MY divorce case, or rather my wife’s, was due to be heard at about the same time as Brideshead was to be married. Julia’s would not come up till the following term; meanwhile the game of General Post - moving my property from the Old Rectory to my flat, my wife’s from my flat to the Old Rectory, Julia’s from Rex’s house and from Brideshead to my flat, Rex’s from Brideshead to his house, and Mrs Muspratt’s from Falmouth to Brideshead - was in full swing and we were all, in varying degrees, homeless, when a halt was called and Lord Marchmain, with a taste for the dramatically inopportune which was plainly the prototype of his elder son’s, declared his intention, in view of the international situation, of returning to England and passing his declining years, in his old home.
The only member of the family to whom this change promised any benefit was Cordelia, who had been sadly abandoned in the turmoil. Brideshead, indeed, had made a formal request to her to consider his house her home for as long as it suited her, but when she learned that her sister-in-law proposed to install her children there for the holidays immediately after the wedding, in the charge of a sister of hers and the sister’s friend, Cordelia had decided to move, too, and was talking of setting up alone in London. She now found herself, Cinderella-like, promoted chatelaine, while her brother and his wife who had till that moment expected to find themselves, within a matter of days, in absolute command, were without a roof; the deeds of conveyance, engrossed and ready for signing, were rolled up, tied, and put away in one of the black tin boxes in Lincoln’s Inn. It was bitter for Mrs Muspratt; she was not an ambitious woman; something very much less grand than Brideshead would have contented her heartily, but she did aspire to find some shelter for her children over Christmas. The house at Falmouth was stripped and up for sale; moreover, Mrs Muspratt had taken leave of the place with some justifiably rather large talk of her new establishment; they could not return there. She was obliged in a hurry to move her furniture from Lady Marchmain’s room to a disused coach-house and to take a furnished villa at Torquay. She was not, as I have said, a woman of high ambition, but, having had her expectations so much raised, it was disconcerting to be brought so low so suddenly. In the village the working party who had been preparing the decorations for the bridal entry, began unpacking the Bs on the bunting and substitutin Ms, obliterating the Earl’s points and stencilling balls and strawberry leaves on the painted, coronets, in preparation for Lord Marchmain’s return. News of his intentions came first to the solicitors, then to Cordelia, then to Julia and me, in a rapid succession of contradictory cables. Lord Marchmain would arrive in time for the wedding; he would arrive after the wedding, having seen Lord and Lady Brideshead on their way through Paris; he would see them in Rome. He was not well enough to travel at all; he was just starting; he had unhappy memories of winter at Brideshead and would not come until spring was well advanced and the heating apparatus overhauled; he was coming alone; he was bringing his Italian household; he wished his return to be unannounced and to lead a life of complete seclusion; he would give a ball. At last a date in January was chosen which proved to be the correct one. Plender preceded him by some days; there was a difficulty here. Plender was not an original member of the Brideshead household; he had been Lord Marchmain’s servant in the yeomanry, and had only once met Wilcox on the painful occasion of the removal of his master’s luggage when it was decided not to return from the war; then Plender had been valet, as, officially, he still was, but he had, in the past years introduced a kind of suffragan, a Swiss body-servant, to attend to the wardrobe and also, when occasion arose, lend a hand with less dignified tasks about the house, and had in effect become majordomo of that fluctuating and mobile household; sometimes he even referred to himself on the telephone as ‘the secretary’. There was an acre of thin ice between him and Wilcox.
Fortunately the two men took a liking to one another, and the thing was solved in a series of three-cornered discussions with Cordelia. Plender and Wilcox became joint grooms of the chambers, like ‘Blues’ and Life Guards with equal precedence, Plender having as his particular province his Lordship’s own apartments and Wilcox a sphere of influence in the public rooms; the senior footman was given a black coat and promoted butler, the non-descript Swiss, on arrival, was to have plain clothes and full valet’s status there was a general increase in wages to meet the new dignities, and all were content. Julia and I, who had left Brideshead a month before, thinking we should not return, moved back for the reception. When the day came, Cordelia went to the station and we remained to greet him at home. It was a bleak and gusty day. Cottages and lodges were decorated; plans for a bonfire that night and for the village silver band to play on the terrace, were put down, but the house flag, that had not flown for twenty-five years, was hoisted over the pediment, and flapped sharply against the leaden sky. Whatever harsh voices might be bawling into the microphones of central Europe, and whatever lathes spinning in the armament factories, the return of Lord Marchmain was a matter of first importance in his own neighbourhood.
