Modern English Literature

Heart of Darkness-Book

2016-06-10T08:10:00.001+01:00

The Nellie, a cruising yawl, swung to her anchor without a flutter of the sails, and was at rest. The flood had made, the wind was nearly calm, and being bound down the river, the only thing for it was to come to and wait for the turn of the tide. The sea-reach of the Thames stretched before us like the beginning of an interminable waterway. In the offing the sea and the sky were welded together without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails of the barges drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked, with gleams of varnished sprits. A haze rested on the low shores that ran out to sea in vanishing flatness. The air was dark above Gravesend, and farther back still seemed condensed into a mournful gloom, brooding motionless over the biggest, and the greatest, town on earth. The Director of Companies was our captain and our host. We four affectionately watched his back as he stood in the bows looking to seaward. On the whole river there was nothing that looked half so nautical. He resembled a pilot, which to a seaman is trustworthiness personified. It was difficult to realize his work was not out there in the luminous estuary, but behind him, within the brooding gloom. Between us there was, as I have already said somewhere, Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com the bond of the sea. Besides holding our hearts together through long periods of separation, it had the effect of making us tolerant of each other’s yarns—and even convictions. The Lawyer—the best of old fellows—had, because of his many years and many virtues, the only cushion on deck, and was lying on the only rug. The Accountant had brought out already a box of dominoes, and was toying architecturally with the bones. Marlow sat cross-legged right aft, leaning against the mizzen-mast. He had sunken cheeks, a yellow complexion, a straight back, an ascetic aspect, and, with his arms dropped, the palms of hands outwards, resembled an idol. The director, satisfied the anchor had good hold, made his way aft and sat down amongst us. We exchanged a few words lazily. Afterwards there was silence on board the yacht. For some reason or other we did not begin that game of dominoes. We felt meditative, and fit for nothing but placid staring. The day was ending in a serenity of still and exquisite brilliance. The water shone pacifically; the sky, without a speck, was a benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist on the Essex marsh was like a gauzy and radiant fabric, hung from the wooded rises inland, and draping the low shores in diaphanous folds. Only the gloom to the west, brooding over the upper reaches, became more sombre every minute, as if angered by the approach of the sun. And at last, in its curved and imperceptible fall, the sun sank low, and from glowing white changed to a dull red without rays and without heat, as if about to go out suddenly, stricken to death by the touch of that gloom brooding Heart of Darkness over a crowd of men. Forthwith a change came over the waters, and the serenity became less brilliant but more profound. The old river in its broad reach rested unruffled at the decline of day, after ages of good service done to the race that peopled its banks, spread out in the tranquil dignity of a waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth. We looked at the venerable stream not in the vivid flush of a short day that comes and departs for ever, but in the august light of abiding memories. And indeed nothing is easier for a man who has, as the phrase goes, ‘followed the sea’ with reverence and affection, that to evoke the great spirit of the past upon the lower reaches of the Thames. The tidal current runs to and fro in its unceasing service, crowded with memories of men and ships it had borne to the rest of home or to the battles of the sea. It had known and served all the men of whom the nation is proud, from Sir Francis Drake to Sir John Franklin, knights all, titled and untitled—the great knights-errant of the sea. It had borne all the ships whose names are like jewels flashing in the night of time, from the GOLDEN HIND returning with her rotund flanks full of treasure, to be visited by the Queen’s Highness and thus pass out of the gigantic tale, to the EREBUS and TERROR, bound on other conquests— and that never returned. It had known the ships and the men. They had sailed from Deptford, from Greenwich, from Erith— the adventurers and the settlers; kings’ ships and the ships of men on ‘Change; captains, admirals, the dark ‘interlopers’ of the Eastern trade, and the commissioned ‘generals’ of East India fleets. Hunters for gold Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com or pursuers of fame, they all had gone out on that stream, bearing the sword, and often the torch, messengers of the might within the land, bearers of a spark from the sacred fire. What greatness had not floated on the ebb of that river into the mystery of an unknown earth! … The dreams of men, the seed of commonwealths, the germs of empires. The sun set; the dusk fell on the stream, and lights began to appear along the shore. The Chapman light-house, a three-legged thing erect on a mud-flat, shone strongly. Lights of ships moved in the fairway—a great stir of lights going up and going down. And farther west on the upper reaches the place of the monstrous town was still marked ominously on the sky, a brooding gloom in sunshine, a lurid glare under the stars. ‘And this also,’ said Marlow suddenly, ‘has been one of the dark places of the earth.’ He was the only man of us who still ‘followed the sea.’ The worst that could be said of him was that he did not represent his class. He was a seaman, but he was a wanderer, too, while most seamen lead, if one may so express it, a sedentary life. Their minds are of the stay-at-home order, and their home is always with them—the ship; and so is their country—the sea. One ship is very much like another, and the sea is always the same. In the immutability of their surroundings the foreign shores, the foreign faces, the changing immensity of life, glide past, veiled not by a sense of mystery but by a slightly disdainful ignorance; for there is nothing mysterious to a seaman unless it be the sea itself, which is the mistress of his existence and as inscrutable as Heart of Darkness Destiny. For the rest, after his hours of work, a casual stroll or a casual spree on shore suffices to unfold for him the secret of a whole continent, and generally he finds the secret not worth knowing. The yarns of seamen have a direct simplicity, the whole meaning of which lies within the shell of a cracked nut. But Marlow was not typical (if his propensity to spin yarns be excepted), and to him the meaning of an episode was not inside like a kernel but outside, enveloping the tale which brought it out only as a glow brings out a haze, in the likeness of one of these misty halos that sometimes are made visible by the spectral illumination of moonshine. His remark did not seem at all surprising. It was just like Marlow. It was accepted in silence. No one took the trouble to grunt even; and presently he said, very slow—‘I was thinking of very old times, when the Romans first came here, nineteen hundred years ago—the other day…. Light came out of this river since—you say Knights? Yes; but it is like a running blaze on a plain, like a flash of lightning in the clouds. We live in the flicker—may it last as long as the old earth keeps rolling! But darkness was here yesterday. Imagine the feelings of a commander of a fine—what d’ye call ‘em?—trireme in the Mediterranean, ordered suddenly to the north; run overland across the Gauls in a hurry; put in charge of one of these craft the legionaries—a wonderful lot of handy men they must have been, too—used to build, apparently by the hundred, in a month or two, if we may believe what we read. Imagine him here—the very end of the world, a sea the colour of lead, a sky the colour of smoke, Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com a kind of ship about as rigid as a concertina— and going up this river with stores, or orders, or what you like. Sandbanks, marshes, forests, savages,—precious little to eat fit for a civilized man, nothing but Thames water to drink. No Falernian wine here, no going ashore. Here and there a military camp lost in a wilderness, like a needle in a bundle of hay—cold, fog, tempests, disease, exile, and death—death skulking in the air, in the water, in the bush. They must have been dying like flies here. Oh, yes—he did it. Did it very well, too, no doubt, and without thinking much about it either, except afterwards to brag of what he had gone through in his time, perhaps. They were men enough to face the darkness. And perhaps he was cheered by keeping his eye on a chance of promotion to the fleet at Ravenna by and by, if he had good friends in Rome and survived the awful climate. Or think of a decent young citizen in a toga—perhaps too much dice, you know—coming out here in the train of some prefect, or tax-gatherer, or trader even, to mend his fortunes. Land in a swamp, march through the woods, and in some inland post feel the savagery, the utter savagery, had closed round him—all that mysterious life of the wilderness that stirs in the forest, in the jungles, in the hearts of wild men. There’s no initiation either into such mysteries. He has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is also detestable. And it has a fascination, too, that goes to work upon him. The fascination of the abomination—you know, imagine the growing regrets, the longing to escape, the powerless disgust, the surrender, the hate.’ He paused. Heart of Darkness ‘Mind,’ he began again, lifting one arm from the elbow, the palm of the hand outwards, so that, with his legs folded before him, he had the pose of a Buddha preaching in European clothes and without a lotus-flower—‘Mind, none of us would feel exactly like this. What saves us is efficiency—the devotion to efficiency. But these chaps were not much account, really. They were no colonists; their administration was merely a squeeze, and nothing more, I suspect. They were conquerors, and for that you want only brute force— nothing to boast of, when you have it, since your strength is just an accident arising from the weakness of others. They grabbed what they could get for the sake of what was to be got. It was just robbery with violence, aggravated murder on a great scale, and men going at it blind—as is very proper for those who tackle a darkness. The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much. What redeems it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; not a sentimental pretence but an idea; and an unselfish belief in the idea—something you can set up, and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to. …’ He broke off. Flames glided in the river, small green flames, red flames, white flames, pursuing, overtaking, joining, crossing each other— then separating slowly or hastily. The traffic of the great city went on in the deepening night upon the sleepless river. We looked on, waiting patiently—there was nothing else to do till the end of the flood; but it was only after a long silence, when he said, in a Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com hesitating voice, ‘I suppose you fellows remember I did once turn fresh-water sailor for a bit,’ that we knew we were fated, before the ebb began to run, to hear about one of Marlow’s inconclusive experiences. ‘I don’t want to bother you much with what happened to me personally,’ he began, showing in this remark the weakness of many tellers of tales who seem so often unaware of what their audience would like best to hear; ‘yet to understand the effect of it on me you ought to know how I got out there, what I saw, how I went up that river to the place where I first met the poor chap. It was the farthest point of navigation and the culminating point of my experience. It seemed somehow to throw a kind of light on everything about me— and into my thoughts. It was sombre enough, too—and pitiful— not extraordinary in any way—not very clear either. No, not very clear. And yet it seemed to throw a kind of light. ‘I had then, as you remember, just returned to London after a lot of Indian Ocean, Pacific, China Seas—a regular dose of the East—six years or so, and I was loafing about, hindering you fellows in your work and invading your homes, just as though I had got a heavenly mission to civilize you. It was very fine for a time, but after a bit I did get tired of resting. Then I began to look for a ship—I should think the hardest work on earth. But the ships wouldn’t even look at me. And I got tired of that game, too. ‘Now when I was a little chap I had a passion for maps. I would look for hours at South America, or Africa, or Australia, and lose myself in all the glories of exploration. At 10 Heart of Darkness that time there were many blank spaces on the earth, and when I saw one that looked particularly inviting on a map (but they all look that) I would put my finger on it and say, ‘When I grow up I will go there.’ The North Pole was one of these places, I remember. Well, I haven’t been there yet, and shall not try now. The glamour’s off. Other places were scattered about the hemispheres. I have been in some of them, and … well, we won’t talk about that. But there was one yet—the biggest, the most blank, so to speak— that I had a hankering after. ‘True, by this time it was not a blank space any more. It had got filled since my boyhood with rivers and lakes and names. It had ceased to be a blank space of delightful mystery— a white patch for a boy to dream gloriously over. It had become a place of darkness. But there was in it one river especially, a mighty big river, that you could see on the map, resembling an immense snake uncoiled, with its head in the sea, its body at rest curving afar over a vast country, and its tail lost in the depths of the land. And as I looked at the map of it in a shop-window, it fascinated me as a snake would a bird—a silly little bird. Then I remembered there was a big concern, a Company for trade on that river. Dash it all! I thought to myself, they can’t trade without using some kind of craft on that lot of fresh water—steamboats! Why shouldn’t I try to get charge of one? I went on along Fleet Street, but could not shake off the idea. The snake had charmed me. ‘You understand it was a Continental concern, that Trading society; but I have a lot of relations living on the Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 11 Continent, because it’s cheap and not so nasty as it looks, they say. ‘I am sorry to own I began to worry them. This was already a fresh departure for me. I was not used to get things that way, you know. I always went my own road and on my own legs where I had a mind to go. I wouldn’t have believed it of myself; but, then—you see—I felt somehow I must get there by hook or by crook. So I worried them. The men said ‘My dear fellow,’ and did nothing. Then—would you believe it?—I tried the women. I, Charlie Marlow, set the women to work— to get a job. Heavens! Well, you see, the notion drove me. I had an aunt, a dear enthusiastic soul. She wrote: ‘It will be delightful. I am ready to do anything, anything for you. It is a glorious idea. I know the wife of a very high personage in the Administration, and also a man who has lots of influence with,’ etc. She was determined to make no end of fuss to get me appointed skipper of a river steamboat, if such was my fancy. ‘I got my appointment—of course; and I got it very quick. It appears the Company had received news that one of their captains had been killed in a scuffle with the natives. This was my chance, and it made me the more anxious to go. It was only months and months afterwards, when I made the attempt to recover what was left of the body, that I heard the original quarrel arose from a misunderstanding about some hens. Yes, two black hens. Fresleven—that was the fellow’s name, a Dane—thought himself wronged somehow in the bargain, so he went ashore and started to hammer the chief of the village with a stick. Oh, it didn’t surprise me 12 Heart of Darkness in the least to hear this, and at the same time to be told that Fresleven was the gentlest, quietest creature that ever walked on two legs. No doubt he was; but he had been a couple of years already out there engaged in the noble cause, you know, and he probably felt the need at last of asserting his self-respect in some way. Therefore he whacked the old nigger mercilessly, while a big crowd of his people watched him, thunderstruck, till some man— I was told the chief’s son—in desperation at hearing the old chap yell, made a tentative jab with a spear at the white man— and of course it went quite easy between the shoulder-blades. Then the whole population cleared into the forest, expecting all kinds of calamities to happen, while, on the other hand, the steamer Fresleven commanded left also in a bad panic, in charge of the engineer, I believe. Afterwards nobody seemed to trouble much about Fresleven’s remains, till I got out and stepped into his shoes. I couldn’t let it rest, though; but when an opportunity offered at last to meet my predecessor, the grass growing through his ribs was tall enough to hide his bones. They were all there. The supernatural being had not been touched after he fell. And the village was deserted, the huts gaped black, rotting, all askew within the fallen enclosures. A calamity had come to it, sure enough. The people had vanished. Mad terror had scattered them, men, women, and children, through the bush, and they had never returned. What became of the hens I don’t know either. I should think the cause of progress got them, anyhow. However, through this glorious affair I got my appointment, before I had fairly begun to hope for it. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 13 ‘I flew around like mad to get ready, and before fortyeight hours I was crossing the Channel to show myself to my employers, and sign the contract. In a very few hours I arrived in a city that always makes me think of a whited sepulchre. Prejudice no doubt. I had no difficulty in finding the Company’s offices. It was the biggest thing in the town, and everybody I met was full of it. They were going to run an over-sea empire, and make no end of coin by trade. ‘A narrow and deserted street in deep shadow, high houses, innumerable windows with venetian blinds, a dead silence, grass sprouting right and left, immense double doors standing ponderously ajar. I slipped through one of these cracks, went up a swept and ungarnished staircase, as arid as a desert, and opened the first door I came to. Two women, one fat and the other slim, sat on straw-bottomed chairs, knitting black wool. The slim one got up and walked straight at me— still knitting with downcast eyes—and only just as I began to think of getting out of her way, as you would for a somnambulist, stood still, and looked up. Her dress was as plain as an umbrella-cover, and she turned round without a word and preceded me into a waiting-room. I gave my name, and looked about. Deal table in the middle, plain chairs all round the walls, on one end a large shining map, marked with all the colours of a rainbow. There was a vast amount of red—good to see at any time, because one knows that some real work is done in there, a deuce of a lot of blue, a little green, smears of orange, and, on the East Coast, a purple patch, to show where the jolly pioneers of progress drink the jolly lager-beer. However, I wasn’t going 14 Heart of Darkness into any of these. I was going into the yellow. Dead in the centre. And the river was there—fascinating—deadly—like a snake. Ough! A door opened, ya white-haired secretarial head, but wearing a compassionate expression, appeared, and a skinny forefinger beckoned me into the sanctuary. Its light was dim, and a heavy writing-desk squatted in the middle. From behind that structure came out an impression of pale plumpness in a frock-coat. The great man himself. He was five feet six, I should judge, and had his grip on the handle-end of ever so many millions. He shook hands, I fancy, murmured vaguely, was satisfied with my French. BON VOYAGE. ‘In about forty-five seconds I found myself again in the waiting-room with the compassionate secretary, who, full of desolation and sympathy, made me sign some document. I believe I undertook amongst other things not to disclose any trade secrets. Well, I am not going to. ‘I began to feel slightly uneasy. You know I am not used to such ceremonies, and there was something ominous in the atmosphere. It was just as though I had been let into some conspiracy— I don’t know—something not quite right; and I was glad to get out. In the outer room the two women knitted black wool feverishly. People were arriving, and the younger one was walking back and forth introducing them. The old one sat on her chair. Her flat cloth slippers were propped up on a foot-warmer, and a cat reposed on her lap. She wore a starched white affair on her head, had a wart on one cheek, and silver-rimmed spectacles hung on the tip of her nose. She glanced at me above the glasses. The swift and Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 15 indifferent placidity of that look troubled me. Two youths with foolish and cheery countenances were being piloted over, and she threw at them the same quick glance of unconcerned wisdom. She seemed to know all about them and about me, too. An eerie feeling came over me. She seemed uncanny and fateful. Often far away there I thought of these two, guarding the door of Darkness, knitting black wool as for a warm pall, one introducing, introducing continuously to the unknown, the other scrutinizing the cheery and foolish faces with unconcerned old eyes. AVE! Old knitter of black wool. MORITURI TE SALUTANT. Not many of those she looked at ever saw her again—not half, by a long way. ‘There was yet a visit to the doctor. ‘A simple formality,’ assured me the secretary, with an air of taking an immense part in all my sorrows. Accordingly a young chap wearing his hat over the left eyebrow, some clerk I suppose—there must have been clerks in the business, though the house was as still as a house in a city of the dead— came from somewhere up-stairs, and led me forth. He was shabby and careless, with inkstains on the sleeves of his jacket, and his cravat was large and billowy, under a chin shaped like the toe of an old boot. It was a little too early for the doctor, so I proposed a drink, and thereupon he developed a vein of joviality. As we sat over our vermouths he glorified the Company’s business, and by and by I expressed casually my surprise at him not going out there. He became very cool and collected all at once. ‘I am not such a fool as I look, quoth Plato to his disciples,’ he said sententiously, emptied 16 Heart of Darkness his glass with great resolution, and we rose. ‘The old doctor felt my pulse, evidently thinking of something else the while. ‘Good, good for there,’ he mumbled, and then with a certain eagerness asked me whether I would let him measure my head. Rather surprised, I said Yes, when he produced a thing like calipers and got the dimensions back and front and every way, taking notes carefully. He was an unshaven little man in a threadbare coat like a gaberdine, with his feet in slippers, and I thought him a harmless fool. ‘I always ask leave, in the interests of science, to measure the crania of those going out there,’ he said. ‘And when they come back, too?’ I asked. ‘Oh, I never see them,’ he remarked; ‘and, moreover, the changes take place inside, you know.’ He smiled, as if at some quiet joke. ‘So you are going out there. Famous. Interesting, too.’ He gave me a searching glance, and made another note. ‘Ever any madness in your family?’ he asked, in a matter-of-fact tone. I felt very annoyed. ‘Is that question in the interests of science, too?’ ‘It would be,’ he said, without taking notice of my irritation, ‘interesting for science to watch the mental changes of individuals, on the spot, but …’ ‘Are you an alienist?’ I interrupted. ‘Every doctor should be—a little,’ answered that original, imperturbably. ‘I have a little theory which you messieurs who go out there must help me to prove. This is my share in the advantages my country shall reap from the possession of such a magnificent dependency. The mere wealth I leave to others. Pardon my questions, but you are the first Englishman coming under my observation …’ I hastened to assure him I was not in the least typical. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 17 ‘If I were,’ said I, ‘I wouldn’t be talking like this with you.’ ‘What you say is rather profound, and probably erroneous,’ he said, with a laugh. ‘Avoid irritation more than exposure to the sun. Adieu. How do you English say, eh? Good-bye. Ah! Good-bye. Adieu. In the tropics one must before everything keep calm.’ … He lifted a warning forefinger…. ‘DU CALME, DU CALME. ADIEU.’ ‘One thing more remained to do—say good-bye to my excellent aunt. I found her triumphant. I had a cup of tea— the last decent cup of tea for many days—and in a room that most soothingly looked just as you would expect a lady’s drawing-room to look, we had a long quiet chat by the fireside. In the course of these confidences it became quite plain to me I had been represented to the wife of the high dignitary, and goodness knows to how many more people besides, as an exceptional and gifted creature— a piece of good fortune for the Company—a man you don’t get hold of every day. Good heavens! and I was going to take charge of a two-penny-half-penny river-steamboat with a penny whistle attached! It appeared, however, I was also one of the Workers, with a capital— you know. Something like an emissary of light, something like a lower sort of apostle. There had been a lot of such rot let loose in print and talk just about that time, and the excellent woman, living right in the rush of all that humbug, got carried off her feet. She talked about ‘weaning those ignorant millions from their horrid ways,’ till, upon my word, she made me quite uncomfortable. I ventured to hint that the Company was run for profit. 18 Heart of Darkness ‘You forget, dear Charlie, that the labourer is worthy of his hire,’ she said, brightly. It’s queer how out of touch with truth women are. They live in a world of their own, and there has never been anything like it, and never can be. It is too beautiful altogether, and if they were to set it up it would go to pieces before the first sunset. Some confounded fact we men have been living contentedly with ever since the day of creation would start up and knock the whole thing over. ‘After this I got embraced, told to wear flannel, be sure to write often, and so on—and I left. In the street—I don’t know why—a queer feeling came to me that I was an imposter. Odd thing that I, who used to clear out for any part of the world at twenty-four hours’ notice, with less thought than most men give to the crossing of a street, had a moment—I won’t say of hesitation, but of startled pause, before this commonplace affair. The best way I can explain it to you is by saying that, for a second or two, I felt as though, instead of going to the centre of a continent, I were about to set off for the centre of the earth. ‘I left in a French steamer, and she called in every blamed port they have out there, for, as far as I could see, the sole purpose of landing soldiers and custom-house officers. I watched the coast. Watching a coast as it slips by the ship is like thinking about an enigma. There it is before you— smiling, frowning, inviting, grand, mean, insipid, or savage, and always mute with an air of whispering, ‘Come and find out.’ This one was almost featureless, as if still in the making, with an aspect of monotonous grimness. The edge of a colossal jungle, so dark-green as to be almost black, fringed Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 19 with white surf, ran straight, like a ruled line, far, far away along a blue sea whose glitter was blurred by a creeping mist. The sun was fierce, the land seemed to glisten and drip with steam. Here and there greyish-whitish specks showed up clustered inside the white surf, with a flag flying above them perhaps. Settlements some centuries old, and still no bigger than pinheads on the untouched expanse of their background. We pounded along, stopped, landed soldiers; went on, landed custom-house clerks to levy toll in what looked like a God-forsaken wilderness, with a tin shed and a flag-pole lost in it; landed more soldiers—to take care of the custom-house clerks, presumably. Some, I heard, got drowned in the surf; but whether they did or not, nobody seemed particularly to care. They were just flung out there, and on we went. Every day the coast looked the same, as though we had not moved; but we passed various places— trading places—with names like Gran’ Bassam, Little Popo; names that seemed to belong to some sordid farce acted in front of a sinister back-cloth. The idleness of a passenger, my isolation amongst all these men with whom I had no point of contact, the oily and languid sea, the uniform sombreness of the coast, seemed to keep me away from the truth of things, within the toil of a mournful and senseless delusion. The voice of the surf heard now and then was a positive pleasure, like the speech of a brother. It was something natural, that had its reason, that had a meaning. Now and then a boat from the shore gave one a momentary contact with reality. It was paddled by black fellows. You could see from afar the white of their eyeballs glistening. They shouted, 20 Heart of Darkness sang; their bodies streamed with perspiration; they had faces like grotesque masks—these chaps; but they had bone, muscle, a wild vitality, an intense energy of movement, that was as natural and true as the surf along their coast. They wanted no excuse for being there. They were a great comfort to look at. For a time I would feel I belonged still to a world of straightforward facts; but the feeling would not last long. Something would turn up to scare it away. Once, I remember, we came upon a man-of-war anchored off the coast. There wasn’t even a shed there, and she was shelling the bush. It appears the French had one of their wars going on thereabouts. Her ensign dropped limp like a rag; the muzzles of the long six-inch guns stuck out all over the low hull; the greasy, slimy swell swung her up lazily and let her down, swaying her thin masts. In the empty immensity of earth, sky, and water, there she was, incomprehensible, firing into a continent. Pop, would go one of the six-inch guns; a small flame would dart and vanish, a little white smoke would disappear, a tiny projectile would give a feeble screech—and nothing happened. Nothing could happen. There was a touch of insanity in the proceeding, a sense of lugubrious drollery in the sight; and it was not dissipated by somebody on board assuring me earnestly there was a camp of natives—he called them enemies!— hidden out of sight somewhere. ‘We gave her her letters (I heard the men in that lonely ship were dying of fever at the rate of three a day) and went on. We called at some more places with farcical names, where the merry dance of death and trade goes on in a still Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 21 and earthy atmosphere as of an overheated catacomb; all along the formless coast bordered by dangerous surf, as if Nature herself had tried to ward off intruders; in and out of rivers, streams of death in life, whose banks were rotting into mud, whose waters, thickened into slime, invaded the contorted mangroves, that seemed to writhe at us in the extremity of an impotent despair. Nowhere did we stop long enough to get a particularized impression, but the general sense of vague and oppressive wonder grew upon me. It was like a weary pilgrimage amongst hints for nightmares. ‘It was upward of thirty days before I saw the mouth of the big river. We anchored off the seat of the government. But my work would not begin till some two hundred miles farther on. So as soon as I could I made a start for a place thirty miles higher up. ‘I had my passage on a little sea-going steamer. Her captain was a Swede, and knowing me for a seaman, invited me on the bridge. He was a young man, lean, fair, and morose, with lanky hair and a shuffling gait. As we left the miserable little wharf, he tossed his head contemptuously at the shore. ‘Been living there?’ he asked. I said, ‘Yes.’ ‘Fine lot these government chaps—are they not?’ he went on, speaking English with great precision and considerable bitterness. ‘It is funny what some people will do for a few francs a month. I wonder what becomes of that kind when it goes upcountry?’ I said to him I expected to see that soon. ‘So-o-o!’ he exclaimed. He shuffled athwart, keeping one eye ahead vigilantly. ‘Don’t be too sure,’ he continued. ‘The other day I took up a man who hanged himself on the road. He was a 22 Heart of Darkness Swede, too.’ ‘Hanged himself! Why, in God’s name?’ I cried. He kept on looking out watchfully. ‘Who knows? The sun too much for him, or the country perhaps.’ ‘At last we opened a reach. A rocky cliff appeared, mounds of turned-up earth by the shore, houses on a hill, others with iron roofs, amongst a waste of excavations, or hanging to the declivity. A continuous noise of the rapids above hovered over this scene of inhabited devastation. A lot of people, mostly black and naked, moved about like ants. A jetty projected into the river. A blinding sunlight drowned all this at times in a sudden recrudescence of glare. ‘There’s your Company’s station,’ said the Swede, pointing to three wooden barrack-like structures on the rocky slope. ‘I will send your things up. Four boxes did you say? So. Farewell.’ ‘I came upon a boiler wallowing in the grass, then found a path leading up the hill. It turned aside for the boulders, and also for an undersized railway-truck lying there on its back with its wheels in the air. One was off. The thing looked as dead as the carcass of some animal. I came upon more pieces of decaying machinery, a stack of rusty rails. To the left a clump of trees made a shady spot, where dark things seemed to stir feebly. I blinked, the path was steep. A horn tooted to the right, and I saw the black people run. A heavy and dull detonation shook the ground, a puff of smoke came out of the cliff, and that was all. No change appeared on the face of the rock. They were building a railway. The cliff was not in the way or anything; but this objectless blasting was all the work going on. ‘A slight clinking behind me made me turn my head. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 23 Six black men advanced in a file, toiling up the path. They walked erect and slow, balancing small baskets full of earth on their heads, and the clink kept time with their footsteps. Black rags were wound round their loins, and the short ends behind waggled to and fro like tails. I could see every rib, the joints of their limbs were like knots in a rope; each had an iron collar on his neck, and all were connected together with a chain whose bights swung between them, rhythmically clinking. Another report from the cliff made me think suddenly of that ship of war I had seen firing into a continent. It was the same kind of ominous voice; but these men could by no stretch of imagination be called enemies. They were called criminals, and the outraged law, like the bursting shells, had come to them, an insoluble mystery from the sea. All their meagre breasts panted together, the violently dilated nostrils quivered, the eyes stared stonily uphill. They passed me within six inches, without a glance, with that complete, deathlike indifference of unhappy savages. Behind this raw matter one of the reclaimed, the product of the new forces at work, strolled despondently, carrying a rifle by its middle. He had a uniform jacket with one button off, and seeing a white man on the path, hoisted his weapon to his shoulder with alacrity. This was simple prudence, white men being so much alike at a distance that he could not tell who I might be. He was speedily reassured, and with a large, white, rascally grin, and a glance at his charge, seemed to take me into partnership in his exalted trust. After all, I also was a part of the great cause of these high and just proceedings. 24 Heart of Darkness ‘Instead of going up, I turned and descended to the left. My idea was to let that chain-gang get out of sight before I climbed the hill. You know I am not particularly tender; I’ve had to strike and to fend off. I’ve had to resist and to attack sometimes—that’s only one way of resisting— without counting the exact cost, according to the demands of such sort of life as I had blundered into. I’ve seen the devil of violence, and the devil of greed, and the devil of hot desire; but, by all the stars! these were strong, lusty, red-eyed devils, that swayed and drove men—men, I tell you. But as I stood on this hillside, I foresaw that in the blinding sunshine of that land I would become acquainted with a flabby, pretending, weak-eyed devil of a rapacious and pitiless folly. How insidious he could be, too, I was only to find out several months later and a thousand miles farther. For a moment I stood appalled, as though by a warning. Finally I descended the hill, obliquely, towards the trees I had seen. ‘I avoided a vast artificial hole somebody had been digging on the slope, the purpose of which I found it impossible to divine. It wasn’t a quarry or a sandpit, anyhow. It was just a hole. It might have been connected with the philanthropic desire of giving the criminals something to do. I don’t know. Then I nearly fell into a very narrow ravine, almost no more than a scar in the hillside. I discovered that a lot of imported drainage-pipes for the settlement had been tumbled in there. There wasn’t one that was not broken. It was a wanton smash-up. At last I got under the trees. My purpose was to stroll into the shade for a moment; but no sooner within than it seemed to me I had stepped into the gloomy circle Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 25 of some Inferno. The rapids were near, and an uninterrupted, uniform, headlong, rushing noise filled the mournful stillness of the grove, where not a breath stirred, not a leaf moved, with a mysterious sound—as though the tearing pace of the launched earth had suddenly become audible. ‘Black shapes crouched, lay, sat between the trees leaning against the trunks, clinging to the earth, half coming out, half effaced within the dim light, in all the attitudes of pain, abandonment, and despair. Another mine on the cliff went off, followed by a slight shudder of the soil under my feet. The work was going on. The work! And this was the place where some of the helpers had withdrawn to die. ‘They were dying slowly—it was very clear. They were not enemies, they were not criminals, they were nothing earthly now— nothing but black shadows of disease and starvation, lying confusedly in the greenish gloom. Brought from all the recesses of the coast in all the legality of time contracts, lost in uncongenial surroundings, fed on unfamiliar food, they sickened, became inefficient, and were then allowed to crawl away and rest. These moribund shapes were free as air—and nearly as thin. I began to distinguish the gleam of the eyes under the trees. Then, glancing down, I saw a face near my hand. The black bones reclined at full length with one shoulder against the tree, and slowly the eyelids rose and the sunken eyes looked up at me, enormous and vacant, a kind of blind, white flicker in the depths of the orbs, which died out slowly. The man seemed young— almost a boy—but you know with them it’s hard to tell. I found nothing else to do but to offer him one of my good Swede’s 26 Heart of Darkness ship’s biscuits I had in my pocket. The fingers closed slowly on it and held—there was no other movement and no other glance. He had tied a bit of white worsted round his neck— Why? Where did he get it? Was it a badge—an ornament—a charm— a propitiatory act? Was there any idea at all connected with it? It looked startling round his black neck, this bit of white thread from beyond the seas. ‘Near the same tree two more bundles of acute angles sat with their legs drawn up. One, with his chin propped on his knees, stared at nothing, in an intolerable and appalling manner: his brother phantom rested its forehead, as if overcome with a great weariness; and all about others were scattered in every pose of contorted collapse, as in some picture of a massacre or a pestilence. While I stood horror-struck, one of these creatures rose to his hands and knees, and went off on all-fours towards the river to drink. He lapped out of his hand, then sat up in the sunlight, crossing his shins in front of him, and after a time let his woolly head fall on his breastbone. ‘I didn’t want any more loitering in the shade, and I made haste towards the station. When near the buildings I met a white man, in such an unexpected elegance of get-up that in the first moment I took him for a sort of vision. I saw a high starched collar, white cuffs, a light alpaca jacket, snowy trousers, a clean necktie, and varnished boots. No hat. Hair parted, brushed, oiled, under a green-lined parasol held in a big white hand. He was amazing, and had a penholder behind his ear. ‘I shook hands with this miracle, and I learned he was the Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 27 Company’s chief accountant, and that all the book-keeping was done at this station. He had come out for a moment, he said, ‘to get a breath of fresh air. The expression sounded wonderfully odd, with its suggestion of sedentary desk-life. I wouldn’t have mentioned the fellow to you at all, only it was from his lips that I first heard the name of the man who is so indissolubly connected with the memories of that time. Moreover, I respected the fellow. Yes; I respected his collars, his vast cuffs, his brushed hair. His appearance was certainly that of a hairdresser’s dummy; but in the great demoralization of the land he kept up his appearance. That’s backbone. His starched collars and got-up shirt-fronts were achievements of character. He had been out nearly three years; and, later, I could not help asking him how he managed to sport such linen. He had just the faintest blush, and said modestly, ‘I’ve been teaching one of the native women about the station. It was difficult. She had a distaste for the work.’ Thus this man had verily accomplished something. And he was devoted to his books, which were in apple-pie order. ‘Everything else in the station was in a muddle—heads, things, buildings. Strings of dusty niggers with splay feet arrived and departed; a stream of manufactured goods, rubbishy cottons, beads, and brass-wire set into the depths of darkness, and in return came a precious trickle of ivory. ‘I had to wait in the station for ten days—an eternity. I lived in a hut in the yard, but to be out of the chaos I would sometimes get into the accountant’s office. It was built of horizontal planks, and so badly put together that, as he bent 28 Heart of Darkness over his high desk, he was barred from neck to heels with narrow strips of sunlight. There was no need to open the big shutter to see. It was hot there, too; big flies buzzed fiendishly, and did not sting, but stabbed. I sat generally on the floor, while, of faultless appearance (and even slightly scented), perching on a high stool, he wrote, he wrote. Sometimes he stood up for exercise. When a truckle-bed with a sick man (some invalid agent from upcountry) was put in there, he exhibited a gentle annoyance. ‘The groans of this sick person,’ he said, ‘distract my attention. And without that it is extremely difficult to guard against clerical errors in this climate.’ ‘One day he remarked, without lifting his head, ‘In the interior you will no doubt meet Mr. Kurtz.’ On my asking who Mr. Kurtz was, he said he was a first-class agent; and seeing my disappointment at this information, he added slowly, laying down his pen, ‘He is a very remarkable person.’ Further questions elicited from him that Mr. Kurtz was at present in charge of a trading-post, a very important one, in the true ivory-country, at ‘the very bottom of there. Sends in as much ivory as all the others put together …’ He began to write again. The sick man was too ill to groan. The flies buzzed in a great peace. ‘Suddenly there was a growing murmur of voices and a great tramping of feet. A caravan had come in. A violent babble of uncouth sounds burst out on the other side of the planks. All the carriers were speaking together, and in the midst of the uproar the lamentable voice of the chief agent was heard ‘giving it up’ tearfully for the twentieth time that Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 29 day…. He rose slowly. ‘What a frightful row,’ he said. He crossed the room gently to look at the sick man, and returning, said to me, ‘He does not hear.’ ‘What! Dead?’ I asked, startled. ‘No, not yet,’ he answered, with great composure. Then, alluding with a toss of the head to the tumult in the station-yard, ‘When one has got to make correct entries, one comes to hate those savages—hate them to the death.’ He remained thoughtful for a moment. ‘When you see Mr. Kurtz’ he went on, ‘tell him from me that everything here’— he glanced at the deck—’ is very satisfactory. I don’t like to write to him—with those messengers of ours you never know who may get hold of your letter—at that Central Station.’ He stared at me for a moment with his mild, bulging eyes. ‘Oh, he will go far, very far,’ he began again. ‘He will be a somebody in the Administration before long. They, above—the Council in Europe, you know—mean him to be.’ ‘He turned to his work. The noise outside had ceased, and presently in going out I stopped at the door. In the steady buzz of flies the homeward-bound agent was lying finished and insensible; the other, bent over his books, was making correct entries of perfectly correct transactions; and fifty feet below the doorstep I could see the still tree-tops of the grove of death. ‘Next day I left that station at last, with a caravan of sixty men, for a two-hundred-mile tramp. ‘No use telling you much about that. Paths, paths, everywhere; a stamped-in network of paths spreading over the empty land, through the long grass, through burnt grass, 30 Heart of Darkness through thickets, down and up chilly ravines, up and down stony hills ablaze with heat; and a solitude, a solitude, nobody, not a hut. The population had cleared out a long time ago. Well, if a lot of mysterious niggers armed with all kinds of fearful weapons suddenly took to travelling on the road between Deal and Gravesend, catching the yokels right and left to carry heavy loads for them, I fancy every farm and cottage thereabouts would get empty very soon. Only here the dwellings were gone, too. Still I passed through several abandoned villages. There’s something pathetically childish in the ruins of grass walls. Day after day, with the stamp and shuffle of sixty pair of bare feet behind me, each pair under a 60-lb. load. Camp, cook, sleep, strike camp, march. Now and then a carrier dead in harness, at rest in the long grass near the path, with an empty water-gourd and his long staff lying by his side. A great silence around and above. Perhaps on some quiet night the tremor of far-off drums, sinking, swelling, a tremor vast, faint; a sound weird, appealing, suggestive, and wild—and perhaps with as profound a meaning as the sound of bells in a Christian country. Once a white man in an unbuttoned uniform, camping on the path with an armed escort of lank Zanzibaris, very hospitable and festive— not to say drunk. Was looking after the upkeep of the road, he declared. Can’t say I saw any road or any upkeep, unless the body of a middle-aged negro, with a bullet-hole in the forehead, upon which I absolutely stumbled three miles farther on, may be considered as a permanent improvement. I had a white companion, too, not a bad chap, but rather too fleshy and with the exasperating Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 31 habit of fainting on the hot hillsides, miles away from the least bit of shade and water. Annoying, you know, to hold your own coat like a parasol over a man’s head while he is coming to. I couldn’t help asking him once what he meant by coming there at all. ‘To make money, of course. What do you think?’ he said, scornfully. Then he got fever, and had to be carried in a hammock slung under a pole. As he weighed sixteen stone I had no end of rows with the carriers. They jibbed, ran away, sneaked off with their loads in the night— quite a mutiny. So, one evening, I made a speech in English with gestures, not one of which was lost to the sixty pairs of eyes before me, and the next morning I started the hammock off in front all right. An hour afterwards I came upon the whole concern wrecked in a bush—man, hammock, groans, blankets, horrors. The heavy pole had skinned his poor nose. He was very anxious for me to kill somebody, but there wasn’t the shadow of a carrier near. I remembered the old doctor—’It would be interesting for science to watch the mental changes of individuals, on the spot.’ I felt I was becoming scientifically interesting. However, all that is to no purpose. On the fifteenth day I came in sight of the big river again, and hobbled into the Central Station. It was on a back water surrounded by scrub and forest, with a pretty border of smelly mud on one side, and on the three others enclosed by a crazy fence of rushes. A neglected gap was all the gate it had, and the first glance at the place was enough to let you see the flabby devil was running that show. White men with long staves in their hands appeared languidly from amongst the buildings, strolling up to take a look at 32 Heart of Darkness me, and then retired out of sight somewhere. One of them, a stout, excitable chap with black moustaches, informed me with great volubility and many digressions, as soon as I told him who I was, that my steamer was at the bottom of the river. I was thunderstruck. What, how, why? Oh, it was ‘all right.’ The ‘manager himself’ was there. All quite correct. ‘Everybody had behaved splendidly! splendidly!’—’you must,’ he said in agitation, ‘go and see the general manager at once. He is waiting!’ ‘I did not see the real significance of that wreck at once. I fancy I see it now, but I am not sure—not at all. Certainly the affair was too stupid—when I think of it— to be altogether natural. Still … But at the moment it presented itself simply as a confounded nuisance. The steamer was sunk. They had started two days before in a sudden hurry up the river with the manager on board, in charge of some volunteer skipper, and before they had been out three hours they tore the bottom out of her on stones, and she sank near the south bank. I asked myself what I was to do there, now my boat was lost. As a matter of fact, I had plenty to do in fishing my command out of the river. I had to set about it the very next day. That, and the repairs when I brought the pieces to the station, took some months. ‘My first interview with the manager was curious. He did not ask me to sit down after my twenty-mile walk that morning. He was commonplace in complexion, in features, in manners, and in voice. He was of middle size and of ordinary build. His eyes, of the usual blue, were perhaps remarkably cold, and he certainly could make his glance fall Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 33 on one as trenchant and heavy as an axe. But even at these times the rest of his person seemed to disclaim the intention. Otherwise there was only an indefinable, faint expression of his lips, something stealthy— a smile—not a smile—I remember it, but I can’t explain. It was unconscious, this smile was, though just after he had said something it got intensified for an instant. It came at the end of his speeches like a seal applied on the words to make the meaning of the commonest phrase appear absolutely inscrutable. He was a common trader, from his youth up employed in these parts—nothing more. He was obeyed, yet he inspired neither love nor fear, nor even respect. He inspired uneasiness. That was it! Uneasiness. Not a definite mistrust—just uneasiness—nothing more. You have no idea how effective such a … a. … faculty can be. He had no genius for organizing, for initiative, or for order even. That was evident in such things as the deplorable state of the station. He had no learning, and no intelligence. His position had come to him—why? Perhaps because he was never ill … He had served three terms of three years out there … Because triumphant health in the general rout of constitutions is a kind of power in itself. When he went home on leave he rioted on a large scale—pompously. Jack ashore—with a difference— in externals only. This one could gather from his casual talk. He originated nothing, he could keep the routine going—that’s all. But he was great. He was great by this little thing that it was impossible to tell what could control such a man. He never gave that secret away. Perhaps there was nothing within him. Such a suspicion made one pause—for out there 34 Heart of Darkness there were no external checks. Once when various tropical diseases had laid low almost every ‘agent’ in the station, he was heard to say, ‘Men who come out here should have no entrails.’ He sealed the utterance with that smile of his, as though it had been a door opening into a darkness he had in his keeping. You fancied you had seen things—but the seal was on. When annoyed at meal-times by the constant quarrels of the white men about precedence, he ordered an immense round table to be made, for which a special house had to be built. This was the station’s mess-room. Where he sat was the first place—the rest were nowhere. One felt this to be his unalterable conviction. He was neither civil nor uncivil. He was quiet. He allowed his ‘boy’—an overfed young negro from the coast—to treat the white men, under his very eyes, with provoking insolence. ‘He began to speak as soon as he saw me. I had been very long on the road. He could not wait. Had to start without me. The up-river stations had to be relieved. There had been so many delays already that he did not know who was dead and who was alive, and how they got on—and so on, and so on. He paid no attention to my explanations, and, playing with a stick of sealing-wax, repeated several times that the situation was ‘very grave, very grave.’ There were rumours that a very important station was in jeopardy, and its chief, Mr. Kurtz, was ill. Hoped it was not true. Mr. Kurtz was … I felt weary and irritable. Hang Kurtz, I thought. I interrupted him by saying I had heard of Mr. Kurtz on the coast. ‘Ah! So they talk of him down there,’ he murmured to himself. Then he began again, assuring me Mr. Kurtz was the Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 35 best agent he had, an exceptional man, of the greatest importance to the Company; therefore I could understand his anxiety. He was, he said, ‘very, very uneasy.’ Certainly he fidgeted on his chair a good deal, exclaimed, ‘Ah, Mr. Kurtz!’ broke the stick of sealing-wax and seemed dumfounded by the accident. Next thing he wanted to know ‘how long it would take to’ … I interrupted him again. Being hungry, you know, and kept on my feet too. I was getting savage. ‘How can I tell?’ I said. ‘I haven’t even seen the wreck yet— some months, no doubt.’ All this talk seemed to me so futile. ‘Some months,’ he said. ‘Well, let us say three months before we can make a start. Yes. That ought to do the affair.’ I flung out of his hut (he lived all alone in a clay hut with a sort of verandah) muttering to myself my opinion of him. He was a chattering idiot. Afterwards I took it back when it was borne in upon me startlingly with what extreme nicety he had estimated the time requisite for the ‘affair.’ ‘I went to work the next day, turning, so to speak, my back on that station. In that way only it seemed to me I could keep my hold on the redeeming facts of life. Still, one must look about sometimes; and then I saw this station, these men strolling aimlessly about in the sunshine of the yard. I asked myself sometimes what it all meant. They wandered here and there with their absurd long staves in their hands, like a lot of faithless pilgrims bewitched inside a rotten fence. The word ‘ivory’ rang in the air, was whispered, was sighed. You would think they were praying to it. A taint of imbecile rapacity blew through it all, like a whiff from some corpse. By Jove! I’ve never seen anything so unreal in 36 Heart of Darkness my life. And outside, the silent wilderness surrounding this cleared speck on the earth struck me as something great and invincible, like evil or truth, waiting patiently for the passing away of this fantastic invasion. ‘Oh, these months! Well, never mind. Various things yhappened. One evening a grass shed full of calico, cotton prints, beads, and I don’t know what else, burst into a blaze so suddenly that you would have thought the earth had opened to let an avenging fire consume all that trash. I was smoking my pipe quietly by my dismantled steamer, and saw them all cutting capers in the light, with their arms lifted high, when the stout man with moustaches came tearing down to the river, a tin pail in his hand, assured me that everybody was ‘behaving splendidly, splendidly,’ dipped about a quart of water and tore back again. I noticed there was a hole in the bottom of his pail. ‘I strolled up. There was no hurry. You see the thing had gone off like a box of matches. It had been hopeless from the very first. The flame had leaped high, driven everybody back, lighted up everything— and collapsed. The shed was already a heap of embers glowing fiercely. A nigger was being beaten near by. They said he had caused the fire in some way; be that as it may, he was screeching most horribly. I saw him, later, for several days, sitting in a bit of shade looking very sick and trying to recover himself; afterwards he arose and went out— and the wilderness without a sound took him into its bosom again. As I approached the glow from the dark I found myself at the back of two men, talking. I heard the name of Kurtz pronounced, then the words, ‘take Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 37 advantage of this unfortunate accident.’ One of the men was the manager. I wished him a good evening. ‘Did you ever see anything like it— eh? it is incredible,’ he said, and walked off. The other man remained. He was a first-class agent, young, gentlemanly, a bit reserved, with a forked little beard and a hooked nose. He was stand-offish with the other agents, and they on their side said he was the manager’s spy upon them. As to me, I had hardly ever spoken to him before. We got into talk, and by and by we strolled away from the hissing ruins. Then he asked me to his room, which was in the main building of the station. He struck a match, and I perceived that this young aristocrat had not only a silver-mounted dressing-case but also a whole candle all to himself. Just at that time the manager was the only man supposed to have any right to candles. Native mats covered the clay walls; a collection of spears, assegais, shields, knives was hung up in trophies. The business intrusted to this fellow was the making of bricks— so I had been informed; but there wasn’t a fragment of a brick anywhere in the station, and he had been there more than a year—waiting. It seems he could not make bricks without something, I don’t know what—straw maybe. Anyway, it could not be found there and as it was not likely to be sent from Europe, it did not appear clear to me what he was waiting for. An act of special creation perhaps. However, they were all waiting— all the sixteen or twenty pilgrims of them—for something; and upon my word it did not seem an uncongenial occupation, from the way they took it, though the only thing that ever came to them was disease— as far as I could see. They be- 38 Heart of Darkness guiled the time by back-biting and intriguing against each other in a foolish kind of way. There was an air of plotting about that station, but nothing came of it, of course. It was as unreal as everything else—as the philanthropic pretence of the whole concern, as their talk, as their government, as their show of work. The only real feeling was a desire to get appointed to a trading-post where ivory was to be had, so that they could earn percentages. They intrigued and slandered and hated each other only on that account— but as to effectually lifting a little finger—oh, no. By heavens! there is something after all in the world allowing one man to steal a horse while another must not look at a halter. Steal a horse straight out. Very well. He has done it. Perhaps he can ride. But there is a way of looking at a halter that would provoke the most charitable of saints into a kick. ‘I had no idea why he wanted to be sociable, but as we chatted in there it suddenly occurred to me the fellow was trying to get at something— in fact, pumping me. He alluded constantly to Europe, to the people I was supposed to know there—putting leading questions as to my acquaintances in the sepulchral city, and so on. His little eyes glittered like mica discs— with curiosity—though he tried to keep up a bit of superciliousness. At first I was astonished, but very soon I became awfully curious to see what he would find out from me. I couldn’t possibly imagine what I had in me to make it worth his while. It was very pretty to see how he baffled himself, for in truth my body was full only of chills, and my head had nothing in it but that wretched steamboat business. It was evident he took Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 39 me for a perfectly shameless prevaricator. At last he got angry, and, to conceal a movement of furious annoyance, he yawned. I rose. Then I noticed a small sketch in oils, on a panel, representing a woman, draped and blindfolded, carrying a lighted torch. The background was sombre—almost black. The movement of the woman was stately, and the effect of the torchlight on the face was sinister. ‘It arrested me, and he stood by civilly, holding an empty half-pint champagne bottle (medical comforts) with the candle stuck in it. To my question he said Mr. Kurtz had painted this—in this very station more than a year ago— while waiting for means to go to his trading post. ‘Tell me, pray,’ said I, ‘who is this Mr. Kurtz?’ ‘The chief of the Inner Station,’ he answered in a short tone, looking away. ‘Much obliged,’ I said, laughing. ‘And you are the brickmaker of the Central Station. Every one knows that.’ He was silent for a while. ‘He is a prodigy,’ he said at last. ‘He is an emissary of pity and science and progress, and devil knows what else. We want,’ he began to declaim suddenly, ‘for the guidance of the cause intrusted to us by Europe, so to speak, higher intelligence, wide sympathies, a singleness of purpose.’ ‘Who says that?’ I asked. ‘Lots of them,’ he replied. ‘Some even write that; and so HE comes here, a special being, as you ought to know.’ ‘Why ought I to know?’ I interrupted, really surprised. He paid no attention. ‘Yes. Today he is chief of the best station, next year he will be assistant-manager, two years more and … but I dare-say you know what he will be in two years’ time. You are of the new gang—the gang of virtue. The same people 40 Heart of Darkness who sent him specially also recommended you. Oh, don’t say no. I’ve my own eyes to trust.’ Light dawned upon me. My dear aunt’s influential acquaintances were producing an unexpected effect upon that young man. I nearly burst into a laugh. ‘Do you read the Company’s confidential correspondence?’ I asked. He hadn’t a word to say. It was great fun. ‘When Mr. Kurtz,’ I continued, severely, ‘is General Manager, you won’t have the opportunity.’ ‘He blew the candle out suddenly, and we went outside. The moon had risen. Black figures strolled about listlessly, pouring water on the glow, whence proceeded a sound of hissing; steam ascended in the moonlight, the beaten nigger groaned somewhere. ‘What a row the brute makes!’ said the indefatigable man with the moustaches, appearing near us. ‘Serve him right. Transgression—punishment—bang! Pitiless, pitiless. That’s the only way. This will prevent all conflagrations for the future. I was just telling the manager …’ He noticed my companion, and became crestfallen all at once. ‘Not in bed yet,’ he said, with a kind of servile heartiness; ‘it’s so natural. Ha! Danger—agitation.’ He vanished. I went on to the riverside, and the other followed me. I heard a scathing murmur at my ear, ‘Heap of muffs—go to.’ The pilgrims could be seen in knots gesticulating, discussing. Several had still their staves in their hands. I verily believe they took these sticks to bed with them. Beyond the fence the forest stood up spectrally in the moonlight, and through that dim stir, through the faint sounds of that lamentable courtyard, the silence of the land went home to one’s very heart—its mystery, its greatness, the amazing reality of its Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 41 concealed life. The hurt nigger moaned feebly somewhere near by, and then fetched a deep sigh that made me mend my pace away from there. I felt a hand introducing itself under my arm. ‘My dear sir,’ said the fellow, ‘I don’t want to be misunderstood, and especially by you, who will see Mr. Kurtz long before I can have that pleasure. I wouldn’t like him to get a false idea of my disposition….’ ‘I let him run on, this papier-mache Mephistopheles, and it seemed to me that if I tried I could poke my forefinger through him, and would find nothing inside but a little loose dirt, maybe. He, don’t you see, had been planning to be assistant-manager by and by under the present man, and I could see that the coming of that Kurtz had upset them both not a little. He talked precipitately, and I did not try to stop him. I had my shoulders against the wreck of my steamer, hauled up on the slope like a carcass of some big river animal. The smell of mud, of primeval mud, by Jove! was in my nostrils, the high stillness of primeval forest was before my eyes; there were shiny patches on the black creek. The moon had spread over everything a thin layer of silver— over the rank grass, over the mud, upon the wall of matted vegetation standing higher than the wall of a temple, over the great river I could see through a sombre gap glittering, glittering, as it flowed broadly by without a murmur. All this was great, expectant, mute, while the man jabbered about himself. I wondered whether the stillness on the face of the immensity looking at us two were meant as an appeal or as a menace. What were we who had strayed in here? Could we handle that dumb thing, or would it handle us? 42 Heart of Darkness I felt how big, how confoundedly big, was that thing that couldn’t talk, and perhaps was deaf as well. What was in there? I could see a little ivory coming out from there, and I had heard Mr. Kurtz was in there. I had heard enough about it, too— God knows! Yet somehow it didn’t bring any image with it— no more than if I had been told an angel or a fiend was in there. I believed it in the same way one of you might believe there are inhabitants in the planet Mars. I knew once a Scotch sailmaker who was certain, dead sure, there were people in Mars. If you asked him for some idea how they looked and behaved, he would get shy and mutter something about ‘walking on all-fours.’ If you as much as smiled, he would—though a man of sixty— offer to fight you. I would not have gone so far as to fight for Kurtz, but I went for him near enough to a lie. You know I hate, detest, and can’t bear a lie, not because I am straighter than the rest of us, but simply because it appalls me. There is a taint of death, a flavour of mortality in lies— which is exactly what I hate and detest in the world— what I want to forget. It makes me miserable and sick, like biting something rotten would do. Temperament, I suppose. Well, I went near enough to it by letting the young fool there believe anything he liked to imagine as to my influence in Europe. I became in an instant as much of a pretence as the rest of the bewitched pilgrims. This simply because I had a notion it somehow would be of help to that Kurtz whom at the time I did not see—you understand. He was just a word for me. I did not see the man in the name any more than you do. Do you see him? Do you see the story? Do you see anything? Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 43 It seems to me I am trying to tell you ya dream—making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation, that commingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of being captured by the incredible which is of the very essence of dreams….’ He was silent for a while. ‘… No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the lifesensation of any given epoch of one’s existence—that which makes its truth, its meaning—its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream—alone. …’ He paused again as if reflecting, then added: ‘Of course in this you fellows see more than I could then. You see me, whom you know. …’ It had become so pitch dark that we listeners could hardly see one another. For a long time already he, sitting apart, had been no more to us than a voice. There was not a word from anybody. The others might have been asleep, but I was awake. I listened, I listened on the watch for the sentence, for the word, that would give me the clue to the faint uneasiness inspired by this narrative that seemed to shape itself without human lips in the heavy night-air of the river. ‘… Yes—I let him run on,’ Marlow began again, ‘and think what he pleased about the powers that were behind me. I did! And there was nothing behind me! There was nothing but that wretched, old, mangled steamboat I was leaning against, while he talked fluently about ‘the necessity for every man to get on.’ ‘And when one comes out here, you conceive, it is not to gaze at the moon.’ Mr. Kurtz was 44 Heart of Darkness a ‘universal genius,’ but even a genius would find it easier to work with ‘adequate tools—intelligent men.’ He did not make bricks—why, there was a physical impossibility in the way—as I was well aware; and if he did secretarial work for the manager, it was because ‘no sensible man rejects wantonly the confidence of his superiors.’ Did I see it? I saw it. What more did I want? What I really wanted was rivets, by heaven! Rivets. To get on with the work—to stop the hole. Rivets I wanted. There were cases of them down at the coast— cases—piled up—burst—split! You kicked a loose rivet at every second step in that station-yard on the hillside. Rivets had rolled into the grove of death. You could fill your pockets with rivets for the trouble of stooping down— and there wasn’t one rivet to be found where it was wanted. We had plates that would do, but nothing to fasten them with. And every week the messenger, a long negro, letter-bag on shoulder and staff in hand, left our station for the coast. And several times a week a coast caravan came in with trade goods—ghastly glazed calico that made you shudder only to look at it, glass beads value about a penny a quart, confounded spotted cotton handkerchiefs. And no rivets. Three carriers could have brought all that was wanted to set that steamboat afloat. ‘He was becoming confidential now, but I fancy my unresponsive attitude must have exasperated him at last, for he judged it necessary to inform me he feared neither God nor devil, let alone any mere man. I said I could see that very well, but what I wanted was a certain quantity of rivets— and rivets were what really Mr. Kurtz wanted, if he had only Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 45 known it. Now letters went to the coast every week. … ‘My dear sir,’ he cried, ‘I write from dictation.’ I demanded rivets. There was a way—for an intelligent man. He changed his manner; became very cold, and suddenly began to talk about a hippopotamus; wondered whether sleeping on board the steamer (I stuck to my salvage night and day) I wasn’t disturbed. There was an old hippo that had the bad habit of getting out on the bank and roaming at night over the station grounds. The pilgrims used to turn out in a body and empty every rifle they could lay hands on at him. Some even had sat up o’ nights for him. All this energy was wasted, though. ‘That animal has a charmed life,’ he said; ‘but you can say this only of brutes in this country. No man— you apprehend me?—no man here bears a charmed life.’ He stood there for a moment in the moonlight with his delicate hooked nose set a little askew, and his mica eyes glittering without a wink, then, with a curt Good-night, he strode off. I could see he was disturbed and considerably puzzled, which made me feel more hopeful than I had been for days. It was a great comfort to turn from that chap to my influential friend, the battered, twisted, ruined, tin-pot steamboat. I clambered on board. She rang under my feet like an empty Huntley & Palmer biscuit-tin kicked along a gutter; she was nothing so solid in make, and rather less pretty in shape, but I had expended enough hard work on her to make me love her. No influential friend would have served me better. She had given me a chance to come out a bit—to find out what I could do. No, I don’t like work. I had rather laze about and think of all the fine things that can be done. I 46 Heart of Darkness don’t like work—no man does—but I like what is in the work— the chance to find yourself. Your own reality—for yourself, not for others—what no other man can ever know. They can only see the mere show, and never can tell what it really means. ‘I was not surprised to see somebody sitting aft, on the deck, with his legs dangling over the mud. You see I rather chummed with the few mechanics there were in that station, whom the other pilgrims naturally despised—on account of their imperfect manners, I suppose. This was the foreman—a boiler-maker by trade—a good worker. He was a lank, bony, yellow-faced man, with big intense eyes. His aspect was worried, and his head was as bald as the palm of my hand; but his hair in falling seemed to have stuck to his chin, and had prospered in the new locality, for his beard hung down to his waist. He was a widower with six young children (he had left them in charge of a sister of his to come out there), and the passion of his life was pigeon-flying. He was an enthusiast and a connoisseur. He would rave about pigeons. After work hours he used sometimes to come over from his hut for a talk about his children and his pigeons; at work, when he had to crawl in the mud under the bottom of the steamboat, he would tie up that beard of his in a kind of white serviette he brought for the purpose. It had loops to go over his ears. In the evening he could be seen squatted on the bank rinsing that wrapper in the creek with great care, then spreading it solemnly on a bush to dry. ‘I slapped him on the back and shouted, ‘We shall have rivets!’ He scrambled to his feet exclaiming, ‘No! Rivets!’ Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 47 as though he couldn’t believe his ears. Then in a low voice, ‘You … eh?’ I don’t know why we behaved like lunatics. I put my finger to the side of my nose and nodded mysteriously. ‘Good for you!’ he cried, snapped his fingers above his head, lifting one foot. I tried a jig. We capered on the iron deck. A frightful clatter came out of that hulk, and the virgin forest on the other bank of the creek sent it back in a thundering roll upon the sleeping station. It must have made some of the pilgrims sit up in their hovels. A dark figure obscured the lighted doorway of the manager’s hut, vanished, then, a second or so after, the doorway itself vanished, too. We stopped, and the silence driven away by the stamping of our feet flowed back again from the recesses of the land. The great wall of vegetation, an exuberant and entangled mass of trunks, branches, leaves, boughs, festoons, motionless in the moonlight, was like a rioting invasion of soundless life, a rolling wave of plants, piled up, crested, ready to topple over the creek, to sweep every little man of us out of his little existence. And it moved not. A deadened burst of mighty splashes and snorts reached us from afar, as though an icthyosaurus had been taking a bath of glitter in the great river. ‘After all,’ said the boiler-maker in a reasonable tone, ‘why shouldn’t we get the rivets?’ Why not, indeed! I did not know of any reason why we shouldn’t. ‘They’ll come in three weeks,’ I said confidently. ‘But they didn’t. Instead of rivets there came an invasion, an infliction, a visitation. It came in sections during the next three weeks, each section headed by a donkey carrying a white man in new clothes and tan shoes, bowing 48 Heart of Darkness from that elevation right and left to the impressed pilgrims. A quarrelsome band of footsore sulky niggers trod on the heels of the donkey; a lot of tents, camp-stools, tin boxes, white cases, brown bales would be shot down in the courtyard, and the air of mystery would deepen a little over the muddle of the station. Five such instalments came, with their absurd air of disorderly flight with the loot of innumerable outfit shops and provision stores, that, one would think, they were lugging, after a raid, into the wilderness for equitable division. It was an inextricable mess of things decent in themselves but that human folly made look like the spoils of thieving. ‘This devoted band called itself the Eldorado Exploring Expedition, and I believe they were sworn to secrecy. Their talk, however, was the talk of sordid buccaneers: it ywas reckless without hardihood, greedy without audacity, and cruel without courage; there was not an atom of foresight or of serious intention in the whole batch of them, and they did not seem aware these things are wanted for the work of the world. To tear treasure out of the bowels of the land was their desire, with no more moral purpose at the back of it than there is in burglars breaking into a safe. Who paid the expenses of the noble enterprise I don’t know; but the uncle of our manager was leader of that lot. ‘In exterior he resembled a butcher in a poor neighbourhood, and his eyes had a look of sleepy cunning. He carried his fat paunch with ostentation on his short legs, and during the time his gang infested the station spoke to no one but his nephew. You could see these two roaming about all Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 49 day long with their heads close together in an everlasting confab. ‘I had given up worrying myself about the rivets. One’s capacity for that kind of folly is more limited than you would suppose. I said Hang!—and let things slide. I had plenty of time for meditation, and now and then I would give some thought to Kurtz. I wasn’t very interested in him. No. Still, I was curious to see whether this man, who had come out equipped with moral ideas of some sort, would climb to the top after all and how he would set about his work when there.’ 50 Heart of Darkness II ‘One evening as I was lying flat on the deck of my steamboat, I heard voices approaching—and there were the nephew and the uncle strolling along the bank. I laid my head on my arm again, and had nearly lost myself in a doze, when somebody said in my ear, as it were: ‘I am as harmless as a little child, but I don’t like to be dictated to. Am I the manager—or am I not? I was ordered to send him there. It’s incredible.’ … I became aware that the two were standing on the shore alongside the forepart of the steamboat, just below my head. I did not move; it did not occur to me to move: I was sleepy. ‘It IS unpleasant,’ grunted the uncle. ‘He has asked the Administration to be sent there,’ said the other, ‘with the idea of showing what he could do; and I was instructed accordingly. Look at the influence that man must have. Is it not frightful?’ They both agreed it was frightful, then made several bizarre remarks: ‘Make rain and fine weather—one man—the Council—by the nose’— bits of absurd sentences that got the better of my drowsiness, so that I had pretty near the whole of my wits about me when the uncle said, ‘The climate may do away with this difficulty for you. Is he alone there?’ ‘Yes,’ answered the manager; ‘he sent his assistant down the river with a note to me in these terms: ‘Clear this poor devil out of the country, and don’t bother sending more of that sort. I had rather be alone than Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 51 have the kind of men you can dispose of with me.’ It was more than a year ago. Can you imagine such impudence!’ ‘Anything since then?’ asked the other hoarsely. ‘Ivory,’ jerked the nephew; ‘lots of it—prime sort—lots—most annoying, from him.’ ‘And with that?’ questioned the heavy rumble. ‘Invoice,’ was the reply fired out, so to speak. Then silence. They had been talking about Kurtz. ‘I was broad awake by this time, but, lying perfectly at ease, remained still, having no inducement to change my position. ‘How did that ivory come all this way?’ growled the elder man, who seemed very vexed. The other explained that it had come with a fleet of canoes in charge of an English half-caste clerk Kurtz had with him; that Kurtz had apparently intended to return himself, the station being by that time bare of goods and stores, but after coming three hundred miles, had suddenly decided to go back, which he started to do alone in a small dugout with four paddlers, leaving the half-caste to continue down the river with the ivory. The two fellows there seemed astounded at anybody attempting such a thing. They were at a loss for an adequate motive. As to me, I seemed to see Kurtz for the first time. It was a distinct glimpse: the dugout, four paddling savages, and the lone white man turning his back suddenly on the headquarters, yon relief, on thoughts of home—perhaps; setting his face towards the depths of the wilderness, towards his empty and desolate station. I did not know the motive. Perhaps he was just simply a fine fellow who stuck to his work for its own sake. His name, you understand, had not been pronounced once. He was ‘that man.’ The half-caste, 52 Heart of Darkness who, as far as I could see, had conducted a difficult trip with great prudence and pluck, was invariably alluded to as ‘that scoundrel.’ The ‘scoundrel’ had reported that the ‘man’ had been very ill—had recovered imperfectly…. The two below me moved away then a few paces, and strolled back and forth at some little distance. I heard: ‘Military post—doctor—two hundred miles—quite alone now— unavoidable delays—nine months—no news—strange rumours.’ They approached again, just as the manager was saying, ‘No one, as far as I know, unless a species of wandering trader— a pestilential fellow, snapping ivory from the natives.’ Who was it they were talking about now? I gathered in snatches that this was some man supposed to be in Kurtz’s district, and of whom the manager did not approve. ‘We will not be free from unfair competition till one of these fellows is hanged for an example,’ he said. ‘Certainly,’ grunted the other; ‘get him hanged! Why not? Anything—anything can be done in this country. That’s what I say; nobody here, you understand, HERE, can endanger your position. And why? You stand the climate—you outlast them all. The danger is in Europe; but there before I left I took care to—’ They moved off and whispered, then their voices rose again. ‘The extraordinary series of delays is not my fault. I did my best.’ The fat man sighed. ‘Very sad.’ ‘And the pestiferous absurdity of his talk,’ continued the other; ‘he bothered me enough when he was here. ‘Each station should be like a beacon on the road towards better things, a centre for trade of course, but also for humanizing, improving, instructing.’ Conceive you—that ass! And he wants to be manager! No, it’s—’ Here Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 53 he got choked by excessive indignation, and I lifted my head the least bit. I was surprised to see how near they were— right under me. I could have spat upon their hats. They were looking on the ground, absorbed in thought. The manager was switching his leg with a slender twig: his sagacious relative lifted his head. ‘You have been well since you came out this time?’ he asked. The other gave a start. ‘Who? I? Oh! Like a charm—like a charm. But the rest—oh, my goodness! All sick. They die so quick, too, that I haven’t the time to send them out of the country— it’s incredible!’ ‘Hm’m. Just so,’ grunted the uncle. ‘Ah! my boy, trust to this—I say, trust to this.’ I saw him extend his short flipper of an arm for a gesture that took in the forest, the creek, the mud, the river— seemed to beckon with a dishonouring flourish before the sunlit face of the land a treacherous appeal to the lurking death, to the hidden evil, to the profound darkness of its heart. It was so startling that I leaped to my feet and looked back at the edge of the forest, as though I had expected an answer of some sort to that black display of confidence. You know the foolish notions that come to one sometimes. The high stillness confronted these two figures with its ominous patience, waiting for the passing away of a fantastic invasion. ‘They swore aloud together—out of sheer fright, I believe—then pretending not to know anything of my existence, turned back to the station. The sun was low; and leaning forward side by side, they seemed to be tugging painfully uphill their two ridiculous shadows of unequal length, that trailed behind them slowly over the tall grass 54 Heart of Darkness without bending a single blade. ‘In a few days the Eldorado Expedition went into the patient wilderness, that closed upon it as the sea closes over a diver. Long afterwards the news came that all the donkeys were dead. I know nothing as to the fate of the less valuable animals. They, no doubt, like the rest of us, found what they deserved. I did not inquire. I was then rather excited at the prospect of meeting Kurtz very soon. When I say very soon I mean it comparatively. It was just two months from the day we left the creek when we came to the bank below Kurtz’s station. ‘Going up that river was like traveling back to the earliest beginnings of the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees were kings. An empty stream, a great silence, an impenetrable forest. The air was warm, thick, heavy, sluggish. There was no joy in the brilliance of sunshine. The long stretches of the waterway ran on, deserted, into the gloom of overshadowed distances. On silvery sandbanks hippos and alligators sunned themselves side by side. The broadening waters flowed through a mob of wooded islands; you lost your way on that river as you would in a desert, and butted all day long against shoals, trying to find the channel, till you thought yourself bewitched and cut off for ever from everything you had known once—somewhere—far away—in another existence perhaps. There were moments when one’s past came back to one, as it will sometimes when you have not a moment to spare for yourself; but it came in the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream, remembered with wonder amongst the overwhelming re- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 55 alities of this strange world of plants, and water, and silence. And this stillness of life did not in the least resemble a peace. It was the stillness of an implacable force brooding over an inscrutable intention. It looked at you with a vengeful aspect. I got used to it afterwards; I did not see it any more; I had no time. I had to keep guessing at the channel; I had to discern, mostly by inspiration, the signs of hidden banks; I watched for sunken stones; I was learning to clap my teeth smartly before my heart flew out, when I shaved by a fluke some infernal sly old snag that would have ripped the life out of the tin-pot steamboat and drowned all the pilgrims; I had to keep a lookout for the signs of dead wood we could cut up in the night for next day’s steaming. When you have to attend to things of that sort, to the mere incidents of the surface, the reality—the reality, I tell you—fades. The inner truth is hidden—luckily, luckily. But I felt it all the same; I felt often its mysterious stillness watching me at my monkey tricks, just as it watches you fellows performing on your respective tight-ropes for—what is it? half-a-crown a tumble—‘ ‘Try to be civil, Marlow,’ growled a voice, and I knew there was at least one listener awake besides myself. ‘I beg your pardon. I forgot the heartache which makes up the rest of the price. And indeed what does the price matter, if the trick be well done? You do your tricks very well. And I didn’t do badly either, since I managed not to sink that steamboat on my first trip. It’s a wonder to me yet. Imagine a blindfolded man set to drive a van over a bad road. I sweated and shivered over that business con- 56 Heart of Darkness siderably, I can tell you. After all, for a seaman, to scrape the bottom of the thing that’s supposed to float all the time under his care is the unpardonable sin. No one may know of it, but you never forget the thump—eh? A blow on the very heart. You remember it, you dream of it, you wake up at night and think of it—years after—and go hot and cold all over. I don’t pretend to say that steamboat floated all the time. More than once she had to wade for a bit, with twenty cannibals splashing around and pushing. We had enlisted some of these chaps on the way for a crew. Fine fellows— cannibals—in their place. They were men one could work with, and I am grateful to them. And, after all, they did not eat each other before my face: they had brought along a provision of hippo-meat which went rotten, and made the mystery of the wilderness stink in my nostrils. Phoo! I can sniff it now. I had the manager on board and three or four pilgrims with their staves— all complete. Sometimes we came upon a station close by the bank, clinging to the skirts of the unknown, and the white men rushing out of a tumble-down hovel, with great gestures of joy and surprise and welcome, seemed very strange— had the appearance of being held there captive by a spell. The word ivory would ring in the air for a while—and on we went again into the silence, along empty reaches, round the still bends, between the high walls of our winding way, reverberating in hollow claps the ponderous beat of the stern-wheel. Trees, trees, millions of trees, massive, immense, running up high; and at their foot, hugging the bank against the stream, crept the little begrimed steamboat, like a sluggish beetle crawling on the Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 57 floor of a lofty portico. It made you feel very small, very lost, and yet it was not altogether depressing, that feeling. After all, if you were small, the grimy beetle crawled on—which was just what you wanted it to do. Where the pilgrims imagined it crawled to I don’t know. To some place where they expected to get something. I bet! For me it crawled towards Kurtz—exclusively; but when the steam-pipes started leaking we crawled very slow. The reaches opened before us and closed behind, as if the forest had stepped leisurely across the water to bar the way for our return. We penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart of darkness. It was very quiet there. At night sometimes the roll of drums behind the curtain of trees would run up the river and remain sustained faintly, as if hovering in the air high over our heads, till the first break of day. Whether it meant war, peace, or prayer we could not tell. The dawns were heralded by the descent of a chill stillness; the wood-cutters slept, their fires burned low; the snapping of a twig would make you start. Were were wanderers on a prehistoric earth, on an earth that wore the aspect of an unknown planet. We could have fancied ourselves the first of men taking possession of an accursed inheritance, to be subdued at the cost of profound anguish and of excessive toil. But suddenly, as we struggled round a bend, there would be a glimpse of rush walls, of peaked grass-roofs, a burst of yells, a whirl of black limbs, a mass of hands clapping. of feet stamping, of bodies swaying, of eyes rolling, under the droop of heavy and motionless foliage. The steamer toiled along slowly on the edge of a black and incomprehensible frenzy. The prehistoric man was cursing 58 Heart of Darkness us, praying to us, welcoming us—who could tell? We were cut off from the comprehension of our surroundings; we glided past like phantoms, wondering and secretly appalled, as sane men would be before an enthusiastic outbreak in a madhouse. We could not understand because we were too far and could not remember because we were travelling in the night of first ages, of those ages that are gone, leaving hardly a sign— and no memories. ‘The earth seemed unearthly. We are accustomed to look upon the shackled form of a conquered monster, but there— there you could look at a thing monstrous and free. It was unearthly, and the men were—No, they were not inhuman. Well, you know, that was the worst of it—this suspicion of their not being inhuman. It would come slowly to one. They howled and leaped, and spun, and made horrid faces; but what thrilled you was just the thought of their humanity— like yours—the thought of your remote kinship with this wild and passionate uproar. Ugly. Yes, it was ugly enough; but if you were man enough you would admit to yourself that there ywas in you just the faintest trace of a response to the terrible frankness of that noise, a dim suspicion of there being a meaning in it which you—you so remote from the night of first ages—could comprehend. And why not? The mind of man is capable of anything—because everything is in it, all the past as well as all the future. What was there after all? Joy, fear, sorrow, devotion, valour, rage—who can tell?— but truth—truth stripped of its cloak of time. Let the fool gape and shudder—the man knows, and can look on without a wink. But he must at least be as much of a man as Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 59 these on the shore. He must meet that truth with his own true stuff— with his own inborn strength. Principles won’t do. Acquisitions, clothes, pretty rags—rags that would fly off at the first good shake. No; you want a deliberate belief. An appeal to me in this fiendish row—is there? Very well; I hear; I admit, but I have a voice, too, and for good or evil mine is the speech that cannot be silenced. Of course, a fool, what with sheer fright and fine sentiments, is always safe. Who’s that grunting? You wonder I didn’t go ashore for a howl and a dance? Well, no—I didn’t. Fine sentiments, you say? Fine sentiments, be hanged! I had no time. I had to mess about with white-lead and strips of woolen blanket helping to put bandages on those leaky steam-pipes—I tell you. I had to watch the steering, and circumvent those snags, and get the tin-pot along by hook or by crook. There was surface-truth enough in these things to save a wiser man. And between whiles I had to look after the savage who was fireman. He was an improved specimen; he could fire up a vertical boiler. He was there below me, and, upon my word, to look at him was as edifying as seeing a dog in a parody of breeches and a feather hat, walking on his hind-legs. A few months of training had done for that really fine chap. He squinted at the steam-gauge and at the water-gauge with an evident effort of intrepidity—and he had filed teeth, too, the poor devil, and the wool of his pate shaved into queer patterns, and three ornamental scars on each of his cheeks. He ought to have been clapping his hands and stamping his feet on the bank, instead of which he was hard at work, a thrall to strange witchcraft, full of improving knowledge. 60 Heart of Darkness He was useful because he had been instructed; and what he knew was this—that should the water in that transparent thing disappear, the evil spirit inside the boiler would get angry through the greatness of his thirst, and take a terrible vengeance. So he sweated and fired up and watched the glass fearfully (with an impromptu charm, made of rags, tied to his arm, and a piece of polished bone, as big as a watch, stuck flatways through his lower lip), while the wooded banks slipped past us slowly, the short noise was left behind, the interminable miles of silence—and we crept on, towards Kurtz. But the snags were thick, the water was treacherous and shallow, the boiler seemed indeed to have a sulky devil in it, and thus neither that fireman nor I had any time to peer into our creepy thoughts. ‘Some fifty miles below the Inner Station we came upon a hut of reeds, an inclined and melancholy pole, with the unrecognizable tatters of what had been a flag of some sort flying from it, and a neatly stacked wood-pile. This was unexpected. We came to the bank, and on the stack of firewood found a flat piece of board with some faded pencil-writing on it. When deciphered it said: ‘Wood for you. Hurry up. Approach cautiously.’ There was a signature, but it was illegible—not Kurtz—a much longer word. ‘Hurry up.’ Where? Up the river? ‘Approach cautiously.’ We had not done so. But the warning could not have been meant for the place where it could be only found after approach. Something was wrong above. But what—and how much? That was the question. We commented adversely upon the imbecility of that telegraphic style. The bush around said nothing, and would Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 61 not let us look very far, either. A torn curtain of red twill hung in the doorway of the hut, and flapped sadly in our faces. The dwelling was dismantled; but we could see a white man had lived there not very long ago. There remained a rude table—a plank on two posts; a heap of rubbish reposed in a dark corner, and by the door I picked up a book. It had lost its covers, and the pages had been thumbed into a state of extremely dirty softness; but the back had been lovingly stitched afresh with white cotton thread, which looked clean yet. It was an extraordinary find. Its title was, AN INQUIRY INTO SOME POINTS OF SEAMANSHIP, by a man Towser, Towson—some such name—Master in his Majesty’s Navy. The matter looked dreary reading enough, with illustrative diagrams and repulsive tables of figures, and the copy was sixty years old. I handled this amazing antiquity with the greatest possible tenderness, lest it should dissolve in my hands. Within, Towson or Towser was inquiring earnestly into the breaking strain of ships’ chains and tackle, and other such matters. Not a very enthralling book; but at the first glance you could see there a singleness of intention, an honest concern for the right way of going to work, which made these humble pages, thought out so many years ago, luminous with another than a professional light. The simple old sailor, with his talk of chains and purchases, made me forget the jungle and the pilgrims in a delicious sensation of having come upon something unmistakably real. Such a book being there was wonderful enough; but still more astounding were the notes pencilled in the margin, and plainly referring to the text. I couldn’t believe my 62 Heart of Darkness eyes! They were in cipher! Yes, it looked like cipher. Fancy a man lugging with him a book of that description into this nowhere and studying it—and making notes—in cipher at that! It was an extravagant mystery. ‘I had been dimly aware for some time of a worrying noise, and when I lifted my eyes I saw the wood-pile was gone, and the manager, aided by all the pilgrims, was shouting at me from the riverside. I slipped the book into my pocket. I assure you to leave off reading was like tearing myself away from the shelter of an old and solid friendship. ‘I started the lame engine ahead. ‘It must be this miserable trader-this intruder,’ exclaimed the manager, looking back malevolently at the place we had left. ‘He must be English,’ I said. ‘It will not save him from getting into trouble if he is not careful,’ muttered the manager darkly. I observed with assumed innocence that no man was safe from trouble in this world. ‘The current was more rapid now, the steamer seemed at her last gasp, the stern-wheel flopped languidly, and I caught myself listening on tiptoe for the next beat of the boat, for in sober truth I expected the wretched thing to give up every moment. It was like watching the last flickers of a life. But still we crawled. Sometimes I would pick out a tree a little way ahead to measure our progress towards Kurtz by, but I lost it invariably before we got abreast. To keep the eyes so long on one thing was too much for human patience. The manager displayed a beautiful resignation. I fretted and fumed and took to arguing with myself whether or no I would talk openly with Kurtz; but before I could Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 63 come to any conclusion it occurred to me that my speech or my silence, indeed any action of mine, would be a mere futility. What did it matter what any one knew or ignored? What did it matter who was manager? One gets sometimes such a flash of insight. The essentials of this affair lay deep under the surface, beyond my reach, and beyond my power of meddling. ‘Towards the evening of the second day we judged ourselves about eight miles from Kurtz’s station. I wanted to push on; but the manager looked grave, and told me the navigation up there was so dangerous that it would be advisable, the sun being very low already, to wait where we were till next morning. Moreover, he pointed out that if the warning to approach cautiously were to be followed, we must approach in daylight— not at dusk or in the dark. This was sensible enough. Eight miles meant nearly three hours’ steaming for us, and I could also see suspicious ripples at the upper end of the reach. Nevertheless, I was annoyed beyond expression at the delay, and most unreasonably, too, since one night more could not matter much after so many months. As we had plenty of wood, and caution was the word, I brought up in the middle of the stream. The reach was narrow, straight, with high sides like a railway cutting. The dusk came gliding into it long before the sun had set. The current ran smooth and swift, but a dumb immobility sat on the banks. The living trees, lashed together by the creepers and every living bush of the undergrowth, might have been changed into stone, even to the slenderest twig, to the lightest leaf. It was not sleep—it seemed unnatural, 64 Heart of Darkness like a state of trance. Not the faintest sound of any kind could be heard. You looked on amazed, and began to suspect yourself of being deaf— then the night came suddenly, and struck you blind as well. About three in the morning some large fish leaped, and the loud splash made me jump as though a gun had been fired. When the sun rose there was a white fog, very warm and clammy, and more blinding than the night. It did not shift or drive; it was just there, standing all round you like something solid. At eight or nine, perhaps, it lifted as a shutter lifts. We had a glimpse of the towering multitude of trees, of the immense matted jungle, with the blazing little ball of the sun hanging over it—all perfectly still—and then the white shutter came down again, smoothly, as if sliding in greased grooves. I ordered the chain, which we had begun to heave in, to be paid out again. Before it stopped running with a muffled rattle, a cry, a very loud cry, as of infinite desolation, soared slowly in the opaque air. It ceased. A complaining clamour, modulated in savage discords, filled our ears. The sheer unexpectedness of it made my hair stir under my cap. I don’t know how it struck the others: to me it seemed as though the mist itself had screamed, so suddenly, and apparently from all sides at once, did this tumultuous and mournful uproar arise. It culminated in a hurried outbreak of almost intolerably excessive shrieking, which stopped short, leaving us stiffened in a variety of silly attitudes, and obstinately listening to the nearly as appalling and excessive silence. ‘Good God! What is the meaning—’ stammered at my elbow one of the pilgrims— a little fat man, with san- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 65 dy hair and red whiskers, who wore sidespring boots, and pink pyjamas tucked into his socks. Two others remained open-mouthed a while minute, then dashed into the little cabin, to rush out incontinently and stand darting scared glances, with Winchesters at ‘ready’ in their hands. What we could see was just the steamer we were on, her outlines blurred as though she had been on the point of dissolving, and a misty strip of water, perhaps two feet broad, around her— and that was all. The rest of the world was nowhere, as far as our eyes and ears were concerned. Just nowhere. Gone, disappeared; swept off without leaving a whisper or a shadow behind. ‘I went forward, and ordered the chain to be hauled in short, so as to be ready to trip the anchor and move the steamboat at once if necessary. ‘Will they attack?’ whispered an awed voice. ‘We will be all butchered in this fog,’ murmured another. The faces twitched with the strain, the hands trembled slightly, the eyes forgot to wink. It was very curious to see the contrast of expressions of the white men and of the black fellows of our crew, who were as much strangers to that part of the river as we, though their homes were only eight hundred miles away. The whites, of course greatly discomposed, had besides a curious look of being painfully shocked by such an outrageous row. The others had an alert, naturally interested expression; but their faces were essentially quiet, even those of the one or two who grinned as they hauled at the chain. Several exchanged short, grunting phrases, which seemed to settle the matter to their satisfaction. Their headman, a young, broad-chest- 66 Heart of Darkness ed black, severely draped in dark-blue fringed cloths, with fierce nostrils and his hair all done up artfully in oily ringlets, stood near me. ‘Aha!’ I said, just for good fellowship’s sake. ‘Catch ‘im,’ he snapped, with a bloodshot widening of his eyes and a flash of sharp teeth—’catch ‘im. Give ‘im to us.’ ‘To you, eh?’ I asked; ‘what would you do with them?’ ‘Eat ‘im!’ he said curtly, and, leaning his elbow on the rail, looked out into the fog in a dignified and profoundly pensive attitude. I would no doubt have been properly horrified, had it not occurred to me that he and his chaps must be very hungry: that they must have been growing increasingly hungry for at least this month past. They had been engaged for six months (I don’t think a single one of them had any clear idea of time, as we at the end of countless ages have. They still belonged to the beginnings of time—had no inherited experience to teach them as it were), and of course, as long as there was a piece of paper written over in accordance with some farcical law or other made down the river, it didn’t enter anybody’s head to trouble how they would live. Certainly they had brought with them some rotten hippo-meat, which couldn’t have lasted very long, anyway, even if the pilgrims hadn’t, in the midst of a shocking hullabaloo, thrown a considerable quantity of it overboard. It looked like a high-handed proceeding; but it was really a case of legitimate self-defence. You can’t breathe dead hippo waking, sleeping, and eating, and at the same time keep your precarious grip on existence. Besides that, they had given them every week three pieces of brass wire, each about nine inches long; and the theory was they were to Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 67 buy their provisions with that currency in riverside villages. You can see how THAT worked. There were either no villages, or the people were hostile, or the director, who like the rest of us fed out of tins, with an occasional old he-goat thrown in, didn’t want to stop the steamer for some more or less recondite reason. So, unless they swallowed the wire itself, or made loops of it to snare the fishes with, I don’t see what good their extravagant salary could be to them. I must say it was paid with a regularity worthy of a large and honourable trading company. For the rest, the only thing to eat—though it didn’t look eatable in the least—I saw in their possession was a few lumps of some stuff like half-cooked dough, of a dirty lavender colour, they kept wrapped in leaves, and now and then swallowed a piece of, but so small that it seemed done more for the looks of the thing than for any serious purpose of sustenance. Why in the name of all the gnawing devils of hunger they didn’t go for us—they were thirty to five—and have a good tuck-in for once, amazes me now when I think of it. They were big powerful men, with not much capacity to weigh the consequences, with courage, with strength, even yet, though their skins were no longer glossy and their muscles no longer hard. And I saw that something restraining, one of those human secrets that baffle probability, had come into play there. I looked at them with a swift quickening of interest— not because it occurred to me I might be eaten by them before very long, though I own to you that just then I perceived— in a new light, as it were—how unwholesome the pilgrims looked, and I hoped, yes, I positively hoped, that my aspect was not so— what 68 Heart of Darkness shall I say?—so—unappetizing: a touch of fantastic vanity which fitted well with the dream-sensation that pervaded all my days at that time. Perhaps I had a little fever, too. One can’t live with one’s finger everlastingly on one’s pulse. I had often ‘a little fever,’ or a little touch of other things— the playful paw-strokes of the wilderness, the preliminary trifling before the more serious onslaught which came in due course. Yes; I looked at them as you would on any human being, with a curiosity of their impulses, motives, capacities, weaknesses, when brought to the test of an inexorable physical necessity. Restraint! What possible restraint? Was it superstition, disgust, patience, fear—or some kind of primitive honour? No fear can stand up to hunger, no patience can wear it out, disgust simply does not exist where hunger is; and as to superstition, beliefs, and what you may call principles, they are less than chaff in a breeze. Don’t you know the devilry of lingering starvation, its exasperating torment, its black thoughts, its sombre and brooding ferocity? Well, I do. It takes a man all his inborn strength to fight hunger properly. It’s really easier to face bereavement, dishonour, and the perdition of one’s soul—than this kind of prolonged hunger. Sad, but true. And these chaps, too, had no earthly reason for any kind of scruple. Restraint! I would just as soon have expected restraint from a hyena prowling amongst the corpses of a battlefield. But there was the fact facing me—the fact dazzling, to be seen, like the foam on the depths of the sea, like a ripple on an unfathomable enigma, a mystery greater—when I thought of it— than the curious, inexplicable note of desperate grief in this sav- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 69 age clamour that had swept by us on the river-bank, behind the blind whiteness of the fog. ‘Two pilgrims were quarrelling in hurried whispers as to which bank. ‘Left.’ ‘no, no; how can you? Right, right, of course.’ ‘It is very serious,’ said the manager’s voice behind me; ‘I would be desolated if anything should happen to Mr. Kurtz before we came up.’ I looked at him, and had not the slightest doubt he was sincere. He was just the kind of man who would wish to preserve appearances. That was his restraint. But when he muttered something about going on at once, I did not even take the trouble to answer him. I knew, and he knew, that it was impossible. Were we to let go our hold of the bottom, we would be absolutely in the air— in space. We wouldn’t be able to tell where we were going to—whether up or down stream, or across—till we fetched against one bank or the other—and then we wouldn’t know at first which it was. Of course I made no move. I had no mind for a smash-up. You couldn’t imagine a more deadly place for a shipwreck. Whether we drowned at once or not, we were sure to perish speedily in one way or another. ‘I authorize you to take all the risks,’ he said, after a short silence. ‘I refuse to take any,’ I said shortly; which was just the answer he expected, though its tone might have surprised him. ‘Well, I must defer to your judgment. You are captain,’ he said with marked civility. I turned my shoulder to him in sign of my appreciation, and looked into the fog. How long would it last? It was the most hopeless lookout. The approach to this Kurtz grubbing for ivory in the wretched bush was beset by as many dangers as though he had been 70 Heart of Darkness an enchanted princess sleeping in a fabulous castle. ‘Will they attack, do you think?’ asked the manager, in a confidential tone. ‘I did not think they would attack, for several obvious reasons. The thick fog was one. If they left the bank in their canoes they would get lost in it, as we would be if we attempted to move. Still, I had also judged the jungle of both banks quite impenetrable— and yet eyes were in it, eyes that had seen us. The riverside bushes were certainly very thick; but the undergrowth behind was evidently penetrable. However, during the short lift I had seen no canoes anywhere in the reach—certainly not abreast of the steamer. But what made the idea of attack inconceivable to me was the nature of the noise—of the cries we had heard. They had not the fierce character boding immediate hostile intention. Unexpected, wild, and violent as they had been, they had given me an irresistible impression of sorrow. The glimpse of the steamboat had for some reason filled those savages with unrestrained grief. The danger, if any, I expounded, was from our proximity to a great human passion let loose. Even extreme grief may ultimately vent itself in violence—but more generally takes the form of apathy…. ‘You should have seen the pilgrims stare! They had no heart to grin, or even to revile me: but I believe they thought me gone mad— with fright, maybe. I delivered a regular lecture. My dear boys, it was no good bothering. Keep a lookout? Well, you may guess I watched the fog for the signs of lifting as a cat watches a mouse; but for anything else our eyes were of no more use to us than if we had been Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 71 buried miles deep in a heap of cotton-wool. It felt like it, too—choking, warm, stifling. Besides, all I said, though it sounded extravagant, was absolutely true to fact. What we afterwards alluded to as an attack was really an attempt at repulse. The action was very far from being aggressive—it was not even defensive, in the usual sense: it was undertaken under the stress of desperation, and in its essence was purely protective. ‘It developed itself, I should say, two hours after the fog lifted, and its commencement was at a spot, roughly speaking, about a mile and a half below Kurtz’s station. We had just floundered and flopped round a bend, when I saw an islet, a mere grassy hummock of bright green, in the middle of the stream. It was the ony thing of the kind; but as we opened the reach more, I perceived it was the head of a long sand-bank, or rather of a chain of shallow patches stretching down the middle of the river. They were discoloured, just awash, and the whole lot was seen just under the water, exactly as a man’s backbone is seen running down the middle of his back under the skin. Now, as far as I did see, I could go to the right or to the left of this. I didn’t know either channel, of course. The banks looked pretty well alike, the depth appeared the same; but as I had been informed the station was on the west side, I naturally headed for the western passage. ‘No sooner had we fairly entered it than I became aware it was much narrower than I had supposed. To the left of us there was the long uninterrupted shoal, and to the right a high, steep bank heavily overgrown with bushes. Above 72 Heart of Darkness the bush the trees stood in serried ranks. The twigs overhung the current thickly, and from distance to distance a large limb of some tree projected rigidly over the stream. It was then well on in the afternoon, the face of the forest was gloomy, and a broad strip of shadow had already fallen on the water. In this shadow we steamed up—very slowly, as you may imagine. I sheered her well inshore—the water being deepest near the bank, as the sounding-pole informed me. ‘One of my hungry and forbearing friends was sounding in the bows just below me. This steamboat was exactly like a decked scow. On the deck, there were two little teakwood houses, with doors and windows. The boiler was in the foreend, and the machinery right astern. yOver the whole there was a light roof, supported on stanchions. The funnel projected through that roof, and in front of the funnel a small cabin built of light planks served for a pilot-house. It contained a couch, two camp-stools, a loaded Martini-Henry leaning in one corner, a tiny table, and the steering-wheel. It had a wide door in front and a broad shutter at each side. All these were always thrown open, of course. I spent my days perched up there on the extreme fore-end of that roof, before the door. At night I slept, or tried to, on the couch. An athletic black belonging to some coast tribe and educated by my poor predecessor, was the helmsman. He sported a pair of brass earrings, wore a blue cloth wrapper from the waist to the ankles, and thought all the world of himself. He was the most unstable kind of fool I had ever seen. He steered with no end of a swagger while you were by; but if Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 73 he lost sight of you, he became instantly the prey of an abject funk, and would let that cripple of a steamboat get the upper hand of him in a minute. ‘I was looking down at the sounding-pole, and feeling much annoyed to see at each try a little more of it stick out of that river, when I saw my poleman give up on the business suddenly, and stretch himself flat on the deck, without even taking the trouble to haul his pole in. He kept hold on it though, and it trailed in the water. At the same time the fireman, whom I could also see below me, sat down abruptly before his furnace and ducked his head. I was amazed. Then I had to look at the river mighty quick, because there was a snag in the fairway. Sticks, little sticks, were flying about— thick: they were whizzing before my nose, dropping below me, striking behind me against my pilot-house. All this time the river, the shore, the woods, were very quiet— perfectly quiet. I could only hear the heavy splashing thump of the stern-wheel and the patter of these things. We cleared the snag clumsily. Arrows, by Jove! We were being shot at! I stepped in quickly to close the shutter on the landside. That fool-helmsman, his hands on the spokes, was lifting his knees high, stamping his feet, champing his mouth, like a reined-in horse. Confound him! And we were staggering within ten feet of the bank. I had to lean right out to swing the heavy shutter, and I saw a face amongst the leaves on the level with my own, looking at me very fierce and steady; and then suddenly, as though a veil had been removed from my eyes, I made out, deep in the tangled gloom, naked breasts, arms, legs, glaring eyes— the bush was swarming with hu- 74 Heart of Darkness man limbs in movement, glistening. of bronze colour. The twigs shook, swayed, and rustled, the arrows flew out of them, and then the shutter came to. ‘Steer her straight,’ I said to the helmsman. He held his head rigid, face forward; but his eyes rolled, he kept on lifting and setting down his feet gently, his mouth foamed a little. ‘Keep quiet!’ I said in a fury. I might just as well have ordered a tree not to sway in the wind. I darted out. Below me there was a great scuffle of feet on the iron deck; confused exclamations; a voice screamed, ‘Can you turn back?’ I caught sight of a V-shaped ripple on the water ahead. What? Another snag! A fusillade burst out under my feet. The pilgrims had opened with their Winchesters, and were simply squirting lead into that bush. A deuce of a lot of smoke came up and drove slowly forward. I swore at it. Now I couldn’t see the ripple or the snag either. I stood in the doorway, peering, and the arrows came in swarms. They might have been poisoned, but they looked as though they wouldn’t kill a cat. The bush began to howl. Our wood-cutters raised a warlike whoop; the report of a rifle just at my back deafened me. I glanced over my shoulder, and the pilot-house was yet full of noise and smoke when I made a dash at the wheel. The fool-nigger had dropped everything, to throw the shutter open and let off that Martini-Henry. He stood before the wide opening, glaring, and I yelled at him to come back, while I straightened the sudden twist out of that steamboat. There was no room to turn even if I had wanted to, the snag was somewhere very near ahead in that confounded smoke, there was no time to lose, so I just crowded her into the bank— right Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 75 into the bank, where I knew the water was deep. ‘We tore slowly along the overhanging bushes in a whirl of broken twigs and flying leaves. The fusillade below stopped short, as I had foreseen it would when the squirts got empty. I threw my head back to a glinting whizz that traversed the pilot-house, in at one shutter-hole and out at the other. Looking past that mad helmsman, who was shaking the empty rifle and yelling at the shore, I saw vague forms of men running bent double, leaping, gliding, distinct, incomplete, evanescent. Something big appeared in the air before the shutter, the rifle went overboard, and the man stepped back swiftly, looked at me over his shoulder in an extraordinary, profound, familiar manner, and fell upon my feet. The side of his head hit the wheel twice, and the end of what appeared a long cane clattered round and knocked over a little camp-stool. It looked as though after wrenching that thing from somebody ashore he had lost his balance in the effort. The thin smoke had blown away, we were clear of the snag, and looking ahead I could see that in another hundred yards or so I would be free to sheer off, away from the bank; but my feet felt so very warm and wet that I had to look down. The man had rolled on his back and stared straight up at me; both his hands clutched that cane. It was the shaft of a spear that, either thrown or lunged through the opening, had caught him in the side, just below the ribs; the blade had gone in out of sight, after making a frightful gash; my shoes were full; a pool of blood lay very still, gleaming dark-red under the wheel; his eyes shone with an amazing lustre. The fusillade burst out again. He 76 Heart of Darkness looked at me anxiously, gripping the spear like something precious, with an air of being afraid I would try to take it away from him. I had to make an effort to free my eyes from his gaze and attend to the steering. With one hand I felt above my head for the line of the steam whistle, and jerked out screech after screech hurriedly. The tumult of angry and warlike yells was checked instantly, and then from the depths of the woods went out such a tremulous and prolonged wail of mournful fear and utter despair as may be imagined to follow the flight of the last hope from the earth. There was a great commotion in the bush; the shower of arrows stopped, a few dropping shots rang out sharply—then silence, in which the languid beat of the stern-wheel came plainly to my ears. I put the helm hard a-starboard at the moment when the pilgrim in pink pyjamas, very hot and agitated, appeared in the doorway. ‘The manager sends me—’ he began in an official tone, and stopped short. ‘Good God!’ he said, glaring at the wounded man. ‘We two whites stood over him, and his lustrous and inquiring glance enveloped us both. I declare it looked as though he would presently put to us some questions in an understandable language; but he died without uttering a sound, without moving a limb, without twitching a muscle. Only in the very last moment, as though in response to some sign we could not see, to some whisper we could not hear, he frowned heavily, and that frown gave to his black death-mask an inconeivably sombre, brooding, and menacing expression. The lustre of inquiring glance faded swiftly into vacant glassiness. ‘Can you steer?’ I asked the agent ea- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 77 gerly. He looked very dubious; but I made a grab at his arm, and he understood at once I meant him to steer whether or no. To tell you the truth, I was morbidly anxious to change my shoes and socks. ‘He is dead,’ murmured the fellow, immensely impressed. ‘No doubt about it,’ said I, tugging like mad at the shoe-laces. ‘And by the way, I suppose Mr. Kurtz is dead as well by this time.’ ‘For the moment that was the dominant thought. There was a sense of extreme disappointment, as though I had found out I had been striving after something altogether without a substance. I couldn’t have been more disgusted if I had travelled all this way for the sole purpose of talking with Mr. Kurtz. Talking with … I flung one shoe overboard, and became aware that that was exactly what I had been looking forward to— a talk with Kurtz. I made the strange discovery that I had never imagined him as doing, you know, but as discoursing. I didn’t say to myself, ‘Now I will never see him,’ or ‘Now I will never shake him by the hand,’ but, ‘Now I will never hear him.’ The man presented himself as a voice. Not of course that I did not connect him with some sort of action. Hadn’t I been told in all the tones of jealousy and admiration that he had collected, bartered, swindled, or stolen more ivory than all the other agents together? That was not the point. The point was in his being a gifted creature, and that of all his gifts the one that stood out preeminently, that carried with it a sense of real presence, was his ability to talk, his words— the gift of expression, the bewildering, the illuminating, the most exalted and the most contemptible, the pulsating stream of light, or the deceitful flow from the 78 Heart of Darkness heart of an impenetrable darkness. ‘The other shoe went flying unto the devil-god of that river. I thought, ‘By Jove! it’s all over. We are too late; he has vanished— the gift has vanished, by means of some spear, arrow, or club. I will never hear that chap speak after all’— and my sorrow had a startling extravagance of emotion, even such as I had noticed in the howling sorrow of these savages in the bush. I couldn’t have felt more of lonely desolation somehow, had I been robbed of a belief or had missed my destiny in life. … Why do you sigh in this beastly way, somebody? Absurd? Well, absurd. Good Lord! mustn’t a man ever—Here, give me some tobacco.’ … There was a pause of profound stillness, then a match flared, and Marlow’s lean face appeared, worn, hollow, with downward folds and dropped eyelids, with an aspect of concentrated attention; and as he took vigorous draws at his pipe, it seemed to retreat and advance out of the night in the regular flicker of tiny flame. The match went out. ‘Absurd!’ he cried. ‘This is the worst of trying to tell. … Here you all are, each moored with two good addresses, like a hulk with two anchors, a butcher round one corner, a policeman round another, excellent appetites, and temperature normal—you hear—normal from year’s end to year’s end. And you say, Absurd! Absurd be—exploded! Absurd! My dear boys, what can you expect from a man who out of sheer nervousness had just flung overboard a pair of new shoes! Now I think of it, it is amazing I did not shed tears. I am, upon the whole, proud of my fortitude. I was cut to the quick at the idea of having lost the inestimable privilege of Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 79 listening to the gifted Kurtz. Of course I was wrong. The privilege was waiting for me. Oh, yes, I heard more than enough. And I was right, too. A voice. He was very little more than a voice. And I heard—him—it—this voice—other voices—all of them were so little more than voices—and the memory of that time itself lingers around me, impalpable, like a dying vibration of one immense jabber, silly, atrocious, sordid, savage, or simply mean, without any kind of sense. Voices, voices—even the girl herself—now—‘ He was silent for a long time. ‘I laid the ghost of his gifts at last with a lie,’ he began, suddenly. ‘Girl! What? Did I mention a girl? Oh, she is out of it—completely. They—the women, I mean— are out of it—should be out of it. We must help them to stay in that beautiful world of their own, lest ours gets worse. Oh, she had to be out of it. You should have heard the disinterred body of Mr. Kurtz saying, ‘My Intended.’ You would have perceived directly then how completely she was out of it. And the lofty frontal bone of Mr. Kurtz! They say the hair goes on growing sometimes, but this— ah—specimen, was impressively bald. The wilderness had patted him on the head, and, behold, it was like a ball— an ivory ball; it had caressed him, and—lo!—he had withered; it had taken him, loved him, embraced him, got into his veins, consumed his flesh, and sealed his soul to its own by the inconceivable ceremonies of some devilish initiation. He was its spoiled and pampered favourite. Ivory? I should think so. Heaps of it, stacks of it. The old mud shanty was bursting with it. You would think there was not a single tusk left either above or 80 Heart of Darkness below the ground in the whole country. ‘Mostly fossil,’ the manager had remarked, disparagingly. It was no more fossil than I am; but they call it fossil when it is dug up. It appears these niggers do bury the tusks sometimes— but evidently they couldn’t bury this parcel deep enough to save the gifted Mr. Kurtz from his fate. We filled the steamboat with it, and had to pile a lot on the deck. Thus he could see and enjoy as long as he could see, because the appreciation of this favour had remained with him to the last. You should have heard him say, ‘My ivory.’ Oh, yes, I heard him. ‘My Intended, my ivory, my station, my river, my—’ everything belonged to him. It made me hold my breath in expectation of hearing the wilderness burst into a prodigious peal of laughter that would shake the fixed stars in their places. Everything belonged to him— but that was a trifle. The thing was to know what he belonged to, how many powers of darkness claimed him for their own. That was the reflection that made you creepy all over. It was impossible—it was not good for one either—trying to imagine. He had taken a high seat amongst the devils of the land— I mean literally. You can’t understand. How could you?— with solid pavement under your feet, surrounded by kind neighbours ready to cheer you or to fall on you, stepping delicately between the butcher and the policeman, in the holy terror of scandal and gallows and lunatic asylums—how can you imagine what particular region of the first ages a man’s untrammelled feet may take him into by the way of solitude—utter solitude without a policeman— by the way of silence—utter silence, where no warning voice of a kind neighbour can be Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 81 heard whispering of public opinion? These little things make all the great difference. When they are gone you must fall back upon your own innate strength, upon your own capacity for faithfulness. Of course you may be too much of a fool to go wrong— too dull even to know you are being assaulted by the powers of darkness. I take it, no fool ever made a bargain for his soul with the devil; the fool is too much of a fool, or the devil too much of a devil—I don’t know which. Or you may be such a thunderingly exalted creature as to be altogether deaf and blind to anything but heavenly sights and sounds. Then the earth for you is only a standing place—and whether to be like this is your loss or your gain I won’t pretend to say. But most of us are neither one nor the other. The earth for us is a place to live in, where we must put up with sights, with sounds, with smells, too, by Jove!—breathe dead hippo, so to speak, and not be contaminated. And there, don’t you see? Your strength comes in, the faith in your ability for the digging of unostentatious holes to bury the stuff in— your power of devotion, not to yourself, but to an obscure, back-breaking business. And that’s difficult enough. Mind, I am not trying to excuse or even explain—I am trying to account to myself for—for— Mr. Kurtz—for the shade of Mr. Kurtz. This initiated wraith from the back of Nowhere honoured me with its amazing confidence before it vanished altogether. This was because it could speak English to me. The original Kurtz had been educated partly in England, and—as he was good enough to say himself—his sympathies were in the right place. His mother was half-English, his father was half-French. All 82 Heart of Darkness Europe contributed to the making of Kurtz; and by and by I learned that, most appropriately, the International Society for the Suppression of Savage Customs had intrusted him with the making of a report, for its future guidance. And he had written it, too. I’ve seen it. I’ve read it. It was eloquent, vibrating with eloquence, but too high-strung, I think. Seventeen pages of close writing he had found time for! But this must have been before his—let us say—nerves, went wrong, and caused him to preside at certain midnight dances ending with unspeakable rites, which—as far as I reluctantly gathered from what I heard at various times— were offered up to him— do you understand?—to Mr. Kurtz himself. But it was a beautiful piece of writing. The opening paragraph, however, in the light of later information, strikes me now as ominous. He began with the argument that we whites, from the point of development we had arrived at, ‘must necessarily appear to them [savages] in the nature of supernatural beings— we approach them with the might of a deity,’ and so on, and so on. ‘By the simple exercise of our will we can exert a power for good practically unbounded,’ etc., etc. From that point he soared and took me with him. The peroration was magnificent, though difficult to remember, you know. It gave me the notion of an exotic Immensity ruled by an august Benevolence. It made me tingle with enthusiasm. This was the unbounded power of eloquence—of words—of burning noble words. There were no practical hints to interrupt the magic current of phrases, unless a kind of note at the foot of the last page, scrawled evidently much later, in an unsteady hand, may be regarded as the ex- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 83 position of a method. It was very simple, and at the end of that moving appeal to every altruistic sentiment it blazed at you, luminous and terrifying, like a flash of lightning in a serene sky: ‘Exterminate all the brutes!’ The curious part was that he had apparently forgotten all about that valuable postscriptum, because, later on, when he in a sense came to himself, he repeatedly entreated me to take good care of ‘my pamphlet’ (he called it), as it was sure to have in the future a good influence upon his career. I had full information about all these things, and, besides, as it turned out, I was to have the care of his memory. I’ve done enough for it to give me the indisputable right to lay it, if I choose, for an everlasting rest in the dust-bin of progress, amongst all the sweepings and, figuratively speaking, all the dead cats of civilization. But then, you see, I can’t choose. He won’t be forgotten. Whatever he was, he was not common. He had the power to charm or frighten rudimentary souls into an aggravated witch-dance in his honour; he could also fill the small souls of the pilgrims with bitter misgivings: he had one devoted friend at least, and he had conquered one soul in the world that was neither rudimentary nor tainted with self-seeking. No; I can’t forget him, though I am not prepared to affirm the fellow was exactly worth the life we lost in getting to him. I missed my late helmsman awfully— I missed him even while his body was still lying in the pilothouse. Perhaps you will think it passing strange this regret for a savage who was no more account than a grain of sand in a black Sahara. Well, don’t you see, he had done something, he had steered; for months I had him at my back— a 84 Heart of Darkness help—an instrument. It was a kind of partnership. He steered for me—I had to look after him, I worried about his deficiencies, and thus a subtle bond had been created, of which I only became aware when it was suddenly broken. And the intimate profundity of that look he gave me when he received his hurt remains to this day in my memory— like a claim of distant kinship affirmed in a supreme moment. ‘Poor fool! If he had only left that shutter alone. He had no restraint, no restraint—just like Kurtz—a tree swayed by the wind. As soon as I had put on a dry pair of slippers, I dragged him out, after first jerking the spear out of his side, which operation I confess I performed with my eyes shut tight. His heels leaped together over the little doorstep; his shoulders were pressed to my breast; I hugged him from behind desperately. Oh! he was heavy, heavy; heavier than any man on earth, I should imagine. Then without more ado I tipped him overboard. The current snatched him as though he had been a wisp of grass, and I saw the body roll over twice before I lost sight of it for ever. All the pilgrims and the manager were then congregated on the awning-deck about the pilot-house, chattering at each other like a flock of excited magpies, and there was a scandalized murmur at my heartless promptitude. What they wanted to keep that body hanging about for I can’t guess. Embalm it, maybe. But I had also heard another, and a very ominous, murmur on the deck below. My friends the wood-cutters were likewise scandalized, and with a better show of reason— though I admit that the reason itself was quite inadmissible. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 85 Oh, quite! I had made up my mind that if my late helmsman was to be eaten, the fishes alone should have him. He had been a very second-rate helmsman while alive, but now he was dead he might have become a first-class temptation, and possibly cause some startling trouble. Besides, I was anxious to take the wheel, the man in pink pyjamas showing himself a hopeless duffer at the business. ‘This I did directly the simple funeral was over. We were going half-speed, keeping right in the middle of the stream, and I listened to the talk about me. They had given up Kurtz, they had given up the station; Kurtz was dead, and the station had been burnt—and so on—and so on. The red-haired pilgrim was beside himself with the thought that at least this poor Kurtz had been properly avenged. ‘Say! We must have made a glorious slaughter of them in the bush. Eh? What do you think? Say?’ He positively danced, the bloodthirsty little gingery beggar. And he had nearly fainted when he saw the wounded man! I could not help saying, ‘You made a glorious lot of smoke, anyhow.’ I had seen, from the way the tops of the bushes rustled and flew, that almost all the shots had gone too high. You can’t hit anything unless you take aim and fire from the shoulder; but these chaps fired from the hip with their eyes shut. The retreat, I maintained—and I was right—was caused by the screeching of the steam whistle. Upon this they forgot Kurtz, and began to howl at me with indignant protests. ‘The manager stood by the wheel murmuring confidentially about the necessity of getting well away down the river before dark at all events, when I saw in the distance 86 Heart of Darkness a clearing on the riverside and the outlines of some sort of building. ‘What’s this?’ I asked. He clapped his hands in wonder. ‘The station!’ he cried. I edged in at once, still going half-speed. ‘Through my glasses I saw the slope of a hill interspersed with rare trees and perfectly free from undergrowth. A long decaying building on the summit was half buried in the high grass; the large holes in the peaked roof gaped black from afar; the jungle and the woods made a background. There was no enclosure or fence of any kind; but there had been one apparently, for near the house half-a-dozen slim posts remained in a row, roughly trimmed, and with their upper ends ornamented with round carved balls. The rails, or whatever there had been between, had disappeared. Of course the forest surrounded all that. The river-bank was clear, and on the waterside I saw a white man under a hat like a cart-wheel beckoning persistently with his whole arm. Examining the edge of the forest above and below, I was almost certain I could see movements—human forms gliding here and there. I steamed past prudently, then stopped the engines and let her drift down. The man on the shore began to shout, urging us to land. ‘We have been attacked,’ screamed the manager. ‘I know—I know. It’s all right,’ yelled back the other, as cheerful as you please. ‘Come along. It’s all right. I am glad.’ ‘His aspect reminded me of something I had seen— something funny I had seen somewhere. As I manoeuvred to get alongside, I was asking myself, ‘What does this fellow look like?’ Suddenly I got it. He looked like a harlequin. His Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 87 clothes had been made of some stuff that was brown holland probably, but it was covered with patches all over, with bright patches, blue, red, and yellow—patches on the back, patches on the front, patches on elbows, on knees; coloured binding around his jacket, scarlet edging at the bottom of his trousers; and the sunshine made him look extremely gay and wonderfully neat withal, because you could see how beautifully all this patching had been done. A beardless, boyish face, very fair, no features to speak of, nose peeling, little blue eyes, smiles and frowns chasing each other over that open countenance like sunshine and shadow on a wind-swept plain. ‘Look out, captain!’ he cried; ‘there’s a snag lodged in here last night.’ What! Another snag? I confess I swore shamefully. I had nearly holed my cripple, to finish off that charming trip. The harlequin on the bank turned his little pug-nose up to me. ‘You English?’ he asked, all smiles. ‘Are you?’ I shouted from the wheel. The smiles vanished, and he shook his head as if sorry for my disappointment. Then he brightened up. ‘Never mind!’ he cried encouragingly. ‘Are we in time?’ I asked. ‘He is up there,’ he replied, with a toss of the head up the hill, and becoming gloomy all of a sudden. His face was like the autumn sky, overcast one moment and bright the next. ‘When the manager, escorted by the pilgrims, all of them armed to the teeth, had gone to the house this chap came on board. ‘I say, I don’t like this. These natives are in the bush,’ I said. He assured me earnestly it was all right. ‘They are simple people,’ he added; ‘well, I am glad you came. It took me all my time to keep them off.’ ‘But you said it was all right,’ I 88 Heart of Darkness cried. ‘Oh, they meant no harm,’ he said; and as I stared he corrected himself, ‘Not exactly.’ Then vivaciously, ‘My faith, your pilot-house wants a clean-up!’ In the next breath he advised me to keep enough steam on the boiler to blow the whistle in case of any trouble. ‘One good screech will do more for you than all your rifles. They are simple people,’ he repeated. He rattled away at such a rate he quite overwhelmed me. He seemed to be trying to make up for lots of silence, and actually hinted, laughing, that such was the case. ‘Don’t you talk with Mr. Kurtz?’ I said. ‘You don’t talk with that man—you listen to him,’ he exclaimed with severe exaltation. ‘But now—’ He waved his arm, and in the twinkling of an eye was in the uttermost depths of despondency. In a moment he came up again with a jump, possessed himself of both my hands, shook them continuously, while he gabbled: ‘Brother sailor … honour … pleasure … delight … introduce myself … Russian … son of an arch-priest … Government of Tambov … What? Tobacco! English tobacco; the excellent English tobacco! Now, that’s brotherly. Smoke? Where’s a sailor that does not smoke?’ ‘The pipe soothed him, and gradually I made out he had run away from school, had gone to sea in a Russian ship; ran away again; served some time in English ships; was now reconciled with the arch-priest. He made a point of that. ‘But when one is young one must see things, gather experience, ideas; enlarge the mind.’ ‘Here!’ I interrupted. ‘You can never tell! Here I met Mr. Kurtz,’ he said, youthfully solemn and reproachful. I held my tongue after that. It appears he had persuaded a Dutch trading-house on the Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 89 coast to fit him out with stores and goods, and had started for the interior with a light heart and no more idea of what would happen to him than a baby. He had been wandering about that river for nearly two years alone, cut off from everybody and everything. ‘I am not so young as I look. I am twenty-five,’ he said. ‘At first old Van Shuyten would tell me to go to the devil,’ he narrated with keen enjoyment; ‘but I stuck to him, and talked and talked, till at last he got afraid I would talk the hind-leg off his favourite dog, so he gave me some cheap things and a few guns, and told me he hoped he would never see my face again. Good old Dutchman, Van Shuyten. I’ve sent him one small lot of ivory a year ago, so that he can’t call me a little thief when I get back. I hope he got it. And for the rest I don’t care. I had some wood stacked for you. That was my old house. Did you see?’ ‘I gave him Towson’s book. He made as though he would kiss me, but restrained himself. ‘The only book I had left, and I thought I had lost it,’ he said, looking at it ecstatically. ‘So many accidents happen to a man going about alone, you know. Canoes get upset sometimes—and sometimes you’ve got to clear out so quick when the people get angry.’ He thumbed the pages. ‘You made notes in Russian?’ I asked. He nodded. ‘I thought they were written in cipher,’ I said. He laughed, then became serious. ‘I had lots of trouble to keep these people off,’ he said. ‘Did they want to kill you?’ I asked. ‘Oh, no!’ he cried, and checked himself. ‘Why did they attack us?’ I pursued. He hesitated, then said shamefacedly, ‘They don’t want him to go.’ ‘Don’t they?’ I said curiously. He nodded a nod full of mystery and wisdom. 90 Heart of Darkness ‘I tell you,’ he cried, ‘this man has enlarged my mind.’ He opened his arms wide, staring at me with his little blue eyes that were perfectly round.’ Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 91 III ‘I looked at him, lost in astonishment. There he was before me, in motley, as though he had absconded from a troupe of mimes, enthusiastic, fabulous. His very existence was improbable, inexplicable, and altogether bewildering. He was an insoluble problem. It was inconceivable how he had existed, how he had succeeded in getting so far, how he had managed to remain— why he did not instantly disappear. ‘I went a little farther,’ he said, ‘then still a little farther—till I had gone so far that I don’t know how I’ll ever get back. Never mind. Plenty time. I can manage. You take Kurtz away quick—quick—I tell you.’ The glamour of youth enveloped his parti-coloured rags, his destitution, his loneliness, the essential desolation of his futile wanderings. For months—for years—his life hadn’t been worth a day’s purchase; and there he was gallantly, thoughtlessly alive, to all appearances indestructible solely by the virtue of his few years and of his unreflecting audacity. I was seduced into something like admiration— like envy. Glamour urged him on, glamour kept him unscathed. He surely wanted nothing from the wilderness but space to breathe in and to push on through. His need was to exist, and to move onwards at the greatest possible risk, and with a maximum of privation. If the absolutely pure, uncalculating, unpractical spirit of adventure had ever ruled a human being, it ruled 92 Heart of Darkness this bepatched youth. I almost envied him the possession of this modest and clear flame. It seemed to have consumed all thought of self so completely, that even while he was talking to you, you forgot that it was he— the man before your eyes—who had gone through these things. I did not envy him his devotion to Kurtz, though. He had not meditated over it. It came to him, and he accepted it with a sort of eager fatalism. I must say that to me it appeared about the most dangerous thing in every way he had come upon so far. ‘They had come together unavoidably, like two ships becalmed near each other, and lay rubbing sides at last. I suppose Kurtz wanted an audience, because on a certain occasion, when encamped in the forest, they had talked all night, or more probably Kurtz had talked. ‘We talked of everything,’ he said, quite transported at the recollection. ‘I forgot there was such a thing as sleep. The night did not seem to last an hour. Everything! Everything! … Of love, too.’ ‘Ah, he talked to you of love!’ I said, much amused. ‘It isn’t what you think,’ he cried, almost passionately. ‘It was in general. He made me see things—things.’ ‘He threw his arms up. We were on deck at the time, and the headman of my wood-cutters, lounging near by, turned upon him his heavy and glittering eyes. I looked around, and I don’t know why, but I assure you that never, never before, did this land, this river, this jungle, the very arch of this blazing sky, appear to me so hopeless and so dark, so impenetrable to human thought, so pitiless to human weakness. ‘And, ever since, you have been with him, of course?’ Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 93 I said. ‘On the contrary. It appears their intercourse had been very much broken by various causes. He had, as he informed me proudly, managed to nurse Kurtz through two illnesses (he alluded to it as you would to some risky feat), but as a rule Kurtz wandered alone, far in the depths of the forest. ‘Very often coming to this station, I had to wait days and days before he would turn up,’ he said. ‘Ah, it was worth waiting for!—sometimes.’ ‘What was he doing? exploring or what?’ I asked. ‘Oh, yes, of course’; he had discovered lots of villages, a lake, too—he did not know exactly in what direction; it was dangerous to inquire too much—but mostly his expeditions had been for ivory. ‘But he had no goods to trade with by that time,’ I objected. ‘There’s a good lot of cartridges left even yet,’ he answered, looking away. ‘To speak plainly, he raided the country,’ I said. He nodded. ‘Not alone, surely!’ He muttered something about the villages round that lake. ‘Kurtz got the tribe to follow him, did he?’ I suggested. He fidgeted a little. ‘They adored him,’ he said. The tone of these words was so extraordinary that I looked at him searchingly. It was curious to see his mingled eagerness and reluctance to speak of Kurtz. The man filled his life, occupied his thoughts, swayed his emotions. ‘What can you expect?’ he burst out; ‘he came to them with thunder and lightning, you know— and they had never seen anything like it—and very terrible. He could be very terrible. You can’t judge Mr. Kurtz as you would an ordinary man. No, no, no! Now—just to give you an idea— I don’t mind telling you, he wanted to shoot me, too, one 94 Heart of Darkness day— but I don’t judge him.’ ‘Shoot you!’ I cried ‘What for?’ ‘Well, I had a small lot of ivory the chief of that village near my house gave me. You see I used to shoot game for them. Well, he wanted it, and wouldn’t hear reason. He declared he would shoot me unless I gave him the ivory and then cleared out of the country, because he could do so, and had a fancy for it, and there was nothing on earth to prevent him killing whom he jolly well pleased. And it was true, too. I gave him the ivory. What did I care! But I didn’t clear out. No, no. I couldn’t leave him. I had to be careful, of course, till we got friendly again for a time. He had his second illness then. Afterwards I had to keep out of the way; but I didn’t mind. He was living for the most part in those villages on the lake. When he came down to the river, sometimes he would take to me, and sometimes it was better for me to be careful. This man suffered too much. He hated all this, and somehow he couldn’t get away. When I had a chance I begged him to try and leave while there was time; I offered to go back with him. And he would say yes, and then he would remain; go off on another ivory hunt; disappear for weeks; forget himself amongst these people— forget himself—you know.’ ‘Why! he’s mad,’ I said. He protested indignantly. Mr. Kurtz couldn’t be mad. If I had heard him talk, only two days ago, I wouldn’t dare hint at such a thing. … I had taken up my binoculars while we talked, and was looking at the shore, sweeping the limit of the forest at each side and at the back of the house. The consciousness of there being people in that bush, so silent, so quiet—as silent and quiet as the ruined house on the hill— made me uneasy. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 95 There was no sign on the face of nature of this amazing tale that was not so much told as suggested to me in desolate exclamations, completed by shrugs, in interrupted phrases, in hints ending in deep sighs. The woods were unmoved, like a mask—heavy, like the closed door of a prison—they looked with their air of hidden knowledge, of patient expectation, of unapproachable silence. The Russian was explaining to me that it was only lately that Mr. Kurtz had come down to the river, bringing along with him all the fighting men of that lake tribe. He had been absent for several months— getting himself adored, I suppose— and had come down unexpectedly, with the intention to all appearance of making a raid either across the river or down stream. Evidently the appetite for more ivory had got the better of the— what shall I say?—less material aspirations. However he had got much worse suddenly. ‘I heard he was lying helpless, and so I came up—took my chance,’ said the Russian. ‘Oh, he is bad, very bad.’ I directed my glass to the house. There were no signs of life, but there was the ruined roof, the long mud wall peeping above the grass, with three little square window-holes, no two of the same size; all this brought within reach of my hand, as it were. And then I made a brusque movement, and one of the remaining posts of that vanished fence leaped up in the field of my glass. You remember I told you I had been struck at the distance by certain attempts at ornamentation, rather remarkable in the ruinous aspect of the place. Now I had suddenly a nearer view, and its first result was to make me throw my head back as if before a blow. Then I went carefully from post to post with my glass, and 96 Heart of Darkness I saw my mistake. These round knobs were not ornamental but symbolic; they were expressive and puzzling, striking and disturbing— food for thought and also for vultures if there had been any looking down from the sky; but at all events for such ants as were industrious enough to ascend the pole. They would have been even more impressive, those heads on the stakes, if their faces had not been turned to the house. Only one, the first I had made out, was facing my way. I was not so shocked as you may think. The start back I had given was really nothing but a movement of surprise. I had expected to see a knob of wood there, you know. I returned deliberately to the first I had seen—and there it was, black, dried, sunken, with closed eyelids—a head that seemed to sleep at the top of that pole, and, with the shrunken dry lips showing a narrow white line of the teeth, was smiling, too, smiling continuously at some endless and jocose dream of that eternal slumber. ‘I am not disclosing any trade secrets. In fact, the manager said afterwards that Mr. Kurtz’s methods had ruined the district. I have no opinion on that point, but I want you clearly to understand that there was nothing exactly profitable in these heads being there. They only showed that Mr. Kurtz lacked restraint in the gratification of his various lusts, that there was something wanting in him— some small matter which, when the pressing need arose, could not be found under his magnificent eloquence. Whether he knew of this deficiency himself I can’t say. I think the knowledge came to him at last—only at the very last. But the wilderness had found him out early, and had taken on Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 97 him a terrible vengeance for the fantastic invasion. I think it had whispered to him things about himself which he did not know, things of which he had no conception till he took counsel with this great solitude—and the whisper had proved irresistibly fascinating. It echoed loudly within him because he was hollow at the core…. I put down the glass, and the head that had appeared near enough to be spoken to seemed at once to have leaped away from me into inaccessible distance. ‘The admirer of Mr. Kurtz was a bit crestfallen. In a hurried, indistinct voice he began to assure me he had not dared to take these—say, symbols—down. He was not afraid of the natives; they would not stir till Mr. Kurtz gave the word. His ascendancy was extraordinary. The camps of these people surrounded the place, and the chiefs came every day to see him. They would crawl…. ‘I don’t want to know anything of the ceremonies used when approaching Mr. Kurtz,’ I shouted. Curious, this feeling that came over me that such details would be more intolerable than those heads drying on the stakes under Mr. Kurtz’s windows. After all, that was only a savage sight, while I seemed at one bound to have been transported into some lightless region of subtle horrors, where pure, uncomplicated savagery was a positive relief, being something that had a right to exist— obviously—in the sunshine. The young man looked at me with surprise. I suppose it did not occur to him that Mr. Kurtz was no idol of mine. He forgot I hadn’t heard any of these splendid monologues on, what was it? on love, justice, conduct of life—or what not. If it had come to crawling be- 98 Heart of Darkness fore Mr. Kurtz, he crawled as much as the veriest savage of them all. I had no idea of the conditions, he said: these heads were the heads of rebels. I shocked him excessively by laughing. Rebels! What would be the next definition I was to hear? There had been enemies, criminals, workers—and these were rebels. Those rebellious heads looked very subdued to me on their sticks. ‘You don’t know how such a life tries a man like Kurtz,’ cried Kurtz’s last disciple. ‘Well, and you?’ I said. ‘I! I! I am a simple man. I have no great thoughts. I want nothing from anybody. How can you compare me to … ?’ His feelings were too much for speech, and suddenly he broke down. ‘I don’t understand,’ he groaned. ‘I’ve been doing my best to keep him alive, and that’s enough. I had no hand in all this. I have no abilities. There hasn’t been a drop of medicine or a mouthful of invalid food for months here. He was shamefully abandoned. A man like this, with such ideas. Shamefully! Shamefully! I—I— haven’t slept for the last ten nights …’ ‘His voice lost itself in the calm of the evening. The long shadows of the forest had slipped downhill while we talked, had gone far beyond the ruined hovel, beyond the symbolic row of stakes. All this was in the gloom, while we down there were yet in the sunshine, and the stretch of the river abreast of the clearing glittered in a still and dazzling splendour, with a murky and overshadowed bend above and below. Not a living soul was seen on the shore. The bushes did not rustle. ‘Suddenly round the corner of the house a group of men appeared, as though they had come up from the ground. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 99 They waded waist-deep in the grass, in a compact body, bearing an improvised stretcher in their midst. Instantly, in the emptiness of the landscape, a cry arose whose shrillness pierced the still air like a sharp arrow flying straight to the very heart of the land; and, as if by enchantment, streams of human beings—of naked human beings—with spears in their hands, with bows, with shields, with wild glances and savage movements, were poured into the clearing by the dark-faced and pensive forest. The bushes shook, the grass swayed for a time, and then everything stood still in attentive immobility. ‘Now, if he does not say the right thing to them we are all done for,’ said the Russian at my elbow. The knot of men with the stretcher had stopped, too, halfway to the steamer, as if petrified. I saw the man on the stretcher sit up, lank and with an uplifted arm, above the shoulders of the bearers. ‘Let us hope that the man who can talk so well of love in general will find some particular reason to spare us this time,’ I said. I resented bitterly the absurd danger of our situation, as if to be at the mercy of that atrocious phantom had been a dishonouring necessity. I could not hear a sound, but through my glasses I saw the thin arm extended commandingly, the lower jaw moving, the eyes of that apparition shining darkly far in its bony head that nodded with grotesque jerks. Kurtz—Kurtz—that means short in German—don’t it? Well, the name was as true as everything else in his life— and death. He looked at least seven feet long. His covering had fallen off, and his body emerged from it pitiful and appalling as from a winding-sheet. I could see 100 Heart of Darkness the cage of his ribs all astir, the bones of his arm waving. It was as though an animated image of death carved out of old ivory had been shaking its hand with menaces at a motionless crowd of men made of dark and glittering bronze. I saw him open his mouth wide—it gave him a weirdly voracious aspect, as though he had wanted to swallow all the air, all the earth, all the men before him. A deep voice reached me faintly. He must have been shouting. He fell back suddenly. The stretcher shook as the bearers staggered forward again, and almost at the same time I noticed that the crowd of savages was vanishing without any perceptible movement of retreat, as if the forest that had ejected these beings so suddenly had drawn them in again as the breath is drawn in a long aspiration. ‘Some of the pilgrims behind the stretcher carried his arms— two shot-guns, a heavy rifle, and a light revolver-carbine— the thunderbolts of that pitiful Jupiter. The manager bent over him murmuring as he walked beside his head. They laid him down in one of the little cabins—just a room for a bed place and a camp-stool or two, you know. We had brought his belated correspondence, and a lot of torn envelopes and open letters littered his bed. His hand roamed feebly amongst these papers. I was struck by the fire of his eyes and the composed languor of his expression. It was not so much the exhaustion of disease. He did not seem in pain. This shadow looked satiated and calm, as though for the moment it had had its fill of all the emotions. ‘He rustled one of the letters, and looking straight in my face said, ‘I am glad.’ Somebody had been writing to him Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 101 about me. These special recommendations were turning up again. The volume of tone he emitted without effort, almost without the trouble of moving his lips, amazed me. A voice! a voice! It was grave, profound, vibrating, while the man did not seem capable of a whisper. However, he had enough strength in him— factitious no doubt—to very nearly make an end of us, as you shall hear directly. ‘The manager appeared silently in the doorway; I stepped out at once and he drew the curtain after me. The Russian, eyed curiously by the pilgrims, was staring at the shore. I followed the direction of his glance. ‘Dark human shapes could be made out in the distance, flitting indistinctly against the gloomy border of the forest, and near the river two bronze figures, leaning on tall spears, stood in the sunlight under fantastic head-dresses of spotted skins, warlike and still in statuesque repose. And from right to left along the lighted shore moved a wild and gorgeous apparition of a woman. ‘She walked with measured steps, draped in striped and fringed cloths, treading the earth proudly, with a slight jingle and flash of barbarous ornaments. She carried her head high; her hair was done in the shape of a helmet; she had brass leggings to the knee, brass wire gauntlets to the elbow, a crimson spot on her tawny cheek, innumerable necklaces of glass beads on her neck; bizarre things, charms, gifts of witch-men, that hung about her, glittered and trembled at every step. She must have had the value of several elephant tusks upon her. She was savage and superb, wild-eyed and magnificent; there was something ominous and stately in 102 Heart of Darkness her deliberate progress. And in the hush that had fallen suddenly upon the whole sorrowful land, the immense wilderness, the colossal body of the fecund and mysterious life seemed to look at her, pensive, as though it had been looking at the image of its own tenebrous and passionate soul. ‘She came abreast of the steamer, stood still, and faced us. Her long shadow fell to the water’s edge. Her face had a tragic and fierce aspect of wild sorrow and of dumb pain mingled with the fear of some struggling, half-shaped resolve. She stood looking at us without a stir, and like the wilderness itself, with an air of brooding over an inscrutable purpose. A whole minute passed, and then she made a step forward. There was a low jingle, a glint of yellow metal, a sway of fringed draperies, and she stopped as if her heart had failed her. The young fellow by my side growled. The pilgrims murmured at my back. She looked at us all as if her life had depended upon the unswerving steadiness of her glance. Suddenly she opened her bared arms and threw them up rigid above her head, as though in an uncontrollable desire to touch the sky, and at the same time the swift shadows darted out on the earth, swept around on the river, gathering the steamer into a shadowy embrace. A formidable silence hung over the scene. ‘She turned away slowly, walked on, following the bank, and passed into the bushes to the left. Once only her eyes gleamed back at us in the dusk of the thickets before she disappeared. ‘If she had offered to come aboard I really think I would have tried to shoot her,’ said the man of patches, nervously. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 103 ‘I have been risking my life every day for the last fortnight to keep her out of the house. She got in one day and kicked up a row about those miserable rags I picked up in the storeroom to mend my clothes with. I wasn’t decent. At least it must have been that, for she talked like a fury to Kurtz for an hour, pointing at me now and then. I don’t understand the dialect of this tribe. Luckily for me, I fancy Kurtz felt too ill that day to care, or there would have been mischief. I don’t understand…. No—it’s too much for me. Ah, well, it’s all over now.’ ‘At this moment I heard Kurtz’s deep voice behind the curtain: ‘Save me!—save the ivory, you mean. Don’t tell me. Save ME! Why, I’ve had to save you. You are interrupting my plans now. Sick! Sick! Not so sick as you would like to believe. Never mind. I’ll carry my ideas out yet—I will return. I’ll show you what can be done. You with your little peddling notions—you are interfering with me. I will return. I….’ ‘The manager came out. He did me the honour to take me under the arm and lead me aside. ‘He is very low, very low,’ he said. He considered it necessary to sigh, but neglected to be consistently sorrowful. ‘We have done all we could for him—haven’t we? But there is no disguising the fact, Mr. Kurtz has done more harm than good to the Company. He did not see the time was not ripe for vigorous action. Cautiously, cautiously—that’s my principle. We must be cautious yet. The district is closed to us for a time. Deplorable! Upon the whole, the trade will suffer. I don’t deny there is a remarkable quantity of ivory—mostly fossil. We must save it, 104 Heart of Darkness at all events—but look how precarious the position is—and why? Because the method is unsound.’ ‘Do you,’ said I, looking at the shore, ‘call it ‘unsound method?‘ ‘Without doubt,’ he exclaimed hotly. ‘Don’t you?’ … ‘No method at all,’ I murmured after a while. ‘Exactly,’ he exulted. ‘I anticipated this. Shows a complete want of judgment. It is my duty to point it out in the proper quarter.’ ‘Oh,’ said I, ‘that fellow— what’s his name?—the brickmaker, will make a readable report for you.’ He appeared confounded for a moment. It seemed to me I had never breathed an atmosphere so vile, and I turned mentally to Kurtz for relief—positively for relief. ‘Nevertheless I think Mr. Kurtz is a remarkable man,’ I said with emphasis. He started, dropped on me a heavy glance, said very quietly, ‘he WAS,’ and turned his back on me. My hour of favour was over; I found myself lumped along with Kurtz as a partisan of methods for which the time was not ripe: I was unsound! Ah! but it was something to have at least a choice of nightmares. ‘I had turned to the wilderness really, not to Mr. Kurtz, who, I was ready to admit, was as good as buried. And for a moment it seemed to me as if I also were buried in a vast grave full of unspeakable secrets. I felt an intolerable weight oppressing my breast, the smell of the damp earth, the unseen presence of victorious corruption, the darkness of an impenetrable night…. The Russian tapped me on the shoulder. I heard him mumbling and stammering something about ‘brother seaman—couldn’t conceal— knowledge of matters that would affect Mr. Kurtz’s reputation.’ I waited. For him evidently Mr. Kurtz was not in his grave; I suspect Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 105 that for him Mr. Kurtz was one of the immortals. ‘Well!’ said I at last, ‘speak out. As it happens, I am Mr. Kurtz’s friend—in a way.’ ‘He stated with a good deal of formality that had we not been ‘of the same profession,’ he would have kept the matter to himself without regard to consequences. ‘He suspected there was an active ill-will towards him on the part of these white men that—’ ‘You are right,’ I said, remembering a certain conversation I had overheard. ‘The manager thinks you ought to be hanged.’ He showed a concern at this intelligence which amused me at first. ‘I had better get out of the way quietly,’ he said earnestly. ‘I can do no more for Kurtz now, and they would soon find some excuse. What’s to stop them? There’s a military post three hundred miles from here.’ ‘Well, upon my word,’ said I, ‘perhaps you had better go if you have any friends amongst the savages near by.’ ‘Plenty,’ he said. ‘They are simple people—and I want nothing, you know.’ He stood biting his lip, then: ‘I don’t want any harm to happen to these whites here, but of course I was thinking of Mr. Kurtz’s reputation—but you are a brother seaman and—’ ‘All right,’ said I, after a time. ‘Mr. Kurtz’s reputation is safe with me.’ I did not know how truly I spoke. ‘He informed me, lowering his voice, that it was Kurtz who had ordered the attack to be made on the steamer. ‘He hated sometimes the idea of being taken away—and then again…. But I don’t understand these matters. I am a simple man. He thought it would scare you away—that you would give it up, thinking him dead. I could not stop him. Oh, I had an awful time of it this last month.’ ‘Very well,’ I said. 106 Heart of Darkness ‘He is all right now.’ ‘Ye-e-es,’ he muttered, not very convinced apparently. ‘Thanks,’ said I; ‘I shall keep my eyes open.’ ‘But quiet-eh?’ he urged anxiously. ‘It would be awful for his reputation if anybody here—’ I promised a complete discretion with great gravity. ‘I have a canoe and three black fellows waiting not very far. I am off. Could you give me a few Martini-Henry cartridges?’ I could, and did, with proper secrecy. He helped himself, with a wink at me, to a handful of my tobacco. ‘Between sailors—you know—good English tobacco.’ At the door of the pilot-house he turned round—‘I say, haven’t you a pair of shoes you could spare?’ He raised one leg. ‘Look.’ The soles were tied with knotted strings sandalwise under his bare feet. I rooted out an old pair, at which he looked with admiration before tucking it under his left arm. One of his pockets (bright red) was bulging with cartridges, from the other (dark blue) peeped ‘Towson’s Inquiry,’ etc., etc. He seemed to think himself excellently well equipped for a renewed encounter with the wilderness. ‘Ah! I’ll never, never meet such a man again. You ought to have heard him recite poetry— his own, too, it was, he told me. Poetry!’ He rolled his eyes at the recollection of these delights. ‘Oh, he enlarged my mind!’ ‘Good-bye,’ said I. He shook hands and vanished in the night. Sometimes I ask myself whether I had ever really seen him— whether it was possible to meet such a phenomenon! … ‘When I woke up shortly after midnight his warning came to my mind with its hint of danger that seemed, in the starred darkness, real enough to make me get up for the purpose of having a look round. On the hill a big fire burned, Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 107 illuminating fitfully a crooked corner of the station-house. One of the agents with a picket of a few of our blacks, armed for the purpose, was keeping guard over the ivory; but deep within the forest, red gleams that wavered, that seemed to sink and rise from the ground amongst confused columnar shapes of intense blackness, showed the exact position of the camp where Mr. Kurtz’s adorers were keeping their uneasy vigil. The monotonous beating of a big drum filled the air with muffled shocks and a lingering vibration. A steady droning sound of many men chanting each to himself some weird incantation came out from the black, flat wall of the woods as the humming of bees comes out of a hive, and had a strange narcotic effect upon my half-awake senses. I believe I dozed off leaning over the rail, till an abrupt burst of yells, an overwhelming outbreak of a pent-up and mysterious frenzy, woke me up in a bewildered wonder. It was cut short all at once, and the low droning went on with an effect of audible and soothing silence. I glanced casually into the little cabin. A light was burning within, but Mr. Kurtz was not there. ‘I think I would have raised an outcry if I had believed my eyes. But I didn’t believe them at first—the thing seemed so impossible. The fact is I was completely unnerved by a sheer blank fright, pure abstract terror, unconnected with any distinct shape of physical danger. What made this emotion so overpowering was— how shall I define it?—the moral shock I received, as if something altogether monstrous, intolerable to thought and odious to the soul, had been thrust upon me unexpectedly. This lasted of course the merest 108 Heart of Darkness fraction of a second, and then the usual sense of commonplace, deadly danger, the possibility of a sudden onslaught and massacre, or something of the kind, which I saw impending, was positively welcome and composing. It pacified me, in fact, so much that I did not raise an alarm. ‘There was an agent buttoned up inside an ulster and sleeping on a chair on deck within three feet of me. The yells had not awakened him; he snored very slightly; I left him to his slumbers and leaped ashore. I did not betray Mr. Kurtz—it was ordered I should never betray him— it was written I should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice. I was anxious to deal with this shadow by myself alone—and to this day I don’t know why I was so jealous of sharing with any one the peculiar blackness of that experience. ‘As soon as I got on the bank I saw a trail—a broad trail through the grass. I remember the exultation with which I said to myself, ‘He can’t walk—he is crawling on all-fours— I’ve got him.’ The grass was wet with dew. I strode rapidly with clenched fists. I fancy I had some vague notion of falling upon him and giving him a drubbing. I don’t know. I had some imbecile thoughts. The knitting old woman with the cat obtruded herself upon my memory as a most improper person to be sitting at the other end of such an affair. I saw a row of pilgrims squirting lead in the air out of Winchesters held to the hip. I thought I would never get back to the steamer, and imagined myself living alone and unarmed in the woods to an advanced age. Such silly things—you know. And I remember I confounded the beat of the drum with the beating of my heart, and was pleased at its calm Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 109 regularity. ‘I kept to the track though—then stopped to listen. The night was very clear; a dark blue space, sparkling with dew and starlight, in which black things stood very still. I thought I could see a kind of motion ahead of me. I was strangely cocksure of everything that night. I actually left the track and ran in a wide semicircle (I verily believe chuckling to myself) so as to get in front of that stir, of that motion I had seen—if indeed I had seen anything. I was circumventing Kurtz as though it had been a boyish game. ‘I came upon him, and, if he had not heard me coming, I would have fallen over him, too, but he got up in time. He rose, unsteady, long, pale, indistinct, like a vapour exhaled by the earth, and swayed slightly, misty and silent before me; while at my back the fires loomed between the trees, and the murmur of many voices issued from the forest. I had cut him off cleverly; but when actually confronting him I seemed to come to my senses, I saw the danger in its right proportion. It was by no means over yet. Suppose he began to shout? Though he could hardly stand, there was still plenty of vigour in his voice. ‘Go away—hide yourself,’ he said, in that profound tone. It was very awful. I glanced back. We were within thirty yards from the nearest fire. A black figure stood up, strode on long black legs, waving long black arms, across the glow. It had horns—antelope horns, I think—on its head. Some sorcerer, some witch-man, no doubt: it looked fiendlike enough. ‘Do you know what you are doing?’ I whispered. ‘Perfectly,’ he answered, raising his voice for that single word: it sounded to me far off and yet 110 Heart of Darkness loud, like a hail through a speaking-trumpet. ‘If he makes a row we are lost,’ I thought to myself. This clearly was not a case for fisticuffs, even apart from the very natural aversion I had to beat that Shadow—this wandering and tormented thing. ‘You will be lost,’ I said—’utterly lost.’ One gets sometimes such a flash of inspiration, you know. I did say the right thing, though indeed he could not have been more irretrievably lost than he was at this very moment, when the foundations of our intimacy were being laid—to endure— to endure—even to the end—even beyond. ‘I had immense plans,’ he muttered irresolutely. ‘Yes,’ said I; ‘but if you try to shout I’ll smash your head with—’ There was not a stick or a stone near. ‘I will throttle you for good,’ I corrected myself. ‘I was on the threshold of great things,’ he pleaded, in a voice of longing, with a wistfulness of tone that made my blood run cold. ‘And now for this stupid scoundrel—’ ‘Your success in Europe is assured in any case,’ I affirmed steadily. I did not want to have the throttling of him, you understand—and indeed it would have been very little use for any practical purpose. I tried to break the spell—the heavy, mute spell of the wilderness— that seemed to draw him to its pitiless breast by the awakening of forgotten and brutal instincts, by the memory of gratified and monstrous passions. This alone, I was convinced, had driven him out to the edge of the forest, to the bush, towards the gleam of fires, the throb of drums, the drone of weird incantations; this alone had beguiled his unlawful soul beyond the bounds of permitted aspirations. And, don’t you see, the terror of the position was not in being knocked on Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 111 the head— though I had a very lively sense of that danger, too—but in this, that I had to deal with a being to whom I could not appeal in the name of anything high or low. I had, even like the niggers, to invoke him—himself—his own exalted and incredible degradation. There was nothing either above or below him, and I knew it. He had kicked himself loose of the earth. Confound the man! he had kicked the very earth to pieces. He was alone, and I before him did not know whether I stood on the ground or floated in the air. I’ve been telling you what we said— repeating the phrases we pronounced—but what’s the good? They were common everyday words—the familiar, vague sounds exchanged on every waking day of life. But what of that? They had behind them, to my mind, the terrific suggestiveness of words heard in dreams, of phrases spoken in nightmares. Soul! If anybody ever struggled with a soul, I am the man. And I wasn’t arguing with a lunatic either. Believe me or not, his intelligence was perfectly clear—concentrated, it is true, upon himself with horrible intensity, yet clear; and therein was my only chance—barring, of course, the killing him there and then, which wasn’t so good, on account of unavoidable noise. But his soul was mad. Being alone in the wilderness, it had looked within itself, and, by heavens! I tell you, it had gone mad. I had—for my sins, I suppose—to go through the ordeal of looking into it myself. No eloquence could have been so withering to one’s belief in mankind as his final burst of sincerity. He struggled with himself, too. I saw it—I heard it. I saw the inconceivable mystery of a soul that knew no restraint, no faith, and no fear, yet struggling 112 Heart of Darkness blindly with itself. I kept my head pretty well; but when I had him at last stretched on the couch, I wiped my forehead, while my legs shook under me as though I had carried half a ton on my back down that hill. And yet I had only supported him, his bony arm clasped round my neck—and he was not much heavier than a child. ‘When next day we left at noon, the crowd, of whose presence behind the curtain of trees I had been acutely conscious all the time, flowed out of the woods again, filled the clearing, covered the slope with a mass of naked, breathing, quivering, bronze bodies. I steamed up a bit, then swung down stream, and two thousand eyes followed the evolutions of the splashing, thumping, fierce river-demon beating the water with its terrible tail and breathing black smoke into the air. In front of the first rank, along the river, three men, plastered with bright red earth from head to foot, strutted to and fro restlessly. When we came abreast again, they faced the river, stamped their feet, nodded their horned heads, swayed their scarlet bodies; they shook towards the fierce river-demon a bunch of black feathers, a mangy skin with a pendent tail—something that looked a dried gourd; they shouted periodically together strings of amazing words that resembled no sounds of human language; and the deep murmurs of the crowd, interrupted suddenly, were like the responses of some satanic litany. ‘We had carried Kurtz into the pilot-house: there was more air there. Lying on the couch, he stared through the open shutter. There was an eddy in the mass of human bodies, and the woman with helmeted head and tawny cheeks Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 113 rushed out to the very brink of the stream. She put out her hands, shouted something, and all that wild mob took up the shout in a roaring chorus of articulated, rapid, breathless utterance. ‘Do you understand this?’ I asked. ‘He kept on looking out past me with fiery, longing eyes, with a mingled expression of wistfulness and hate. He made no answer, but I saw a smile, a smile of indefinable meaning, appear on his colourless lips that a moment after twitched convulsively. ‘Do I not?’ he said slowly, gasping, as if the words had been torn out of him by a supernatural power. ‘I pulled the string of the whistle, and I did this because I saw the pilgrims on deck getting out their rifles with an air of anticipating a jolly lark. At the sudden screech there was a movement of abject terror through that wedged mass of bodies. ‘Don’t! don’t you frighten them away,’ cried some one on deck disconsolately. I pulled the string time after time. They broke and ran, they leaped, they crouched, they swerved, they dodged the flying terror of the sound. The three red chaps had fallen flat, face down on the shore, as though they had been shot dead. Only the barbarous and superb woman did not so much as flinch, and stretched tragically her bare arms after us over the sombre and glittering river. ‘And then that imbecile crowd down on the deck started their little fun, and I could see nothing more for smoke. ‘The brown current ran swiftly out of the heart of darkness, bearing us down towards the sea with twice the speed of our upward progress; and Kurtz’s life was running swiftly, 114 Heart of Darkness too, ebbing, ebbing out of his heart into the sea of inexorable time. The manager was very placid, he had no vital anxieties now, he took us both in with a comprehensive and satisfied glance: the ‘affair’ had come off as well as could be wished. I saw the time approaching when I would be left alone of the party of ‘unsound method.’ The pilgrims looked upon me with disfavour. I was, so to speak, numbered with the dead. It is strange how I accepted this unforeseen partnership, this choice of nightmares forced upon me in the tenebrous land invaded by these mean and greedy phantoms. ‘Kurtz discoursed. A voice! a voice! It rang deep to the very last. It survived his strength to hide in the magnificent folds of eloquence the barren darkness of his heart. Oh, he struggled! he struggled! The wastes of his weary brain were haunted by shadowy images now—images of wealth and fame revolving obsequiously round his unextinguishable gift of noble and lofty expression. My Intended, my station, my career, my ideas— these were the subjects for the occasional utterances of elevated sentiments. The shade of the original Kurtz frequented the bedside of the hollow sham, whose fate it was to be buried presently in the mould of primeval earth. But both the diabolic love and the unearthly hate of the mysteries it had penetrated fought for the possession of that soul satiated with primitive emotions, avid of lying fame, of sham distinction, of all the appearances of success and power. ‘Sometimes he was contemptibly childish. He desired to have kings meet him at railway-stations on his return from some ghastly Nowhere, where he intended to accomplish Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 115 great things. ‘You show them you have in you something that is really profitable, and then there will be no limits to the recognition of your ability,’ he would say. ‘Of course you must take care of the motives— right motives—always.’ The long reaches that were like one and the same reach, monotonous bends that were exactly alike, slipped past the steamer with their multitude of secular trees looking patiently after this grimy fragment of another world, the forerunner of change, of conquest, of trade, of massacres, of blessings. I looked ahead—piloting. ‘Close the shutter,’ said Kurtz suddenly one day; ‘I can’t bear to look at this.’ I did so. There was a silence. ‘Oh, but I will wring your heart yet!’ he cried at the invisible wilderness. ‘We broke down—as I had expected—and had to lie up for repairs at the head of an island. This delay was the first thing that shook Kurtz’s confidence. One morning he gave me a packet of papers and a photograph— the lot tied together with a shoe-string. ‘Keep this for me,’ he said. ‘This noxious fool’ (meaning the manager) ‘is capable of prying into my boxes when I am not looking.’ In the afternoon I saw him. He was lying on his back with closed eyes, and I withdrew quietly, but I heard him mutter, ‘Live rightly, die, die …’ I listened. There was nothing more. Was he rehearsing some speech in his sleep, or was it a fragment of a phrase from some newspaper article? He had been writing for the papers and meant to do so again, ‘for the furthering of my ideas. It’s a duty.’ ‘His was an impenetrable darkness. I looked at him as you peer down at a man who is lying at the bottom of a prec- 116 Heart of Darkness ipice where the sun never shines. But I had not much time to give him, because I was helping the engine-driver to take to pieces the leaky cylinders, to straighten a bent connecting-rod, and in other such matters. I lived in an infernal mess of rust, filings, nuts, bolts, spanners, hammers, ratchet-drills—things I abominate, because I don’t get on with them. I tended the little forge we fortunately had aboard; I toiled wearily in a wretched scrap-heap—unless I had the shakes too bad to stand. ‘One evening coming in with a candle I was startled to hear him say a little tremulously, ‘I am lying here in the dark waiting for death.’ The light was within a foot of his eyes. I forced myself to murmur, ‘Oh, nonsense!’ and stood over him as if transfixed. ‘Anything approaching the change that came over his features I have never seen before, and hope never to see again. Oh, I wasn’t touched. I was fascinated. It was as though a veil had been rent. I saw on that ivory face the expression of sombre pride, of ruthless power, of craven terror—of an intense and hopeless despair. Did he live his life again in every detail of desire, temptation, and surrender during that supreme moment of complete knowledge? He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision—he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath: ‘The horror! The horror!’ ‘I blew the candle out and left the cabin. The pilgrims were dining in the mess-room, and I took my place opposite Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 117 the manager, who lifted his eyes to give me a questioning glance, which I successfully ignored. He leaned back, serene, with that peculiar smile of his sealing the unexpressed depths of his meanness. A continuous shower of small flies streamed upon the lamp, upon the cloth, upon our hands and faces. Suddenly the manager’s boy put his insolent black head in the doorway, and said in a tone of scathing contempt: ‘Mistah Kurtz—he dead.’ ‘All the pilgrims rushed out to see. I remained, and went on with my dinner. I believe I was considered brutally callous. However, I did not eat much. There was a lamp in there—light, don’t you know—and outside it was so beastly, beastly dark. I went no more near the remarkable man who had pronounced a judgment upon the adventures of his soul on this earth. The voice was gone. What else had been there? But I am of course aware that next day the pilgrims buried something in a muddy hole. ‘And then they very nearly buried me. ‘However, as you see, I did not go to join Kurtz there and then. I did not. I remained to dream the nightmare out to the end, and to show my loyalty to Kurtz once more. Destiny. My destiny! Droll thing life is— that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose. The most you can hope from it is some knowledge of yourself— that comes too late—a crop of unextinguishable regrets. I have wrestled with death. It is the most unexciting contest you can imagine. It takes place in an impalpable greyness, with nothing underfoot, with nothing around, without 118 Heart of Darkness spectators, without clamour, without glory, without the great desire of victory, without the great fear of defeat, in a sickly atmosphere of tepid scepticism, without much belief in your own right, and still less in that of your adversary. If such is the form of ultimate wisdom, then life is a greater riddle than some of us think it to be. I was within a hair’s breadth of the last opportunity for pronouncement, and I found with humiliation that probably I would have nothing to say. This is the reason why I affirm that Kurtz was a remarkable man. He had something to say. He said it. Since I had peeped over the edge myself, I understand better the meaning of his stare, that could not see the flame of the candle, but was wide enough to embrace the whole universe, piercing enough to penetrate all the hearts that beat in the darkness. He had summed up—he had judged. ‘The horror!’ He was a remarkable man. After all, this was the expression of some sort of belief; it had candour, it had conviction, it had a vibrating note of revolt in its whisper, it had the appalling face of a glimpsed truth—the strange commingling of desire and hate. And it is not my own extremity I remember best— a vision of greyness without form filled with physical pain, and a careless contempt for the evanescence of all things—even of this pain itself. No! It is his extremity that I seem to have lived through. True, he had made that last stride, he had stepped over the edge, while I had been permitted to draw back my hesitating foot. And perhaps in this is the whole difference; perhaps all the wisdom, and all truth, and all sincerity, are just compressed into that inappreciable moment of time in which we step Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 119 over the threshold of the invisible. Perhaps! I like to think my summing-up would not have been a word of careless contempt. Better his cry—much better. It was an affirmation, a moral victory paid for by innumerable defeats, by abominable terrors, by abominable satisfactions. But it was a victory! That is why I have remained loyal to Kurtz to the last, and even beyond, when a long time after I heard once more, not his own voice, but the echo of his magnificent eloquence thrown to me from a soul as translucently pure as a cliff of crystal. ‘No, they did not bury me, though there is a period of time which I remember mistily, with a shuddering wonder, like a passage through some inconceivable world that had no hope in it and no desire. I found myself back in the sepulchral city resenting the sight of people hurrying through the streets to filch a little money from each other, to devour their infamous cookery, to gulp their unwholesome beer, to dream their insignificant and silly dreams. They trespassed upon my thoughts. They were intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an irritating pretence, because I felt so sure they could not possibly know the things I knew. Their bearing, which was simply the bearing of commonplace individuals going about their business in the assurance of perfect safety, was offensive to me like the outrageous flauntings of folly in the face of a danger it is unable to comprehend. I had no particular desire to enlighten them, but I had some difficulty in restraining myself from laughing in their faces so full of stupid importance. I dareway I was not very well at that time. I tottered about 120 Heart of Darkness the streets—there were various affairs to settle—grinning bitterly at perfectly respectable persons. I admit my behaviour was inexcusable, but then my temperature was seldom normal in these days. My dear aunt’s endeavours to ‘nurse up my strength’ seemed altogether beside the mark. It was not my strength that wanted nursing, it was my imagination that wanted soothing. I kept the bundle of papers given me by Kurtz, not knowing exactly what to do with it. His mother had died lately, watched over, as I was told, by his Intended. A clean-shaved man, with an official manner and wearing gold-rimmed spectacles, called on me one day and made inquiries, at first circuitous, afterwards suavely pressing, about what he was pleased to denominate certain ‘documents.’ I was not surprised, because I had had two rows with the manager on the subject out there. I had refused to give up the smallest scrap out of that package, and I took the same attitude with the spectacled man. He became darkly menacing at last, and with much heat argued that the Company had the right to every bit of information about its ‘territories.’ And said he, ‘Mr. Kurtz’s knowledge of unexplored regions must have been necessarily extensive and peculiar— owing to his great abilities and to the deplorable circumstances in which he had been placed: therefore—’ I assured him Mr. Kurtz’s knowledge, however extensive, did not bear upon the problems of commerce or administration. He invoked then the name of science. ‘It would be an incalculable loss if,’ etc., etc. I offered him the report on the ‘Suppression of Savage Customs,’ with the postscriptum torn off. He took it up eagerly, but ended by sniffing at it Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 121 with an air of contempt. ‘This is not what we had a right to expect,’ he remarked. ‘Expect nothing else,’ I said. ‘There are only private letters.’ He withdrew upon some threat of legal proceedings, and I saw him no more; but another fellow, calling himself Kurtz’s cousin, appeared two days later, and was anxious to hear all the details about his dear relative’s last moments. Incidentally he gave me to understand that Kurtz had been essentially a great musician. ‘There was the making of an immense success,’ said the man, who was an organist, I believe, with lank grey hair flowing over a greasy coat-collar. I had no reason to doubt his statement; and to this day I am unable to say what was Kurtz’s profession, whether he ever had any—which was the greatest of his talents. I had taken him for a painter who wrote for the papers, or else for a journalist who could paint—but even the cousin (who took snuff during the interview) could not tell me what he had been—exactly. He was a universal genius—on that point I agreed with the old chap, who thereupon blew his nose noisily into a large cotton handkerchief and withdrew in senile agitation, bearing off some family letters and memoranda without importance. Ultimately a journalist anxious to know something of the fate of his ‘dear colleague’ turned up. This visitor informed me Kurtz’s proper sphere ought to have been politics ‘on the popular side.’ He had furry straight eyebrows, bristly hair cropped short, an eyeglass on a broad ribbon, and, becoming expansive, confessed his opinion that Kurtz really couldn’t write a bit—’but heavens! how that man could talk. He electrified large meetings. He had faith—don’t you see?—he had the 122 Heart of Darkness faith. He could get himself to believe anything—anything. He would have been a splendid leader of an extreme party.’ ‘What party?’ I asked. ‘Any party,’ answered the other. ‘He was an—an—extremist.’ Did I not think so? I assented. Did I know, he asked, with a sudden flash of curiosity, ‘what it was that had induced him to go out there?’ ‘Yes,’ said I, and forthwith handed him the famous Report for publication, if he thought fit. He glanced through it hurriedly, mumbling all the time, judged ‘it would do,’ and took himself off with this plunder. ‘Thus I was left at last with a slim packet of letters and the girl’s portrait. She struck me as beautiful— I mean she had a beautiful expression. I know that the sunlight ycan be made to lie, too, yet one felt that no manipulation of light and pose could have conveyed the delicate shade of truthfulness upon those features. She seemed ready to listen without mental reservation, without suspicion, without a thought for herself. I concluded I would go and give her back her portrait and those letters myself. Curiosity? Yes; and also some other feeling perhaps. All that had been Kurtz’s had passed out of my hands: his soul, his body, his station, his plans, his ivory, his career. There remained only his memory and his Intended— and I wanted to give that up, too, to the past, in a way— to surrender personally all that remained of him with me to that oblivion which is the last word of our common fate. I don’t defend myself. I had no clear perception of what it was I really wanted. Perhaps it was an impulse of unconscious loyalty, or the fulfilment of one of those ironic necessities that lurk in the facts of hu- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 123 man existence. I don’t know. I can’t tell. But I went. ‘I thought his memory was like the other memories of the dead that accumulate in every man’s life—a vague impress on the brain of shadows that had fallen on it in their swift and final passage; but before the high and ponderous door, between the tall houses of a street as still and decorous as a well-kept alley in a cemetery, I had a vision of him on the stretcher, opening his mouth voraciously, as if to devour all the earth with all its mankind. He lived then before me; he lived as much as he had ever lived—a shadow insatiable of splendid appearances, of frightful realities; a shadow darker than the shadow of the night, and draped nobly in the folds of a gorgeous eloquence. The vision seemed to enter the house with me—the stretcher, the phantom-bearers, the wild crowd of obedient worshippers, the gloom of the forests, the glitter of the reach between the murky bends, the beat of the drum, regular and muffled like the beating of a heart—the heart of a conquering darkness. It was a moment of triumph for the wilderness, an invading and vengeful rush which, it seemed to me, I would have to keep back alone for the salvation of another soul. And the memory of what I had heard him say afar there, with the horned shapes stirring at my back, in the glow of fires, within the patient woods, those broken phrases came back to me, were heard again in their ominous and terrifying simplicity. I remembered his abject pleading, his abject threats, the colossal scale of his vile desires, the meanness, the torment, the tempestuous anguish of his soul. And later on I seemed to see his collected languid manner, when he said one day, ‘This 124 Heart of Darkness lot of ivory now is really mine. The Company did not pay for it. I collected it myself at a very great personal risk. I am afraid they will try to claim it as theirs though. H’m. It is a difficult case. What do you think I ought to do—resist? Eh? I want no more than justice.’ … He wanted no more than justice—no more than justice. I rang the bell before a mahogany door on the first floor, and while I waited he seemed to stare at me out of the glassy panel— stare with that wide and immense stare embracing, condemning, loathing all the universe. I seemed to hear the whispered cry, ‘The horror! The horror!’ ‘The dusk was falling. I had to wait in a lofty drawingroom with three long windows from floor to ceiling that were like three luminous and bedraped columns. The bent gilt legs and backs of the furniture shone in indistinct curves. The tall marble fireplace had a cold and monumental whiteness. A grand piano stood massively in a corner; with dark gleams on the flat surfaces like a sombre and polished sarcophagus. A high door opened—closed. I rose. ‘She came forward, all in black, with a pale head, floating towards me in the dusk. She was in mourning. It was more than a year since his death, more than a year since the news came; she seemed as though she would remember and mourn forever. She took both my hands in hers and murmured, ‘I had heard you were coming.’ I noticed she was not very young—I mean not girlish. She had a mature capacity for fidelity, for belief, for suffering. The room seemed to have grown darker, as if all the sad light of the cloudy evening had taken refuge on her forehead. This fair hair, Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 125 this pale visage, this pure brow, seemed surrounded by an ashy halo from which the dark eyes looked out at me. Their glance was guileless, profound, confident, and trustful. She carried her sorrowful head as though she were proud of that sorrow, as though she would say, ‘I—I alone know how to mourn for him as he deserves.’ But while we were still shaking hands, such a look of awful desolation came upon her face that I perceived she was one of those creatures that are not the playthings of Time. For her he had died only yesterday. And, by Jove! the impression was so powerful that for me, too, he seemed to have died only yesterday—nay, this very minute. I saw her and him in the same instant of time—his death and her sorrow—I saw her sorrow in the very moment of his death. Do you understand? I saw them together—I heard them together. She had said, with a deep catch of the breath, ‘I have survived’ while my strained ears seemed to hear distinctly, mingled with her tone of despairing regret, the summing up whisper of his eternal condemnation. I asked myself what I was doing there, with a sensation of panic in my heart as though I had blundered into a place of cruel and absurd mysteries not fit for a human being to behold. She motioned me to a chair. We sat down. I laid the packet gently on the little table, and she put her hand over it. … ‘You knew him well,’ she murmured, after a moment of mourning silence. ‘Intimacy grows quickly out there,’ I said. ‘I knew him as well as it is possible for one man to know another.’ ‘And you admired him,’ she said. ‘It was impossible to know him and not to admire him. Was it?’ 126 Heart of Darkness ‘He was a remarkable man,’ I said, unsteadily. Then before the appealing fixity of her gaze, that seemed to watch for more words on my lips, I went on, ‘It was impossible not to—’ ‘Love him,’ she finished eagerly, silencing me into an appalled dumbness. ‘How true! how true! But when you think that no one knew him so well as I! I had all his noble confidence. I knew him best.’ ‘You knew him best,’ I repeated. And perhaps she did. But with every word spoken the room was growing darker, and only her forehead, smooth and white, remained illumined by the inextinguishable light of belief and love. ‘You were his friend,’ she went on. ‘His friend,’ she repeated, a little louder. ‘You must have been, if he had given you this, and sent you to me. I feel I can speak to you—and oh! I must speak. I want you—you who have heard his last words— to know I have been worthy of him. … It is not pride. … Yes! I am proud to know I understood him better than any one on earth— he told me so himself. And since his mother died I have had no one— no one—to—to—’ ‘I listened. The darkness deepened. I was not even sure whether he had given me the right bundle. I rather suspect he wanted me to take care of another batch of his papers which, after his death, I saw the manager examining under the lamp. And the girl talked, easing her pain in the certitude of my sympathy; she talked as thirsty men drink. I had heard that her engagement with Kurtz had been disapproved by her people. He wasn’t rich enough or something. And indeed I don’t know whether he had not been a pauper Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 127 all his life. He had given me some reason to infer that it was his impatience of comparative poverty that drove him out there. ‘… Who was not his friend who had heard him speak once?’ she was saying. ‘He drew men towards him by what was best in them.’ She looked at me with intensity. ‘It is the gift of the great,’ she went on, and the sound of her low voice seemed to have the accompaniment of all the other sounds, full of mystery, desolation, and sorrow, I had ever heard— the ripple of the river, the soughing of the trees swayed by the wind, the murmurs of the crowds, the faint ring of incomprehensible words cried from afar, the whisper of a voice speaking from beyond the threshold of an eternal darkness. ‘But you have heard him! You know!’ she cried. ‘Yes, I know,’ I said with something like despair in my heart, but bowing my head before the faith that was in her, before that great and saving illusion that shone with an unearthly glow in the darkness, in the triumphant darkness from which I could not have defended her— from which I could not even defend myself. ‘What a loss to me—to us!’—she corrected herself with beautiful generosity; then added in a murmur, ‘To the world.’ By the last gleams of twilight I could see the glitter of her eyes, full of tears—of tears that would not fall. ‘I have been very happy—very fortunate—very proud,’ she went on. ‘Too fortunate. Too happy for a little while. And now I am unhappy for—for life.’ ‘She stood up; her fair hair seemed to catch all the remaining light in a glimmer of gold. I rose, too. 128 Heart of Darkness ‘And of all this,’ she went on mournfully, ‘of all his promise, and of all his greatness, of his generous mind, of his noble heart, nothing remains—nothing but a memory. You and I—’ ‘We shall always remember him,’ I said hastily. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘It is impossible that all this should be lost— that such a life should be sacrificed to leave nothing—but sorrow. You know what vast plans he had. I knew of them, too—I could not perhaps understand—but others knew of them. Something must remain. His words, at least, have not died.’ ‘His words will remain,’ I said. ‘And his example,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Men looked up to him— his goodness shone in every act. His example—’ ‘True,’ I said; ‘his example, too. Yes, his example. I forgot that.’ ‘But I do not. I cannot—I cannot believe—not yet. I cannot believe that I shall never see him again, that nobody will see him again, never, never, never.’ ‘She put out her arms as if after a retreating figure, stretching them back and with clasped pale hands across the fading and narrow sheen of the window. Never see him! I saw him clearly enough then. I shall see this eloquent phantom as long as I live, and I shall see her, too, a tragic and familiar Shade, resembling in this gesture another one, tragic also, and bedecked with powerless charms, stretching bare brown arms over the glitter of the infernal stream, the stream of darkness. She said suddenly very low, ‘He died Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 129 as he lived.’ ‘His end,’ said I, with dull anger stirring in me, ‘was in every way worthy of his life.’ ‘And I was not with him,’ she murmured. My anger subsided before a feeling of infinite pity. ‘Everything that could be done—’ I mumbled. ‘Ah, but I believed in him more than any one on earth— more than his own mother, more than—himself. He needed me! Me! I would have treasured every sigh, every word, every sign, every glance.’ ‘I felt like a chill grip on my chest. ‘Don’t,’ I said, in a muffled voice. ‘Forgive me. I—I have mourned so long in silence—in silence…. You were with him—to the last? I think of his loneliness. Nobody near to understand him as I would have understood. Perhaps no one to hear. …’ ‘To the very end,’ I said, shakily. ‘I heard his very last words….’ I stopped in a fright. ‘Repeat them,’ she murmured in a heart-broken tone. ‘I want—I want—something—something—to—to live with.’ ‘I was on the point of crying at her, ‘Don’t you hear them?’ The dusk was repeating them in a persistent whisper all around us, in a whisper that seemed to swell menacingly like the first whisper of a rising wind. ‘The horror! The horror!’ ‘His last word—to live with,’ she insisted. ‘Don’t you understand I loved him—I loved him—I loved him!’ ‘I pulled myself together and spoke slowly. ‘The last word he pronounced was—your name.’ 130 Heart of Darkness ‘I heard a light sigh and then my heart stood still, stopped dead short by an exulting and terrible cry, by the cry of inconceivable triumph and of unspeakable pain. ‘I knew it—I was sure!’ … She knew. She was sure. I heard her weeping; she had hidden her face in her hands. It seemed to me that the house would collapse before I could escape, that the heavens would fall upon my head. But nothing happened. The heavens do not fall for such a trifle. Would they have fallen, I wonder, if I had rendered Kurtz that justice which was his due? Hadn’t he said he wanted only justice? But I couldn’t. I could not tell her. It would have been too dark— too dark altogether….’ Marlow ceased, and sat apart, indistinct and silent, in the pose of a meditating Buddha. Nobody moved for a time. ‘We have lost the first of the ebb,’ said the Director suddenly. I raised my head. The offing was barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed sombre under an overcast sky— seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness.

