Brideshead Revisited(48)
Mr Samgrass was not at ease; he maintained all the physical habits of self-confidence, but guilt hung about him like stale cigar smoke, and in Lady Marchmain’s greeting of him I caught a note of anticipation. He kept up a lively account of his tour during tea, and then Lady Marchmain drew him away with her, upstairs, for a ‘little talk’. I watched him go with something near compassion; it was plain to anyone with a poker sense that Mr Samgrass held a very imperfect hand and, as I watched him at tea, I began to suspect that he was not only bluffing but cheating. There was something he must say, did not want to say, and did not quite know how to say to Lady Marchmain about his doings over Christmas, but, more than that, I guessed, there was a great deal he ought to say and had no intention at all of saying, about the whole Levantine tour.
‘Come and see nanny,’ said Sebastian.
‘Please, can I come, too?’ said Cordelia.
‘Come on.’
We climbed to the nursery in the dome. On the way Cordelia said: ‘Aren’t you at all pleased to be home?’
‘Of course I’m pleased,’ said Sebastian.
‘Well, you might show it a bit. I’ve been looking forward to it so much.’
Nanny did not particularly wish to be talked to; she liked visitors best when they paid no attention to her and let her knit away, and watch their faces and think of them as she had known them as small children; their present goings-on did not, signify much beside those early illnesses and crimes.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘you are looking peaky. I expect it’s all that foreign food doesn’t agree with you. You must fatten up now you’re back. Looks as though you’d been having some late nights, too, by the look of your eyes — dancing, I suppose.’ (It was ever Nanny Hawkins’s belief that the upper classes spent most of their leisure evenings in the ballroom.) ‘And that shirt wants darning. Bring it to me before it goes to the wash.’
Sebastian certainly did look ill; five months had wrought the change of years in him. He was paler, thinner, pouchy under the eyes, drooping in, the corners of his mouth, and he showed the scars of a boil on the side of his chin; his voice seemed flatter and his movements alternately listless and jumpy; he looked down-at-heel, too, with clothes and hair, which formerly had been happily negligent now unkempt; worst of all there was a wariness in his eye which I had surprised there at Easter, and which now seemed habitual to him.
Restrained by this wariness I asked him nothing of himself, but told him, instead about my autumn and winter. I told him about my rooms in the Ile Saint-Louis and the art school, and how good the old teachers were and how bad the students.
‘They never go near the Louvre,’ I said, ‘or, if they do, it’s only because one of their absurd reviews has suddenly “discovered” a master who fits in with that month’s aesthetic theory. Half of them are out to make a popular splash like Picabia; the other half quite simply want to earn their living doing advertisements for Vogue and decorating night clubs. And the teachers still go on trying to make them paint like Delacroix.’
‘Charles,’ said Cordelia, ‘Modern Art is all bosh, isn’t it?’
‘Great bosh.’
‘Oh, I’m so glad. I had an argument with one of our nuns and she said we shouldn’t try and criticize what we didn’t understand. Now I shall tell her I have had it straight from a real artist, and snubs to her.’
Presently it was time for Cordelia to go to her supper, and for Sebastian and me to go down to the drawing-room for our cocktails. Brideshead was there alone, but Wilcox followed on our heels to say to him: ‘Her Ladyship would like to speak to you upstairs, my Lord.’
‘That’s unlike mummy, sending for anyone. She usually lures them up herself.’
There was no sign of the cocktail tray. After a few minutes Sebastian rang the bell. A footman answered. ‘Mr Wilcox is upstairs with her Ladyship.’
‘Well, never mind, bring in the cocktail things.’
‘Mr Wilcox has the keys, my Lord.’
‘Oh…well, send him in with them when he comes down.’
We talked a little about Anthony Blanche — ‘He had a beard in Istanbul, but I made him take it off’ — and after ten minutes Sebastian said: ‘Well, I don’t want a cocktail anyway; I’m off to my bath,’ and left the room.
It was half past seven; I supposed the others had gone to dress, but, as I was going to follow them, I met Brideshead coming down.
‘Just a moment, Charles, there’s something I’ve got to explain. My mother has given orders that no drinks are to be left in any of the rooms. You’ll understand why. If you want anything, ring and ask Wilcox — only better wait until you’re alone. I’m sorry, but there it is.’
‘Is that necessary?’
‘I gather very necessary. You may or may not have heard, Sebastian had another outbreak as soon as he got back to England. He was lost over Christmas. Mr Samgrass only found him yesterday evening.’
‘I guessed something of the kind had happened. Are you sure this is the best way of dealing with it?’
‘It’s my mother’s way. Will you have a cocktail, now that he’s gone upstairs?’
‘It would choke me.’
I was always given the room I had on my first visit; it was next to Sebastian’s, and we shared what had once been a dressing-room and had been changed to a bathroom twenty years back by the substitution for the bed, of a deep, copper, mahogany-framed bath, that was filled by pulling a brass lever heavy as a piece of marine engineering; the rest of the room remained unchanged; a coal fire always burned there in winter. I often think of that bathroom — the water colours dimmed by steam and the huge towel warming on the back of the chintz armchair — and contrast it with the uniform, clinical, little chambers, glittering with chromium-plate and looking-glass, which pass for luxury in the modern world.