by Evelyn Waugh
He makes a heap on the floor of the best of them.
MR. MACASSOR’S BOOKSHOP.
There is about Mr. Macassor’s bookshop the appearance of the private library of an ancient and unmethodical scholar. Books are everywhere, on walls, floor and furniture, as though laid down at some interruption and straightway forgotten. First editions and early illustrated books lie hidden among Sermons and Blue Books for the earnest adventurer to find. Mr. Macassor hides his treasures with care.
An elderly man is at the moment engaged in investigating a heap of dusty volumes while Mr. Macassor bends longingly over the table engrossed in a treatise on Alchemy. Suddenly the adventurer’s back straightens; his search has been rewarded and he emerges into the light, bearing a tattered but unquestionably genuine copy of the first edition of “Hydrotaphia.” He asks Mr. Macassor the price. Mr. Macassor adjusts his spectacles and brushes some snuff from his waistcoat and, bearing the book to the door, examines it as if for the first time.
“Ah, yes, a delightful work. Yes, yes, marvellous style,” and he turns the pages fondly, “‘The large stations of the dead,’ what a noble phrase.” He looks at the cover and wipes it with his sleeve. “Why, I had forgotten I had this copy. It used to belong to Horace Walpole, only someone has stolen the bookplate—the rascal. Still, it was only the Oxford one—the armorial one, you know. Well, well, sir, since you have found it I suppose you have the right to claim it. Five guineas, shall I say. But I hate to part with it.”
The purchaser is a discerning man. Had he seen this same book baldly described in a catalogue he would not have paid half this price for it in its present condition, but the excitement of pursuit and the pride of discovery more even than the legends of Strawberry Hill have distorted his sense of values. One cannot haggle with Mr. Macassor as with some mere tradesman in Charing Cross Road. The purchaser pays and goes away triumphant. It is thus that Mr. Macassor’s son at Magdalen is able to keep his rooms full of flowers and, during the season, to hunt two days a week.
Enter Adam from a taxi laden with books. Mr. Macassor offers him snuff from an old tortoiseshell box.
“IT’S A SAD THING TO HAVE TO SELL BOOKS, MR. DOURE. Very sad. I remember as if it was yesterday, Mr. Stevenson coming in to me to sell his books, and will you believe it, Mr. Doure, when it came to the point, after we had arranged everything, his heart failed him and he took them all away again. A great book-lover, Mr. Stevenson.”
Mr. Macassor adjusts his spectacles and examines, caressingly, but like some morbid lover fastening ghoulishly upon every imperfection.
“Well, and how much were you expecting for these?”
Adam hazards, “Seventeen pounds,” but Mr. Macassor shakes his head sadly.
Five minutes later he leaves the shop with ten pounds and gets into his taxi.
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 her
e,” 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.
Ernest is somewhat surprised at Adam’s visit, who, indeed, has never shown any very warm affection for him. However, he pours out whisky.
HALF AN HOUR LATER.
It has begun to rain again. Dinner is about to be served in Ernest’s College and the porch is crowded by a shabby array of gowned young men vacantly staring at the notice-boards. Here and there a glaring suit of “plus fours” proclaims the generosity of the Rhodes Trust. Adam and Ernest make their way through the cluster of men who mutter their disapproval like peasants at the passage of some black magician.
“IT’S NO GOOD TAKING ME TO ANY CLUB, DOURE, I’VE BEEN BLACK-BALLED FOR THE LOT.”
“I should imagine that would have happened—even in Oxford.”
AN HOUR LATER. AT THE CROWN.
Adam and Ernest are just finishing dinner; both show marked signs of intoxication.
The dining room at the Crown bears little resemblance to Adam’s epicurean dream. The walls, pathetically frescoed with views of Oxford, resound with the clattering of dirty plates. Swithin’s dinner party has just left, leaving the room immeasurably more quiet. The three women who up till now have been playing selections from Gilbert and Sullivan in the corner have finished work and begun eating their dinner. An undergraduate who has very grandly signed the bill is engaged in an argument with the manager. At a table near Adam’s three young men with gowns wound round their throats have settled themselves and ordered coffee and cream cakes; while they are waiting they discuss the Union elections.
Adam orders more double whiskies.
Ernest insists on sending a bottle of gin over to the party at the next table. It is rejected with some resentment, and soon they rise and go away.
Adam orders more double whiskies.
Ernest begins drawing a portrait of Adam on the tablecloth.
He entitles it “Le vin triste,” and, indeed, throughout dinner, Adam has been growing sadder and sadder as his guest has grown more happy. He drinks and orders more with a mechanical weariness.
At length, very unsteadily, they rise to go.
From now onwards the film becomes a series of fragmentary scenes interspersed among hundreds of feet of confusion.
“It’s going queer again, Ada. D’you think it’s meant to be like this?”