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Periods of English Literature

A Note on the Naming of Periods:

Periods in literature are named for rulers, historical events, intellectual or political or religious movements, or artistic styles. Most literary periods therefore have multiple names. What's worse, some of these names are debated. Is the later 17^th Century the Baroque era? The term baroque is an intractable term derived from art criticism, though it may usefully be applicable to some writers as well. Is the early 17^th Century the Shakespearean era? Is it the Mannerist era? How widely do we wish to apply the term Elizabethan period? Other questions arise. Does Romanticism begin with Wordsworth? With Blake? In addition, Romanticism has various dates according to the national literature we refer to. In the separate art forms -- music, painting, and even some literary genres -- the dates may vary yet more. Recent histories of literature and the latest Norton Anthology of English Literature offer the latest examples of terms applied to literary periods. My best advice is to use the relatively neutral names that refer to monarchs, political periods, and whole centuries. Then when you wish to emphasize what you are talking about, rather than by habitual use of the terms, use the more specialized artistic and intellectual adjectives. In the following table, I attempt to categorize some of the references generally used by English and American students of English literature, and to provide examples of chief works or authors for each period. I've avoided simply naming the Centuries, and I've not taken terms like Victorian to refer merely to the rulers -- although I do prefer to date Queen Victoria's death, with the changes it symbolized, as the start of the Modern era. Whereas Queen Victoria ruled from 1837 until her death in 1901, many scholars select 1830 as the beginning of the Victorian Period, and for two good reasons. In 1830, the world's first public railway system opened between Liverpool and Manchester, enhancing the trade and industrial development particular to the Victorian era. Also in that year, the Reform Parliament opened, which was to pass the Reform Bill of 1832, a bill which would far increase the power of the English middle class and thereby affect British class structure. This list is far less detailed than it might be, and omits details for periods surrounding the Renaissance.

Time Span, Terms, Movements, Examples
600-1200 Old English (Anglo-Saxon)			Beowulf
1200-1500 Middle English			Geoffrey Chaucer
1500-1660 The English Renaissance
1500-1558	Tudor Period	Humanist Era	Thomas More, John Skelton
1558-1603	Elizabethan Period	High Renaissance	Edmund Spenser, Sir Philip Sidney, William Shakespeare
1603-1625	Jacobean Period	Mannerist Style (1590-1640) other styles: Metaphysical Poets; Devotional Poets	Shakespeare, John Donne, George Herbert, Emilia Lanyer
1625-1649	Caroline Period		John Ford, John Milton
1649-1660	The Commonwealth & The Protectorate	Baroque Style, and later, Rococo Style	Milton, Andrew Marvell, Thomas Hobbes
1660-1700	The Restoration		John Dryden
1700-1800	The Eighteenth Century	The Enlightenment; Neoclassical Period; The Augustan Age	Alexander Pope, Jonathan Swift, Samuel Johnson
1785-1830	Romanticism	The Age of Revolution	William Wordsworth, S.T. Coleridge, Jane Austen, the Brontës
1830-1901	Victorian Period	Early, Middle and Late Victorian	Charles Dickens, George Eliot, Robert Browning, Alfred, Lord Tennyson
1901-1960	Modern Period	The Edwardian Era (1901-1910); The Georgian Era (1910-1914)	G.M. Hopkins, H.G. Wells, James Joyce, D.H. Lawrence, T.S. Eliot
1960-	Postmodern and Contemporary Period		Ted Hughes, Doris Lessing, John Fowles, Don DeLillo, A.S. Byatt

Lecture 9 - Ezra Pound

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Lecture 9 - Ezra Pound
Langdon Hammer

Lecture 8 - Imagism

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http://videolectures.net/yaleengl310s07_hammer_lec08/

Lecture 7 - World War I Poetry in England

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http://videolectures.net/yaleengl310s07_hammer_lec07/

Lecture 6 - William Butler Yeats (cont.

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http://videolectures.net/yaleengl310s07_hammer_lec06/

Lecture 5 - William Butler Yeats (cont.)

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http://videolectures.net/yaleengl310s07_hammer_lec05/

Lecture 4 - William Butler Yeats

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http://videolectures.net/yaleengl310s07_hammer_lec04/

Lecture 3 - Robert Frost (cont.)