He was due at three o’clock. Julia and I waited in the drawing-room until Wilcox, who had arranged with the stationmaster to be kept informed, announced ‘the train is signalled’, and a minute later, ‘the train is in; his Lordship is on the way.’ Then we went to the front portico and waited there with the upper servants. Soon the Rolls appeared at the turn in the drive, followed at some distance by the two vans. It drew up; first Cordelia got out, then Cara; there was a pause, a rug was handed to the chauffeur, a stick to the footman; then a leg was cautiously thrust forward. Plender was by now at the car door; another servant - the Swiss valet - had emerged from a van; together they lifted Lord Marchmain out and set him on his feet; he felt for his stick, grasped it, and stood for a minute collecting his strength for the few low steps which led to the front door.
Julia gave a little sigh of surprise and touched my hand. We had seen him nine months ago at Monte Carlo, when he had been an upright and stately figure, little changed from when I first met him in Venice. Now he was an old man. Plender had told us his master had been unwell lately: he had not prepared us for this. Lord Marchmain stood bowed and shrunken, weighed down by his great-coat, 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 joumey’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.
Match-boxes,’ he said. ‘Match-boxes. I think she’s past childbearing.
Tea was brought us at the hall fireplace.
In Italy,’ he said, ‘no one believes there will be a war. They think it will all be “arranged”. I suppose, Julia, you no longer have access to political information? Cara, here, is fortunately a British subject by marriage. It is not a thing she customarily mentions, but it may prove valuable. She is legally Mrs Hicks, are you not, my dear? We know little of Hicks, but we shall be grateful to him, none the less, if it comes to war. And you,’ he said, turning the attack to me, ‘you will no doubt become an official artist
No. As a matter of fact I am negotiating now for a commission in the Special Reserve.
Oh, but you should be an artist. I had one with my squadron during the last war, for weeks - until we went up to the line.’ This waspishness was new. I had always been aware of a frame of malevolence under his urbanity; now it protruded like his own sharp bones through the sunken skin.
It was dark before the bed was finished; we went to see it, Lord Marchmain stepping quite briskly now through the intervening rooms.
I congratulate you. It really looks remarkably well. Wilcox, I seem to remember a silver basin and ewer - they stood in a room we called “the Cardinal’s dressing-room”, I think - suppose we had them here on the console. Then if you will send Plender and Gaston to me, the luggage can wait till tomorrow - simply the dressing case and what I need for the night. Plender will know. If you will leave me with Plender and Gaston, I will go to bed. We will meet later; you will dine here and keep me amused.’ We turned to go; as I was at the door he called me back.
It looks very well, does it not
Very well.
You might paint it, eh - and call it the Death Bed
Yes,’ said Cara, ‘he has come home to die.
But when he first arrived he was talking so confidently of recovery. ‘That was because he was so ill. When he is himself, he knows he is dying and accepts it. His sickness is up and down, one day, sometimes for several days on end, he is strong and lively and then he is ready for death, then he is down and afraid. I do not know how it will be when he is more and more down. That must come in good time. The doctors in Rome gave him less than a year. There is someone coming from London, I think tomorrow, who will tell us more.
What is it
His heart; some long word at the heart. He is dying of a long word.’ That evening Lord Marchmain was in good spirits; the room had a Hogarthian aspect, with the dinner-table set for the four of us by the grotesque, chinoiserie chimney-piece, and the old man propped among his pillows, sipping champagne, tasting, praising, and failing to eat, the succession of dishes which had been prepared for his homecoming. Wilcox had brought out for the occasion the gold plate, which I had not before seen in use; that, the gilt mirrors, and the lacquer and the drapery of the great bed and Julia’s mandarin coat gave the scene an air of pantomime, of Aladdin’s cave. Just at the end, when the time came for us to go, his spirits flagged. ‘I shall not sleep,’ he said. ‘Who is going to sit with me? Cara, carissima, you are fatigued. Cordelia, will you watch for an hour in this Gethsemane?’ Next morning I asked her how the night had passed.
He went to sleep almost at once. I came in to see him at two to make up the fire; the lights were on, but he was asleep again. He must have woken up and turned them on; he had to get out of bed to do that. I think perhaps he is afraid of the dark.’ It was natural, with her hospital experience, that Cordelia should take charge of her father. When the doctors came that day they gave their instructions to her, instinctively. ‘Until he gets worse,’ she said, ‘I and the valet can look after him. We don’t want nurses in the house before they are needed.’ At this stage the doctors had nothing to recommend except to keep him comfortable and administer certain drugs when his attacks came on.
How long will it be
Lady Cordelia, there are men walking about in hearty old age whom their doctors gave a week to live. I have learned one thing in medicine; never prophesy.’ These two men had made a long journey to tell her this; the local doctor was there to accept the same advice in technical phrases.
That night Lord Marchmain reverted to the topic of his new daughter-in-law; it had never been long out of his mind, finding expression in various sly hints throughout the day; now he lay back in his pillows and talked of her at length. ‘I have never been much moved by family piety until now,’ he said, ‘but I am frankly appalled at the prospect of - of Beryl taking what was once my mother’s place in this house. Why should that uncouth pair sit here childless while the place crumbles about their ears? I will not disguise from you that I have taken a dislike to Beryl.
