with smoke and spice, and my mind weary with metaphysics. I threw open
mywindowsandfromthequad outside camethenotuncommon sounds of
bibulouslaughter andunsteadysteps.A voicesaid: "Hold up"; another,
"Come on"; another,"Plentyof time. ..House .. .till Tomstops
ringing";andanother,clearerthantherest, "D'youknow I feel most
unaccountably unwell. I must leave you a minute,"andthere appeared at my
window the faceI knew to beSebastian's -- but not as I had formerly seen
it, alive and alight with gaiety; he looked at me for a moment with unseeing
eyes and then, leaning forward well into the room, he was sick.

It wasnot unusual for dinner parties to end in that way; there was in
fact a recognized tariff on such occasions forthe comfort of the scout; we
were all learning, bytrial and error, tocarry our wine. There was also a
kindof insane andendearing orderlinessabout Sebastian's choice, in his
extremity,ofanopenwindow.But,whenallissaid, it remained an
unpropitious meeting.

His friends bore him to the gate and, ina few minutes,his host,an
amiable Etonian of my year, returnedto apologize. He, too, wastipsyand
hisexplanations were repetitive and, towards theend, tearful. "The wines
weretoo various," he said; "it wasneitherthe qualitynor the quantity
thatwas at fault. Itwas the mixture. Grasp that and you have the root of
the matter. To understand all is to forgive all."

"Yes," I said, but it was with a sense of grievance that I faced Lunt's
reproaches next morning.


"A couple of jugs of mulled claret between the five of you," Lunt said,
"andthis had to happen. Couldn't even get to the window.Those that can't
keep it down are better without it."

"It wasn't one of my party. It was someone from out of college."

"Well, it's just as nasty clearing it up, whoever it was."

"There's five shillings on the sideboard."

"So I saw and thank you, but I'd rather not have the money and not have
the mess, any morning."

I took my gown and left him to his task. I still frequented the lecture
room in those days, andit was after eleven whenI returnedto college. I
foundmy room full offlowers; whatlookedlike, and, in fact, was,the
entireday'sstock of a market-stall stood inevery conceivable vessel in
every part of theroom. Lunt was secreting the lastof them in brown paper
preparatory to taking them home.

"Lunt, what is all this?"

"The gentleman from last night, sir, he left a note for you."

The note waswritten in contecrayon ona whole sheetof mychoice
Whatman H.P.drawing paper: I am very contrite. Aloysiuswon't speak to me
until hesees I am forgiven, so pleasecome to luncheon to-day.Sebastian
Flyte. It was typical of him, Ireflected, to assume I knew where he lived;
but then, I did know. '

"A mostamusing gentleman, I'm sure it's quite a pleasure to cleanup
after him. I take it you'relunching out,sir.I told Mr. Collins and Mr.
Partridge so--they wanted to have their commons in here with you."

"Yes, Lunt, lunching out."

That luncheon party --for party itproved to be -- was the beginning
of a new epoch in my life, but its details are dimmed for me and confused by
somany others,almost identical with it, thatsucceeded one another that
term and the next, like romping cupids in a Renaissance frieze.

I wentthere uncertainly,forit wasforeign ground and there was a
tiny, priggish, warning voicein my ear which inthe tones of Collins told
me it was seemly to holdback.But I was in searchof love in those days,
andI went fullof curiosity and the faint, unrecognized apprehension that
here, atlast, I should findthat lowdoor in the wall,which others,I
knew, had found before me, which opened on an enclosed and enchanted garden,
which was somewhere, not overlooked by any window, in the heart of that grey
city.

Sebastianlivedat Christ Church,highinMeadow Buildings. He was
alonewhen I came, peeling a plover's egg taken from the large nest of moss
in the centre of the table.

"I've just counted them," he said."There were five each and two over,
soI'm having thetwo.I'munaccountablyhungryto-day.Iput myself
unreservedlyin the hands of Dolbear and Goodall,and feel so drugged that
I'vebegun tobelieve that thewholeofyesterday evening was adream.
Please don't wake me up."