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http://videolectures.net/yaleengl310s07_hammer_lec03/

Lecture 2 - Robert Frost

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http://videolectures.net/yaleengl310s07_hammer_lec02/

Lecture 1 - Introduction to Modern Poetry

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http://videolectures.net/yaleengl310s07_hammer_lec01/

Free Audio Book Sons and Lovers

2012-02-15T21:52:00.002+00:00

http://www.learnoutloud.com/Free-Audio-Video/Literature/European-Classics/Sons-and-Lovers/35100

The Golden Notebook Doris Lessing

2012-02-14T16:48:00.002+00:00

http://www.scribd.com/doc/57356868/The-Golden-Notebook-Doris-Lessing

Heart of Darkness

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http://www.planetebook.com/Heart-of-Darkness.asp

Woman In Love

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Women In Love

Sons and Lovers By D. H. Lawrence, 1913

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Sons and Lovers By D. H. Lawrence, 1913 Book

Dubliners

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http://www.planetebook.com/Dubliners.asp

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

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A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

The Remains of the Day BOOK

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THE REMAINS OF THE DAY
Kazuo Ishiguro
(First published in Great Britain, 1989)
I've travelled the world twice over,
Met the famous: saints and sinners,
Poets and artists, kings and queens,
Old stars and hopeful beginners,
I've been where no-one's been before,
Learned secrets from writers and cooks
All with one library ticket
To the wonderful world of books.
--JANICE JAMES.
In memory of Mrs Lenore Marshall.
Prologue: July 1956
Darlington Hall
IT seems increasingly likely that I really will undertake the expedition that has been
preoccupying my imagination now for some days. An expedition, I should say, which I will
undertake alone, in the comfort of Mr Farraday's Ford; an expedition which, as I foresee it,
will take me through much of the finest countryside of England to the West Country, and may
keep me away from Darlington Hall for as much as five or six days. The idea of such a
journey came about, I should point out, from a most kind suggestion put to me by Mr
Farraday himself one afternoon almost a fortnight ago, when I had been dusting the portraits
in the library. In fact, as I recall, I was up on the step-ladder dusting the portrait of Viscount
Wetherby when my employer had entered carrying a few volumes which he presumably
wished returned to the shelves. On seeing my person, he took the opportunity to inform me
that he had just that moment finalized plans to return to the United States for a period of five
weeks between August and September. Having made this announcement, my employer put
his volumes down on a table, seated himself on the /chaise-longue, /and stretched out his legs.
It was then, gazing up at me, that he said: "You realize, Stevens, I don't expect you to be
locked up here in this house all the time I'm away. Why don't you take the car and drive off
somewhere for a few days? You look like you could make good use of a break."
Coming out of the blue as it did, I did not quite know how to reply to such a
suggestion. I recall thanking him for his consideration, but quite probably I said nothing very
definite for my employer went on: "I'm serious, Stevens. I really think you should take a
break. I'll foot the bill for the gas. You fellows, you're always locked up in these big Houses
helping out, how do you ever get to see around this beautiful country of yours?"
This was not the first time my employer had raised such a question; indeed, it seems to
be something which genuinely troubles him. On this occasion, in fact, a reply of sorts did
occur to me as I stood up there on the ladder; a reply to the effect that those of our profession,
although we did not see a great deal of the country in the sense of touring the countryside and
visiting picturesque sites, did actually 'see' more of England than most, placed as we were in
houses where the greatest ladies and gentlemen of the land gathered. Of course, I could not
have expressed this view to Mr Farraday without embarking upon what might have seemed a
presumptuous speech. I thus contented myself by saying simply: "It has been my privilege to
see the best of England over the years, sir, within these very walls."
Mr Farraday did not seem to understand this statement, for he merely went on: "I mean
it, Stevens. It's wrong that a man can't get to see around his own country. Take my advice, get
out the house for a few days.
As you might expect, I did not take Mr Farraday's suggestion at all seriously that
afternoon, regarding it as just another instance of an American gentleman's unfamiliarity with
what was and what was not commonly done in England. The fact that my attitude to this same
suggestion underwent a change over the following days - indeed, that the notion of a trip to
the West Country took an ever increasing hold on my thoughts - is no doubt substantially
attributable to - and why should I hide it? - the arrival of Miss Kenton's letter, her first in
almost seven years if one discounts the Christmas cards. But let me make it immediately clear
what I mean by this; what I mean to say is that Miss Kenton's letter set off a certain chain of
ideas to do with professional matters here at Darlington Hall, and I would underline that it
was a preoccupation with these very same professional matters that led me to consider anew
my employer's kindly meant suggestion. But let me explain further.
The fact is, over the past few months, I have been responsible for a series of small
errors in the carrying out of my duties. I should say that these errors have all been without
exception quite trivial in themselves. Nevertheless, I think you will understand that to one not
accustomed to committing such errors, this development was rather disturbing, and I did in
fact begin to entertain all sorts of alarmist theories as to their cause. As so often occurs in
these situations, I had become blind to the obvious - that is, until my pondering over the
implications of Miss Kenton's letter finally opened my eyes to the simple truth: that these
small errors of recent months have derived from nothing more sinister than a faulty staff plan.
It is, of course, the responsibility of every butler to devote his utmost care in the
devising of a staff plan. Who knows how many quarrels, false accusations, unnecessary
dismissals, how many promising careers cut short can be attributed to a butler's slovenliness
at the stage of drawing up the staff plan? Indeed, I can say I am in agreement with those who
say that the ability to draw up a good staff plan is the cornerstone of any decent butler's skills.
I have myself devised many staff plans over the years, and I do not believe I am being unduly
boastful if I say that very few ever needed amendment. And if in the present case the staff
plan is at fault, blame can be laid at no one's door but my own. At the same time, it is only fair
to point out that my task in this instance had been of an unusually difficult order.
What had occurred was this. Once the transactions were over - transactions which had
taken this house out of the hands of the Darlington family after two centuries - Mr Farraday
let it be known that he would not be taking up immediate residence here, but would spend a
further four months concluding matters in the United States. In the meantime, however, he
was most keen that the staff of his predecessor - a staff of which he had heard high praise - be
retained at Darlington Hall. This 'staff' he referred to was, of course, nothing more than the
skeleton team of six kept on by Lord Darlington's relatives to administer to the house up to
and throughout the transactions; and I regret to report that once the purchase had been
completed, there was little I could do for Mr Farraday to prevent all but Mrs Clements leaving
for other employment. When I wrote to my new employer conveying my regrets at the
situation, I received by reply from America instructions to recruit a new staff 'worthy of a
grand old English house'. I immediately set about trying to fulfil Mr Farraday's wishes, but as
you know, finding recruits of a satisfactory standard is no easy task nowadays, and although I
was pleased to hire Rosemary and Agnes on Mrs Clements' recommendation, I had got no
further by the time I came to have my first business meeting with Mr Farraday during the
short preliminary visit he made to our shores in the spring of last year. It was on that occasion
- in the strangely bare study of Darlington Hall - that Mr Farraday shook my hand for the first
time, but by then we were hardly strangers to each other; quite aside from the matter of the
staff, my new employer in several other instances had had occasion to call upon such qualities
as it may be my good fortune to possess and found them to be, I would venture, dependable.
So it was, I assume, that he felt immediately able to talk to me in a businesslike and trusting
way, and by the end of our meeting, he had left me with the administration of a not
inconsiderable sum to meet the costs of a wide range of preparations for his coming
residency. In any case, my point is that it was during the course of this interview, when I
raised the question of the difficulty of recruiting suitable staff in these times, that Mr
Farraday, after a moment's reflection, made his request of me; that I do my best to draw up a
staff plan - 'some sort of servants' rota' as he put it - by which this house might be run on the
present staff of four - that is to say, Mrs Clements, the two young girls, and myself. This
might, he appreciated, mean putting sections of the house 'under wraps', but would I bring all
my experience and expertise to bear to ensure such losses were kept to a minimum? Recalling
a time when I had had a staff of seventeen under me, and knowing how not so long ago a staff
of twenty-eight had been employed here at Darlington Hall, the idea of devising a staff plan
by which the same house would be run on a staff of four seemed, to say the least, daunting.
Although I did my best not to, something of my scepticism must have betrayed itself, for Mr
Farraday then added, as though for reassurance, that were it to prove necessary, then an
additional member of staff could be hired. But he would be much obliged, he repeated, if I
could "give it a go with four".
Now naturally, like many of us, I have a reluctance to change too much of the old
ways. But there is no virtue at all in clinging as some do to tradition merely for its own sake.
In this age of electricity and modern heating systems, there is no need at all to employ the
sorts of numbers necessary even a generation ago. Indeed, it has actually been an idea of mine
for some time that the retaining of unnecessary numbers simply for tradition's sake - resulting
in employees having an unhealthy amount of time on their hands - has been an important
factor in the sharp decline in professional standards. Furthermore, Mr Farraday had made it
clear that he planned to hold only very rarely the sort of large social occasions Darlington
Hall had seen frequently in the past. I did then go about the task Mr Farraday had set me with
some dedication; I spent many hours working on the staff plan, and at least as many hours
again thinking about it as I went about other duties or as I lay awake after retiring. Whenever I
believed I had come up with something, I probed it for every sort of oversight, tested it
through from all angles. Finally, I came up with a plan which, while perhaps not exactly as
Mr Farraday had requested, was the best, I felt sure, that was humanly possible.
Almost all the attractive parts of the house could remain operative: the extensive
servants' quarters - including the back corridor, the two still rooms and the old laundry - and
the guest corridor up on the second floor would be dust-sheeted, leaving all the main groundfloor
rooms and a generous number of guest rooms. Admittedly, our present team of four
would manage this programme only with reinforcement from some daily workers; my staff
plan therefore took in the services of a gardener, to visit once a week, twice in the summer,
and two cleaners, each to visit twice a week. The staff plan would, furthermore, for each of
the four resident employees mean a radical altering of our respective customary duties. The
two young girls, I predicted, would not find such changes so difficult to accommodate, but I
did all I could to see that Mrs Clements suffered the least adjustments, to the extent that I
undertook for myself a number of duties which you may consider most broad-minded of a
butler to do.
Even now, I would not go so far as to say it is a bad staff plan; after all, it enables a
staff of four to cover an unexpected amount of ground.
But you will no doubt agree that the very best staff plans are those which give clear
margins of error to allow for those days when an employee is ill or for one reason or another
below par. In this particular case, of course, I had been set a slightly extraordinary task, but I
had nevertheless not been neglectful to incorporate 'margins' wherever possible. I was
especially conscious that any resistance there may be on the part of Mrs Clements, or the two
girls, to the taking on of duties beyond their traditional boundaries would be compounded by
any notion that their workloads had greatly increased. I had then, over those days of
struggling with the staff plan, expended a significant amount of thought to ensuring that Mrs
Clements and the girls, once they had got over their aversion to adopting these more 'eclectic'
roles, would find the division of duties stimulating and unburdensome.
I fear, however, that in my anxiety to win the support of Mrs Clements and the girls, I
did not perhaps assess quite as stringently my own limitations; and although my experience
and customary caution in such matters prevented my giving myself more than I could actually
carry out, I was perhaps negligent over this question of allowing myself a margin.
It is not surprising then, if over several months, this oversight should reveal itself in
these small but telling ways. In the end, I believe the matter to be no more complicated than
this: I had given myself too much to do.
You may be amazed that such an obvious shortcoming to a staff plan should have
continued to escape my notice, but then you will agree that such is often the way with matters
one has given abiding thought to over a period of time; one is not struck by the truth until
prompted quite accidentally by some external event. So it was in this instance; that is to say,
my receiving the letter from Miss Kenton, containing as it did, along with its long, rather
unrevealing passages, an unmistakable nostalgia for Darlington Hall, and - I am quite sure of
this - distinct hints of her desire to return here, obliged me to see my staff plan afresh. Only
then did it strike me that there was indeed a role that a further staff member could crucially
play here; that it was, in fact, this very shortage that had been at the heart of all my recent
troubles.
And the more I considered it, the more obvious it became that Miss Kenton, with her
great affection for this house, with her exemplary professionalism - the sort almost impossible
to find nowadays - was Just the factor needed to enable me to complete a fully satisfactory
staff plan for Darlington Hall.
Having made such an analysis of the situation, It was not long before I found myself
reconsidering Mr Farraday's kind suggestion of some days ago.
For it had occurred to me that the proposed trip in the car could be put to good
professional use; that is to say, I could drive to the West Country and call on Miss Kenton in
passing, thus exploring at first hand the substance of her wish to return to employment here at
Darlington Hall. I have, I should make clear, reread Miss Kenton's recent letter several times,
and there is no possibility I am merely imagining the presence of these hints on her part.
For all that, I could not for some days quite bring myself to raise the matter again with
Mr Farraday. There were, in any case, various aspects to the matter I felt I needed to clarify to
myself before proceeding further. There was, for instance, the question of cost. For even
taking into account my employer's generous offer to 'foot the bill for the gas', the costs of such
a trip might still come to a surprising amount considering such matters as accommodation,
meals, and any small snacks I might partake of on my way. Then there was the question of
what sorts of costume were appropriate on such a journey, and whether or not it was worth
my while to invest in a new set of clothes. I am in the possession of a number of splendid
suits, kindly passed on to me over the years by Lord Darlington himself, and by various
guests who have stayed in this house and had reason to be pleased with the standard of service
here.
Many of these suits are, perhaps, too formal for the purposes of the proposed trip, or
else rather old-fashioned these days. But then there is one lounge suit, passed on to me in
1931 or 1932 by Sir Edward Blair - practically brand new at the time and almost a perfect fit -
which might well be appropriate for evenings in the lounge or dining room of any guest
houses where I might lodge. What I do not possess, however, is any suitable travelling clothes
- that is to say, clothes in which I might be seen driving the car - unless I were to don the suit
passed on by the young Lord Chalmers during the war, which despite being clearly too small
for me, might be considered ideal in terms of tone. I calculated finally that my savings would
be able to meet all the costs I might incur, and in addition, might stretch to the purchase of a
new costume. I hope you do not think me unduly vain with regard to this last matter; it is just
that one never knows when one might be obliged to give out that one is from Darlington Hall,
and it is important that one be attired at such times in a manner worthy of one's position.
During this time, I also spent many minutes examining the road atlas, and perusing
also the relevant volumes of Mrs Jane Symons' _The Wonder of England__. If you are not
familiar with Mrs Symons' books - a series running to seven volumes, each one concentrating
on one region of the British Isles - I heartily recommend them. They were written during the
thirties, but much of it would still be up to date - after all, I do not imagine German bombs
have altered our countryside so significantly. Mrs Symons was, as a matter of fact, a frequent
visitor to this house before the war; indeed, she was among the most popular as far as the staff
were concerned due to the kind appreciation she never shied from showing. It was in those
days, then, prompted by my natural admiration for the lady, that I had first taken to perusing
her volumes in the library whenever I had an odd moment. Indeed, I recall that shortly after
Miss Kenton's departure to Cornwall in 1936, myself never having been to that part of the
country, I would often glance through Volume III of Mrs Symons' work, the volume which
describes to readers the delights of Devon and Cornwall, complete with photographs and - to
my mind even more evocative - a variety of artists' sketches of that region. It was thus that I
had been able to gain some sense of the sort of place Miss Kenton had gone to live her
married life. But this was, as I say, back in the thirties, when as I understand, Mrs Symons'
books were being admired in houses up and down the country. I had not looked through those
volumes for many years, until these recent developments led me to get down from the shelf
the Devon and Cornwall volume once more. I studied all over again those marvellous
descriptions and illustrations, and you can perhaps understand my growing excitement at the
notion that I might now actually undertake a motoring trip myself around that same part of the
country.
It seemed in the end there was little else to do but actually to raise the matter again
with Mr Farraday. There was always the possibility, of course, that his suggestion of a
fortnight ago may have been a whim of the moment, and he would no longer be approving of
the idea. But from my observation of Mr Farraday over these months, he is not one of those
gentlemen prone to that most irritating of traits in an employer - inconsistency. There was no
reason to believe he would not be as enthusiastic as before about my proposed motoring trip -
indeed, that he would not repeat his most kind offer to 'foot the bill for the gas'.
Nevertheless, I considered most carefully what might be the most opportune occasion
to bring the matter up with him; for although I would not for one moment, as I say, suspect
Mr Farraday of inconsistency, it nevertheless made sense not to broach the topic when he was
preoccupied or distracted. A refusal in such circumstances may well not reflect my employer's
true feelings on the matter, but once having sustained such a dismissal, I could not easily
bring it up again. It was clear, then, that I had to choose my moment wisely.
In the end, I decided the most prudent moment in the day would be as I served
afternoon tea in the drawing room. Mr Farraday will usually have just returned from his short
walk on the downs at that point, so he is rarely engrossed in his reading or writing as he tends
to be in the evenings. In fact, when I bring in the afternoon tea, Mr Farraday is inclined to
close any book or periodical he has been reading, rise and stretch out his arms in front of the
windows, as though in anticipation of conversation with me.
As it was, I believe my judgement proved quite sound on the question of timing; the
fact that things turned out as they did is entirely attributable to an error of judgement in
another direction altogether.
That is to say, I did not take sufficient account of the fact that at that time of the day,
what Mr Farraday enjoys is a conversation of a light-hearted, humorous sort. Knowing this to
be his likely mood when I brought in the tea yesterday afternoon, and being aware of his
general propensity to talk with me in a bantering tone at such moments, it would certainly
have been wiser not to have mentioned Miss Kenton at all. But you will perhaps understand
that there was a natural tendency on my part, in asking what was after all a generous favour
from my employer, to hint that there was a good professional motive behind my request. So it
was that in indicating my reasons for preferring the West Country for my motoring, instead of
leaving it at mentioning several of the alluring details as conveyed by Mrs Symons' volume, I
made the error of declaring that a former housekeeper of Darlington Hall was resident in that
region. I suppose I must have been intending to explain to Mr Farraday how I would thus be
able to explore an option which might prove the ideal solution to our present small problems
here in this house. It was only after I had mentioned Miss Kenton that I suddenly realized how
entirely inappropriate it would be for me to continue. Not only was I unable to be certain of
Miss Kenton's desire to rejoin the staff here, I had not, of course, even discussed the question
of additional staff with Mr Farraday since that first preliminary meeting over a year ago. To
have continued pronouncing aloud my thoughts on the future of Darlington Hall would have
been, to say the very least, presumptuous. I suspect, then, that I paused rather abruptly and
looked a little awkward. In any case, Mr Farraday seized the opportunity to grin broadly at me
and say with some deliberation: "My, my, Stevens. A lady-friend. And at your age."
This was a most embarrassing situation, one in which Lord Darlington would never
have placed an employee. But then I do not mean to imply anything derogatory about Mr
Farraday; he is, after all, an American gentleman and his ways are often very different. There
is no question at all that he meant any harm; but you will no doubt appreciate how
uncomfortable a situation this was for me.
"I'd never have figured you for such a lady's man Stevens," he went on. "Keeps the
spirit young, I guess. But then I really don't know it's right for me to be helping you with such
dubious assignations."
Naturally, I felt the temptation to deny immediately and unambiguously such
motivations as my employer was imputing to me, but saw in time that to do so could be to rise
to Mr Farraday's bait, and the situation would only become increasingly embarrassing. I
therefore continued to stand there awkwardly, waiting for my employer to give me permission
to undertake the motoring trip.
Embarrassing as those moments were for me, I would not wish to imply that I in any
way blame Mr Farraday, who is in no sense an unkind person; he was, I am sure, merely
enjoying the sort of bantering which in the United States, no doubt, is a sign of a good,
friendly understanding between employer and employee, indulged in as a kind of affectionate
sport. Indeed, to put things into a proper perspective, I should point out that just such
bantering on my new employer's part has characterized much of our relationship over these
months - though I must confess, I remain rather unsure as to how I should respond. In fact,
during my first days under Mr Farraday, I was once or twice quite astounded by some of the
things he would say to me. For instance, I once had occasion to ask him if a certain gentleman
expected at the house was likely to be accompanied by his wife.
"God help us if she does come," Mr Farraday replied. "Maybe you could keep her off
our hands, Stevens. Maybe you could take her out to one of those stables around Mr Morgan's
farm. Keep her entertained in all that hay. She may be just your type."
For a moment or two, I had not an idea what my employer was saying. Then I realized
he was making some sort of joke and endeavoured to smile appropriately, though I suspect
some residue of my bewilderment, not to say shock, remained detectable in my expression.
Over the following days, however, I came to learn not to be surprised by such remarks
from my employer, and would smile in the correct manner whenever I detected the bantering
tone in his voice. Nevertheless, I could never be sure exactly what was required of me on
these occasions.
Perhaps I was expected to laugh heartily; or indeed, reciprocate with some remark of
my own. This last possibility is one that has given me some concern over these months, and is
something about which I still feel undecided. For it may well be that in America, it is all part
of what is considered good professional service that an employee provide entertaining banter.
In fact, I remember Mr Simpson, the landlord of the Ploughman's Arms, saying once that
were he an American bartender, he would not be chatting to us in that friendly, but evercourteous
manner of his, but instead would be assaulting us with crude references to our vices
and failings, calling us drunks and all manner of such names, in his attempt to fulfil the role
expected of him by his customers. And I recall also some years ago, Mr Rayne, who travelled
to America as valet to Sir Reginald Mauvis, remarking that a taxi driver in New York
regularly addressed his fare in a manner which if repeated in London would end in some sort
of fracas, if not in the fellow being frogmarched to the nearest police station.
It is quite possible, then, that my employer fully expects me to respond to his
bantering in a like manner, and considers my failure to do so a form of negligence. This is, as
I say, a matter which has given me much concern. But I must say this business of bantering is
not a duty I feel I can ever discharge with enthusiasm. It is all very well, in these changing
times, to adapt one's work to take in duties not traditionally within one's realm; but bantering
is of another dimension altogether.
For one thing, how would one know for sure that at any given moment a response of
the bantering sort is truly what is expected? One need hardly dwell on the catastrophic
possibility of uttering a bantering remark only to discover it wholly inappropriate.
I did though on one occasion not long ago, pluck up the courage to attempt the
required sort of reply. I was serving Mr Farraday morning coffee in the breakfast room when
he had said to me: "I suppose it wasn't you making that crowing noise this morning, Stevens?"
My employer was referring, I realized, to a pair of gypsies gathering unwanted iron
who had passed by earlier making their customary calls. As it happened, I had that same
morning been giving thought to the dilemma of whether or not I was expected to reciprocate
my employer's bantering, and had been seriously worried at how he might be viewing my
repeated failure to respond to such openings. I therefore set about thinking of some witty
reply; some statement which would still be safely inoffensive in the event of my having
misjudged the situation. After a moment or two, I said: "More like swallows than crows, I
would have said, sir. From the migratory aspect." And I followed this with a suitably modest
smile to indicate without ambiguity that I had made a witticism, since I did not wish Mr
Farraday to restrain any spontaneous mirth he felt out of a misplaced respectfulness.
Mr Farraday, however, simply looked up at me and said: "I beg your pardon,
Stevens?"
Only then did it occur to me that, of course, my witticism would not be easily
appreciated by someone who was not aware that it was gypsies who had passed by. I could
not see, then, how I might press on with this bantering; in fact, I decided it best to call a halt
to the matter and, pretending to remember something I had urgently to attend to, excused
myself, leaving my employer looking rather bemused.
It was, then, a most discouraging start to what may in fact be an entirely new sort of
duty required of me; so discouraging that I must admit I have not really made further attempts
along these lines. But at the same time, I cannot escape the feeling that Mr Farraday is not
satisfied with my responses to his various banterings. Indeed, his increased persistence of late
may even be my employer's way of urging me all the more to respond in a like-minded spirit.
Be that as it may, since that first witticism concerning the gypsies, I have not been able to
think of other such witticisms quickly enough.
Such difficulties as these tend to be all the more preoccupying nowadays because one
does not have the means to discuss and corroborate views with one's fellow professionals in
the way one once did. Not so long ago, if any such points of ambiguity arose regarding one's
duties, one had the comfort of knowing that before long some fellow professional whose
opinion one respected would be accompanying their employer to the house, and there would
be ample opportunity to discuss the matter. And of course, in Lord Darlington's days, when
ladies and gentlemen would often visit for many days on end, it was possible to develop a
good understanding with visiting colleagues. Indeed, in those busy days, our servants' hall
would often witness a gathering of some of the finest professionals in England talking late
into the night by the warmth of the fire. And let me tell you, if you were to have come into our
servants' hall on any of those evenings, you would not have heard mere gossip; more likely,
you would have witnessed debates over the great affairs preoccupying our employers upstairs,
or else over matters of import reported in the newspapers; and of course, as fellow
professionals from all walks of life are wont to do when gathered together, we could be found
discussing every aspect of our vocation.
Sometimes, naturally, there would be strong disagreements, but more often than not,
the atmosphere was dominated by a feeling of mutual respect. Perhaps I will convey a better
idea of the tone of those evenings if I say that regular visitors included the likes of Mr Harry
Graham, valet-butler to Sir James Chambers, and Mr John Donalds, valet to Mr Sydney
Dickenson. And there were others less distinguished, perhaps, but whose lively presence
made any visit memorable; for instance, Mr Wilkinson, valet-butler to Mr John Campbell,
with his well-known repertoire of impersonations of prominent gentlemen; Mr Davidson from
Easterly House, whose passion in debating a point could at times be as alarming to a stranger
as his simple kindness at all other times was endearing; Mr Herman, valet to Mr John Henry
Peters, whose extreme views no one could listen to passively, but whose distinctive bellylaugh
and Yorkshire charm made him impossible to dislike. I could go on. There existed in
those days a true camaraderie in our profession, whatever the small differences in our
approach. We were all essentially cut from the same cloth, so to speak. Not the way it is
today, when on the rare occasion an employee accompanies a guest here, he is likely to be
some newcomer who has little to say about anything other than Association Football, and who
prefers to pass the evening not by the fire of the servants' hall, but drinking at the Ploughman's
Arms - or indeed, as seems increasingly likely nowadays, at the Star Inn.
I mentioned a moment ago Mr Graham, the valet-butler to Sir James Chambers. In
fact, some two months ago, I was most happy to learn that Sir James was to visit Darlington
Hall. I looked forward to the visit not only because visitors from Lord Darlington's days are
most rare now - Mr Farraday's circle, naturally, being quite different from his lordship's - but
also because I presumed Mr Graham would accompany Sir James as of old, and I would thus
be able to get his opinion on this question of bantering. I was, then, both surprised and
disappointed to discover a day before the visit that Sir James would be coming alone.
Furthermore, during Sir James' subsequent stay, I gathered that Mr Graham was no
longer in Sir James' employ; indeed that Sir James no longer employed any full-time staff at
all. I would like to have discovered what had become of Mr Graham, for although we had not
known each other well, I would say we had got on on those occasions we had met. As it was,
however, no suitable opportunity arose for me to gain such information. I must say, I was
rather disappointed, for I would like to have discussed the bantering question with him.
However, let me return to my original thread.
I was obliged, as I was saying, to spend some uncomfortable minutes standing in the
drawing room yesterday afternoon while Mr Farraday went about his bantering. I responded
as usual by smiling slightly - sufficient at least to indicate that I was participating in some way
with the good-humouredness with which he was carrying on - and waited to see if my
employer's permission regarding the trip would be forthcoming.
As I had anticipated, he gave his kind permission after not too great a delay, and
furthermore, Mr Farraday was good enough to remember and reiterate his generous offer to
'foot the bill for the gas'.
So then, there seems little reason why I should not undertake my motoring trip to the
West Country. I would of course have to write to Miss Kenton to tell her I might be passing
by; I would also need to see to the matter of the costumes. Various other questions concerning
arrangements here in the house during my absence will need to be settled. But all in all, I can
see no genuine reason why I should not undertake this trip.
Day One - Evening
Salisbury
TONIGHT, I find myself here in a guest house in the city of Salisbury.
The first day of my trip is now completed, and all in all, I must say I am quite
satisfied. This expedition began this morning almost an hour later than I had planned, despite
my having completed my packing and loaded the Ford with all necessary items well before
eight o'clock. What with Mrs Clements and the girls also gone for the week, I suppose I was
very conscious of the fact that once I departed, Darlington Hall would stand empty for
probably the first time this century - perhaps for the first time since the day it was built. It was
an odd feeling and perhaps accounts for why I delayed my departure so long, wandering
around the house many times over, checking one last time that all was in order.
It is hard to explain my feelings once I did finally set off. For the first twenty minutes
or so of motoring, I cannot say I was seized by any excitement or anticipation at all. This was
due, no doubt, to the fact that though I motored further and further from the house, I
continued to find myself in surroundings with which I had at least a passing acquaintance.
Now I had always supposed I had travelled very little, restricted as I am by my responsibilities
in the house, but of course, over time, one does make various excursions for one professional
reason or another, and it would seem I have become much more acquainted with those
neighbouring districts than I had realized. For as I say, as I motored on in the sunshine
towards the Berkshire border, I continued to be surprised by the familiarity of the country
around me.
But then eventually the surroundings grew unrecognizable and I knew I had gone
beyond all previous boundaries. I have heard people describe the moment, when setting sail in
a ship, when one finally loses sight of the land. I imagine the experience of unease mixed with
exhilaration often described in connection with this moment is very similar to what I felt in
the Ford as the surroundings grew strange around me. This occurred just after I took a turning
and found myself on a road curving around the edge of a hill. I could sense the steep drop to
my left, though I could not see it due to the trees and thick foliage that lined the roadside. The
feeling swept over me that I had truly left Darlington Hall behind, and I must confess I did
feel a slight sense of alarm - a sense aggravated by the feeling that I was perhaps not on the
correct road at all, but speeding off in totally the wrong direction into a wilderness. It was
only the feelings of a moment, but it caused me to slow down. And even when I had assured
myself I was on the right road, I felt compelled to stop the car a moment to take stock, as it
were.
I decided to step out and stretch my legs a little and when I did so, I received a
stronger impression than ever of being perched on the side of a hill. On one side of the road,
thickets and small trees rose steeply, while on the other I could now glimpse through the
foliage the distant countryside.
I believe I had walked a little way along the roadside, peering through the foliage
hoping to get a better view, when I heard a voice behind me.
Until this point, of course, I had believed myself quite alone and I turned in some
surprise. A little further up the road on the opposite side, I could see the start of a footpath,
which disappeared steeply into the thickets. Sitting on the large stone that marked this spot
was a thin, white-haired man in a cloth cap, smoking his pipe. He called to me again and
though I could not quite make out his words, I could see him gesturing for me to join him. For
a moment, I took him for a vagrant, but then I saw he was just some local fellow enjoying the
fresh air and summer sunshine, and saw no reason not to comply.
"Just wondering, sir," he said, as I approached, "how fit your legs were."
"I beg your pardon?"
The fellow gestured up the footpath. "You got to have a good pair of legs and a good
pair of lungs to go up there. Me, I haven't got neither, so I stay down here. But if I was in
better shape, I'd be sitting up there. There's a nice little spot up there, a bench and everything.
And you won't get a better view anywhere in the whole of England."
"If what you say is true," I said, "I think I'd rather stay here. I happen to be embarking
on a motoring trip during the course of which I hope to see many splendid views. To see the
best before I have properly begun would be somewhat premature."
The fellow did not seem to understand me, for he simply said again: "You won't see a
better view in the whole of England. But I tell you, you need a good pair of legs and a good
pair of lungs." Then he added: "I can see you're in good shape for your age, sir. I'd say you
could make your way up there, no trouble. I mean, even I can manage on a good day."
I glanced up the path, which did look steep and rather rough.
"I'm telling you, sir, you'll be sorry if you don't take a walk up there. And you never
know. A couple more years and it might be too late"- he gave a rather vulgar laugh - "Better
go on up while you still can."
It occurs to me now that the man might just possibly have meant this in a humorous
sort of way; that is to say, he intended it as a bantering remark. But this morning, I must say, I
found it quite offensive and it may well have been the urge to demonstrate just how foolish
his insinuation had been that caused me to set off up the footpath.
In any case, I am very glad I did so. Certainly, it was quite a strenuous walk - though I
can say it failed to cause me any real difficulty - the path rising in zigzags up the hillside for a
hundred yards or so. I then reached a small clearing, undoubtedly the spot the man had
referred to. Here one was met by a bench - and indeed, by a most marvellous view over miles
of the surrounding countryside.
What I saw was principally field upon field rolling off into the far distance. The land
rose and fell gently, and the fields were bordered by hedges and trees. There were dots in
some of the distant fields which I assumed to be sheep. To my right, almost on the horizon, I
thought I could see the square tower of a church.
It was a fine feeling indeed to be standing up there like that, with the sound of summer
all around one and a light breeze on one's face. And I believe it was then, looking on that
view, that I began for the first time to adopt a frame of mind appropriate for the journey
before me. For it was then that I felt the first healthy flush of anticipation for the many
interesting experiences I know these days ahead hold in store for me. And indeed, it was then
that I felt a new resolve not to be daunted in respect to the one professional task I have
entrusted myself with on this trip; that is to say, regarding Miss Kenton and our present
staffing problems.
But that was this morning. This evening I find myself settled here in this comfortable
guest house in a street not far from the centre of Salisbury. It is, I suppose, a relatively modest
establishment, but very clean and perfectly adequate for my needs. The landlady, a woman of
around forty or so, appears to regard me as a rather grand visitor on account of Mr Farraday's
Ford and the high quality of my suit. This afternoon - I arrived in Salisbury at around three
thirty - when I entered my address in her register as 'Darlington Hall', I could see her look at
me with some trepidation, assuming no doubt that I was some gentleman used to such places
as the Ritz or the Dorchester and that I would storm out of her guest house on being shown
my room. She informed me that a double room at the front was available, though I was
welcome to it for the price of a single.
I was then brought up to this room, in which, at that point of the day, the sun was
lighting up the floral patterns of the wallpaper quite agreeably. There were twin beds and a
pair of good-sized windows overlooking the street. On inquiring where the bathroom was, the
woman told me in a timid voice that although it was the door facing mine, there would be no
hot water available until after supper. I asked her to bring me up a pot of tea, and when she
had gone, inspected the room further. The beds were perfectly clean and had been well made.
The basin in the corner was also very clean. On looking out of the windows, one saw on the
opposite side of the street a bakery displaying a variety of pastries, a chemist's shop and a
barber's. Further along, one could see where the street passed over a round-backed bridge and
on into more rural surroundings. I refreshed my face and hands with cold water at the basin,
then seated myself on a hard-backed chair left near one of the windows to await my tea.
I would suppose it was shortly after four o'clock that I left the guest house and
ventured out into the streets of Salisbury. The wide, airy nature of the streets here give the city
a marvellously spacious feel, so that I found it most easy to spend some hours just strolling in
the gently warm sunshine. Moreover, I discovered the city to be one of many charms; time
and again, I found myself wandering past delightful rows of old timber-fronted houses, or
crossing some little stone footbridge over one of the many streams that flow through the city.
And of course, I did not fail to visit the fine cathedral, much praised by Mrs Symons in her
volume. This august building was hardly difficult for me to locate, its looming spire being
ever-visible wherever one goes in Salisbury. Indeed, as I was making my way back to this
guest house this evening, I glanced back over my shoulder on a number of occasions and was
met each time by a view of the sun setting behind that great spire.
And yet tonight, in the quiet of this room, I find that what really remains with me from
this first day's travel is not Salisbury Cathedral, nor any of the other charming sights of this
city, but rather that marvellous view encountered this morning of the rolling English
countryside. Now I am quite prepared to believe that other countries can offer more obviously
spectacular scenery. Indeed, I have seen in encyclopedias and the _National Geographic
Magazine__ breathtaking photographs of sights from various corners of the globe;
magnificent canyons and waterfalls, raggedly beautiful mountains. It has never, of course,
been my privilege to have seen such things at first hand, but I will nevertheless hazard this
with some confidence: the English landscape at its finest - such as I saw it this morning -
possesses a quality that the landscapes of other nations, however more superficially dramatic,
inevitably fail to possess. It is, I believe, a quality that will mark out the English landscape to
any objective observer as the most deeply satisfying in the world, and this quality is probably
best summed up by the term 'greatness'. For it is true, when I stood on that high ledge this
morning and viewed the land before me, I distinctly felt that rare, yet unmistakable feeling -
the feeling that one is in the presence of greatness. We call this land of ours _Great__ Britain,
and there may be those who believe this a somewhat immodest practice. Yet I would venture
that the landscape of our country alone would justify the use of this lofty adjective.
And yet what precisely is this 'greatness'? Just where, or in what, does it lie? I am quite
aware it would take a far wiser head than mine to answer such a question, but if I were forced
to hazard a guess, I would say that it is the very _lack__ of obvious drama or spectacle that
sets the beauty of our land apart. What is pertinent is the calmness of that beauty, its sense of
restraint. It is as though the land knows of its own beauty, of its own greatness, and feels no
need to shout it. In comparison, the sorts of sights offered in such places as Africa and
America, though undoubtedly very exciting, would, I am sure, strike the objective viewer as
inferior on account of their unseemly demonstrativeness.
This whole question is very akin to the question that has caused much debate in our
profession over the years: what is a 'great' butler? I can recall many hours of enjoyable
discussion on this topic around the fire of the servants' hall at the end of a day. You will
notice I say 'what' rather than 'who' is a great butler; for there was actually no serious dispute
as to the identity of the men who set the standards amongst our generation. That is to say, I
am talking of the likes of Mr Marshall of Charleville House, or Mr Lane of Bridewood. If you
have ever had the privilege of meeting such men, you will no doubt know of the quality they
possess to which I refer. But you will no doubt also understand what I mean when I say it is
not at all easy to define just what this quality is.
Incidentally, now that I come to think further about it, it is not quite true to say there
