EVELYN WAUGH STUDIES Vol. 43, No. 1 Spring 2012
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EVELYN WAUGH STUDIES Vol. 43, No. 1 Spring 2012 Waugh Revisited: A Reminiscence J. Franklin Murray, S.J.[1] In the late forties the British novelist Evelyn Waugh came up with a best seller, Brideshead Revisited. He sold the movie rights to M.G.M., but later cancelled the contract when he could not accept their interpretation of the sexual acrobatics in the novel.[2] During the litigation he distracted himself by visiting Forest Lawn Cemetery in Los Angeles, where he became fascinated with the peculiar variety of funeral rituals in practice there. In the summer of ’48 he gathered his observations into an outrageously funny little novel called The Loved One, which rocketed him into national attention. On receiving notice that Waugh was available for a lecture tour of American Catholic colleges, I began negotiations to bring him to Spring Hill. He arrived in Mobile March 7, 1949,[3] for three days of lectures and conferences. I met him and his wife at the old L & N station in the early afternoon. His first remark was that his name was not pronounced “Ev-lyn,” but “Eve-lyn.” He was much shorter than I had expected and looked somewhat ridiculous under his bowler hat. His charming, aristocratic wife suffered from neglect and found it hard to keep up with his long strides. Newspaper reporters were excited about Waugh’s visit to the city and had arranged for an interview with him at the Admiral Semmes Hotel. On the way to the hotel I asked Mr. Waugh to meet the press and got the curt answer that he would ignore all reporters except one from the Catholic paper. At the hotel three reporters were waiting for him. He brushed aside two of them and began a conversation with Mr. John Will of the Mobile Press Register, whom he judged to be the Catholic reporter. Waugh spent a good hour with Mr. Will and gave him his philosophy of life, his theory of government, and his opinion of American civilization. All of this appeared with a large picture on the front page of the Mobile Register the next day.[4] Waugh was immensely pleased by this publicity and commented that Mr. Will was one of the few intelligent and honest reporters he had ever met. That evening Waugh and his wife were my guests at a dinner at Constantine’s, then on Royal Street. Mr. Fred McCaffrey, a young Jesuit English teacher, accompanied us to dinner. In a quiet, dark little booth in the rear of the restaurant, Waugh ordered an Old Fashioned and a cheese soufflé, noting that this was a day of fast and abstinence in Lent. The Old Fashioned arrived with ice and triggered Mr. Waugh into a vehement protest about the barbarous American custom of ruining drinks with ice. He asked the waitress for a “styner.” Puzzled at first, I told the waitress that Mr. Waugh wanted to strain the ice from his drink. She shrugged her shoulders and shortly returned with a warm drink. This round was followed by another. By this time the cheese soufflé had arrived. Waugh looked at it from several angles and asked the waitress what it was. She replied that it was the cheese soufflé he had ordered. “Whatever resemblance this has to a cheese soufflé is minimal. The best restaurants of Paris would never recognize this as a cheese soufflé.” The embarrassed waitress was forced to call the manager to calm him down. After another insult or two, Waugh ordered a shrimp dish and a bottle of California burgundy. As the meal progressed, he made away with most of the wine, which he praised highly. He became quite animated in his description of the absurdities of Forest Lawn Cemetery in Hollywood. His order of another bottle of burgundy frankly disturbed me. Since he was doing most of the drinking, I feared that his coming lecture on “Chesterton, Belloc, and Graham Greene” might wander far afield.