He was magically beautiful, with that epicene quality whichin extreme
youth sings aloud for love and withers at the first cold wind.

His room was filled witha strange jumble of objects -- a harmonium in
a gothic case, an elephant's-foot waste-paper basket, adomeof wax fruit,
two disproportionatelylargeSevres vases,framed drawingsby Daumier --
made all the more incongruous by the austere college furniture and the large
luncheon table. His chimney-piece wascovered with cards of invitation from
London hostesses.

"That beast Hobson has put Aloysius inthebedder," be said. "Perhaps
it'sas well asthere wouldn't have been any plovers' eggs for him.D'you
know, Hobson hates Aloysius? I wishI hada scout like yours. He was sweet
to me this morning where some people might have been quite strict."

The party assembled. There were threeEtonian freshmen, mild, elegant,
detached young men who had all been toadance in London the night before,
and spoke of itasthoughit had been the funeralof a nearbut unloved
kinsman. Each as he cameinto theroom madefirst for theplovers' eggs,
then noticed Sebastian and then myself with a polite lack of curiosity which
seemed to say: "We should not dream of being so offensive as to suggest that
you never met us before."

"The first this year," they said. "Where do you get them?"

"Mummy sends them from Brideshead. They always lay early for her."

When the eggs weregone and wewere eatingthe lobster Newburg,the
last guest arrived.

"My dear," he said, "I couldn't get away before. I was lunching with my
p-p-preposterous tutor. He thought it very odd my leaving when I did. I told
him I had to change for F-f-footer."

From the momenthearrived thenewcomertookcharge, talking ina
luxurious,self-taught stammer;teasing;caricaturingthe guestsat his
previous luncheon; tellinglubricious anecdotes ofParis andBerlin;and
doingmorethan entertain -- transfiguringthe party,sheddinga vivid,
false light of eccentricity upon everyone so that the three prosaic Etonians
seemed suddenly to become creatures of his fantasy.

This, I did notneed telling, wasAnthony Blanche, the "aesthete" par
excellence, a byword of iniquity fromCherwell Edgeto Somerville, a young
man who seemed to me, then,fresh fromthe sombre company oftheCollege
Essay Society, ageless asa lizard,asforeign as a Martian. Hehad been
pointed out tomeoften in the streets, as he movedwith his own peculiar
stateliness,asthoughhe had not fullyaccustomed himself tocoatand
trousers and was more at his easein heavy, embroidered robes; I hadheard
his voicein the Georgechallenging the conventions; andnow meeting him,
underthe spell of Sebastian, I found myself enjoying him voraciously, like
the fine piece of cookery he was.

Afterluncheonhestoodonthe balcony with a megaphonewhich had
appeared surprisingly amongthe bric-a-bracofSebastian'sroom, andin
languishing, sobbing tonesrecitedpassages fromTheWasteLand tothe
sweatcred and muffled throng that was on its way to the river.

" 'I, Tiresias,have fpresuffered all,'"hesobbed to them fromthe
Venetian arches --
"Enacted on this same d-divan or b-bed,
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the l-l-lowest of the dead. . . ."

And then, stepping lightly into the room,"How I have surprisedthem!
All bJDoatmen are Grace Darlings to me."

We sat on sippingCointreau while the mildest and most detached of the
Etonians sang "Home theybrought Her warrior dead" to his own accompaniment
on the harmonium.

It was four o'clock before we broke up.

Anthony Blanche was the first to go.He took formal andcomplimentary
leave ofeach ofus in turn. To Sebastian he said: "My dear, I should like
tostick you full of barbed arrows likea p-p-pin-cushion," andto me: "I
think it's perfectly brilliant of Sebastian to have discovered you. Where do
you lurk?I shall come down your burrowandch-chiwy youout like an old
st-t-toat."
The others leftsoon after him. Irose to go with them, but Sebastian
said: "Have some more Cointreau," so I stayed and later he said, "Imust'go
to the Botanical Gardens."

