Brideshead Revisited(87)
‘The next thing I saw was your very handsome volume “Village and Provincial Architecture”, was it called? Quite a tome, my dear, and what did I find? Charm again. “Not quite my cup of tea,” I thought; “this is too English.” I have the fancy for rather spicy things, you know, not for the shade of the cedar tree, the cucumber sandwich, the silver cream-jug, the English girl dressed in whatever English girls do wear for tennis — not that, not Jane Austen, not M-m-miss M-m-mitford. Then, to be frank, dear Charles, I despaired of you. “I am a degenerate old d-d-dago,” I said “and Charles — I speak of your art, my dear — is a dean’s daughter in flowered muslin.”
‘Imagine then my excitement at luncheon today. Everyone was talking about you. My hostess was a friend of my mother’s, a Mrs Stuyvesant Oglander; a friend of yours, too, my dear. Such a frump! Not at all the society I imagined you to keep. However, they, had all been to your exhibition, but it was you they talked of, how you had broke away, my dear, gone to the tropics, become a Gauguin, a Rimbaud. You can imagine how my old heart leaped.
‘“Poor Celia,” they said, “after all she’s done for him.” “He owes everything to her. It’s too bad.” “And with Julia,” they said, “after the way she behaved in America.” “Just as she was going back to Rex.”
‘“But the pictures,” I said; “Tell me about them.”
‘Oh, the pictures,” they said; “they’re most peculiar.” “Not at all what he usually does.” “Very forceful.” “Quite barbaric.” “I call them downright unhealthy,” said Mrs Stuyvesant Oglander.
‘My dear, I could hardly keep still in my chair. I wanted to dash out of the house and leap in a taxi and say, “Take me to Charles’s unhealthy pictures.” Well, I went, but the gallery after luncheon was so full of absurd women in the sort of hats they should be made to eat, that I rested a little — I rested here with Cyril and Tom and these saucy boys. Then I came back at the unfashionable time of five o’clock, all agog, my dear; and what did I find? I found, my dear, a very naughty and very successful practical joke. It reminded me of dear Sebastian when he liked so much to dress up in false whiskers. It was charm again, my dear, simple, creamy English charm, playing tigers.’
‘You’re-quite right,’ I said.
‘My dear, of course I’m right. I was right years ago — more years, I am happy to say, than either of us shows — when I warned you. I took you out to dinner to warn you of charm. I warned you expressly and in great detail of the Flyte family. Charm is the great English blight. It does not exist outside these damp islands. It spots and kills anything it touches. It kills love; it kills art; I greatly fear, my dear Charles, it has killed you.’
The youth called Tom approached us again. ‘Don’t be a tease, Toni; buy me a drink.’ I remembered my train and left Anthony with him.
As I stood on the platform by the restaurant-car I saw my luggage and Julia’s go past with Julia’s sour-faced maid strutting beside the porter. They had begun shutting the carriage doors when Julia arrived, unhurried, and took her place in front of me. I had a table for two. This was a very convenient train; there was half an hour before, dinner and half and hour after it; then, instead of changing to the branch line, as had been the rule in Lady Marchmain’s day, we were met at the junction. It was night as we drew out of Paddington, and the glow of the town gave place first to the scattered lights of the suburbs, then to the darkness of the fields.
‘It seems days since I saw you,’ I said.
‘Six hours; and we were together all yesterday. You look worn out.’
‘It’s been a day of nightmare — crowds, critics, the Clarences, a luncheon party at Margot’s, ending up with half an hour’s well-reasoned abuse of my pictures in a pansy bar…I think Celia knows about us.’
‘Well, she had to know some time.’
‘Everyone seems to know. My pansy friend had not been in London twenty-four hours before he’d heard.’
‘Damn everybody.’
‘What about Rex?’
‘Rex isn’t anybody at all,’ said Julia; ‘he just doesn’t exist.’
The knives and forks jingled on the table as we sped through the darkness; the little circle of gin and vermouth in the glasses lengthened to oval, contracted again, with the sway of the carriage, touched the lip, lapped back again, never spilt; I was leaving the day behind me. Julia pulled off her hat and tossed it into the rack above her, and shook her night-dark hair with a little sigh of ease — a sigh fit for the pillow, the sinking firelight, and a bedroom window open to the stars and the whisper of bare trees.
‘It’s great to have you back, Charles; like the old days.’
‘Like the old days?’ I thought.
Rex, in his early forties, had grown heavy and ruddy; he had lost his Canadian accent and acquired instead the hoarse, loud tone that was common to all his friends, as though their voices were perpetually strained to make themselves heard above a crowd, as though, with youth forsaking them, there was no time to wait the opportunity to speak, no time to listen, no time to reply; time for a laugh — a throaty mirthless laugh, the base currency of goodwill.
There were half a dozen of these friends in the Tapestry Hall: politicians; ‘young Conservatives’ in the early forties, with sparse hair and high blood-pressure; a Socialist from the coal-mines who had already caught their clear accents, whose cigars came to pieces on his lips, whose hand shook when he poured himself out a drink; a financier older than the rest, and, one might guess from the way they treated him, richer; a lovesick columnist, who alone was silent, gloating sombrely on the only woman of the party; a woman they called ‘Grizel’, a knowing rake whom, in their hearts, they all feared a little.