Perhaps it was unfortunate that we met in Rome. Anywhere else might have been more sympathetic. And yet, if one comes to consider it, where could I have met her without repugnance? We dined at Ranieri’s; it is a quiet little restaurant I have frequented for years - no doubt you know it. Beryl seemed to fill the place. I, of course, was host, though to hear Beryl press my son with food you might have thought otherwise. Brideshead was always a greedy boy- a wife who has his best interests at heart should seek to restrain him. However, that is a matter of small importance. ‘She had no doubt heard of me as a man of irregular life. I can only describe her manner to me as roguish. A naughty old man, that’s what she thought I was. I suppose she had met naughty old admirals and knew how they should be humoured...I could not attempt to reproduce her conversation. I will give you one example. ‘They had been to an audience at the Vatican that morning; a blessing for their marriage - I did not follow attentively something of the kind had happened before, I gathered, some previous husband, some previous Pope. She described, rather vivaciously, how on this earlier occasion she had gone with a whole body - of newly married couples, mostly Italians of all ranks, some or the simpler girls in their wedding dresses, and how each had appraised the other, the bridegrooms looking the brides over, comparing their own with one another’s, and so forth. Then she said, “This time, of course, we were in private, -but do you know, Lord Marchmain, I felt as though it was I who was leading in the bride.
It was said with great indelicacy. I have not yet quite fathomed her meaning. Was she making a play on my son’s name, or was she, do you think, referring to his undoubted virginity? I fancy the latter. Anyway, it was with pleasantries of that kind that we passed the evening.
I don’t think she would be quite in her proper element here, do you? Who shall I leave it to? The entail ended with me, you know. Sebastian, alas, is out of the question. Who wants it? Quis? Would you like it, Cara? No, of course you would not. Cordelia? I think I shall leave it to Julia and Charles.
Of course not, papa, it’s Bridey’s.
And...Beryl’s? I will have Gregson down one day soon and go over the matter. It is time I brought my will up to date; it is full of anomalies and anachronisms...I have rather a fancy for the idea of installing Julia here; so beautiful this evening, my dear; so beautiful always; much, much more suitable.
Shortly after this he sent to London for his solicitor, but, on the day he came, Lord Marchmain was suffering from an attack and would not see him. ‘Plenty of time,’ he said, between painful gasps for breath, ‘another day, when I am stronger,’ but the choice of his heir was constantly in his mind, and he referred often to the time when Julia and I should be married and in possession.
Do you think he really means to leave it to us?’ I asked Julia.
Yes, I think he does.
But it’s monstrous for Bridey.
Is it? I don’t think he cares much for the place. I do, you know. He and Beryl would be much more content in some little house somewhere.’ ‘You mean to accept it
Certainly. It’s papa’s to leave as he likes. I think you and I could be very happy here.
It opened a prospect; the prospect one gained at the turn of the avenue, as I had first seen it with Sebastian, of the secluded valley, the lakes falling away one below the other, the old house in the foreground, the rest of the world abandoned and forgotten; a world of its own of peace and love and beauty; a soldier’s dream in a foreign bivouac; such a prospect perhaps as a high pinnacle of the temple afforded after the hungry days in the desert and the jackal-haunted nights. Need I reproach myself if sometimes I was taken by the vision
The weeks of illness wore on and the life of the house kept pace with the faltering strength of the sick man. There were days when Lord Marchmain was dressed, when he stood at the window or moved on his valet’s arm from fire to fire through the rooms of the ground floor, when visitors came and went neighbours and people from the estate, men of business from London - parcels of new books were opened and discussed, a piano was moved into the Chinese drawing-room; once at the end of February, on a single, unexpected day of brilliant sunshine, he called for a car and got as far as the hall, had on his fur coat, and reached the front door. Then suddenly he lost interest in the drive, said ‘Not now. Later. One day in the summer,’ took his man’s arm again and was led back to his chair. Once he had the humour of changing his room and gave detailed orders for a move to the Painted Parlour; the chinoiserie, he said, disturbed his rest - he kept the lights full on at night - but again lost heart, countermanded everything, and kept his room.
On other days the house was hushed as he sat high in bed, propped by his pillows, with labouring breath; even then he wanted to have us round him; night or day he could not bear to be alone; when he could not speak his eyes followed us, and if anyone left the room he would look distressed, and Cara, sitting often for hours at a time by his side against the pillows with an arm in his, would say, ‘It’s all right, Alex, she’s coming back.
