Evelyn Waugh: The Complete Stories Of Evelyn Waugh

PADDINGTON STATION.

Adam in the train to Oxford; smoking, his hands deep in his overcoat pockets.

“’E’s thinking of ’er.”

OXFORD.

KNOW YOU HER SECRET NONE CAN UTTER; HERS OF THE BOOK, THE TRIPLE CROWN? Art title showing Book and Triple Crown; also Ox in ford.

General prospect of Oxford from the train showing reservoir, gas works and part of the prison. It is raining.

The station; two Indian students have lost their luggage. Resisting the romantic appeal of several hansom cabdrivers—even of one in a grey billycock hat, Adam gets into a Ford taxi. Queen Street, Carfax, the High Street, Radcliffe Camera in the distance.

“Look, Ada, St. Paul’s Cathedral.”

King Edward Street. The cab stops and Adam gets out.

LORD BASINGSTOKE’S ROOMS.

KING EDWARD STREET.

Interior of Lord Basingstoke’s rooms. On the chimneypiece are photographs of Lord Basingstoke’s mother and two of Lord Basingstoke’s friends, wearing that peculiarly inane and serene smile only found during the last year at Eton and then only in photographs. Some massive glass paper weights and cards of invitation.

On the walls are large coloured caricatures of Basil Hay drawn by himself at Eton, an early nineteenth-century engraving of Lord Basingstoke’s home; two unfinished drawings by Ernest Vaughan of the Rape of the Sabines and a wool picture of two dogs and a cat.

Lord Basingstoke, contrary to all expectation, is neither drinking, gaming, nor struggling with his riding boots; he is engaged on writing a Collections Paper for his tutor.

Lord Basingstoke’s paper in a pleasant, childish handwriting.

“BRADLAUGH v. GOSSETT. THIS FAMOUS TEST CASE FINALLY ESTABLISHED THE DECISION THAT MARSHAL LAW IS UNKNOWN IN ENGLAND.”

He crosses out “marshal” and puts “martial”; then sits biting his pen sadly.

“Adam, how lovely; I had no idea you were in Oxford.”

They talk for a little while.

“RICHARD, CAN YOU DINE WITH ME TONIGHT. YOU MUST. I’M HAVING A FAREWELL BLIND.” Richard looks sadly at his Collections Paper and shakes his head.

“My dear, I simply can’t. I’ve got to get this finished by tonight. I’m probably going to be sent down as it is.”

Adam returns to his taxi.

MR. SAYLE’S ROOMS IN MERTON.

Flowers, Medici prints and Nonesuch Press editions. Mr. Sayle is playing “L’Après midi d’un Faun” on the gramophone to an American aunt. He cannot dine with Adam.

MR. HENRY QUEST’S ROOMS IN

THE UGLIER PART OF MAGDALEN.

The furniture provided by the College has been little changed except for the addition of some rather repulsive cushions. There are photographs of Imogen, Lady Rosemary and Mr. Macassor’s son winning the Magdalen Grind. Mr. Henry Quest has just given tea to two freshmen; he is secretary of the J.C.R. His face, through the disability of the camera, looks nearly black, actually it forms a patriotic combination with his Bullingdon tie; he has a fair moustache.

Adam enters and invites him to dinner. Henry Quest does not approve of his sister’s friends; Adam cannot stand Imogen’s brother; they are always scrupulously polite to each other.

“I’M SORRY, ADAM, THERE’S A MEETING OF THE CHATHAM HERE TONIGHT. I SHOULD HAVE LOVED TO, OTHERWISE. Stay and have a cigarette, won’t you? Do you know Mr. Trehearne and Mr. Bickerton-Gibbs?”

Adam cannot stop, he has a taxi waiting.

Henry Quest excuses his intrusion to Messrs. Trehearne and Bickerton-Gibbs.

MR. EGERTON-VERSCHOYLE’S ROOMS

IN PECKWATER.

