Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh [91]
She was now fifteen and had grown tall, nearly to her full height, in the last eighteen months. She had not the promise of Julia's full quattrocento loveliness; there was a touch of Brideshead already in her length of nose and high cheekbone; she was in black, mourning for her mother.
'I'm tired,' I said.
'I bet you are. Is it finished?'
'Practically. I must go over it again tomorrow.'
'D'you know it's long past dinner time? There's no one here to cook anything now. I only came up today, and didn't realize how far the decay had gone. You wouldn't like to take me out to dinner, would, you?'
We left by the garden door, into the park, and walked in the twilight to the Ritz Grill.
'You've seen Sebastian? He won't come home, even now?'
I did not realize till then that she had understood so much. I said so
'Well, I love him more than anyone,' she said. 'It's sad about Marchers, isn't it? Do you know they're going to build a block of flats, and that Rex wanted to take I what he called a "penthouse" at the top. Isn't it like him? Poor Julia. That was too much for her. He couldn't understand at all; he thought she would like to keep up with her old home. Things have all come to an end very quickly, haven't they? Apparently papa has been terribly in debt for a long time. Selling Marchers has put him straight again and saved I don't know how much a year in rates. But it seems a shame to pull it down. Julia says she'd sooner that than to have someone else live there.'
'What's going to happen to you?'
'What, indeed? There are all kinds of suggestions. Aunt Fanny Rosscommon wants me to live with her. Then Rex and Julia talk of taking over half Brideshead and living there. Papa won't come back. We thought he might, but no.
'They've closed the chapel at Brideshead, Bridey and the Bishop; mummy's Requiem was the last mass said there. After she was buried the priest came in—I was there alone. I don't think he saw me—and took out the altar stone and put it in his bag; then he burned the wads of wool with the holy oil on them and threw the ash outside; he emptied the holy-water stoop and blew out the lamp in the sanctuary, and left the tabernacle open, and empty, as though from now on it was always to be Good Friday. I suppose none of this makes any sense to you, Charles, poor agnostic. I stayed there till he was gone, and then, suddenly, there wasn't any chapel there any more, just an oddly decorated room. I can't tell you what it felt like. You've.never been to Tenebrae, I suppose?'
'Never.'
'Well, if you had you'd know what the Jews felt about their temple. Quomodo sedet sola civitas...it's a beautiful chant. You ought to go once, just to hear it.'
'Still trying to convert me, Cordelia?'
'Oh, no. That's all over, too. D'you know what papa said when he became a Catholic? Mummy told me once. He said to her: "You have brought back my family to the faith of their ancestors." Pompous, you know. It takes people different ways. Anyhow, the family haven't been very constant, have they? There's him gone and Sebastian gone and Julia gone. But God won't let them go for long, you know. I wonder if you remember the story mummy read us the evening Sebastian first got drunk I mean the bad evening. "Father Brown" said something like "I caught him" (the thief) "with an unseen hook and an invisible line which is long enough to let him wander to the ends of the world and still to bring him back with a twitch upon the thread."'
We scarcely mentioned her mother. All the time we talked, she ate voraciously. Once she said:
'Did you see Sir Adrian Porson's poem in The Times? It's funny: he knew her best of anyone—he loved her all his life, you know—and yet it doesn't seem to have anything to do with her at all.
'I got on best with her of any of us, but I don't believe I ever really loved her. Not as she wanted or deserved. It's odd I didn't, because I'm full of natural affections.'
'I never really knew your Mother,' I said.
'You didn't like her. I sometimes think when people wanted to hate God they hated mummy.'