[5] Meanwhile, he regaled us with short bursts of song, jests, and imitations of cockney, which I could not fully appreciate. Looking nervously at my watch, I insisted that we should get underway to the auditorium although the time of the lecture was three-quarters of an hour off. He polished off the meal with a brandy while I paid the check. Mrs. Waugh left us to see a western at the old Saenger Theater. Waugh’s lecture was to be given at the auditorium of Toolen High School. I spent half an hour driving around in various directions to kill time, hoping that the spring breezes would clear his head for a coherent lecture. In the lobby of the high school, Mr. Cameron Plummer, owner of the Haunted Book Shop,[6] had arranged a large display of Waugh’s novels. Mr. Plummer greeted us warmly at the door and asked Waugh to autograph some of the books on display. Waugh refused indignantly and mumbled a few expletives which I did not understand. Plummer protested, saying “I only want to help you sell your books.” Waugh retorted, “They will sell without your help.” At this point a lady approached Waugh waving a copy of TIME in his face with the request that he autograph TIME’s review of The Loved One. Waugh brushed her aside rudely with the remark that TIME was an obnoxious little rag, incapable of reviewing anything objectively.[7] The lady retired somewhat abashed and flustered. By this time the auditorium had filled up. I led Mr. Waugh out of the lobby and down the front steps to go around the building. A high school girl reporter tagged along behind us trying to get Waugh’s attention. He stopped suddenly and asked me what that remarkable perfume was. At first I thought he was alluding to “afternoon in Prichard”[8] which so often envelops Mobile. It was not that, but a whiff of magnolia frescati [frascati?], a flower with a strong banana oil odor. Waugh plucked some of the flowers from a shrub and stuck them in his pocket. Meanwhile, the young lady worked up enough courage to question Waugh. “Mr. Waugh, what do you think is the future of the Catholic novel in America?” “Brilliant, I would say. Brilliant! It has no pahst [sic] nor present. Therefore, it must have a future.” Somewhat crestfallen, the reporter fell behind us as we entered the rear of the building. Still concerned about which course the lecture would take, I adjusted the microphone, tested the PA system, and introduced Waugh briefly and nervously. The full house pleased me because it meant that Waugh’s fee would be met. I took a seat at the rear of the auditorium. Waugh’s lecture was incredibly sober. He commented brilliantly on the literary exploits of Chesterton and Belloc, but spent most of his time on Graham Greene, then popular because of his character “Scobie” in The Heart of the Matter. Waugh made much of the Catholicism of these three authors to the point of chauvinism. At times I shuddered at his comments about the Anglican establishment, fearing that our Episcopalian brethren would be offended, and they were. But at the end of the lecture the audience gave him a good hand, feeling perhaps that insults by a celebrity should be politely tolerated. Waugh’s ardent admirers among Mobile literati had insisted on a reception for him at the Kirkbride Club. A friend of the college, Mrs. Leila Sauer, had agreed to serve as hostess, but was unhappy because the President of the college had vetoed alcoholic punch during Lent.[9] She made many delicate little sandwiches and prepared a large bowl of fruit punch. “Waugh’s not going to like this. Englishmen like their liquor,” she said. How right she was! In the lobby of the club Waugh handed me his coat and headed for the punchbowl. As Mrs. Sauer was filling his glass, he commented that sandwiches were out of place among Catholics since this was Lent, a time of fast. She handed him the glass of punch without reply. He sipped it gingerly, made a horrible face, and spat it out in a potted plant on the window sill mumbling “Where can I find some Cutty Sark?” He disappeared into a patio lounge in the rear while his admirers were waiting to meet him in the front rooms of the club. I was unable to persuade him to leave the bar and greet his audience. Chattering among themselves in a half-hearted fashion, they left one by one. About eleven o’clock Waugh came out from the bar in the courtyard looking for me. “Where is my Jesuit chauffeur?” Mrs. Waugh joined us at this time, having just come in from the cinema. As soon as we got in the car, Waugh began reciting a poem in a high- pitched voice. I recognized it shortly as Chesterton’s poem “In Praise of Wine.”[10] At the entrance to the hotel Mr. McCaffrey and I waited for him to finish the poem, wondering what the next day would bring. In the morning Waugh announced that he wanted to visit the old cemeteries in Mobile. The first on the list was the one behind the Mobile Public Library. Waugh took big strides from one grave to the next while Mrs. Waugh made chirping little remarks about the Anglo-Saxon names on the tombstones. I managed to get in a few remarks like calling attention to the location of the grave of Joe Cain, the founder of Mobile Mardi Gras.