Brideshead Revisited(101)

Lord Marchmain stood bowed and shrunken, weighed down by his greatcoat, 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 fatigue. Cara straightened his tie; he wiped his eyes with a bandanna handkerchief and shuffled 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 mere 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 cane 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 journey’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 carving and porcelain’ and lacquer and painted hangings; the Queen’s bed too, was an exhibition piece, a vast velvet 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 scudding rain of his long, fretful journey? Had it come to him at that moment, an awakened 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 apotheosis of adult grandeur?

Few things, certainly, could have caused more stir in the house. What had been foreseen as a day of formality became one of fierce exertion; housemaids began making a fire, removing covers, unfolding linen — men in aprons, never normally seen, shifted furniture; the estate carpenters were collected to dismantle the bed. It came down the main staircase in pieces, at intervals during the afternoon; huge sections of Rococo, velvet-covered cornice; the twisted, gilt and velvet columns which formed its posts; beams of unpolished wood, made not to be seen, which performed invisible structural functions below the draperies; plumes of dyed feathers, which sprang from gold-mounted ostrich eggs and crowned the canopy; finally, the mattresses with four toiling men to each. Lord Marchmain seemed to derive comfort from the consequences of his whim; he sat by the fire watching the bustle, 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 consort, I understand, was a seafaring man and, presumably, the less exacting, 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 eloquently unfinished.

Lord Marchmain showed no inclination to move, so presently we drew up chairs — the little, heraldic chairs, for everything else in the hall was ponderous — 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.