The full title of Paula Byrne’s biography of Evelyn Waugh, Mad World: Evelyn Waugh and the Secrets of Brideshead, threatens a book of easy solutions to a difficult subject. The languid nostalgic ambience of Oxford is so evocative, that when dealing with a subject connected to the elite university it can be tempting to dwell on this and this alone. Similarly, the sprawling country estate awash with clichéd rolling hills and stereotypical frivolous homosexuals is provocative enough to hold sway for an entire book. But Byrne pushes past the somewhat obvious amber hues of Waugh’s time in Oxford and Madresfield (the real life Brideshead) and produces a portrayal that is astute without being analytical, and sympathetic without being sentimental.
With such emphasis on the story of Brideshead and its somewhat chaotic, though always eclectic and endearing, inhabitants, it can be difficult to disassociate Waugh from the persona of an intellect steeped in snobbery and a social networker obsessed with pedigree. During his lifetime he was often criticized for being in awe of the aristocracy and all too readily wielding a sharp tongue. To us this may seem fitting for a supposed socialite and dandy in possession of a cutting wit, but Byrne is adamant that this common misconception is not only unjust, but alludes to a wilful misunderstanding of the author. Byrne’s book acts as both historical companion and confidential intimate, all too willing to disclose to us detail after detail that finally culminates in an image of a man whose primary concern was “The day is wasted on which we have not laughed”, greatly lessening the stereotyped persona that perhaps matches the oeuvre more than the individual.
Byrne mirrors her subject in skilfully churning out anecdotal character sketches. A sense of every cast member is achieved (and there are dozens) with a quickness and agility that gives the text the kind of liveliness associated with Waugh’s own fiction. Byrne has managed to immerse herself seamlessly into a world that though in terms of decades is not long gone, is deeply marked with nostalgia and a melancholic sense of loss, with the second world war acting as an irrefutable bookend. Without her ability to conjure up the lively, engaging and often inebriated personalities, the book would run the risk of all historical biographies where a great deal about the subject is known i.e. reading as simply one long list of diary entries and quotes. Her skilfully animated caricatures capture, for us, the mood of a changing and ruptured era. This tendency to caricature extends to descriptions of Waugh’s novels, which appear always with affection and sometimes with a certain star struck quality.
Despite the specific nature of the title, Waugh’s biographer doesn’t weigh down the reader with constant connections and links. In reading about Waugh’s relationship with Elmley and Hugh Lydon, we are not forced into multiple contrived comparisons with “Bridey” and Sebastian Flyte. The reader can flesh out the anecdotes and associations for themselves, (very rewarding for lovers of the novel) and so despite the abundance of historical and personal detail the amount of information is never stifling. The flow of the text is lively and exuberant, an absolute must in dealing with such a vivacious and spirited character.
Although Byrne can never be said to indulge in sentimentality or indeed to gush with praise for Waugh, there are at times hints of aggression, or a refusal to believe anything less than savoury about the comedic author. Such statements as “Ann Fleming killed Evelyn Waugh” weaken the strength of the author’s voice, when after reading on a few lines we discover her role was to relay an insult said behind his back years before his death. There are also plural incidents of Waugh describing sexual encounters with child prostitutes, and though it’s the task of the biographer to maintain an objective stance, the pointed lack of comment in such instances reads as an unwillingness to delve deeper. This is ironic as Waugh usually reported on himself with unflinching candour – is he at times more honest than Byrne?
At times the problems experienced read as so modern and fresh that it’s with a jolt we realise1930’s England was still a place of old world morals and custom; “This had to be held at a private location, since as a divorced man the duke was ostracised from court.” Such historical details, that extend to brief the categories of literature and art, give the book an intellectual and academic buoyancy that could have gone unmissed, given the extreme and erotic nature of Waugh’s social life. Byrne however seems determined to remain faithful to who Waugh was a student and writer.
What most permeates her depiction is the notion of a man forever unsettled. The dissatisfaction that came with being the younger and lesser favoured son was intensified by his being sent to Lancing instead of Sherborne, a step even further away from Eton. Initially reared with the mentality of self-sacrifice he is then again and again throughout propelled into the position of a guest embraced for his wit and exuberance but held apart for social standing. Even when he marries his emotional touchstone Laura, the war separates them. Though by his absence from Sherborne and Eton allowed him to save his soul for Oxford and he ended his life in the role of adored father and husband, it is impossible not to sever him from the image of a slight young writer full of aspirations and ardently seeking out any form of structural or emotional residence. This constant displacement of course resulted in the material he was able to regurgitate into novels would later be said to have summed up a generation, one which could have been lost in that tender place between the wars.
Byrne’s handling of the homosexual romances, which to a great extent characterized Waugh’s time at Oxford, is both subtle and deeply compelling – what were the mechanics of these elaborate and flamboyant, sexual and profoundly intellectual encounters? We’re certainly lead to believe there was promiscuity taking place at tea parties and luncheons over scones and oysters. One ritual of the Hypocrites’ Club was to spend festive evenings at an old inn away from the monitoring eyes of their professors, where “the evening ended in dancing, persimmons thrown against the wall, and couples (all male) having sex.” Though the reader can by all means delight in this debauched spin on the archaic dignity of Greek homosexual love they were said to be emulating, the validity of these relationships and how the young men together forged the “Oxford Aesthetic” is never underrated. Though at such a time and in such a setting the Neo-Platonic view that the face reflects the soul ran rampant, and unashamed narcissism and sexualisation infected not only the aristocracy, what Byrne chooses to leave us with is a sense that this was a time for forbearance and artistic production, and despite everything an emphasis on wit and charm. These traits certainly constitute the majority of Waugh’s dynamic, magnetic character.