"Why?"

"To see the ivy."

- It seemed a good enough reason and I went with him. He took my arm as
we walked under the walls of Merton.

"I've never been to the Botanical Gardens," I said.

"Oh,Charles, what a lot you haveto learn! There's abeautiful arch
there and more different kindsof ivy thanIknewexisted. I don'tknow
where I should be without the Botanical Gardens."
Whenatlength I returned to my rooms and found them exactly as I had
leftthem that morning, Idetecteda jejune air thathadnotirkedme
before. Whatwaswrong?Nothingexcept the golden daffodils seemed to be
real. Was it the screen? I turned it face to the wall. That was better.

It was the end of the screen. Lunt never liked it, and after a few days
he took it away, to an obscure refuge he had under the stairs, fullof mops
and buckets.

That day was the beginning of my friendship with Sebastian, and thus it
came about, thatmorning in June, that Iwas lying beside him in the shade
ofthe high elms,watchingthe smoke fromhislipsdriftup intothe
branches.

Presently we drove on and in another hour were hungry. We stopped at an
inn, whichwas half farm also, and ateeggs and bacon, pickled walnuts and
cheese, and drank our beer in a sunless parlour where an old clock ticked in
the shadows and a cat slept by the empty grate.

We droveonandintheearly afternooncame toourdestination:
wrought-iron gates and twin, classical lodges on a village green, an avenue,
moregates, openparkland, aturninthedrive; and suddenly a new and
secret landscape opened before us. We 'wereat thehead of avalley and
below us, half a mile distant,prone inthe sunlight, grey and gold amid a
screen of boskage, shone the dome and columns of an old house.

"Well?" said Sebastian, stopping the car. Beyond the domelay receding
steps of water and round it, guarding and hiding it, stood the soft hills.

"Well?"

"What a place to live in!" I said.

"You must see the garden front and the fountain." He leaned forward and
put the car intogear. "It's where my family live." And even then,rapt in
thevision, Ifelt, momentarily,like awind stirringthe tapestry,an
ominous chill at the words he used -- not "That is my home," but "It's where
my family live."

"Don't worry," he continued,"they're all away. You won't have to meet
them."

"But I should like to."

"Well, you can't. They're in London, dancing."

We drove round thefront into aside court --"Everything's shut up.
We'dbettergointhisway"--andenteredthroughthefortress-like,
stone-flagged, stone-vaulted passages of the servants'quarters -- "Iwant
youtomeetNanny Hawkins.That's whatwe've comefor" -- andclimbed
uncarpeted,scrubbedelm stairs,followedmore passagesofwide boards
covered in the centre by a thinstrip ofdrugget, through passages covered
by linoleum, passingthewellsof many minor staircasesand many rows of
crimson andgoldfirebuckets, up a finalstaircase, gatedat the head,
where at last we reached the nurseries, high in the domeinthe centreof
the main block.

Sebastian'sNannywasseated at theopen window;the fountainlay
beforeher,the lakes,the temple,and,faraway on the lastspur,a
glittering obelisk; her hands lay open in her lap and, loosely between them,
a rosary; she was fast asleep. Long hours of work in her youth, authority in
middle life, reposeandsecurity in herage, hadset their stamp onher
lined and serene face.
"Well," she said, waking; "this is a surprise."

Sebastian kissed her.

"Who's this?" she said, looking at me. "I don't think I know him."

Sebastian introduced us.