was no dispute as to _who__ were the great butlers.
What I should have said was that there was no serious dispute among professionals of
quality who had any discernment in such matters. Of course, the servants' hall at Darlington
Hall, like any servants' hall anywhere, was obliged to receive employees of varying degrees of
intellect and perception, and I recall many a time having to bite my lip while some employee -
and at times, I regret to say, members of my own staff - excitedly eulogized the likes of, say,
Mr Jack Neighbours.
I have nothing against Mr Jack Neighbours, who sadly, I understand, was killed in the
war. I mention him simply because his was a typical case.
For two or three years in the mid-thirties, Mr Neighbours' name seemed to dominate
conversations in every servants' hall in the land. As I say, at Darlington Hall too, many a
visiting employee would bring the latest tales of Mr Neighbours' achievements, so that I and
the likes of Mr Graham would have to share the frustrating experience of hearing anecdote
after anecdote relating to him. And most frustrating of all would be having to witness at the
conclusion of each such anecdote otherwise decent employees shaking their heads in wonder
and uttering phrases like: "That Mr Neighbours, he really is the best."
Now I do not doubt that Mr Neighbours had good organizational skills; he did, I
understand, mastermind a number of large occasions with conspicuous style. But at no stage
did he ever approach the status of a great butler. I could have told you this at the height of his
reputation, just as I could have predicted his downfall after a few short years in the limelight.
How often have you known it for the butler who is on everyone's lips one day as the
greatest of his generation to be proved demonstrably within a few years to have been nothing
of the sort? And yet those very same employees who once heaped praise on him will be too
busy eulogizing some new figure to stop and examine their sense of judgement. The object of
this sort of servants' hall talk is invariably some butler who has come to the fore quite
suddenly through having been appointed by a prominent house, and who has perhaps
managed to pull off two or three large occasions with some success. There will then be all
sorts of rumours buzzing through servants' halls up and down the country to the effect that he
has been approached by this or that personage or that several of the highest houses are
competing for his services with wildly high wages. And what has happened before a few
years have passed? This same invincible figure has been held responsible for some blunder, or
has for some other reason fallen out of favour with his employers, leaves the house where he
came to fame and is never heard of again. Meanwhile those same gossipers will have found
yet some other newcomer about whom to enthuse. Visiting valets, I have found, are often the
worst offenders, aspiring as they usually do to the position of butler with some urgency.
They it is who tend to be always insisting this or that figure is the one to emulate, or
repeating what some particular hero is said to have pronounced upon professional matters.
But then, of course, I hasten to add, there are many valets who would never dream of
indulging in this sort of folly - who are, in fact, professionals of the highest discernment.
When two or three such persons were gathered together at our servants' hall - I mean of the
calibre of, say, Mr Graham, with whom now, sadly, I seem to have lost touch - we would have
some of the most stimulating and intelligent debates on every aspect of our vocation. Indeed,
today, those evenings ran amongst my fondest memories from those times.
But let me return to the question that is of genuine interest, this question we so
enjoyed debating when our evenings were not spoilt by chatter from those who lacked any
fundamental understanding of the profession; that is to say, the question '_what__ is a great
butler?'
To the best of my knowledge, for all the talk this question has engendered over the
years, there have been very few attempts within the profession to formulate an official
answer. The only instance that comes to mind is the attempt of the Hayes Society to devise
criteria for membership. You may not be aware of the Hayes Society, for few talk of it these
days. But in the twenties and the early thirties, it exerted a considerable influence over much
of London and the Home Counties. In fact, many felt its power had become too great and
thought it no bad thing when it was forced to close, I believe in 1932 or 1933.
The Hayes Society claimed to admit butlers of 'only the very first rank'. Much of the
power and prestige it went on to gain derived from the fact that unlike other such
organizations which have come and gone, it managed to keep its numbers extremely low, thus
giving this claim some credibility. Membership, it was said, never at any point rose above
thirty and much of the time remained closer to nine or ten. This, and the fact that the Hayes
Society tended to be a rather secretive body, lent it much mystique for a time, ensuring that
the pronouncements it occasionally issued on professional matters were received as though
hewn on tablets of stone.
But one matter the Society resisted pronouncing on for some time was the question of
its own criteria for membership. Pressure to have these announced steadily mounted, and in
response to a series of letters published in _A Quarterly for the Gentleman's Gentleman__, the
Society admitted that a prerequisite for membership was that 'an applicant be attached to a
distinguished household'. 'Though of course,' the Society went on, 'this by itself is far from
sufficient to satisfy requirements.' It was made clear, furthermore, that the Society did not
regard the houses of businessmen or the 'newly rich' as 'distinguished', and in my opinion this
piece of out-dated thinking crucially undermined any serious authority the Society may have
achieved to arbitrate on standards in our profession. In response to further letters in _A
Quarterly__, the Society justified its stance by saying that while it accepted some
correspondents' views that certain butlers of excellent quality were to be found in the houses
of businessmen, 'the assumption had to be that the houses of _true__ ladies and gentlemen
would not refrain long from acquiring the services of any such persons'. One had to be guided
by the judgement of 'the true ladies and gentlemen', argued the Society, or else 'we may as
well adopt the proprieties of Bolshevik Russia'. This provoked further controversy, and the
pressure of letters continued to build up urging the Society to declare more fully its
membership criteria. In the end, it was revealed in a brief letter to _A Quarterly__ that in the
view of the Society - and I will try and quote accurately from memory - 'the most crucial
criterion is that the applicant be possessed of a dignity in keeping with his position. No
applicant will satisfy requirements, whatever his level of accomplishments otherwise, if seen
to fall short in this respect.'
For all my lack of enthusiasm for the Hayes Society, it is my belief that this particular
pronouncement at least was founded on a significant truth. If one looks at these persons we
agree are 'great' butlers, if one looks at, say, Mr Marshall or Mr Lane, it does seem to me that
the factor which distinguishes them from those butlers who are merely extremely competent is
most closely captured by this word 'dignity'.
Of course, this merely begs the further question: of what is 'dignity' comprised? And it
was on this point that the likes of Mr Graham and I had some of our most interesting debates.
Mr Graham would always take the view that this 'dignity' was something like a woman's
beauty and it was thus pointless to attempt to analyse it. I, on the other hand, held the opinion
that to draw such a parallel tended to demean the 'dignity' of the likes of Mr Marshall.
Moreover, my main objection to Mr Graham's analogy was the implication that this 'dignity'
was something one possessed or did not by a fluke of nature; and if one did not self-evidently
have it, to strive after it would be as futile as an ugly woman trying to make herself beautiful.
Now while I would accept that the majority of butlers may well discover ultimately that they
do not have the capacity for it, I believe strongly that this 'dignity' is something one can
meaningfully strive for throughout one's career. Those 'great' butlers like Mr Marshall who
have it, I am sure, acquired it over many years of self-training and the careful absorbing of
experience. In my view, then, it was rather defeatist from a vocational standpoint to adopt a
stance like Mr Graham's.
In any case, for all Mr Graham's scepticism, I can remember he and I spending many
evenings trying to put our fingers on the constitution of this 'dignity'. We never came to any
agreement, but I can say for my part that I developed fairly firm ideas of my own on the
matter during the course of such discussions, and they are by and large the beliefs I still hold
today. I would like, if I may, to try and say here what I think this 'dignity' to be.
You will not dispute, I presume, that Mr Marshall of Charleville House and Mr Lane
of Bridewood have been the two great butlers of recent times. Perhaps you might be
persuaded that Mr Henderson of Branbury Castle also falls into this rare category. But you
may think me merely biased if I say that my own father could in many ways be considered to
rank with such men, and that his career is the one I have always scrutinized for a definition of
'dignity'. Yet it is my firm conviction that at the peak of his career at Loughborough House,
my father was indeed the embodiment of 'dignity'.
I realize that if one looks at the matter objectively, one has to concede my father
lacked various attributes one may normally expect in a great butler. But those same absent
attributes, I would argue, are every time those of a superficial and decorative order, attributes
that are attractive, no doubt, as icing on the cake, but are not pertaining to what is really
essential. I refer to things such as good accent and command of language, general knowledge
on wide-ranging topics such as falconing or newt-mating - attributes none of which my father
could have boasted. Furthermore, it must be remembered that my father was a butler of an
earlier generation who began his career at a time when such attributes were not considered
proper, let alone desirable in a butler.
The obsessions with eloquence and general knowledge would appear to be ones that
emerged with our generation, probably in the wake of Mr Marshall, when lesser men trying to
emulate his greatness mistook the superficial for the essence. It is my view that our generation
has been much too preoccupied with the 'trimmings'; goodness knows how much time and
energy has gone into the practising of accent and command of language, how many hours
spent studying encyclopedias and volumes of 'Test Your Knowledge', when the time should
have been spent mastering the basic fundamentals.
Though we must be careful not to attempt to deny the responsibility which ultimately
lies with ourselves, it has to be said that certain employers have done much to encourage these
sorts of trends. I am sorry to say this, but there would appear to have been a number of houses
in recent times, some of the highest pedigree, which have tended to take a competitive attitude
towards each other and have not been above showing off to guests a butler's mastery of such
trivial accomplishments. I have heard of various instances of a butler being displayed as a
kind of performing monkey at a house party. In one regrettable case, which I myself
witnessed, it had become an established sport in the house for guests to ring for the butler and
put to him random questions of the order of, say, who had won the Derby in such and such a
year, rather as one might to a Memory Man at the music hall.
My father, as I say, came of a generation mercifully free of such confusions of our
professional values. And I would maintain that for all his limited command of English and his
limited general knowledge, he not only knew all there was to know about how to run a house,
he did in his prime come to acquire that 'dignity in keeping with his position', as the Hayes
Society puts it. If I try, then, to describe to you what I believe made my father thus
distinguished, I may in this way convey my idea of what 'dignity' is.
There was a certain story my father was fond of repeating over the years. I recall
listening to him tell it to visitors when I was a child, and then later, when I was starting out as
a footman under his supervision. I remember him relating it again the first time I returned to
see him after gaining my first post as butler - to a Mr and Mrs Muggeridge in their relatively
modest house in Allshot, Oxfordshire.
Clearly the story meant much to him. My father's generation was not one accustomed
to discussing and analysing in the way ours is and I believe the telling and retelling of this
story was as close as my father ever came to reflecting critically on the profession he
practised. As such, it gives a vital clue to his thinking.
The story was an apparently true one concerning a certain butler who had travelled
with his employer to India and served there for many years maintaining amongst the native
staff the same high standards he had commanded in England. One afternoon, evidently, this
butler had entered the dining room to make sure all was well for dinner, when he noticed a
tiger languishing beneath the dining table. The butler had left the dining room quietly, taking
care to close the doors behind him, and proceeded calmly to the drawing room where his
employer was taking tea with a number of visitors. There he attracted his employer's attention
with a polite cough, then whispered in the latter's ear: "I'm very sorry, sir, but there appears to
be a tiger in the dining room. Perhaps you will permit the twelve-bores to be used?"
And according to legend, a few minutes later, the employer and his guests heard three
gun shots. When the butler reappeared in the drawing room some time afterwards to refresh
the teapots, the employer had inquired if all was well.
"Perfectly fine, thank you, sir," had come the reply. "Dinner will be served at the usual
time and I am pleased to say there will be no discernible traces left of the recent occurrence
by that time."
This last phrase - 'no discernible traces left of the recent occurrence by that time' - my
father would repeat with a laugh and shake his head admiringly. He neither claimed to know
the butler's name, nor anyone who had known him, but he would always insist the event
occurred just as he told it. In any case, it is of little importance whether or not this story is
true; the significant thing is, of course, what it reveals concerning my father's ideals. For when
I look back over his career, I can see with hindsight that he must have striven throughout his
years somehow to _become__ that butler of his story. And in my view, at the peak of his
career, my father achieved his ambition. For although I am sure he never had the chance to
encounter a tiger beneath the dining table, when I think over all that I know or have heard
concerning him, I can think of at least several instances of his displaying in abundance that
very quality he so admired in the butler of his story.
One such instance was related to me by Mr David Charles, of the Charles and Redding
Company, who visited Darlington Hall from time to time during Lord Darlington's days. It
was one evening when I happened to be valeting him, Mr Charles told me he had come across
my father some years earlier while a guest at Loughborough House - the home of Mr John
Silvers, the industrialist, where my father served for fifteen years at the height of his career.
He had never been quite able to forget my father, Mr Charles told me, owing to an incident
that occurred during that visit.
One afternoon, Mr Charles to his shame and regret had allowed himself to become
inebriated in the company of two fellow guests - gentlemen I shall merely call Mr Smith and
Mr Jones since they are likely to be still remembered in certain circles. After an hour or so of
drinking, these two gentlemen decided they wished to go for an afternoon drive around the
local villages - a motor car around this time still being something of a novelty. They
persuaded Mr Charles to accompany them, and since the chauffeur was on leave at that point,
enlisted my father to drive the car.
Once they had set off, Mr Smith and Mr Jones, for all their being well into their
middle years, proceeded to behave like schoolboys, singing coarse songs and making even
coarser comments on all they saw from the window. Furthermore, these gentlemen had
noticed on the local map three villages in the vicinity called Morphy, Saltash and Brigoon.
Now I am not entirely sure these were the exact names, but the point was they reminded Mr
Smith and Mr Jones of the music hall act, Murphy, Saltman and Brigid the Cat, of which you
may have heard. Upon noticing this curious coincidence, the gentlemen then gained an
ambition to visit the three villages in question - in honour, as it were, of the music hall
artistes. According to Mr Charles, my father had duly driven to one village and was on the
point of entering a second when either Mr Smith or Mr Jones noticed the village was Brigoon
- that is to say the third, not the second, name of the sequence. They demanded angrily that
my father turn the car immediately so that the villages could be visited 'in the correct order'. It
so happened that this entailed doubling back a considerable way of the route, but, so Mr
Charles assures me, my father accepted the request as though it were a perfectly reasonable
one, and in general, continued to behave with immaculate courtesy.
But Mr Smith's and Mr Jones' attention had now been drawn to my father and no
doubt rather bored with what the view outside had to offer, they proceeded to amuse
themselves by shouting out unflattering remarks concerning my father's 'mistake'. Mr Charles
remembered marvelling at how my father showed not one hint of discomfort or anger, but
continued to drive with an expression balanced perfectly between personal dignity and
readiness to oblige. My father's equanimity was not, however, allowed to last. For when they
had wearied of hurling insults at my father's back, the two gentlemen began to discuss their
host - that is to say, my father's employer, Mr John Silvers. The remarks grew ever more
debased and treacherous so that Mr Charles - at least so he claimed - was obliged to intervene
with the suggestion that such talk was bad form. This view was contradicted with such energy
that Mr Charles, quite aside from worrying he would become the next focus of the
gentlemen's attention, actually thought himself in danger of physical assault. But then
suddenly, following a particularly heinous insinuation against his employer, my father
brought the car to an abrupt halt. It was what happened next that had made such an indelible
impression upon Mr Charles.
The rear door of the car opened and my father was observed to be standing there, a
few steps back from the vehicle, gazing steadily into the interior. As Mr Charles described it,
all three passengers seemed to be overcome as one by the realization of what an imposing
physical force my father was. Indeed, he was a man of some six feet three inches, and his
countenance, though reassuring while one knew he was intent on obliging, could seem
extremely forbidding viewed in certain other contexts. According to Mr Charles, my father
did not display any obvious anger. He had, it seemed, merely opened the door. And yet there
was something so powerfully rebuking, and at the same time so unassailable about his figure
looming over them that Mr Charles' two drunken companions seemed to cower back like
small boys caught by the farmer in the act of stealing apples.
My father had proceeded to stand there for some moments, saying nothing, merely
holding open the door. Eventually, either Mr Smith or Mr Jones had remarked: "Are we not
going on with the journey?"
My father did not reply, but continued to stand there silently, neither demanding
disembarkation nor offering any clue as to his desires or intentions. I can well imagine how he
must have looked that day, framed by the doorway of the vehicle, his dark, severe presence
quite blotting out the effect of the gentle Hertfordshire scenery behind him. Those were, Mr
Charles recalls, strangely unnerving moments during which he too, despite not having
participated in the preceding behaviour, felt engulfed with guilt. The silence seemed to go on
interminably, before either Mr Smith or Mr Jones found it in him to mutter: "I suppose we
were talking a little out of turn there. It won't happen again."
A moment to consider this, then my father had closed the door gently, returned to the
wheel and had proceeded to continue the tour of the three villages - a tour, Mr Charles assured
me, that was completed thereafter in near silence.
Now that I have recalled this episode, another event from around that time in my
father's career comes to mind which demonstrates perhaps even more impressively this
special quality he came to possess. I should explain here that I am one of two brothers - and
that my elder brother, Leonard, was killed during the Southern African War while I was still a
boy. Naturally, my father would have felt this loss keenly; but to make matters worse the
usual comfort a father has in these situations - that is, the notion that his son gave his life
gloriously for king and country - was sullied by the fact that my brother had perished in a
particularly infamous manoeuvre. Not only was it alleged that the manoeuvre had been a most
un-British attack on civilian Boer settlements, overwhelming evidence emerged that it had
been irresponsibly commanded with several floutings of elementary military precautions, so
that the men who had died - my brother among them - had died quite needlessly. In view of
what I am about to relate, it would not be proper of me to identify the manoeuvre any more
precisely, though you may well guess which one I am alluding to if I say that it caused
something of an uproar at the time, adding significantly to the controversy the conflict as a
whole was attracting. There had been calls for the removal, even the court-martialling, of the
general concerned, but the army had defended the latter and he had been allowed to complete
the campaign. What is less known is that at the close of the Southern African conflict, this
same general had been discreetly retired, and he had then entered business, dealing in
shipments from Southern Africa. I relate this because some ten years after the conflict, that is
to say when the wounds of bereavement had only superficially healed, my father was called
into Mr John Silvers' study to be told that this very same personage - I will call him simply
'the General' - was due to visit for a number of days to attend a house party, during which my
father's employer hoped to lay the foundations of a lucrative business transaction. Mr Silvers,
however, had remembered the significance the visit would have for my father, and had thus
called him in to offer him the option of taking several days' leave for the duration of the
General's stay.
My father's feelings towards the General were, naturally, those of utmost loathing; but
he realized too that his employer's present business aspirations hung on the smooth running of
the house party - which with some eighteen or so people expected would be no trifling affair.
My father thus replied to the effect that while he was most grateful that his feelings had been
taken in to account, Mr Silvers could be assured that service would be provided to the usual
standards.
As things turned out, my father's ordeal proved even worse than might have been
predicted. For one thing, any hopes my father may have had that to meet the General in
person would arouse a sense of respect or sympathy to leaven his feelings against him proved
without foundation.
The General was a portly, ugly man, his manners were not refined, and his talk was
conspicuous for an eagerness to apply military similes to a very wide variety of matters.
Worse was to come with the news that the gentleman had brought no valet, his usual man
having fallen ill. This presented a delicate problem, another of the house guests being also
without his valet, raising the question as to which guest should be allocated the butler as valet
and who the footman. My father, appreciating his employer's position, volunteered
immediately to take the General, and thus was obliged to suffer intimate proximity for four
days with the man he detested. Meanwhile, the General, having no idea of my father's
feelings, took full opportunity to relate anecdotes of his military accomplishments - as of
course many military gentlemen are wont to do to their valets in the privacy of their rooms.
Yet so well did my father hide his feelings, so professionally did he carry out his duties, that
on his departure the General had actually complimented Mr John Silvers on the excellence of
his butler and had left an unusually large tip in appreciation - which my father without
hesitation asked his employer to donate to a charity.
I hope you will agree that in these two instances I have cited from his career - both of
which I have had corroborated and believe to be accurate - my father not only manifests, but
comes close to being the personification itself, of what the Hayes Society terms 'dignity in
keeping with his position'. If one considers the difference between my father at such moments
and a figure such as Mr Jack Neighbours even with the best of his technical flourishes, I
believe one may begin to distinguish what it is that separates a 'great' butler from a merely
competent one. We may now understand better, too, why my father was so fond of the story
of the butler who failed to panic on discovering a tiger under the dining table; it was because
he knew instinctively that somewhere in this story lay the kernel of what true 'dignity' is. And
let me now posit this: 'dignity' has to do crucially with a butler's ability not to abandon the
professional being he inhabits. Lesser butlers will abandon their professional being for the
private one at the least provocation. For such persons, being a butler is like playing some
pantomime role; a small push, a slight stumble, and the facade will drop off to reveal the actor
underneath. The great butlers are great by virtue of their ability to inhabit their professional
role and inhabit it to the utmost; they will not be shaken out by external events, however
surprising, alarming or vexing. They wear their professionalism as a decent gentleman will
wear his suit: he will not let ruffians or circumstance tear it off him in the public gaze; he will
discard it when, and only when, he wills to do so, and this will invariably be when he is
entirely alone. It is, as I say, a matter of 'dignity'.
It is sometimes said that butlers only truly exist in England. Other countries, whatever
title is actually used, have only manservants. I tend to believe this is true. Continentals are
unable to be butlers because they are as a breed incapable of the emotional restraint which
only the English race are capable of. Continentals - and by and large the Celts, as you will no
doubt agree - are as a rule unable to control themselves in moments of strong emotion, and are
thus unable to maintain a professional demeanour other than in the least challenging of
situations. If I may return to my earlier metaphor - you will excuse my putting it so coarsely -
they are like a man who will, at the slightest provocation, tear off his suit and his shirt and run
about screaming. In a word, 'dignity' is beyond such persons. We English have an important
advantage over foreigners in this respect and it is for this reason that when you think of a
great butler, he is bound, almost by definition, to be an Englishman.
Of course, you may retort, as did Mr Graham whenever I expounded such a line
during those enjoyable discussions by the fire, that if I am correct in what I am saying, one
could recognize a great butler as such only after one had seen him perform under some severe
test. And yet the truth is, we accept persons such as Mr Marshall or Mr Lane to be great,
though most of us cannot claim to have ever scrutinized them under such conditions. I have to
admit Mr Graham has a point here, but all I can say is that after one has been in the profession
as long as one has, one is able to judge intuitively the depth of a man's professionalism
without having to see it under pressure. Indeed, on the occasion one is fortunate enough to
meet a great butler, far from experiencing any sceptical urge to demand a 'test', one is at a loss
to imagine any situation which could ever dislodge a professionalism borne with such
authority. In fact, I am sure it was an apprehension of this sort, penetrating even the thick haze
created by alcohol, which reduced my father's passengers into a shamed silence that Sunday
afternoon many years ago. It is with such men as it is with the English landscape seen at its
best as I did this morning: when one encounters them, one simply _knows__ one is in the
presence of greatness.
There will always be, I realize, those who would claim that any attempt to analyse
greatness as I have been doing is quite futile. "You know when somebody's got it and you
know when somebody hasn't," Mr Graham's argument would always be. "Beyond that there's
nothing much you can say." But I believe we have a duty not to be so defeatist in this matter.
It is surely a professional responsibility for all of us to think deeply about these things so that
each of us may better strive towards attaining 'dignity' for ourselves.
Day Two - Morning
Salisbury
STRANGE beds have rarely agreed with me, and after only a short spell of somewhat
troubled slumber, I awoke an hour or so ago. It was then still dark, and knowing I had a full
day's motoring ahead of me, I made an attempt to return to sleep. This proved futile, and when
I decided eventually to rise, it was still so dark that I was obliged to turn on the electric light
in order to shave at the sink in the corner. But when having finished I switched it off again, I
could see early daylight at the edges of the curtains.
When I parted them just a moment ago, the light outside was still very pale and
something of a mist was affecting my view of the baker's shop and chemist's opposite. Indeed,
following the street further along to where it runs over the little round-backed bridge, I could
see the mist rising from the river, obscuring almost entirely one of the bridge-posts. There was
not a soul to be seen, and apart from a hammering noise echoing from somewhere distant, and
an occasional coughing in a room to the back of the house, there is still no sound to be heard.
The landlady is clearly not yet up and about, suggesting there is little chance of her serving
breakfast earlier than her declared time of seven thirty.
Now, in these quiet moments as I wait for the world about to awake, I find myself
going over in my mind again passages from Miss Kenton's letter. Incidentally, I should before
now have explained myself as regards my referring to 'Miss Kenton'. 'Miss Kenton' is
properly speaking 'Mrs Benn' and has been for twenty years. However, because I knew her at
close quarters only during her maiden years and have not seen her once since she went to the
West Country to become 'Mrs Benn', you will perhaps excuse my impropriety in referring to
her as I knew her, and in my mind have continued to call her throughout these years.
Of course, her letter has given me extra cause to continue thinking of her as 'Miss
Kenton', since it would seem, sadly, that her marriage is finally to come to an end. The letter
does not make specific the details of the matter, as one would hardly expect it to do, but Miss
Kenton states unambiguously that she has now, in fact, taken the step of moving out of Mr
Benn's house in Helston and is presently lodging with an acquaintance in the nearby village of
Little Compton.
It is of course tragic that her marriage is now ending in failure. At this very moment,
no doubt, she is pondering with regret decisions made in the far-off past that have now left
her, deep in middle age, so alone and desolate. And it is easy to see how in such a frame of
mind, the thought of returning to Darlington Hall would be a great comfort to her.
Admittedly, she does not at any point in her letter state explicitly her desire to return;
but that is the unmistakable message conveyed by the general nuance of many of the
passages, imbued as they are with a deep nostalgia for her days at Darlington Hall. Of course,
Miss Kenton cannot hope by returning at this stage ever to retrieve those lost years, and it will
be my first duty to impress this upon her when we meet. I will have to point out how different
things are now - that the days of working with a grand staff at one's beck and call will
probably never return within our lifetime. But then Miss Kenton is an intelligent woman and
she will have already realized these things. Indeed, all in all, I cannot see why the option of
her returning to Darlington Hall and seeing out her working years there should not offer a
very genuine consolation to a life that has come to be so dominated by a sense of waste.
And of course, from my own professional viewpoint, it is clear that even after a break
of so many years, Miss Kenton would prove the perfect solution to the problem at present
besetting us at Darlington Hall. In fact, by terming it a 'problem', I perhaps overstate the
matter. I am referring, after all, to a series of very minor errors on my part and the course I am
now pursuing is merely a means of pre-empting any 'problems' before one arises. It is true,
these same trivial errors did cause me some anxiety at first, but once I had had time to
diagnose them correctly as symptoms of nothing more than a straightforward staff shortage, I
have refrained from giving them much thought. Miss Kenton's arrival, as I say, will put a
permanent end to them.
But to return to her letter. It does at times reveal a certain despair over her present
situation - a fact that is rather concerning. She begins one sentence: 'Although I have no idea
how I shall usefully fill the remainder of my life... ' And again, elsewhere, she writes: 'The
rest of my life stretches out as an emptiness before me.' For the most part, though, as I have
said, the tone is one of nostalgia. At one point, for instance, she writes: 'This whole incident
put me in mind of Alice White. Do you remember her? In fact, I hardly imagine you could
forget her. For myself, I am still haunted by those vowel sounds and those uniquely
ungrammatical sentences only she could dream up! Have you any idea what became of her?'
I have not, as a matter of fact, though I must say it rather amused me to remember that
exasperating housemaid - who in the end turned out to be one of our most devoted. At another
point in her letter, Miss Kenton writes: 'I was so fond of that view from the second-floor
bedrooms overlooking the lawn with the downs visible in the distance. Is it still like that? On
summer evenings there was a sort of magical quality to that view and I will confess to you
now I used to waste many precious minutes standing at one of those windows just enchanted
by it.'
Then she goes on to add: 'If this is a painful memory, forgive me. But I will never
forget that time we both watched your father walking back and forth in front of the
summerhouse, looking down at the ground as though he hoped to find some precious jewel he
had dropped there.'
It is something of a revelation that this memory from over thirty years ago should have
remained with Miss Kenton as it has done with me.
Indeed, it must have occurred on just one of those summer evenings she mentions, for
I can recall distinctly climbing to the second landing and seeing before me a series of orange
shafts from the sunset breaking the gloom of the corridor where each bedroom door stood
ajar. And as I made my way past those bedrooms, I had seen through a doorway Miss
Kenton's figure, silhouetted against a window, turn and call softly: 'Mr Stevens, if you have a
moment.' As I entered, Miss Kenton had turned back to the window. Down below, the
shadows of the poplars were falling across the lawn. To the right of our view, the lawn sloped
up a gentle embankment to where the summerhouse stood, and it was there my father's figure
could be seen, pacing slowly with an air of preoccupation - indeed, as Miss Kenton puts it so
well, 'as though he hoped to find some precious jewel he had dropped there'.
There are some very pertinent reasons why this memory has remained with me, as I
wish to explain. Moreover, now that I come to think of it, it is perhaps not so surprising that it
should also have made a deep impression on Miss Kenton given certain aspects of her
relationship with my father during her early days at Darlington Hall.
Miss Kenton and my father had arrived at the house at more or less the same time -
that is to say, the spring of 1922 - as a consequence of my losing at one stroke the previous
housekeeper and under-butler. This had occurred due to these latter two persons deciding to
marry one another and leave the profession. I have always found such liaisons a serious threat
to the order in a house. Since that time, I have lost numerous more employees in such
circumstances. Of course, one has to expect such things to occur amongst maids and footmen,
and a good butler should always take this into account in his planning; but such marrying
amongst more senior employees can have an extremely disruptive effect on work.
Of course, if two members of staff happen to fall in love and decide to marry, it would
be churlish to be apportioning blame; but what I find a major irritation are those persons - and
housekeepers are particularly guilty here - who have no genuine commitment to their
profession and who are essentially going from post to post looking for romance. This sort of
person is a blight on good professionalism.
But let me say immediately I do not have Miss Kenton in mind at all when I say this.
Of course, she too eventually left my staff to get married, but I can vouch that during the time
she worked as housekeeper under me, she was nothing less than dedicated and never allowed
her professional priorities to be distracted.
But I am digressing. I was explaining that we had fallen in need of a housekeeper and
an under-butler at one and the same time and Miss Kenton had arrived - with unusually good
references, I recall - to take up the former post. As it happened, my father had around this
time come to the end of his distinguished service at Loughborough House with the death of
his employer, Mr John Silvers, and had been at something of a loss for work and
accommodation. Although he was still, of course, a professional of the highest class, he was
now in his seventies and much ravaged by arthritis and other ailments. It was not at all certain,
then, how he would fare against the younger breed of highly professionalized butlers looking
for posts. In view of this, it seemed a reasonable solution to ask my father to bring his great
experience and distinction to Darlington Hall.
As I remember it was one morning a little while after my father and Miss Kenton had
joined the staff, I had been in my pantry, sitting at the table going through my paperwork,
when I heard a knock on my door. I recall I was a little taken aback when Miss Kenton
opened the door and entered before I had bidden her to do so. She came in holding a large
vase of flowers and said with a smile: "Mr Stevens, I thought these would brighten your
parlour a little."
"I beg your pardon, Miss Kenton?"
"It seemed such a pity your room should be so dark and cold, Mr Stevens, when it's
such bright sunshine outside. I thought these would enliven things a little."
"That's very kind of you, Miss Kenton."
"It's a shame more sun doesn't get in here. The walls are even a little damp, are they
not, Mr Stevens?"
I turned back to my accounts, saying: "Merely condensation, I believe, Miss Kenton."
She put her vase down on the table in front of me, then glancing around my pantry
again said: "If you wish, Mr Stevens, I might bring in some more cuttings for you."
"Miss Kenton, I appreciate your kindness. But this is not a room of entertainment. I am
happy to have distractions kept to a minimum."
"But surely, Mr Stevens, there is no need to keep your room so stark and bereft of
colour."
"It has served me perfectly well thus far as it is, Miss Kenton, though I appreciate your
thoughts. In fact, since you are here, there was a certain matter I wished to raise with you."
"Oh, really, Mr Stevens?"
"Yes, Miss Kenton, just a small matter. I happened to be walking past the kitchen
yesterday when I heard you calling to someone named William."
"Is that so, Mr Stevens?"
"Indeed, Miss Kenton. I did hear you call several times for 'William'. May I ask who it
was you were addressing by that name?"
"Why, Mr Stevens, I should think I was addressing your father. There are no other
Williams in this house, I take it."
"It's an easy enough error to have made," I said with a small smile. "May I ask you in
future, Miss Kenton, to address my father as 'Mr Stevens'? If you are referring to him to a
third party, then you may wish to call him 'Mr Stevens senior' to distinguish him from myself.
I'm most grateful, Miss Kenton."
With that I turned back to my papers. But to my surprise, Miss Kenton did not take her
leave. "Excuse me, Mr Stevens," she said after a moment.
"Yes, Miss Kenton."
"I am afraid I am not quite clear what you are saying. I have in the past been
accustomed to addressing under-servants by their Christian names and saw no reason to do
otherwise in this house."
"A most understandable error, Miss Kenton. However, if you will consider the
situation for a moment, you may come to see the inappropriateness of someone such as
yourself talking 'down' to one such as my father."
"I am still not clear what you are getting at, Mr Stevens. You say someone such as
myself, but I am as far as I understand the housekeeper of this house, while your father is the
under-butler."
"He is of course in title the under-butler, as you say. But I am surprised your powers of
observation have not already made it clear to you that he is in reality more than that. A great
deal more."
"No doubt I have been extremely unobservant, Mr Stevens. I had only observed that
your father was an able under-butler and addressed him accordingly. It must indeed have been
most galling for him to be so addressed by one such as I."
"Miss Kenton, it is clear from your tone you simply have not observed my father. If
you had done so, the inappropriateness of someone of your age and standing addressing him
as 'William' should have been self-evident to you."
"Mr Stevens, I may not have been a housekeeper for long, but I would say that in the
time I have been, my abilities have attracted some very generous remarks."
"I do not doubt your competence for one moment, Miss Kenton. But a hundred things
should have indicated to you that my father is a figure of unusual distinction from whom you
may learn a wealth of things were you prepared to be more observant."
"I am most indebted to you for your advice, Mr Stevens. So do please tell me, just
what marvellous things might I learn from observing your father?"
"I would have thought it obvious to anyone with eyes, Miss Kenton."
"But we have already established, have we not, that I am particularly deficient in that
respect."
"Miss Kenton, if you are under the impression you have already at your age perfected
yourself, you will never rise to the heights you are no doubt capable of. I might point out, for
instance, you are still often unsure of what goes where and which item is which."
This seemed to take the wind out of Miss Kenton's sails somewhat: Indeed, for a
moment, she looked a little upset. Then she said: "I had a little difficulty on first arriving, but
that is surely only normal."
"Ah, there you are, Miss Kenton. If you had observed my father who arrived in this
house a week after you did, you will have seen that his house knowledge is perfect and was so
almost from the time he set foot in Darlington Hall."
Miss Kenton seemed to think about this before saying a little sulkily: "I am sure Mr
Stevens senior is very good at his job, but I assure you, Mr Stevens, I am very good at mine. I
will remember to address your father by his full title in future. Now, if you would please
excuse me."
After this encounter, Miss Kenton did not attempt to introduce further flowers into my
pantry, and in general, I was pleased to observe, she went about settling in impressively. It
was clear, furthermore, she was a housekeeper who took her work very seriously and in spite
of her youth, she seemed to have no difficulty gaining the respect of her staff.
I noticed too that she was indeed proceeding to address my father as 'Mr Stevens'.
However, one afternoon perhaps two weeks after our conversation in my pantry, I was doing
something in the library when Miss Kenton came in and said: "Excuse me, Mr Stevens. But if
you are searching for your dust-pan, it is out in the hall."
"I beg your pardon, Miss Kenton?"
"Your dust-pan, Mr Stevens. You've left it out here. Shall I bring it in for you?"
"Miss Kenton, I have not been using a dust-pan."
"Ah, well, then forgive me, Mr Stevens. I naturally assumed you were using your dustpan
and had left it out in the hall. I am sorry to have disturbed you."
She started to leave, but then turned at the doorway and said: "Oh, Mr Stevens. I
would return it myself but I have to go upstairs just now. I wonder if you will remember it?"
"Of course, Miss Kenton. Thank you for drawing attention to it."
"It is quite all right, Mr Stevens."
I listened to her footsteps cross the hall and start up the great staircase, then proceeded
to the doorway myself. From the library doors, one has an unbroken view right across the
entrance hall to the main doors of the house. Most conspicuously, in virtually the central spot
of the otherwise empty and highly polished floor, lay the dustpan Miss Kenton had alluded to.
It struck me as a trivial, but irritating error; the dust-pan would have been conspicuous
not only from the five ground-floor doorways opening on to the hall, but also from the
staircase and the first-floor balconies.
I crossed the hall and had actually picked up the offending item before realizing its full
implication; my father, I recalled, had been brushing the entrance hall a half-hour or so
earlier. At first, I found it hard to credit such an error to my father. But I soon reminded
myself that such trivial slips are liable to befall anyone from time to time and my irritation
soon turned to Miss Kenton for attempting to create such unwarranted fuss over the incident.
Then, not more than a week later, I was coming down the back corridor from the
kitchen when Miss Kenton came out of her parlour and uttered a statement she had clearly
been rehearsing; this was something to the effect that although she felt most uncomfortable
drawing my attention to errors made by my staff, she and I had to work as a team, and she
hoped I would not feel inhibited to do similarly should I notice errors made by female staff.
She then went on to point out that several pieces of silver had been laid out for the dining
room which bore clear remains of polish. The end of one fork had been practically black. I
thanked her and she withdrew back into her parlour. It had been unnecessary, of course, for
her to mention that the silver was one of my father's main responsibilities and one he took
great pride in.
It is very possible there were a number of other instances of this sort which I have now
forgotten. In any case, I recall things reaching something of a climax one grey and drizzly
afternoon when I was in the billiard room attending to Lord Darlington's sporting trophies.
Miss Kenton had entered and said from the door: "Mr Stevens, I have just noticed something
outside which puzzles me."
"What is that, Miss Kenton?"