Brideshead and his wife returned from their honeymoon and stayed a few nights; it was one of the bad times, and Lord Marchmain refused to have them near him. It was Beryl’s first visit, and she would have been unnatural if she had shown no curiosity about what had nearly been, and now again promised soon to be, her home. Beryl was natural enough, and surveyed the place fairly thoroughly in the days she was there. In the strange disorder caused by Lord Marchmain’s illness, it must have seemed capable of much improvement; she referred once or twice to the way in which establishments of similar size had been managed at various Government Houses she had visited. Brideshead took her visiting among the tenants by day, and in the evenings, she talked to me of painting, or to Cordelia of hospitals, or to Julia of clothes, with cheerful assurance. The shadow of betrayal, the knowledge of how precarious were their just expectations, was all one-sided. I was not easy with them; but that was no new thing to Brideshead; in the little circle of shyness in which he was used to move, my guilt passed unseen.
Eventually it became clear that Lord Marchmain did not intend to see more of them.
Brideshead was admitted alone for a minute’s leave-taking; then they left.
There’s nothing we can do here,’ said Brideshead, ‘and it’s very distressing for Beryl.
We’ll come back if things get worse.
The bad spells became longer and more frequent; a nurse was engaged. ‘I never saw such a room, ‘ she said, ‘nothing like it anywhere; ‘no conveniences of any sort.’ She tried to have her patient moved upstairs, where there was running water, a dressing-room for herself, a ‘sensible’ narrow bed she could ‘get round’ - what she was used to - but Lord Marchmain would not budge. Soon, as days and nights became indistinguishable to him, a second nurse was installed; the specialists came again from London; they recommended a new and rather daring treatment, but his body seemed weary of all drugs and did not respond. Presently there were no good spells, merely brief fluctuations in the speed of his decline.
Brideshead was called. It was the Easter holidays and Beryl was busy with her children. He came alone, and having stood silently for some minutes beside his father, who sat silently looking at him, he left the room and, joining the rest of us, who were in the library, said, ‘Papa must see a priest.
It was not the first time the topic had come up. In the early days, when Lord Marchmain first arrived, the parish priest since the chapel was shut there was a new church and presbytery in Mel stead - had come to call as a matter of politeness. Cordelia had put him off with apologies and excuses, but when he was gone she said: ‘Not yet. Papa doesn’t want him yet.
Julia, Cara, and I were there at the time; we each had something to say, began to speak, and thought better of it. It was never mentioned between the four of us, but Julia, alone with me, said, ‘Charles, I see great Church troubles ahead.’ ‘Can’t they even let him die in peace
They mean something so different by “peace”.
It would be an outrage. No one could have made it clearer, all his life, what he thought of religion. They’ll come now, when his mind’s wandering and he hasn’t the strength to resist, and claim him as a death-bed penitent. I’ve had a certain, respect for their Church up till now. If they do a thing like that I shall know that everything stupid people say about them is quite true - that it’s all superstition and trickery.’ Julia said nothing. ‘Don’t you agree?’ Still Julia said nothing. ‘Don’t you agree?’ ‘I don’t know, Charles. I simply don’t know.
And, though none of us spoke of it, I felt the question ever present, growing through all the weeks of Lord Marchmain’s illness; I saw it when Cordelia drove off early in the mornings to mass; I saw it as Cara took to going with her; this little cloud, the size of a man’s hand, that was going to swell into a storm among us. Now Brideshead, in his heavy, ruthless way, planted the problem down before us.
Oh, Bridey, do you think he would?’ asked Cordelia.
I shall see that he does, ‘ said Brideshead. ‘I shall take Father Mackay in to him tomorrow.
Still the clouds gathered and did not break; none of us spoke. Cara and Cordelia went back to the sick-room; Brideshead looked for a book, found one, and left us. ‘Julia,’ I said, ‘how can we stop this tomfoolery
She did not answer for some time; then: ‘Why should we.
You know as well as I do. It’s just -just an unseemly incident.’ ‘Who am I to object to unseemly incidents?’ she asked sadly. ‘Anyway, what harm can it do? Let’s ask the doctor.
We asked the doctor, who said: ‘It’s hard to say. It might alarm him of course; on the other hand, I have known cases where it has had a wonderfully soothing effect on a patient; I’ve even known it act as a positive stimulant. It certainly is usually a great comfort to the relations. Really I think it’s a thing for Lord Brideshead to decide. Mind you, there is no need for immediate anxiety. Lord Marchmain is very weak today; tomorrow he may be quite strong again. Is it not usual to wait a little?’ ‘Well, he wasn’t much help,’ I said to Julia, when we left him. ‘Help? I really can’t quite see why you’ve taken it so much to heart that my father shall not have the last sacraments.
It’s such a lot of witchcraft and hypocrisy.
