I knew Sebastian by sight long before I met him. That was unavoidable
for, from his first week, he was the most conspicuous man of his year by
reason of his beauty, which was arresting, and his eccentricities of
behaviour which seemed to know no bounds. My first sight of him was as we
passed in the door of Germer's, and, on that occasion, I was struck less by
his looks than by the fact that he was carrying a large Teddy-bear.
"That," said the barber, as I took his chair, "was Lord Sebastian
Flyte. A most amusing young gentleman."
"Apparently," I said coldly.
"The Marquis of Marchmain's second boy. His brother, the Earl of
Brideshead, went down last term. Now he was very different, a very quiet
gentleman, quite like an old man. What do you suppose Lord Sebastian wanted?
A hair brush for his Teddy-bear; it had to have very stiff bristles, not,
Lord Sebastian said, to brush him with, but to threaten him with a spanking
when he was sulky. He bought a very nice one with an ivory back and he's
having 'Aloysius' engraved on it -- that's the bear's name." The man, who,
in his time, had had ample chance to tire of undergraduate fantasy, was
plainly captivated by him. I, however, remained censorious and subsequent
glimpses of Sebastian, driving in a hansom cab and dining at the George in
false whiskers, did not soften me, although Collins, who was reading Freud,
had a number of technical terms to cover everything.
Nor, when at last we met, were the circumstances propitious. It was
shortly before midnight in early March; I had been entertaining the college
intellectuals to mulled claret; the fire was roaring, the air of my room
heavy with smoke and spice, and my mind weary with metaphysics. I threw open
my windows and from the quad outside came the not uncommon sounds of
bibulous laughter and unsteady steps. A voice said: "Hold up"; another,
"Come on"; another, "Plenty of time . . . House . . . till Tom stops
ringing"; and another, clearer than the rest, "D'you know I feel most
unaccountably unwell. I must leave you a minute," and there appeared at my
window the face I knew to be Sebastian's -- but not as I had formerly seen
it, alive and alight with gaiety; he looked at me for a moment with unseeing
eyes and then, leaning forward well into the room, he was sick.
It was not unusual for dinner parties to end in that way; there was in
fact a recognized tariff on such occasions for the comfort of the scout; we
were all learning, by trial and error, to carry our wine. There was also a
kind of insane and endearing orderliness about Sebastian's choice, in his
extremity, of an open window. But, when all is said, it remained an
unpropitious meeting.
His friends bore him to the gate and, in a few minutes, his host, an
amiable Etonian of my year, returned to apologize. He, too, was tipsy and
his explanations were repetitive and, towards the end, tearful. "The wines
were too various," he said; "it was neither the quality nor the quantity
that was at fault. It was the mixture. Grasp that and you have the root of
the matter. To understand all is to forgive all."
"Yes," I said, but it was with a sense of grievance that I faced Lunt's
reproaches next morning.
"A couple of jugs of mulled claret between the five of you," Lunt said,
"and this had to happen. Couldn't even get to the window. Those that can't
keep it down are better without it."
"It wasn't one of my party. It was someone from out of college."
"Well, it's just as nasty clearing it up, whoever it was."
"There's five shillings on the sideboard."
"So I saw and thank you, but I'd rather not have the money and not have
the mess, any morning."
I took my gown and left him to his task. I still frequented the lecture
room in those days, and it was after eleven when I returned to college. I
found my room full of flowers; what looked like, and, in fact, was, the
entire day's stock of a market-stall stood in every conceivable vessel in
every part of the room. Lunt was secreting the last of them in brown paper
preparatory to taking them home.
"Lunt, what is all this?"
"The gentleman from last night, sir, he left a note for you."
The note was written in conte crayon on a whole sheet of my choice
Whatman H.P. drawing paper: I am very contrite. Aloysius won't speak to me
until he sees I am forgiven, so please come to luncheon to-day. Sebastian
Flyte. It was typical of him, I reflected, to assume I knew where he lived;
but then, I did know. '
"A most amusing gentleman, I'm sure it's quite a pleasure to clean up
after him. I take it you're lunching out, sir. I told Mr. Collins and Mr.
Partridge so--they wanted to have their commons in here with you."
"Yes, Lunt, lunching out."
That luncheon party -- for party it proved to be -- was the beginning
of a new epoch in my life, but its details are dimmed for me and confused by
so many others, almost identical with it, that succeeded one another that
term and the next, like romping cupids in a Renaissance frieze.
I went there uncertainly, for it was foreign ground and there was a
tiny, priggish, warning voice in my ear which in the tones of Collins told
me it was seemly to hold back. But I was in search of love in those days,
and I went full of curiosity and the faint, unrecognized apprehension that
here, at last, I should find that low door in the wall, which others, I
knew, had found before me, which opened on an enclosed and enchanted garden,
which was somewhere, not overlooked by any window, in the heart of that grey
city.
Sebastian lived at Christ Church, high in Meadow Buildings. He was
alone when I came, peeling a plover's egg taken from the large nest of moss
in the centre of the table.