A public-house in the slums. Adam leans against the settee and pays for innumerable pints of beer for armies of ragged men. Ernest is engrossed in a heated altercation about birth control with a beggar whom he has just defeated at “darts.”
Another public house: Ernest, beset by two panders, is loudly maintaining the abnormality of his tastes. Adam finds a bottle of gin in his pocket and attempts to give it to a man; his wife interposes; eventually the bottle falls to the floor and is broken.
Adam and Ernest in a taxi; they drive from college to college, being refused admission. Fade out.
GABRIEL’S PARTY in Balliol is being an enormous success. It is a decorous assembly mostly sober. There are bottles of champagne and decanters of whisky and brandy, but most of Gabriel’s guests prefer dancing. Others sit about and talk. They are large, well-furnished rooms, and the effect is picturesque and agreeable. There are a few people in fancy dress—a Queen Victoria, a Sapphist and two Generals Gordon. A musical comedy actor, who is staying the weekend with Gabriel, stands by the gramophone looking through the records; as becomes a guest of honour he is terribly bored.
Henry Quest has escaped from the Chatham and is talking about diplomatic appointments, drinking whisky and regarding everyone with disapproval. Lord Basingstoke stands talking to him, with his mind still worrying about the Constitution of the Commonwealth of Australia. Swithin is making himself quite delightful to the guest of honour. Mr. Egerton-Verschoyle sits very white, complaining of the cold.
Enter Mr. Sayle of Merton.
“GABRIEL, DO LOOK WHO I’VE FOUND IN THE QUAD. MAY I BRING HIM IN?” He pulls in Adam, who stands with a broken gin bottle in one hand staring stupidly about the room.
Someone pours him out a glass of champagne.
The party goes on.
A voice is heard roaring “ADAM” outside the window, and suddenly there bursts in Ernest, looking incredibly drunk. His hair is disordered, his eyes glazed, his neck and face crimson and greasy. He sits down in a chair immobile; someone gives him a drink; he takes it mechanically and then pours it into the carpet and continues to stare before him.
“ADAM, IS THIS IMPOSSIBLE PERSON A FRIEND OF YOURS? DO FOR GOODNESS’ SAKE TAKE HIM AWAY. GABRIEL WILL BE FURIOUS.”
“HE’S THE MOST MARVELLOUS MAN, HENRY. YOU JUST DON’T KNOW HIM. COME AND TALK TO HIM.”
And to his intense disgust Henry is led across the room and introduced to Ernest. Ernest at first does not seem to hear, and then slowly raises his eyes until they are gazing at Henry; by a further effort he continues to focus them.
“QUEST? ANY RELATION TO ADAM’S WOMAN?”
There is about to be a scene. The musical comedy actor feels that only this was needed to complete the melancholy of the evening. Henry is all indignation and contempt. “IMOGEN QUEST IS MY SISTER IF THAT’S WHAT YOU MEAN. WHO THE DEVIL ARE YOU AND WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY SPEAKING ABOUT HER LIKE THAT?”
Gabriel flutters ineffectually in the background. Richard Basingstoke interposes with a genial, “Come on, Henry, can’t you see the frightful man’s blind dru
nk?” Swithin begs Adam to take Ernest away. Everybody is thrown into the utmost agitation.
But Ernest, in his own way, saves everyone from further anxiety.
“DO YOU KNOW, I THINK I’M GOING TO BE SICK?”
And makes his way unmolested and with perfect dignity to the quad. The gramophone starts playing “Everybody loves my baby.” Fade out.
THE OXFORD CITY LIBERAL ASSOCIATION
DANCE AT THE TOWN HALL.
Tickets are being sold at the door for 1s. 6d.
Upstairs there is a table with jugs of lemonade and plates of plum cake. In the main hall a band is playing and the younger liberals are dancing. One of the waitresses from the Crown sits by the door fanning her face with a handkerchief.
Ernest, with a radiant smile, is slowly walking round the room offering plum cake to the couples sitting about. Some giggle and take it; some giggle and refuse; some refuse and look exceedingly haughty.
Adam leans against the side of the door watching him.
Close up; Adam bears on his face the same expression of blind misery that he wore in the taxi the night before.
LE VIN TRISTE.
Ernest has asked the waitress from the Crown to dance with him. It is an ungainly performance; still sublimely contented he collides with several couples, misses his footing and, but for his partner, would have fallen. An M.C. in evening dress asks Adam to take him away.
Broad stone steps.
Several motors are drawn up outside the Town Hall. Ernest climbs into the first of them—a decrepit Ford—and starts the engine. Adam attempts to stop him. A policeman hurries up. There is a wrenching of gears and the car starts.
The policeman blows his whistle.
Halfway down St. Aldates the car runs into the kerb, mounts the pavement and runs into a shop window. The inhabitants of St. Aldates converge from all sides; heads appear at every window; policemen assemble. There is a movement in the crowd to make way for something being carried out.
Adam turns and wanders aimlessly towards Carfax.