Mr. Egerton-Verschoyle has been entertaining to luncheon. Adam stirs him with his foot; he turns over and says:

“There’s another in the cupboard—corkscrew’s behind the thing, you know…” and trails off into incoherence.

MR. FURNESS’S ROOMS

IN THE NEXT STAIRCASE.

They are empty and dark. Mr. Furness has been sent down.

MR. SWITHIN LANG’S ROOMS

IN BEAUMONT STREET.

Furnished in white and green. Water colours by Mr. Lang of Wembley, Mentone and Thatch. Some valuable china and a large number of magazines. A coloured and ornamented decanter of Cointreau on the chimneypiece and some gold-beaded glasses. The remains of a tea party are scattered about the room, and the air is heavy with cigarette smoke.

Swithin, all in grey, is reading the Tatler .

Enter Adam; effusive greetings.

“Adam, do look at this photograph of Sybil Anderson. Isn’t it too funny?”

Adam has seen it.

They sit and talk for some time.

“Swithin, you must come and dine with me tonight—please.”

“Adam, I can’t. Gabriel’s giving a party in Balliol. Won’t you be there? Oh no, of course, you don’t know him, do you? He came up last term—such a dear, and so rich. I’m giving some people dinner first at the Crown. I’d ask you to join us, only I don’t honestly think you’d like them. It is a pity. What about tomorrow? Come over to dinner at Thame tomorrow.”

Adam shakes his head. “I’m afraid I shan’t be here,” and goes out.

AN HOUR LATER.

Still alone, Adam is walking down the High Street. It has stopped raining and the lights shine on the wet road. His hand in his pocket fingers the bottle of poison.

There appears again the vision of the African village and the lamenting wives.

St. Mary’s clock strikes seven.

Suddenly Adam’s step quickens as he is struck by an idea.

MR. ERNEST VAUGHAN’S ROOMS.

They stand in the front quadrangle of one of the uglier and less renowned colleges midway between the lavatories and the chapel. The window blind has become stuck halfway up the window so that by day they are shrouded in a twilight as though of the Nether world, and by night Ernest’s light blazes across the quad, revealing interiors of unsurpassed debauchery. Swithin once said that, like Ernest, Ernest’s rooms were a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night. The walls are devoid of pictures except for a half-finished drawing of Sir Beelzebub calling for his rum, which, pinned there a term ago, has begun to droop at the corners, and, spattered with drink and leant against by innumerable shoulders, has begun to take on much the same patina as the walls. Inscriptions and drawings, ranging from almost inspired caricature to meaningless or obscene scrawlings, attest Ernest’s various stages of drunkenness.

“Who is this Bach? I have not so much as heard of the man. E. V.” runs across the bedroom door in an unsteady band of red chalk, “UT EXULTAT IN COITU ELEPHAS, SIC RICARDUS,” surmounting an able drawing of the benign Basingstoke.

A large composition of the Birth of Queen Victoria can be traced over the fireplace. There are broken bottles and dirty glasses and uncorrected galley proofs on the table; on the corner of the chimneypiece a beautiful decanter, the broken stopper of which has been replaced by a cork. Ernest is sitting in the broken wicker chair mending the feathers of some darts with unexpected dexterity. He is a short, sturdy young man, with fierce little eyes and a well-formed forehead. His tweeds, stained with drink and paint, have once been well-made, and still preserve a certain distinction. Women undergraduates, on the rare occasions of his appearance at lectures, not infrequently fall in love with him.

“Bolshevist.” It is a reasonable mistake, but a mistake. Until his expulsion for overdue subscriptions, Ernest was a prominent member of the Canning.

Adam goes through the gateway into Ernest’s College where two or three youths are standing about staring vacantly at the notice-boards. As Adam goes by, they turn round and scowl at him.

“Another of Vaughan’s friends.”

Their eyes follow him across the quad, to Ernest’s rooms.