"I've just counted them," he said. "There were five each and two over,
so I'm having the two. I'm unaccountably hungry to-day. I put myself
unreservedly in the hands of Dolbear and Goodall, and feel so drugged that
I've begun to believe that the whole of yesterday evening was a dream.
Please don't wake me up."
He was magically beautiful, with that epicene quality which in extreme
youth sings aloud for love and withers at the first cold wind.
His room was filled with a strange jumble of objects -- a harmonium in
a gothic case, an elephant's-foot waste-paper basket, a dome of wax fruit,
two disproportionately large Sevres vases, framed drawings by Daumier --
made all the more incongruous by the austere college furniture and the large
luncheon table. His chimney-piece was covered with cards of invitation from
London hostesses.
"That beast Hobson has put Aloysius in the bedder," he said. "Perhaps
it's as well as there wouldn't have been any plovers' eggs for him. D'you
know, Hobson hates Aloysius? I wish I had a scout like yours. He was sweet
to me this morning where some people might have been quite strict."
The party assembled. There were three Etonian freshmen, mild, elegant,
detached young men who had all been to a dance in London the night before,
and spoke of it as though it had been the funeral of a near but unloved
kinsman. Each as he came into the room made first for the plovers' eggs,
then noticed Sebastian and then myself with a polite lack of curiosity which
seemed to say: "We should not dream of being so offensive as to suggest that
you never met us before."
"The first this year," they said. "Where do you get them?"
"Mummy sends them from Brideshead. They always lay early for her."
When the eggs were gone and we were eating the lobster Newburg, the
last guest arrived.
"My dear," he said, "I couldn't get away before. I was lunching with my
p-p-preposterous tutor. He thought it very odd my leaving when I did. I told
him I had to change for F-f-footer."
From the moment he arrived the newcomer took charge, talking in a
luxurious, self-taught stammer; teasing; caricaturing the guests at his
previous luncheon; telling lubricious anecdotes of Paris and Berlin; and
doing more than entertain -- transfiguring the party, shedding a vivid,
false light of eccentricity upon everyone so that the three prosaic Etonians
seemed suddenly to become creatures of his fantasy.
This, I did not need telling, was Anthony Blanche, the "aesthete" par
excellence, a byword of iniquity from Cherwell Edge to Somerville, a young
man who seemed to me, then, fresh from the sombre company of the College
Essay Society, ageless as a lizard, as foreign as a Martian. He had been
pointed out to me often in the streets, as he moved with his own peculiar
stateliness, as though he had not fully accustomed himself to coat and
trousers and was more at his ease in heavy, embroidered robes; I had heard
his voice in the George challenging the conventions; and now meeting him,
under the spell of Sebastian, I found myself enjoying him voraciously, like
the fine piece of cookery he was.
After luncheon he stood on the balcony with a megaphone which had
appeared surprisingly among the bric-a-brac of Sebastian's room, and in
languishing, sobbing tones recited passages from The Waste Land to the
sweatered and muffled throng that was on its way to the river.
" 'I, Tiresias, have foresuffered all,'" he sobbed to them from the
Venetian arches --
"Enacted on this same d-divan or b-bed,
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the l-l-lowest of the dead. . . ."
And then, stepping lightly into the room, "How I have surprised them!
All boatmen are Grace Darlings to me."
We sat on sipping Cointreau while the mildest and most detached of the
Etonians sang "Home they brought Her warrior dead" to his own accompaniment
on the harmonium.
It was four o'clock before we broke up.
Anthony Blanche was the first to go. He took formal and complimentary
leave of each of us in turn. To Sebastian he said: "My dear, I should like
to stick you full of barbed arrows like a p-p-pin-cushion," and to me: "I
think it's perfectly brilliant of Sebastian to have discovered you. Where do
you lurk? I shall come down your burrow and ch-chivy you out like an old
st-t-toat."
The others left soon after him. I rose to go with them, but Sebastian
said: "Have some more Cointreau," so I stayed and later he said, "I must go
to the Botanical Gardens."
"Why?"
"To see the ivy."
It seemed a good enough reason and I went with him. He took my arm as
we walked under the walls of Merton.
"I've never been to the Botanical Gardens," I said.
"Oh, Charles, what a lot you have to learn! There's a beautiful arch
there and more different kinds of ivy than I knew existed. I don't know
where I should be without the Botanical Gardens."
When at length I returned to my rooms and found them exactly as I had
left them that morning, I detected a jejune air that had not irked me
before. What was wrong? Nothing except the golden daffodils seemed to be
real. Was it the screen? I turned it face to the wall. That was better.
It was the end of the screen. Lunt never liked it, and after a few days
he took it away, to an obscure refuge he had under the stairs, full of mops
and buckets.
That day was the beginning of my friendship with Sebastian, and thus it
came about, that morning in June, that I was lying beside him in the shade
of the high elms, watching the smoke from his lips drift up into the
branches.