"You've come justthe right time. Julia's here for the day. She was up
with me nearly all the morning telling meabout London. Such a time they're
all having. It's dull without them. Just Mrs. Chandler andtwo of the girls
and old Bert. And thenthey're all going on holidays and the boiler's being
done out in August and you going, to see his Lordship in Italy, and the rest
on visits,it'll be^ October beforewe'resettleddownagain. Still,I
suppose Julia must have her enjoyment the same as other young ladies, though
what theyalways want to go to London for in the best of the summer and the
gardens all out, I never have understood. Father Phipps was here on Thursday
andIsaidexactly thesame tohim," she added as thoughshe hadthus
acquired sacerdotal authority for her opinion.

"D'you say Julia's here?"

"Yes, dear, you must have just missed her. It's the Conservative Women.
Her Ladyship wasto have done them, but she's poorly.Julia won't be long;
she's leaving immediately after her speech, before the tea."

"I'm afraid we may miss her again."

"Don't do that,dear,it'llbe sucha surprise toher seeingyou,
though she ought to wait for the tea, I told her, it's what the Conservative
Women come for. Now what's the news? Are you studying hard at your books?"

"Not very, I'm afraid, Nanny."

"Ah, cricketing all day long I expect, like your brother. He found time
to study, too, though. He's not been here since Christmas, but he'll be here
forthe Agricultural I expect. Didyou see this piece about Juliainthe
paper ? She brought it down for me. Not that it's nearly good enough of her,
but whatit says is very nice. 'The lovely daughter whom LadyMarchmain is
bringing out this season... witty as well as ornamental . . . the most
popular debutante,' wellthat'snomore thanthe truth,though it was a
shame to cuther hair; such alovelyheadof hair shehad just like her
Ladyship's.I said to Father Phipps it's not natural He said, 'Nuns do it,'
and I said, 'Well, surely, Father, you aren'tgoing tomakea nunout of
Lady Julia? The very idea!'"

Sebastianand the old wbman talkedon. It was a charmingroom, oddly
shaped to conform withthe curve ofthe dome. The walls werepapered in a
pattern of ribbonand roses. There was a rocking horse in the corner and an
oleographof the Sacred Heart overthemantelpiece;the emptygrate was
hidden by a bunch of pampas grass andbulrushes; laid out on the top of the
chest of drawers and carefully dusted were the collection of smallpresents
which had been brought home to her at varioustimes by her children, carved
shelland lava,stamped leather, paintedwood, china, bog oak, damascened
silver, blue-John, alabaster, coral, the souvenirs of many holidays.
Presently Nanny said: "Ring the bell, dear, and we'll havesome tea. I
usually go down to Mrs. Chandler, but we'll have it up here to-day. My usual
girlhas gone to London with the others. The new one isjust upfromthe
village. She didn't knowanythingat first, but she's coming along nicely.
Ring the bell."

But Sebastian said we had to go.

"And Miss Julia? She will be upset when she hears.Itwould have been
such a surprise for her."
"PoorNanny," said Sebastian when we left the nursery."She does have
such adull life. I've a good mind to bring her to Oxfordto live with me,
only she'd alwaysbe trying to send me to church. We must go quickly before
my sister gets back."

"Which are you ashamed of, her or me?"

"I'm ashamed of myself," said Sebastian gravely. "I'm not going to have
you getmixedupwith my family.They're so madly charming.All my life
they've been taking things away from me.If they once gothold of you with
their charm, they'd make you their friend, not mine, and I won't let them."

"All right," I said. "I'm perfectly content. But am I notgoing tobe
allowed to see any more of the house?"

"It's all shut up. Wecame to see Nanny. On Queen Alexandra's Day it's
all open for a shilling. Well, come and look if you want to. ..."

He led me through a baize door into a dark corridor; I coulddimly see
agiltcorniceandvaultedplasterabove;then,openingaheavy,
smooth-swinging,mahoganydoor,he ledmeintoa darkened hall.Light
streamed through the cracksinthe shutters. Sebastian unbarredone,and
folded it back; the mellowafternoonsunflooded in, over the bare floor,
thevast, twin fireplaces o sculptured marble,the coved ceiling frescoed
with classicdeities andheroes, the gilt mirrors and scagliola pilasters,
the islandsof sheeted furniture.It was a glimpse only,such as might be
hadfrom the topof anomnibusinto alighted ballroom; thenSebastian
quickly shut out the sun.

