Brideshead Indeed Revisited

TWO sharply defined images of Evelyn Waugh remain in the mind, one from the beginning of his career, one from near the end. First, the portrait painted by Henry Lamb of the 26-year-old aesthete and dandy: Waugh had just published his first novel. Decline and Fall, a succès de scandal, and there he sits, thin, elegant, and impenetrable in a plum-colored coat and wide red polka-dot tie, his disconcerting china-blue eyes fixed upon us in cool and discomfiting judgment. Waugh’s attitude in the portrait is quietly but deliberately outrageous, and there is no hint of apology and no explanation.

The later image of Waugh is very different in outward appearance, though the underlying substance remains the same. This time it is a photograph of the established author in his middle fifties, now a figure of international importance. He has grown rather portly, and we are not surprised to learn that it is his habit to consume impressive quantities of alcohol, that, indeed, it is necessary for him to undergo a periodic “cure.” His eyes remain disconcerting, and now the invisible barrier one sensed earlier is concretely present: Waugh is looking out over a picket fence on his estate at Piers Court, and on the fence at about chest level there is a large sign: entree interdite aux promeneurs. The comedy of the photograph resides in its own ironic awareness of the central message: Keep Out. It is in his evolving fiction that we gain entrance to the emotional and spiritual development of this extraordinary twentieth century artist.

About the Author

Jeffrey Hart

Jeffrey Hart is a contributor to National Review.

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TWO sharply defined images of Evelyn Waugh remain in the mind, one from the beginning of his career, one from near the end. First, the portrait painted by Henry Lamb of the 26-year-old aesthete and dandy: Waugh had just published his first novel. Decline and Fall, a succès de scandal, and there he sits, thin, elegant, and impenetrable in a plum-colored coat and wide red polka-dot tie, his disconcerting china-blue eyes fixed upon us in cool and discomfiting judgment. Waugh’s attitude in the portrait is quietly but deliberately outrageous, and there is no hint of apology and no explanation.

The later image of Waugh is very different in outward appearance, though the underlying substance remains the same. This time it is a photograph of the established author in his middle fifties, now a figure of international importance. He has grown rather portly, and we are not surprised to learn that it is his habit to consume impressive quantities of alcohol, that, indeed, it is necessary for him to undergo a periodic “cure.” His eyes remain disconcerting, and now the invisible barrier one sensed earlier is concretely present: Waugh is looking out over a picket fence on his estate at Piers Court, and on the fence at about chest level there is a large sign: entree interdite aux promeneurs. The comedy of the photograph resides in its own ironic awareness of the central message: Keep Out. It is in his evolving fiction that we gain entrance to the emotional and spiritual development of this extraordinary twentieth century artist.