Is it? Anyway, it’s been going on for nearly two thousand years. I don’t know why you should suddenly get in a rage now.’ Her voice rose; she was swift to anger of late months. ‘For Christ’s sake, write to The Times; get up and make a speech in Hyde Park; start a “No Popery” riot, but don’t bore me about it. What’s it got to do with you or me whether my father sees his parish priest
I knew these fierce moods of Julia’s, such as had overtaken her at the fountain in moonlight, and dimly surmised their origin; I knew they could not be assuaged by words. Nor could I have spoken, for the answer to her question was still unformed; the sense that the fate of more souls than one was at issue; that the snow was beginning to shift on the high slopes.
Brideshead and I breakfasted together next morning with the night-nurse, who had just come off duty.
He’s much brighter today,’ she said. ‘He slept very nicely for nearly three hours.
When Gaston came to shave him he was quite chatty.’ ‘Good,’ said Brideshead. ‘Cordelia went to mass. She’s driving Father Mackay back here to breakfast.
I had met Father Mackay several times; he was a stocky, middle-aged, genial Glasgow-Irishman who, when we met, was apt to ask me such questions as, ‘Would you say now, Mr Ryder, that the painter Titian was more truly artistic than the painter Raphael?’ and, more disconcertingly still, to remember my answers: ‘To revert, Mr Ryder, to what you said when last I had the pleasure to meet you, would it be right now to say that the painter Titian...’ usually ending with some such reflection as: ‘Ah, it’s a grand resource for a man to have the talent you have, Mr Ryder, and the time to indulge it.’ Cordelia could imitate him.
This morning he made a hearty breakfast, glanced at the headlines of the paper, and then said with professional briskness: ‘And now, Lord Brideshead, would the poor soul be ready to see me, do you think
Brideshead led him out; Cordelia followed, and I was left alone among the breakfast things. In less than a minute I heard the voices of all three outside the door. ‘...can only apologize.
poor soul. Mark you, it was seeing a strange face; depend upon it, it was that - an unexpected stranger. I well understand it.
Father, I am sorry...bringing you all this way...
Don’t think about it at all, Lady Cordelia. Why, I’ve had bottles thrown at me in the Gorbals...Give him time. I’ve known worse cases make beautiful deaths. Pray for him...I’ll come again...and now if you’ll excuse me I’ll just pay a little visit to Mrs Hawkins. Yes, indeed, I know the way well.
Then Cordelia and Brideshead came into the room.
I gather the visit was not a success.
It was not. Cordelia, will you drive Father Mackay home when he comes down from nanny? I’m going to telephone to Beryl and see when she needs me home.’ ‘Bridey, it was horrible. What are we to do
We’ve done everything we can at the moment.’ He left the room. Cordelia’s face was grave; she took a piece of bacon from the dish, dipped it in mustard and ate it. ‘Damn Bridey,’ she said, ‘I knew it wouldn’t work.’ ‘What happened
Would you like to know? We walked in there in a line; Cara was reading the paper aloud to papa. Bridey said, “I’ve brought Father Mackay to see you”; papa said, “Father Mackay, I am afraid you have been brought here under a misapprehension. I am not in extremis, and I have not been a practising member of your Church for twenty-five years. Brideshead, show Father Mackay the way out.” Then we all turned about and walked away, and I heard Cara start reading the paper again, and that, Charles, was that.’ I carried the news to Julia, who lay with her bed-table amid a litter of newspapers and envelopes. ‘Mumbo-jumbo is off,’ I said. ‘The witch-doctor has gone.
Poor papa.
It’s great sucks to Bridey.
I felt triumphant. I had been right, everyone else had been wrong, truth had prevailed; the threat that I had felt hanging over Julia and me ever since that evening at the fountain, had been averted, perhaps dispelled for ever; and there was also - I can now confess it - another unexpressed, inexpressible, indecent little victory that I was furtively celebrating. I guessed that that morning’s business had put Brideshead some considerable way further from his rightful inheritance. In that I, was correct; a man was sent for from the solicitors in London; in a day or two he came and it was known throughout the house that Lord Marchmain had made a new will. But I was wrong in thinking that the religious controversy was quashed; it flamed up again after dinner on Brideshead’s last evening.
What papa said was, “I am not in extremis, I have not been a practising member of the Church for twenty-five years.
Not “the Church”, “your Church”.
I don’t see the difference.
There’s every difference.
Bridey, it’s quite plain what he meant.
I presume he meant what he said. He meant that he had not been accustomed regularly to receive the sacraments, and since he was not at the moment dying, he did not mean to change his ways - yet.
That’s simply a quibble.
Why do people always think that one is quibbling when one tries to be precise? His plain meaning was that he did not want to see a priest that day, but that he would when he was “in extremis”.
