Brideshead Revisited is set in the period between World War I and World War II, and these wars frame the action of the novel. Charles’s perception of war changes throughout his life, and he thinks of war both in terms of literal battle and as a state of misunderstanding and miscommunication between people. Although war often seems like a glorious pursuit, the novel reveals that it is, really, a dull—if pervasive—facet of everyday life.
As a young man, Charles romanticizes warfare. Brideshead Revisited begins in the aftermath of World War I, which caused great upheaval and enormous loss of life in Europe. Despite the destruction caused by the war, there is still a feeling among the young men of Charles’s generation—who were too young to fight in it—that they have missed an opportunity for glory and cannot live up to an older generation who fought and died for their country. This romantic attitude towards war is demonstrated when Charles describes his childhood memories of playing at war and “sitting among campfires at Xanthus-side,” which is a reference to the battle of Troy in Greek mythology. The novel makes it clear that war, for men of Charles’s age, is something desirable that they aspired to as children. Additionally, the history of war is a large part of British public-school education, which many men of Charles’s age and class have undergone. Charles contrasts his education to that of a young working-class officer named Hooper, whom he meets when he is a captain in World War II. Charles notes that, unlike his own, Hooper’s education “had few battles in it but, instead, a profusion of detail about humane legislation.” This suggests that Charles’s education, which instilled the importance and the glory of warfare in the minds of young men, is outdated and that future generations will learn about modern politics rather than heroic accounts of battles. However, despite this difference in education and Hooper’s general reluctance to join the war, Hooper still wants to see some action before the war is over. Hooper “does not want much,” he says, but “just enough to say he has been in it.” This demonstrates that it was still a matter of pride for young men to be involved in World War II, and that failure to participate would be viewed as a mark of shame, even though World War I revealed to many people the horror and realities of war.
Later in life, however, Charles often feels that he is metaphorically at war with the people in his life. Charles views his relationship with his father as an emotional battle in which he is constantly engaged while at home. Although it is a passive aggressive battle, rather than an aggressive one, Charles uses military language to describe this period in his life. He observes that “relations with his father deteriorated sharply,” which is language often used to describe two countries on the brink of war. Similarly, when he meets an old schoolmate in town, Charles feels that, in the war against his father, “a weapon” has come to hand because he has found someone else with whom to spend time. This suggests that Charles views interpersonal relationships in terms of power and conflict rather than affection. This is demonstrated again later, in Charles’s romantic relationships with women. Charles compares his experience in World War II to a loveless marriage, in which one has become disillusioned with one’s partner. This reflects his recent divorce from his wife, Celia. Then, when Charles bumps into Julia, Sebastian’s sister, who later becomes his lover, he is relieved that he feels comfortable with her when all the other relationships in his life feel as though they take place on a battlefield. His relationship with Julia is passionate and fraught, however, and they ultimately part ways. Their time together shows that even Charles’s most intimate relationships feel combative rather than loving. In contrast to these relationships, Charles’s previous relationship with Sebastian was one of serenity and peace. That happy interlude mirrors the state of Europe in the brief period between the two World Wars. But for both Charles and for Europe, the calm is short-lived, suggesting that conflict is an inescapable element of human experience and not limited to literal warfare.
What’s more, the reality of literal warfare is banal rather than glorious. Although Charles joined up eagerly at the outbreak of World War II, the opening of Brideshead Revisited finds him disillusioned and disappointed by the experience of war in contrast to his previous, romantic idea of it. He feels that discipline in the army is arbitrary and ineffectual—the men have ceased to pay attention to it—and that the generals and officers struggle to instill enthusiasm in their troops. Charles’s experience shows how people in Europe, including soldiers, are sick of war and wish for it to be over. War is also associated with madness when Charles describes the lunatic asylum which is opposite the camp he and his men leave at the beginning of the novel. The asylum symbolically suggests that war is an exercise in madness in which Charles and the other soldiers are imprisoned, just as the mentally ill people are locked in the asylum. Waugh presents warfare as a constant anti-climax which must constantly be aggrandized, through its portrayal in art and literature, which Charles has studied at school, to make it seem worthwhile and necessary. This is demonstrated by the Colonel, who looks for violations and reasons to discipline his men, such as the rubbish left on the ground, but who seems to have no real authority anymore. This suggests that war is not an escape from the banality and conflict of everyday life but is, in fact, a continuation of it. Although the men have gone to war expecting a grand adventure, they are faced with many of the same arbitrary annoyances and petty disappointments which they experience in everyday life and in their personal relationships.
