Brideshead Revisited(46)

‘Bless you, Charles. There aren’t many evenings left to us.’

And that night, the first time for many weeks, we got deliriously drunk together; I saw him to the gate as all the bells were striking midnight, and reeled back to my rooms under a starry heaven which swam dizzily among the towers, and fell asleep in my clothes as I had not done for a year.



Next day Lady Marchmain left Oxford, taking Sebastian with her. Brideshead and I went to his rooms to sort out what he would have sent on and what leave behind.

Brideshead was as grave and impersonal as ever. ‘It’s a pity Sebastian doesn’t know Mgr Bell better,’ he said. ‘He’d find him a charming man to live with. I was there my last year. My mother believes Sebastian is a confirmed drunkard. Is he?’

‘He’s in danger of becoming one.’

‘I believe God prefers drunkards to a lot of respectable people.’

‘For God’s sake.’ I said, for I was near to tears that morning, why bring God into everything?’

‘I’m sorry. I forgot. But you know that’s an extremely funny question.’

‘Is it?’

‘To me. Not to you.’

‘No, not to me. It seems to me that without your religion Sebastian would have the chance to be a happy and healthy man.

‘It’s arguable,’ said Brideshead. ‘Do you think he will need this elephant’s foot again?’

That evening I went across the quad to visit Collins. He was alone with his texts, working by the failing light at his open window. ‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Come in. I haven’t seen you all the term. I’m afraid I’ve nothing to offer you. Why have you deserted the smart set?’

‘I’m the loneliest man in Oxford,’ I said. ‘Sebastian Flyte’s been sent down.’

Presently I asked him what he was doing in the long vacation. He told me; it sounded excruciatingly dull. Then I asked him if he had got digs for next term. Yes, he told me, rather far out but very comfortable. He was sharing with Tyngate, the secretary of the college Essay Society.

.’There’s one room we haven’t filled yet. Barker was coming, but he feels, now he’s standing for president of the Union, he ought to be nearer in.’

It was in both our minds that perhaps I might take that room.

‘Where are you going.?’

‘I was going to Merton Street with Sebastian Flyte. That’s no use now.’

Still neither of us made the suggestion and the moment passed. When I left he said: ‘I hope you find someone for Merton Street,’ and I said, ‘I hope you find someone for the Iffley Road,’ and I never spoke to him again.

There was only ten days of term to go; I got through them somehow and returned to London as I had done in such different circumstances the year before, with no plans made.

‘That very good-looking friend of yours,’ asked my father. ‘Is he not with you?’

‘No.’

‘I quite thought he had taken this over as his home. I’m sorry, I liked him.’

‘Father, do you particularly want me to take my degree?’

‘I want you to? Good gracious, why should I want such a thing? No use to me. Not much use to you either, as far as I’ve seen.’

‘That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking. I thought perhaps it was rather a waste of time going back to Oxford.’

Until then my father had taken only a limited interest in what I was saying: now he put down his book, took off his spectacles, and looked at me hard. ‘You’ve been sent down,’ he said. ‘My brother warned me of this.’

‘No, I’ve not.’

‘Well, then, what’s all the talk about? he asked testily, resuming his spectacles, searching for his place on the page. ‘Everyone stays up at least three years. I knew one man who took seven to get a pass degree in theology.’

‘I only thought that if I was not going to take up one of the professions where a degree is necessary, it might be best to start now on what I intend doing. I intend to be a painter.’

But to this my father made no answer at the time.

The idea, however, seemed to take root in his mind; by the time we spoke of the matter again it was firmly established.

‘When you’re a painter,’ he said at Sunday luncheon, ‘You’ll need a studio.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, there isn’t a studio here. There isn’t even a room you could use decently as a studio. I’m not going to have you painting in the gallery.’

‘No. I never meant to.’

‘Nor will I have undraped models all over the house, nor critics with their horrible jargon. And I don’t like the smell of turpentine. I presume you intend to do the thing thoroughly and use oil paint?’ My father belonged to a generation which divided painters into the serious and the amateur, according as they used oil or water.

‘I don’t suppose I should do much painting the first year. Anyway, I should be working at a school.’

‘Abroad?’ asked my father hopefully. ‘There are some excellent schools abroad, I believe.’

It was all happening rather faster than I intended.

‘Abroad or here. I should have to look round first.’

‘Look round abroad,’ he said.