"You see," he said; "it's like this."

Hismood had changed sincewe had drunk our wine under the elm trees,
since we had turned the corner of the drive and he had said: "Well?"

"You see, there'snothing to see. A few pretty things I'd like to show
you one day --not now.But there's the chapel.You must see that. It's a
monument of art nouveau."

The last architect to work it Brideshead had sought to unify its growth
with a-colonnade andflanking pavilions. One of thesewas thechapel.We
entereditbythe publicporch (another doorled direct tothe house);
Sebastiandippedhis fingersinthewater stoup,crossedhimselfand
genuflected; I copied him. "Why do you do that?" he asked crossly.

"Just good manners."

"Well, youneedn't onmyaccount. You wanted todo sightseeing; how
about this?"
Thewholeinteriorhadbeengutted,elaboratelyrefurnishedand
redecoratedinthearts-and-craftsstyleofthelastdecadeofthe
nineteenthcentury.Angelsinprintedcottonsmocks,rambler-roses,
flower-spangled meadows, frisking lambs, texts inCeltic script, saintsin
armour, covered thewalls in an intricate pattern of clear, bright colours.
Therewas a triptych of paleoak,carved so astogive itthe peculiar
property of seemingto havebeen moulded in plasticine. The sanctuary lamp
and all the metal furniture were of bronze, hand-beatento the patina ofa
pockmarkedskin; the altarsteps had a carpet ofgrass-green, strewn with
white and gold daisies.

"Golly," I said.

"It was Papa'sweddingpresent to Mamma. Now,if you've seen enough,
we'll go."

On thedrivewe passed a closed Rolls-Royce driven by a chauffeur; in
the backwas a vague,girlish figure who lookedroundat us throughthe
window.

"Julia," said Sebastian. "We only just got away in time." We stopped to
speak toa man with a bicycle -- "Thatwas old Bat," said Sebastian -- and
then were away, past the wrought-iron gates, past the lodges and out onthe
road heading back to Oxford.

"I'msorry," said Sebastian after atime. "I'm afraid Iwasn'tvery
nice thisafternoon.Brideshead often has that effect on me. ButI had to
take you to see Nanny."

Why? I wondered;but said nothing (Sebastian's life was governedby a
code ofsuch imperatives. "I must have pillar-box red pyjamas,""I have to
stay in bed until the sun works round to the windows," "I've absolutelygot
to drink champagneto-night!") except,"It had quite the reverse effect on
me."

Afteralongpausehesaidpetulantly, "Idon't keep askingyou
questions about your family."

"Neither do I about yours."

"But you look inquisitive."

"Well, you're so mysterious about" them."

"I hoped I was mysterious about everything."

"Perhaps I am rather curious about people's families--you sec, it's not
a thing I know about. Thereis only my father and myself. Anauntkept an
eye on me for a time but my father drove her abroad. My mother was killed in
the war."

"Oh . . . how very unusual."

"She went to Serbiawith theRed Cross. My father has been rather odd
in the head ever since. Hejust lives alone in London with no friends,and
footles about collecting things."

Sebastiansaid, "You don't know what you've been saved. There are lots
of us. Look them up in Debrett."

His mood was lightening now. Thefurtherwe drove from Brideshead the
more he seemed to cast off his uneasiness -- the almost furtive restlessness
and irritability that had possessed him. The sun was behindus as we drove,
so that we seemed to be in pursuit of our own shadows.

"It's half-past five. We'll get to Godstow in time for dinner, drink at
the Trout, leave Hardcastle's motor car and walk back by the river. Wouldn't
that be best?"

That is the full account of my first brief visit to Brideshead; could I
haveknown then that so small a thing, in otherdays,would be remembered
with tears by a middle-aged captain of infantry?

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