Brideshead Revisited(106)

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 Requiem 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 Christian 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 marred the unity 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 contrite 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 subdividing 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 logic.’

‘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 rant. 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 longing did not come from any uncertainty 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 taboo; we should be called for if there was ‘an emergency’ — not in case of strife, an act of human will; nothing so clear and simple as wrath 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 mediocre 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 solitary 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.