BOOK REVIEW : Portrait of the Writer as a Drunk : PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST WITH MY WIFE <i> by Simon Mason</i> , G. P. Putnam’s Sons $19.95, 208 pages

The narrator of this extended suicide note seems to have strayed into the 1990s from the 1930s. In all essential respects--his Oxbridge degree, bride named Poppet, occasional work as a journalist and mammoth capacity for strong drink--S.J. resembles the male juveniles who used to stumble onto the sets of English drawing-room comedies asking, “Tennis, anyone?”

He’s also somewhat effete, although it would be a mistake to attach much importance to that.

As S. J. tells us, he’s preparing to do himself in because his wife has been unfaithful to him. Apparently unwilling to mess up their charming flat, he’s considerately rented a shabby room for the actual event. The temporary quarters are in the same neighborhood. So he can have the satisfaction of watching the guilty and grief-stricken Poppet at her daily rounds after she comes home from Majorca and realizes that her husband has vanished.

The Spanish holiday had been a mistake from the start, primarily because S. J. got thoroughly sloshed as soon as they arrived at their rented villa. He behaved like an utter cad and then instigated the argument that ended in his abandoning Poppet there and flying home the next day.

He remains drunk during the entire flashback that forms the novel, a condition that destroys his marriage, alienates him from his friends and wrecks his career but leaves his brittle, precious prose style virtually intact. When in his cups (all the time), S. J. not only neglects the most basic matters of personal hygiene but vomits all over the place. You wouldn’t want him as a house guest, although a house guest is exactly what he is once the book gets under way.

He and Poppet have been invited by an old friend named Henry Hippolytus Fluck to spend a holiday at Fluck’s seaside cottage. Despite having detested Fluck since their school days, S. J. and his wife accept.

“It is interesting to note also how often the possessor of a ridiculous name belongs to a family of the English upper classes.” Similarly succinct observations--on art, literature and the class system--enliven the otherwise redundant plot. Poppet and S. J. go to the cottage, where they’re warmly greeted by Fluck, who has become a reasonably successful painter. Grudgingly, S. J. admits that his host is genuinely gifted, although that only seems to exacerbate the hostility between them.

It’s Fluck’s plan to paint portraits of his guests disporting themselves at the beach and elsewhere during the party. As part of the deal, S. J. is coerced into writing a short story; on the final day, the competing works of art will be displayed and a winner chosen. As prolific as he is talented, Fluck sets to work immediately, quickly capturing his friends at play, while S. J. is confined alone to a room with a typewriter.

He writes nothing but drinks prodigiously, a deadly combination that leads him to imagine his wife and Fluck having a passionate affair. The fact that Fluck is physically repulsive in comparison to the narrator’s own (pre-sodden) classic good looks adds to his bewilderment and pain. Poppet never really emerges as much more than the plaything her name suggests, although she does exhibit remarkable restraint when dealing with the increasingly paranoid S. J.

Fragile and self-mocking, the novel is not quite equal to the demands ultimately made upon it. Toward the end, the mood shifts drastically, and we’re confronted with a genuine disaster impossible to dismiss with a quip. “When I began this record, I expected it to be the prelude to a death; now I find it is a postscript to one.” Mason’s consistently flippant tone doesn’t quite cover the switch.

Next: Carolyn See reviews “The Deal” by Peter Lefcourt (Random House).