I wish someone would explain to me,’ I said, ‘quite what the significance of these sacraments is. Do you mean that if he dies alone he goes to hell, and that if a priest puts oil on him - ‘ ‘Oh, it’s not the oil,’ said Cordelia, ‘that’s to heal him.’ ‘Odder still - well, whatever it is the priest does - that he then goes to heaven. Is that what you believe
Cara then interposed: ‘I think my nurse told me, someone did anyway, that if the priest got there before the body was cold it was all right. That’s so, isn’t it?’ 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.
Better today. Better today. I can see now, in the comer of the fireplace, where the mandarin is holding his gold bell and the crooked tree is in flower below his feet, where yesterday I was confused and took the little tower for another man. Soon I shall see the bridge and the three storks and know where the path leads over the hill. ‘Better tomorrow. We live long in our family and marry late. Seventy-three is no great age. Aunt Julia, my father’s aunt, lived to be eighty-eight, born and died here, never married, saw the fire on beacon hill for the battle of Trafalgar, always called it “the New House”; that was the name they had for it in the nursery and in the fields when unlettered men had long memories. You can see where the old house stood near the village church; they call the field “Castle Hill”, Horlick’s field where the ground’s uneven and half of it is waste, nettle, and brier in hollows too deep for ploughing. They dug to the foundations to carry the stone for the new house; the house that was a century old when Aunt Julia was born. Those were our roots in the waste hollows of Castle Hill, in the brier and nettle; among the tombs in the old church and the chantry where no clerk sings.
Aunt Julia knew the tombs, cross-legged knight and doubleted earl, marquis like a Roman senator, limestone, alabaster, and Italian marble; tapped the escutcheons with her ebony cane, made the casque ring over old Sir Roger. We were knights then, barons since Agincourt, the larger honours came with the Georges. They came the last and they’ll go the first; the barony goes on. When all of you are dead Julia’s son will be called by the name his fathers bore before the fat days; the days of wool shearing and the wide corn lands, the days of growth and building, when the marshes were drained and the waste land brought under the plough, when one built the house, his son added the dome, his son spread the wings and dammed the river. Aunt Julia watched them build the fountain; it was old before it came here, weathered two hundred years by the suns of Naples, brought by man-o’-war in the days of Nelson. Soon the fountain will be dry till the rain fills it, setting the fallen leaves afloat in the basin; and over the lakes the reeds will spread and close. Better today.
Better today. I have lived carefully, sheltered myself from the cold winds, eaten moderately of what was in season, drunk fine claret, slept in my own sheets; I shall live long. I was fifty when they dismounted us and sent us into the line; old men stay at the base, the orders said, but Walter Venables, my commanding officer, my nearest neighbour, said: “You’re as fit as the youngest of them, Alex.” So I was; so I am now, if I could only breathe.
No air; no wind stirring under the velvet canopy. When the summer comes,’ said
Lord Marchmain, oblivious of the deep corn and swelling fruit and the surfeited bees who slowly sought their hives in the heavy afternoon sunlight outside his windows, ‘when the summer comes I shall leave my bed and sit in the open air and breathe more easily.
Who would have thought that all these little gold men, gentlemen in their own country, could live so long without breathing? Like to toads in the coal, down a deep mine, untroubled. God take it, why have they dug a hole for me? Must a man stifle to death in his own cellars? Plender, Gaston, open the windows.’ ‘The windows are all wide open, my lord.
A cylinder of oxygen was placed beside his bed, with a long tube, a face-piece, and a little stop-cock he could work himself. Often he said: ‘It’s empty- look nurse, there’s nothing comes out.
No, Lord Marchmain, it’s quite full; the bubble here in the glass bulb shows that; it’s at full pressure; listen, don’t you hear it hiss? Try and breathe slowly, Lord Marchmain; quite gently, then you get the benefit.
Free as air; that’s what they say - “free as air”. Now they bring me my air in an iron barrel.
Once he said: ‘Cordelia, what became of the chapel
They locked it up, papa, when mummy died.
It was hers, I gave it to her. We’ve always been builders in our family. I built it for her; in the shade of the pavilion; rebuilt with the old stones behind the old walls; it was the last of the new house to come, the first to go. There used to be a chaplain until the war. Do you remember him
I was too young.
Then I went away - left her in the chapel praying. It was hers. It was the place for her. I never came back to disturb her prayers. They said we were fighting for freedom; I had my own victory. Was it a crime
I think it was, papa.
Crying to heaven for vengeance? Is that why they’ve locked me in this cave, do you think, with a black tube of air and the little yellow men along the walls, who live without breathing? Do you think that, child? But the wind will come soon, tomorrow perhaps, and we’ll breathe again. The ill wind that will blow me good. Better tomorrow.’ Thus, till mid-July, Lord Marchmain lay dying, wearing himself down in the struggle to-live. Then, since there was no reason to expect an immediate change, Cordelia went to London to see her women s organization about the coming ‘emergency’. That day Lord Marchmain became suddenly worse. He lay silent and quite still, breathing laboriously; only his open eyes, which sometimes moved about the room, gave any sign of consciousness.