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War and Peace Quotes in Brideshead Revisited
We could watch the madmen, on clement days, sauntering and skipping among the trim gravel walks and pleasantly planted lawns; happy collaborationists who had given up the unequal struggle, all doubts resolved, all duty done, the undisputed heirs-at-law of a century of progress, enjoying the heritage at their ease.
I lay in that dark hour, I was aghast to realize that something within me, long sickening, had quietly died, and felt as a husband might feel, who, in the fourth year of his marriage, suddenly knew that he had no longer any desire, or tenderness, or esteem, for a once-beloved wife; no pleasure in her company, no wish to please, no curiosity about anything she might ever do or say or think; no hope of setting things right, no self-reproach for the disaster. I knew it all, the whole drab compass of marital disillusion; we had been through it together, the Army and I.
Gallipoli, Balaclava, Quebec, Lepanto, Bannockburn, Roncevales and Marathon—these, and the Battle in the West where Arthur fell, and a hundred such names whose trumpet-notes, even now in my sere and lawless state, called to me irresistibly across the intervening years with all the clarity and strength of boyhood, sounded in vain to Hooper.
He told me and, on the instant, it was as though someone had switched off the wireless, and a voice that had been bawling in my ears, incessantly, fatuously, for days beyond number, had been suddenly cut short; an immense silence followed, empty at first, but gradually, as my outraged sense regained authority, full of a multitude of sweet and natural and long forgotten sounds: for he had spoken a name that was so familiar to me, a conjuror’s name of such ancient power, that, at its mere sound, the phantoms of those haunted late years began to take flight.
Strife was internecine during the next fortnight, but I suffered the more, for my father had greater reserves to draw on and a wider territory for maneuver […] He never declared his war aims, and I do not to this day know whether they were purely punitive—whether he had really at the back of his mind some geopolitical idea of getting me out of the country, as my Aunt Philippa had been driven to Bordighera and cousin Melchior to Darwin, or whether, as seems most likely, he fought for the sheer love of a battle in which indeed he shone.
“We’ll have a heavenly time alone,” said Sebastian, and when next morning, while I was shaving, I saw from my bathroom window Julia, with luggage at her back, drive from the forecourt and disappear at the hill’s crest, without a backward glance, I felt a sense of liberation and peace such as I was to know years later when, after a night of unrest, the sirens sounded the “All Clear.”
He claimed to love the past, but I always felt that he thought all the splendid company, living or dead, with whom he associated slightly absurd; it was Mr. Samgrass who was real, the rest were an insubstantial pageant. He was the Victorian tourist, solid and patronizing, for whose amusement these foreign things were paraded.
And since Sebastian counted among the intruders his own conscience and all claims of human affection, his days in Arcadia were numbered. For in this, to me, tranquil time Sebastian took fright. I knew him well in that mood of alertness and suspicion, like a deer suddenly lifting his head at the far notes of the hunt; I had seen him grow wary at the thought of his family or his religion, now I found I, too, was suspect.
Mr. Samgrass’s deft editorship had assembled and arranged a curiously homogeneous little body of writing—poetry, letters, scraps of a journal, an unpublished essay or two, which all exhaled the same high-spirited, serious, chivalrous, other-worldly air and the letters from their contemporaries, written after their deaths, all in varying degrees of articulateness, told the same tale of men who were, in all the full flood of academic and athletic success, of popularity and the promise of great rewards ahead, seen somehow as set apart from their fellows, garlanded victims, devoted to the sacrifice.
Foreigners returning on post from their own waste lands wrote home that here they seemed to catch a glimpse of the world they had believed lost forever among the mud and wire, and through those halcyon weeks Julia darted and shone, part of the sunshine between the trees, part of the candle-light in the mirror’s spectrum, so that elderly men and women, sitting aside with their memories, saw her as herself the blue-bird.
No, I said, not what it was built for. Perhaps that’s one of the pleasures of building, like having a son, wondering how he’ll grow up. I don’t know; I never built anything, and I forfeited the right to watch my son grow up. I’m homeless, childless, middle-aged, love-less. Hooper.