Is this the end?’ Julia asked.
It is impossible to say,’ the doctor answered; ‘when he does die it will probably be like this. He may recover from the present attack. The only thing is not to disturb him. The least shock will be fatal.
I’m going for Father Mackay,’ she said.
I was not surprised. I had seen it in her mind all the summer. When she had gone I said to the doctor, ‘We must stop this nonsense.
He said: ‘My business is with the body. It’s not my business to argue whether people are better alive or dead, or what happens to them after death. I only try to keep them alive.
And you said just now any shock would kill him. What could be worse for a man who fears death, as he does, than to have a priest brought to him - a priest he turned out when he had the strength
I think it may kill him.
Then will you forbid it
I’ve no authority to forbid anything. I can only give my opinion.
Cara, what do you think
I don’t want him made unhappy. That is all there is to hope for now; that he’ll die without knowing it. But I should like the priest there, all the same.’ ‘Will you try and persuade Julia to keep him away - until the end? After that he can do no harm.
I will ask her to leave Alex happy, yes.
In half an hour Julia was back with Father Mackay. We all met in the library. ‘I’ve telegraphed for Bridey and Cordelia,’ I said. ‘I hope you agree that nothing must be done till they arrive.
I wish they were here, ‘ said Julia.
You can’t take the responsibility alone,’ I said; ‘everyone else is against you. Doctor Grant, tell her what you said to me just now.
I said that the shock of seeing a priest might well kill him; without that he may survive this attack. As his medical man I must protest against anything being done to disturb him.
Cara
Julia, dear, I know you are thinking for the best, but, you know, Alex was not a religious man. He scoffed always. We mustn’t take advantage of him, now he’s weak, to comfort our own consciences. If Father Mackay comes to him when he is unconscious, then he can be buried in the proper way, can he not, Father?’ ‘I’ll go and see how he is, ‘ said the doctor, leaving us.
Father Mackay,’ I said. ‘You know how Lord Marchmain greeted you last time you came; do you think it possible he can have changed now?’ ‘Thank God, by his grace it is possible.
Perhaps,’ said Cara, ‘you could slip in while he is sleeping, say the words of absolution over him; he would never know.
I have seen so many men and women die,’ said the priest; ‘I never knew them sorry to have me there at the end.
But they were Catholics; Lord Marchmain has never been one except in name - at any rate, not for years. He was a scoffer, Cara said so.’ ‘Christ came to call, not the righteous, but sinners to repentance.
The doctor returned. ‘There’s no change,’ he said.
Now doctor,’ said the priest, ‘how would I be a shock to anyone?’ He turned his bland, innocent, matter-of-fact face first on the doctor, then upon the rest of us. ‘Do you know what I want to do? It is something so small, no show about it. I don’t wear special clothes, you know. I go just as I am. He knows the look of me now. There’s nothing alarming. I just want to ask him if he is sorry for his sins. I want him to make some little sign of assent; I want him, anyway, not to refuse me; then I want to give him God’s pardon. Then, though that’s not essential, I want to anoint him. It is nothing, a touch of the fingers, just some oil from this little box, look it is nothing to hurt him.’ ‘Oh, Julia,’ said Cara, ‘what are we to say? Let me speak to him.’ She went to the Chinese drawing-room; we waited in silence; there was a wall of fire between Julia and me. Presently Cara returned.
I don’t think he heard,’ she said. ‘I thought I knew how to put it to him. I said: “’Alex, you remember the priest from Melstead. You were very naughty when he came to see you. You hurt his feelings very much. Now he’s here again. I want you to see him just
for my sake, to make friends.” But he didn’t answer. If he’s unconscious, it couldn’t make him unhappy to see the priest, could it, doctor?’ Julia, who had been standing still and silent, suddenly moved. ‘Thank you for your advice, doctor,’ she said. ‘I take full responsibility for whatever happens. Father Mackay, will you please come and see my father now,’ and without looking at me, led him to the door.
We all followed. Lord Marchmain was lying as I had seen him that morning, but his eyes were now shut; his hands lay, palms upwards, above the bed-clothes; the nurse had her fingers on the pulse of one of them. ‘Come in,’ she said brightly, ‘you won’t disturb him now.
D’you mean...
No, no, but he’s past noticing anything.
She held the oxygen apparatus to his face and the hiss of escaping gas was the only sound at the bedside.
The priest bent over Lord Marchmain and blessed him. Julia and Cara knelt at the foot of the bed. The doctor, the nurse, and I stood behind them. ‘Now,’ said the priest, ‘I know you are sorry for all the sins of your life, aren’t you? Make a sign, if you can. You’re sorry, aren’t you?’ But there was no sign. ‘Try and remember your sins; tell God you are sorry. I am going to give you absolution. While I am giving it, tell God you are sorry you have offended him.’ He began to speak in Latin. I recognized the words ‘ego te absolvo in nomine Patris...’ and saw the priest make the sign of the cross. Then I knelt, too, and prayed: ‘O God,.if there is a God, forgive him his sins, if there is such thing as sin,’ and the man on the bed opened his eyes and gave a sigh, the sort of sigh I had imagined people made at the moment of death, but his eyes moved so that we knew there was still life in him.
I suddenly felt the longing for a sign, if only of courtesy, if only for the sake of the woman I loved, who knelt in front of me, praying, I knew, for a sign. It seemed so small a thing that was asked, the bare acknowledgement of a present, a nod in the crowd. I prayed more simply; ‘God forgive him his sins’ and ‘Please God, make him accept your forgiveness.
So small a thing to ask.
The priest took the little silver box from his pocket and spoke again in Latin, touching the dying man with an oil wad; he finished what he had to do, put away the box and gave the final blessing. Suddenly Lord Marchmain moved his hand to his forehead; I thought he had felt the touch of the chrism and was wiping it away. ‘O God,’ I prayed, ‘don’t let him do that.’ But there was no need for fear; the hand moved slowly down his breast, then to his shoulder, and Lord Marchmain made the sign of the cross. Then I knew that the sign I had asked for was not a little thing, not a passing nod of recognition, and a phrase came back to me from my childhood of the veil of the temple being rent from top to bottom.
It was over; we stood up; the nurse went back to the oxygen cylinder; the doctor bent over his patient. Julia whispered to me: ‘Will you see Father Mackay out? I’m staying here for a little.
Outside the door Father Mackay became the simple, genial man I had known before. ‘Well, now, and that was a beautiful thing to me. I’ve known it happen that way again and again. The devil resists to the last moment and then the Grace of God is too much for him. You’re not a Catholic I think, Mr Ryder, but at least you’ll be glad for the ladies to have the comfort of it.
As we were waiting for the chauffeur, it occurred to me that Father Mackay should be paid for his services. I asked him awkwardly. ‘Why, don’t think about it, Mr Ryder. It was a pleasure,’ he said, ‘but anything you care to give is useful in a parish like mine.’.I found I had three pounds in my note-case and gave them to him. ‘Why, indeed, that’s more than generous. God bless you, Mr Ryder. I’ll call again, but I don’t think the poor soul has 1ong for this world.
Julia remained in the Chinese drawing-room until, at five o’clock that evening, her father died proving both, sides right in the dispute, priest and doctor.
Thus I come to the broken sentences which were the last words spoken between Julia and me, the last memories.
When her father died Julia remained some minutes with his body; the nurse came to the next room to announce the news and I had a glimpse of her through the open door, kneeling at the foot of the bed, and of Cara sitting by her. Presently the two women came out together, and Julia said to me: ‘Not now; I’m just taking Cara up to her room; later.
While she was still upstairs Brideshead and Cordelia arrived from London; when at last we met alone it was by stealth, like young lovers.
Julia said: ‘Here in the shadow, in the corner of the stair - a minute to say good-bye.
So long to say so little.
You knew
Since this morning; since before this morning; all this year.’ ‘I didn’t know till today. Oh, my dear, if you could only understand. Then I could bear to part, or bear it better. I should say my heart was breaking, if I believed in broken hearts. I can’t marry you, Charles; I can’t be with you ever again.’ ‘I know.
How can you know
What will you do
Just go on - alone. How can I tell what I shall do? You know the whole of me. You know I’m not one for a life of mourning. I’ve always been bad. Probably I shall be bad again, punished again. But the worse I am, the more I need God. I can’t shut myself out from his mercy. That is what it would mean; starting a life with you, without him. One can only hope to see one step ahead. But I saw today there was one thing unforgivable - like things in the school-room, so bad they were unpunishable, that only mummy could deal with - the bad thing I was on the point of doing, that I’m not quite bad enough to do; to set up a rival good to God’s. Why should I be allowed to understand that, and not you, Charles? It may be because of mummy, nanny, Cordelia, Sebastian - perhaps Bridey and Mrs Muspratt - keeping my name in their prayers; or it may be a private bargain between me and God, that if I give up this one thing I want so much, however bad I am, he won’t quite despair of me in the end.
Now we shall both be alone, and I shall have no way of making you understand.’ ‘I don’t want to make it easier for you,’ I said; ‘I hope your heart may break; but I do understand.
The avalanche was down, the hillside swept barebehind it; the last echoes died on the white slopes; the new mound glittered and lay still in the silent valley.