"Was it his lordship's wish that the Chinaman on the upstairs landing should be
exchanged with the one outside this door?"
"The Chinaman, Miss Kenton?"
"Yes, Mr Stevens. The Chinaman normally on the landing you will now find outside
this door."
"I fear, Miss Kenton, that you are a little confused."
"I do not believe I am confused at all, Mr Stevens. I make it my business to acquaint
myself with where objects properly belong in a house. The Chinamen, I would suppose, were
polished by someone then replaced incorrectly. If you are sceptical, Mr Stevens, perhaps you
will care to step out here and observe for yourself."
"Miss Kenton, I am occupied at present."
"But, Mr Stevens, you do not appear to believe what I am saying. I am thus asking you
to step outside this door and see for yourself."
"Miss Kenton, I am busy just now and will attend to the matter shortly. It is hardly one
of urgency."
"You accept then, Mr Stevens, that I am not in error on this point."
"I will accept nothing of the sort, Miss Kenton, until I have had a chance to deal with
the matter. However, I am occupied at present."
I turned back to my business, but Miss Kenton remained in the doorway observing me.
Eventually, she said: "I can see you will be finished very shortly, Mr Stevens. I will await you
outside so that this matter may be finalized when you come out."
"Miss Kenton, I believe you are according this matter an urgency it hardly merits."
But Miss Kenton had departed, and sure enough, as I continued with my work, an
occasional footstep or some other sound would serve to remind me she was still there outside
the door. I decided therefore to occupy myself with some further tasks in the billiard room,
assuming she would after a while see the ludicrousness of her position and leave. However,
after some time had passed, and I had exhausted the tasks which could usefully be achieved
with the implements I happened to have at hand, Miss Kenton was evidently still outside.
Resolved not to waste further time on account of this childish affair, I contemplated departure
via the french windows. A drawback to this plan was the weather - that is to say, several large
puddles and patches of mud were in evidence - and the fact that one would need to return to
the billiard room again at some point to bolt the french windows from the inside. Eventually,
then, I decided the best strategy would be simply to stride out of the room very suddenly at a
furious pace. I thus made my way as quietly as possible to a position from which I could
execute such a march, and clutching my implements firmly about me, succeeded in propelling
myself through the doorway and several paces down the corridor before a somewhat
astonished Miss Kenton could recover her wits. This she did, however, rather rapidly and the
next moment I found she had overtaken me and was standing before me, effectively barring
my way.
"Mr Stevens, that is the incorrect Chinaman, would you not agree?"
"Miss Kenton, I am very busy. I am surprised you have nothing better to do than stand
in corridors all day."
"Mr Stevens, is that the correct Chinaman or is it not?"
"Miss Kenton, I would ask you to keep your voice down."
"And I would ask you, Mr Stevens, to turn around and look at that Chinaman."
"Miss Kenton, please keep your voice down. What would employees below think to
hear us shouting at the top of our voices about what is and what is not the correct Chinaman?"
"The fact is, Mr Stevens, all the Chinamen in this house have been dirty for some
time! And now, they are in incorrect positions!"
"Miss Kenton, you are being quite ridiculous. Now if you will be so good as to
let me pass."
"Mr Stevens, will you kindly look at the Chinaman behind you?"
"If it is so important to you, Miss Kenton, I will allow that the Chinaman behind me
may well be incorrectly situated. But I must say I am at some loss as to why you should be so
concerned with these most trivial of errors."
"These errors may be trivial in themselves, Mr Stevens, but you must yourself realize
their larger significance."
"Miss Kenton, I do not understand you. Now if you would kindly allow me to pass."
"The fact is, Mr Stevens, your father is entrusted with far more than a man of his age
can cope with."
"Miss Kenton, you clearly have little idea of what you are suggesting."
"Whatever your father was once, Mr Stevens, his powers are now greatly diminished.
This is what these 'trivial errors' as you call them really signify and if you do not heed them, it
will not be long before your father commits an error of major proportions."
"Miss Kenton, you are merely making yourself look foolish."
"I am sorry, Mr Stevens, but I must go on. I believe there are many duties your father
should now be relieved of. He should not, for one, be asked to go on carrying heavily laden
trays. The way his hands tremble as he carries them into dinner is nothing short of alarming. It
is surely only a matter of time before a tray falls from his hands on to a lady or gentleman's
lap. And furthermore, Mr Stevens, and I am very sorry to say this, I have noticed your father's
nose."
"Have you indeed, Miss Kenton?"
"I regret to say I have, Mr Stevens. The evening before last I watched your father
proceeding very slowly towards the dining room with his tray, and I am afraid I observed
clearly a large drop on the end of his nose dangling over the soup bowls. I would not have
thought such a style of waiting a great stimulant to appetite."
But now that I think further about it, I am not sure Miss Kenton spoke quite so boldly
that day. We did, of course, over the years of working closely together come to have some
very frank exchanges, but the afternoon I am recalling was still early in our relationship and I
cannot see even Miss Kenton having been so forward. I am not sure she could actually have
gone so far as to say things like: 'these errors may be trivial in themselves, but you must
yourself realize their larger significance'. In fact, now that I come to think of it, I have a
feeling it may have been Lord Darlington himself who made that particular remark to me that
time he called me into his study some two months after that exchange with Miss Kenton
outside the billiard room.
By that time, the situation as regards my father had changed significantly following his
fall.
The study doors are those that face one as one comes down the great staircase. There is
outside the study today a glass cabinet displaying various of Mr Farraday's ornaments, but
throughout Lord Darlington's days, there stood at that spot a bookshelf containing many
volumes of encyclopedia, including a complete set of the _Britannica__. It was a ploy of Lord
Darlington's to stand at this shelf studying the spines of the encyclopedias as I came down the
staircase, and sometimes, to increase the effect of an accidental meeting, he would actually
pull out a volume and pretend to be engrossed as I completed my descent. Then, as I passed
him, he would say: 'Oh, Stevens, there was something I meant to say to you.' And with that,
he would wander back into his study, to all appearances still thoroughly engrossed in the
volume held open in his hands. It was invariably embarrassment at what he was about to
impart which made Lord Darlington adopt such an approach, and even once the study door
was closed behind us, he would often stand by the window and make a show of consulting the
encyclopedia throughout our conversation.
What I am now describing, incidentally, is one of many instances I could relate to you
to underline Lord Darlington's essentially shy and modest nature. A great deal of nonsense
has been spoken and written in recent years concerning his lordship and the prominent role he
came to play in great affairs, and some utterly ignorant reports have had it that he was
motivated by egotism, or else arrogance. Let me say here that nothing could be further from
the truth. It was completely contrary to Lord Darlington's natural tendencies to take such
public stances as he came to do and I can say with conviction that his lordship was persuaded
to overcome his more retiring side only through a deep sense of moral duty.
Whatever may be said about his lordship these days - and the great majority of it is, as
I say, utter nonsense - I can declare that he was a truly good man at heart, a gentleman
through and through, and one I am today proud to have given my best years of service to.
On the particular afternoon to which I am referring, his lordship would still have been
in his mid-fifties; but as I recall, his hair had greyed entirely and his tall slender figure already
bore signs of the stoop that was to become so pronounced in his last years. He barely glanced
up from his volume as he asked: "Your father feeling better now, Stevens?"
"I'm glad to say he has made a full recovery, sir."
"Jolly pleased to hear that. Jolly pleased."
"Thank you, sir."
"Look here, Stevens, have there been any -well - _signs__ at all? I mean signs to tell
us your father may be wishing his burden lightened somewhat? Apart from this business of
him falling, I mean."
"As I say, sir, my father appears to have made a full recovery and I believe he is still a
person of considerable dependability. It is true one or two errors have been noticeable recently
in the discharging of his duties, but these are in every case very trivial in nature."
"But none of us wish to see anything of that sort happen ever again, do we? I mean,
your father collapsing and all that."
"Indeed not, sir."
"And of course, if it can happen out on the lawn, it could happen anywhere. And at
any time."
"Yes, sir."
"It could happen, say, during dinner while your father was waiting at table."
"It is possible, sir."
"Look here, Stevens, the first of the delegates will be arriving here in less than a
fortnight."
"We are well prepared, sir."
"What happens within this house after that may have considerable repercussions."
"Yes, sir."
"I mean _considerable__ repercussions. On the whole course Europe is taking. In view
of the persons who will be present, I do not think I exaggerate. "
"No, sir."
"Hardly the time for taking on avoidable hazards."
"Indeed not, sir."
"Look here, Stevens, there's no question of your father leaving us. You're simply being
asked to reconsider his duties." And it was then, I believe, that his lordship said as he looked
down again into his volume and awkwardly fingered an entry: "These errors may be trivial in
themselves, Stevens, but you must yourself realize their larger significance. Your father's days
of dependability are now passing. He must not be asked to perform tasks in any area where an
error might jeopardize the success of our forthcoming conference."
"Indeed not, sir. I fully understand."
"Good. I'll leave you to think about it then, Stevens."
Lord Darlington, I should say, had actually witnessed my father's fall of a week or so
earlier. His lordship had been entertaining two guests, a young lady and gentleman, in the
summerhouse, and had watched my father's approach across the lawn bearing a much
welcome tray of refreshments. The lawn climbs a slope several yards in front of the
summerhouse, and in those days, as today, four flagstones embedded into the grass served as
steps by which to negotiate this climb. It was in the vicinity of these steps that my father fell,
scattering the load on his tray - teapot, cups, saucers, sandwiches, cakes - across the area of
grass at the top of the steps. By the time I had received the alarm and gone out, his lordship
and his guests had laid my father on his side, a cushion and a rug from the summerhouse
serving as pillow and blanket. My father was unconscious and his face looked an oddly grey
colour. Dr Meredith had already been sent for, but his lordship was of the view that my father
should be moved out of the sun before the doctor's arrival; consequently, a bath-chair arrived
and with not a little difficulty, my father was transported into the house. By the time Dr
Meredith arrived, he had revived considerably and the doctor soon left again making only
vague statements to the effect that my father had perhaps been 'over-working'.
The whole episode was clearly a great embarrassment to my father, and by the time of
that conversation in Lord Darlington's study, he had long since returned to busying himself as
much as ever. The question of how one could broach the topic of reducing his responsibilities
was not, then, an easy one. My difficulty was further compounded by the fact that for some
years my father and I had tended - for some reason I have never really fathomed - to converse
less and less. So much so that after his arrival at Darlington Hall, even the brief exchanges
necessary to communicate information relating to work took place in an atmosphere of mutual
embarrassment.
In the end, I judged the best option to be to talk in the privacy of his room, thus giving
him the opportunity to ponder his new situation in solitude once I took my leave. The only
times my father could be found in his room were first thing in the morning and last thing at
night.
Choosing the former, I climbed up to his small attic room at the top of the servants'
wing early one morning and knocked gently.
I had rarely had reason to enter my father's room prior to this occasion and I was
newly struck by the smallness and starkness of it. Indeed, I recall my impression at the time
was of having stepped into a prison cell, but then this might have had as much to do with the
pale early light as with the size of the room or the bareness of its walls. For my father had
opened his curtains and was sitting, shaved and in full uniform, on the edge of his bed from
where evidently he had been watching the sky turn to dawn. At least one assumed he had been
watching the sky, there being little else to view from his small window other than roof-tiles
and guttering. The oil lamp beside his bed had been extinguished, and when I saw my father
glance disapprovingly at the lamp I had brought to guide me up the rickety staircase, I quickly
lowered the wick. Having done this, I noticed all the more the effect of the pale light coming
into the room and the way it lit up the edges of my father's craggy, lined, still awesome
features.
"Ah," I said, and gave a short laugh, "I might have known Father would be up and
ready for the day."
"I've been up for the past three hours," he said, looking me up and down rather coldly.
"I hope Father is not being kept awake by his arthritic troubles."
"I get all the sleep I need."
My father reached forward to the only chair in the room, a small wooden one, and
placing both hands on its back, brought himself to his feet.
When I saw him stood upright before me, I could not be sure to what extent he was
hunched over due to infirmity and what extent due to the habit of accommodating the steeply
sloped ceilings of the room.
"I have come here to relate something to you, Father."
"Then relate it briefly and concisely. I haven't all morning to listen to you chatter."
"In that case, Father, I will come straight to the point."
"Come to the point then and be done with it. Some of us have work to be getting on
with."
"Very well. Since you wish me to be brief, I will do my best to comply. The fact is,
Father has become increasingly infirm. So much so that even the duties of an under-butler are
now beyond his capabilities. His lordship is of the view, as indeed I am myself, that while
Father is allowed to continue with his present round of duties, he represents an ever-present
threat to the smooth running of this household, and in particular to next week's important
international gathering."
My father's face, in the half-light, betrayed no emotion whatsoever.
"Principally," I continued, "it has been felt that Father should no longer be asked to
wait at table, whether or not guests are present."
"I have waited at table every day for the last fifty-four years," my father remarked, his
voice perfectly unhurried.
"Furthermore, it has been decided that Father should not carry laden trays of any sort
for even the shortest distances. In view of these limitations, and knowing Father's esteem for
conciseness, I have listed here the revised round of duties he will from now on be expected to
perform."
I felt disinclined actually to hand to him the piece of paper I was holding, and so put it
down on the end of his bed. My father glanced at it then returned his gaze to me. There was
still no trace of emotion discernible in his expression, and his hands on the back of the chair
appeared perfectly relaxed. Hunched over or not, it was impossible not to be reminded of the
sheer impact of his physical presence - the very same that had once reduced two drunken
gentlemen to sobriety in the back of a car. Eventually, he said: "I only fell that time because
of those steps. They're crooked. Seamus should be told to put those right before someone else
does the same thing."
"Indeed. In any case, may I be assured Father will study that sheet?"
"Seamus should be told to put those steps right. Certainly before these gentlemen start
arriving from Europe."
"Indeed. Well, Father, good morning."
That summer evening referred to by Miss Kenton in her letter came very soon after
that encounter - indeed, it may have been the evening of that same day. I cannot remember
just what purpose had taken me up on to the top floor of the house to where the row of guest
bedrooms line the corridor. But as I think I have said already, I can recall vividly the way the
last of the daylight was coming through each open doorway and falling across the corridor in
orange shafts. And as I walked on past those unused bedrooms, Miss Kenton's figure, a
silhouette against a window within one of them, had called to me.
When one thinks about it, when one remembers the way Miss Kenton had repeatedly
spoken to me of my father during those early days of her time at Darlington Hall, it is little
wonder that the memory of that evening should have stayed with her all of these years. No
doubt, she was feeling a certain sense of guilt as the two of us watched from our window my
father's figure down below. The shadows of the poplar trees had fallen across much of the
lawn, but the sun was still lighting up the far corner where the grass sloped up to the
Summerhouse. My father could be seen standing by those four stone steps, deep in thought. A
breeze was slightly disturbing his hair. Then, as we watched, he walked very slowly up the
steps. At the top, he turned and came back down, a little faster. Turning once more, my father
became still again for several seconds, contemplating the steps before him. Eventually, he
climbed them a second time, very deliberately. This time he continued on across the grass
until he had almost reached the summerhouse, then turned and came walking slowly back, his
eyes never leaving the ground.
In fact, I can describe his manner at that moment no better than the way Miss Kenton
puts it in her letter; it was indeed 'as though he hoped to find some precious jewel he had
dropped there.'
But I see I am becoming preoccupied with these memories and this is perhaps a little
foolish. This present trip represents, after all, a rare opportunity for me to savour to the full
the many splendours of the English countryside, and I know I shall greatly regret it later if I
allow myself to become unduly diverted. In fact, I notice I have yet to record here anything of
my journey to this city - aside from mentioning briefly that halt on the hillside road at the very
start of it. This is an omission indeed, given how much I enjoyed yesterday's motoring.
I had planned the journey here to Salisbury with considerable care, avoiding almost
entirely the major roads; the route might have seemed necessarily circuitous to some, but then
it was one that enabled me to take in a fair number of the sights recommended by Mrs J.
Symons in her excellent volumes, and I must say I was well pleased with it. For much of the
time it took me through farmland, amidst the pleasant aroma of meadows, and often I found
myself slowing the Ford to a crawl to better appreciate a stream or a valley I was passing. But
as I recall, I did not actually disembark again until I was quite near Salisbury.
On that occasion, I was moving down a long, straight road with wide meadows on
either side of me. In fact, the land had become very open and flat at that point, enabling one to
see a considerable distance in all directions, and the spire of Salisbury Cathedral had become
visible on the skyline up ahead. A tranquil mood had come over me, and for this reason I
believe I was again motoring very slowly - probably at no more than fifteen miles per hour.
This was just as well, for I saw only just in time a hen crossing my path in the most leisurely
manner. I brought the Ford to a halt only a foot or two from the fowl, which in turn ceased its
journey, pausing there in the road in front of me. When after a moment it had not moved, I
resorted to the car horn, but this had no effect other than to make the creature commence
pecking at something on the ground. Rather exasperated, I began to get out and had one foot
still on the running board when I heard a woman's voice call: "Oh, I do beg your pardon, sir."
Glancing round, I saw I had just passed on the roadside a farm cottage - from which a
young woman in an apron, her attention no doubt aroused by the horn, had come running.
Passing me, she swooped up the hen in her arms and proceeded to cradle it as she apologized
to me again. When I assured her no harm had been done, she said: "I do thank you for
stopping and not running poor Nellie over. She's a good girl, provides us with the largest eggs
you've ever seen. It's so good of you to stop. And you were probably in a hurry too."
"Oh, I'm not in a hurry at all," I said with a smile. "For the first time in many a year,
I'm able to take my time and I must say, it's rather an enjoyable experience. I'm just motoring
for the pleasure of it, you see."
"Oh, that's nice, sir. And you're on your way to Salisbury, I expect."
"I am indeed. In fact, that's the cathedral we can see over there, isn't it? I'm told it's a
splendid building."
"Oh, it is, sir, it's very nice. Well, to tell you the truth, I hardly go into Salisbury
myself, so I couldn't really say what it's like at close quarters. But I tell you, sir, day in day out
we have a view of the steeple from here. Some days, it's too misty and it's like it's vanished
altogether. But you can see for yourself, on a fine day like this, it's a nice sight. "
"Delightful."
"I'm so grateful you didn't run over our Nellie, sir. Three years ago a tortoise of ours
got killed like that and on just about this very spot. We were all very upset over that."
"How very tragic," I said, sombrely.
"Oh, it was, sir. Some people say we farm people get used to animals being hurt or
killed, but that's just not true. My little boy cried for days. It's so good you stopped for Nellie,
sir. If you'd care to come in for a cup of tea, now that you've got out and everything, you'd be
most welcome. It would set you on your way."
"That's most kind, but really, I feel I should continue. I'd like to reach Salisbury in
good time to take a look at the city's many charms."
"Indeed, sir. Well, thank you again."
I set off again maintaining for some reason - perhaps because I expected further farm
creatures to wander across my path - my slow speed of before. I must say, something about
this small encounter had put me in very good spirits; the simple kindness I had been thanked
for, and the simple kindness I had been offered in return, caused me somehow to feel
exceedingly uplifted about the whole enterprise facing me over these coming days. It was in
such a mood, then, that I proceeded here to Salisbury.
But I feel I should return just a moment to the matter of my father; for it strikes me I
may have given the impression earlier that I treated him rather bluntly over his declining
abilities. The fact is, there was little choice but to approach the matter as I did - as I am sure
you will agree once I have explained the full context of those days. That is to say, the
important international conference to take place at Darlington Hall was by then looming
ahead of us, leaving little room for indulgence or 'beating about the bush'. It is important to be
reminded, moreover, that although Darlington Hall was to witness many more events of equal
gravity over the fifteen or so years that followed, that conference of March 1923 was the first
of them; one was, one supposes, relatively inexperienced, and inclined to leave little to
chance. In fact, I often look back to that conference and, for more than one reason, regard it as
a turning point in my life. For one thing, I suppose I do regard it as the moment in my career
when I truly came of age as a butler. That is not to say I consider I became, necessarily, a
'great' butler; it is hardly for me, in any case, to make judgements of this sort. But should it be
that anyone ever wished to posit that I have attained at least a little of that crucial quality of
'dignity' in the course of my career, such a person may wish to be directed towards that
conference of March 1923 as representing the moment when I first demonstrated I might have
a capacity for such a quality. It was one of those events which at a crucial stage in one's
development arrive to challenge and stretch one to the limit of one's ability and beyond, so
that thereafter one has new standards by which to judge oneself. That conference was also
memorable, of course, for other quite separate reasons, as I would like now to explain.
The conference of 1923 was the culmination of long planning on the part of Lord
Darlington; indeed, in retrospect, one can see clearly how his lordship had been moving
towards this point from some three years or so before. As I recall, he had not been initially so
preoccupied with the peace treaty when it was drawn up at the end of the Great War, and I
think it is fair to say that his interest was prompted not so much by an analysis of the treaty,
but by his friendship with Herr Karl-Heinz Bremann.
Herr Bremann first visited Darlington Hall very shortly after the war while still in his
officer's uniform, and it was evident to any observer that he and Lord Darlington had struck
up a close friendship. This did not surprise me, since one could see at a glance that Herr
Bremann was a gentleman of great decency. He returned again, having left the German army,
at fairly regular intervals during the following two years, and one could not help noticing with
some alarm the deterioration he underwent from one visit to the next. His clothes became
increasingly impoverished - his frame thinner; a hunted look appeared in his eyes, and on his
last visits, he would spend long periods staring into space, oblivious of his lordship's presence
or, sometimes, even of having been addressed. I would have concluded Herr Bremann was
suffering from some serious illness, but for certain remarks his lordship made at that time
assuring me this was not so.
It must have been towards the end of 1920 that Lord Darlington made the first of a
number of trips to Berlin himself, and I can remember the profound effect it had on him. A
heavy air of preoccupation hung over him for days after his return, and I recall once, in reply
to my inquiring how he had enjoyed his trip, his remarking: "Disturbing, Stevens. Deeply
disturbing. It does us great discredit to treat a defeated foe like this. A complete break with the
traditions of this country."
But there is another memory that has remained with me very vividly in relation to this
matter. Today, the old banqueting hall no longer contains a table and that spacious room, with
its high and magnificent ceiling, serves Mr Farraday well as a sort of gallery. But in his
lordship's day, that room was regularly required, as was the long table that occupied it, to seat
thirty or more guests for dinner; in fact, the banqueting hall is so spacious that when necessity
demanded it, further tables were added to the existing one to enable almost fifty to be seated.
On normal days, of course, Lord Darlington took his meals, as does Mr Farraday today, in the
more intimate atmosphere of the dining room, which is ideal for accommodating up to a
dozen. But on that particular winter's night I am recollecting the dining room was for some
reason out of use, and Lord Darlington was dining with a solitary guest - I believe it was Sir
Richard Fox, a colleague from his lordship's Foreign Office days - in the vastness of the
banqueting hall. You will no doubt agree that the hardest of situations as regards dinnerwaiting
is when there are just two diners present. I would myself much prefer to wait on just
one diner, even if he were a total stranger. It is when there are two diners present, even when
one of them is one's own employer, that one finds it most difficult to achieve that balance
between attentiveness and the illusion of absence that is essential to good waiting; it is in this
situation that one is rarely free of the suspicion that one's presence is inhibiting the
conversation.
On that occasion, much of the room was in darkness, and the two gentlemen were
sitting side by side midway down the table - it being much too broad to allow them to sit
facing one another - within the pool of light cast by the candles on the table and the crackling
hearth opposite. I decided to minimize my presence by standing in the shadows much further
away from table than I might usually have done. Of course, this strategy had a distinct
disadvantage in that each time I moved towards the light to serve the gentlemen, my
advancing footsteps would echo long and loud before I reached the table, drawing attention to
my impending arrival in the most ostentatious manner; but it did have the great merit of
making my person only partially visible while I remained stationary. And it was as I was
standing like that, in the shadows some distance from where the two gentlemen sat amidst
those rows of empty chairs, that I heard Lord Darlington talk about Herr Bremann, his voice
as calm and, gentle as usual, somehow resounding with intensity around those great walls.
"He was my enemy," he was saying, "but he always behaved like a gentleman. We
treated each other decently over six months of shelling each other. He was a gentleman doing
his job and I bore him no malice. I said to him: 'Look here, we're enemies now and I'll fight
you with all I've got. But when this wretched business is over, we shan't have to be enemies
any more and we'll have a drink together.' Wretched thing is, this treaty is making a liar out of
me. I mean to say, I told him we wouldn't be enemies once it was all over. But how can I look
him in the face and tell him that's turned out to be true?"
And it was a little later that same night that his lordship said with some gravity,
shaking his head: "I fought that war to preserve justice in this world. As far as I understood, I
wasn't taking part in a vendetta against the German race."
And when today one hears talk about his lordship, when one hears the sort of foolish
speculations concerning his motives as one does all too frequently these days, I am pleased to
recall the memory of that moment as he spoke those heartfelt words in the near-empty
banqueting hall.
Whatever complications arose in his lordship's course over subsequent years, I for one
will never doubt that a desire to see 'justice in this world' lay at the heart of all his actions.
It was not long after that evening there came the sad news that Herr Bremann had shot
himself in a train between Hamburg and Berlin.
Naturally, his lordship was greatly distressed and immediately made plans to dispatch
funds and commiserations to Frau Bremann. However, after several days of endeavour, in
which I myself did my best to assist, his lordship was not able to discover the whereabouts of
any of Herr Bremann's family. He had, it seemed, been homeless for some time and his family
dispersed.
It is my belief that even without this tragic news, Lord Darlington would have set upon
the course he took; his desire to see an end to injustice and suffering was too deeply ingrained
in his nature for him to have done otherwise. As it was, in the weeks that followed Herr
Bremann's death, his lordship began to devote more and more hours to the matter of the crisis
in Germany. Powerful and famous gentlemen became regular visitors to the house - including,
I remember, figures such as Lord Daniels, Professor Maynard Keynes, and Mr H. G. Wells,
the renowned author, as well as others who, because they came 'off the record', I should not
name here - and they and his lordship were often to be found locked in discussion for hours
on end. Some of the visitors were, in fact, so 'off the record' that I was instructed to make sure
the staff did not learn their identities, or in some cases, even glimpse them. However - and I
say this with some pride and gratitude - Lord Darlington never made any efforts to conceal
things from my own eyes and ears; I can recall on numerous occasions, some personage
breaking off in mid-sentence to glance warily towards my person, only for his lordship to say:
'Oh, that's all right. You can say anything in front of Stevens, I can assure you.'
Steadily, then, over the two years or so following Herr Bremann's death, his lordship,
together with Sir David Cardinal, who became his closest ally during that time, succeeded in
gathering together a broad alliance of figures who shared the conviction that the situation in
Germany should not be allowed to persist. These were not only Britons and Germans, but also
Belgians, French, Italians, Swiss; they were diplomats and political persons of high rank;
distinguished clergymen; retired military gentlemen; writers and thinkers. Some were
gentlemen who felt strongly, like his lordship himself, that fair play had not been done at
Versailles and that it was immoral to go on punishing a nation for a war that was now over.
Others, evidently, showed less concern for Germany or her inhabitants, but were of the
opinion that the economic chaos of that country, if not halted, might spread with alarming
rapidity to the world at large.
By the turn of 1922, his lordship was working with a clear goal in mind. This was to
gather under the very roof of Darlington Hall the most influential of the gentlemen whose
support had been won with a view to conducting an 'unofficial' international conference - a
conference that would discuss the means by which the harshest terms of the Versailles treaty
could be revised. To be worthwhile, any such conference would have to be of sufficient
weight so that it could have a decisive effect on the 'official' international conferences -
several of which had already taken place with the express purpose of reviewing the treaty, but
which had succeeded in producing only confusion and bitterness: Our Prime Minister of that
time, Mr Lloyd George, had called for another great conference to be held in Italy in the
spring of 1922, and initially his lordship's aim was to organize a gathering at Darlington Hall
with a view to ensuring a satisfactory outcome to this event. For all the hard work on his and
Sir David's part, however, this proved too harsh a deadline; but then with Mr George's
conference ending yet again in indecision, his lordship set his sights on a further great
conference scheduled to take place in Switzerland the following year.
I can remember one morning around this time bringing Lord Darlington coffee in the
breakfast room, and his saying to me as he folded _The Times__ with some disgust:
"Frenchmen. Really, I mean to say, Stevens. Frenchmen."
"Yes, sir."
"And to think we have to be seen by the world to be arm in arm with them. One wishes
for a good bath at the mere reminder."
"Yes, sir."
"Last time I was in Berlin, Stevens, Baron Overath, old friend of my father, came up
and said: 'Why do you do this to us? Don't you see we can't go on like this?' I was jolly well
tempted to tell him it's those wretched Frenchmen. It's not the English way of carrying on, I
wanted to say. But I suppose one can't do things like that. Mustn't speak ill of our dear allies."
But the very fact that the French were the most intransigent as regards releasing
Germany from the cruelties of the Versailles treaty made all the more imperative the need to
bring to the gathering at Darlington Hall at least one French gentleman with unambiguous
influence over his country's foreign policy. Indeed, I heard several times his lordship express
the view that without the participation of such a personage, any discussion on the topic of
Germany would be little more than an indulgence. He and Sir David accordingly set upon this
final crucial lap of their preparations and to witness the unswerving determination with which
they persevered in the face of repeated frustrations was a humbling experience; countless
letters and telegrams were dispatched and his lordship himself made three separate trips to
Paris within the space of two months. Finally, having secured the agreement of a certain
extremely illustrious Frenchman - I will merely call him 'M. Dupont' - to attend the gathering
on a very strict 'off the record' basis, the date for the conference was set. That is to say, for
that memorable March of 1923.
As this date grew ever nearer, the pressures on myself, though of an altogether more
humble nature than those mounting on his lordship, were nevertheless not inconsequential. I
was only too aware of the possibility that if any guest were to find his stay at Darlington Hall
less than comfortable, this might have repercussions of unimaginable largeness. Moreover,
my planning for the event was complicated by the uncertainty as to the numbers involved.
The conference being of a very high level, the participants had been limited to just eighteen
very distinguished gentlemen and two ladies - a German countess and the formidable Mrs
Eleanor Austin, at that time still resident in Berlin; but each of these might reasonably bring
secretaries, valets and interpreters, and there proved no way of ascertaining the precise
number of such persons to expect. Furthermore, it became clear that a number of the parties
would be arriving some time before the three days set aside for the conference, thus giving
themselves time to prepare their ground and gauge the mood of fellow guests, though their
exact arrival dates were, again, uncertain. It was clear then that the staff would not only have
to work extremely hard, and be at their most alert, they would also have to be unusually
flexible. In fact, I was for some time of the opinion that this huge challenge ahead of us could
not be surmounted without my bringing in additional staff from outside. However, this option,
quite aside from the misgivings his lordship was bound to have as regards gossip travelling,
entailed my having to rely on unknown quantities just when a mistake could prove most
costly. I thus set about preparing for the days ahead as, I imagine, a general might prepare for
a battle: I devised with utmost care a special staff plan anticipating all sorts of eventualities; I
analysed where our weakest points lay and set about making contingency plans to fall back
upon in the event of these points giving way; I even gave the staff a military-style 'pep-talk',
impressing upon them that, for all their having to work at an exhausting rate, they could feel
great pride in discharging their duties over the days that lay ahead. "History could well be
made under this roof," I told them. And they, knowing me to be one not prone to exaggerated
statements, well understood that something of an extraordinary nature was impending.
You will understand then something of the climate prevailing around Darlington Hall
by the time of my father's fall in front of the summerhouse - this occurring as it did just two
weeks before the first of the conference guests were likely to arrive - and what I mean when I
say there was little room for any 'beating about the bush'. My father did, in any case, rapidly
discover a way to circumvent the limitations on his effectiveness implied by the stricture that
he should carry no laden trays. The sight of his figure pushing a trolley loaded with cleaning
utensils, mops, brushes arranged incongruously, though always tidily, around teapots, cups
and saucers, so that it at times resembled a street-hawker's barrow, became a familiar one
around the house.
Obviously he still could not avoid relinquishing his waiting duties in the dining room,
but otherwise the trolley enabled him to accomplish a surprising amount. In fact, as the great
challenge of the conference drew nearer, an astonishing change seemed to come over my
father. It was almost as though some supernatural force possessed him, causing him to shed
twenty years; his face lost much of the sunken look of recent times, and he went about his
work with such youthful vigour that a stranger might have believed there were not one but
several such figures pushing trolleys about the corridors of Darlington Hall.
As for Miss Kenton, I seem to remember the mounting tension of those days having a
noticeable effect upon her. I recall, for instance, the occasion around that time I happened to
encounter her in the back corridor. The back corridor, which serves as a sort of backbone to
the staffs quarters of Darlington Hall, was always a rather cheerless affair due to the lack of
daylight penetrating its considerable length. Even on a fine day, the corridor could be so dark
that the effect was like walking through a tunnel. On that particular occasion, had I not
recognized Miss Kenton's footsteps on the boards as she came towards me, I would have been
able to identify her only from her outline. I paused at one of the few spots where a bright
streak of light fell across the boards and, as she approached, said: "Ah, Miss Kenton."
"Yes, Mr Stevens?"
"Miss Kenton, I wonder if I may draw your attention to the fact that the bed linen for
the upper floor will need to be ready by the day after tomorrow. "
"The matter is perfectly under control, Mr Stevens."
"Ah, I'm very glad to hear it. It just struck me as a thought, that's all."
I was about to continue on my way, but Miss Kenton did not move. Then she took one
step more towards me so that a bar of light fell across her face and I could see the angry
expression on it.
"Unfortunately, Mr Stevens, I am extremely busy now and I am finding I have barely a
single moment to spare. If only I had as much spare time as you evidently do, then I would
happily reciprocate by wandering about this house reminding _you__ of tasks you have
perfectly well in hand."
"Now, Miss Kenton, there is no need to become so bad tempered. I merely felt the
need to satisfy myself that it had not escaped your attention."
"Mr Stevens, this is the fourth or fifth time in the past two days you have felt such a
need, it is most curious to see that you have so much time on your hands that you are able to
simply wander about this house bothering others with gratuitous comments."
"Miss Kenton, if you for one moment believe I have time on my hands, that displays
more clearly than ever your great inexperience. I trust that in years to come, you will gain a
clearer picture of what occurs in a house like this."
"You are perpetually talking of my 'great inexperience', Mr Stevens, and yet you
appear quite unable to point out any defect in my work. Otherwise I have no doubt you would
have done so long ago and at some length. Now, I have much to be getting on with and would
appreciate your not following me about and interrupting me like this. If you have so much
time to spare, I suggest it might be more profitably spent taking some fresh air."
She stamped past me and on down the corridor.
Deciding it best to let the matter go no further, I continued on my way.
I had almost reached the kitchen doorway when I heard the furious sounds of her
footsteps coming back towards me again.
"In fact, Mr Stevens," she called, "I would ask you from now on not to speak to me
directly at all."
"Miss Kenton, whatever are you talking about?"
"If it is necessary to convey a message, I would ask you to do so through a messenger.
Or else you may like to write a note and have it sent to me. Our working relationship, I am
sure, would be made a great deal easier."
"Miss Kenton."
"I am extremely busy, Mr Stevens. A written note if the message is at all complicated.
Otherwise you may like to speak to Martha or Dorothy, or any members of the male staff you
deem sufficiently trustworthy. Now I must return to my work and leave you to your
wanderings."
Irritating as Miss Kenton's behaviour was, I could not afford to give it much thought,
for by then the first of the guests had arrived. The representatives from abroad were not
expected for a further two or three days, but the three gentlemen referred to by his lordship as
his 'home team' - two Foreign Office ministers attending very much 'off the record' and Sir
David Cardinal - had come early to prepare the ground as thoroughly as possible. As ever,
little was done to conceal anything from me as I went in and out of the various rooms in
which these gentlemen sat deep in discussion, and I thus could not avoid gaining a certain
impression of the general mood at this stage of the proceedings.
Of course, his lordship and his colleagues were concerned to brief each other as
accurately as possible on each one of the expected participants; but overwhelmingly, their
concerns centred one single figure - that of M. Dupont, the French gentleman - and on his
likely sympathies and antipathies. Indeed, at one point, I believe I came into the smoking
room and heard one of the gentlemen saying: "The fate of Europe could actually hang on our
ability to bring Dupont round on this point."
It was in the midst of these preliminary discussions that his lordship entrusted me with
a mission sufficiently unusual for it to have remained in my memory to this day, alongside
those other more obviously unforgettable occurrences that were to take place during that
remarkable week. Lord Darlington called me into his study, and I could see at once that he
was in a state of some agitation. He seated himself at his desk and, as usual, resorted to
holding open a book - this time it was _Who's Who__ - turning a page to and fro.
"Oh, Stevens," he began with a false air of nonchalance, but then seemed at a loss how
to continue. I remained standing there ready to relieve his discomfort at the first opportunity.
His lordship went on fingering his page for a moment, leaned forward to scrutinize an entry,
then said: "Stevens, I realize this is a somewhat irregular thing to ask you to do."
"Sir?"
"It's just that one has so much of importance on one's mind just now."
"I would be very glad to be of assistance, sir."
"I'm sorry to bring up a thing like this, Stevens. I know you must be awfully busy
yourself. But I can't see how on earth to... make it go away."
I waited a moment- while Lord Darlington returned his attention to _Who's Who__.
Then he said, without looking up: "You are familiar, I take it, with the facts of life."
"Sir?"
"The facts of life, Stevens. Birds, bees. You are familiar, aren't you?"
"I'm afraid I don't quite follow you, sir."
"Let me put my cards on the table, Stevens. Sir David is a very old friend. And he's
been invaluable in organizing the present conference. Without him, I dare say, we'd not have
secured M. Dupont's agreement to come."
"Indeed, sir."
"However, Stevens, Sir David has his funny side. You may have noticed it yourself.
He's brought his son, Reginald, with him. To act as secretary. The point is, he's engaged to be
married. Young Reginald, I mean."
"Yes, sir."
"Sir David has been attempting to tell his son the facts of life for the last five years.
The young man is now twenty-three."
"Indeed, sir."
"I'll get to the point, Stevens. I happen to be the young man's godfather. Accordingly,
Sir David has requested that I convey to young Reginald the facts of life."
"Indeed, sir."
"Sir David himself finds the task rather daunting and suspects he will not accomplish it
before Reginald's wedding day."
"Indeed, sir."
"The point is, Stevens, I'm terribly busy. Sir David should know that, but he's asked
me none the less." His lordship paused and went on studying his page.
"Do I understand, sir," I said, "that you wish me to convey the information to the
young gentleman?"
"If you don't mind, Stevens. Be an awful lot off my mind. Sir David continues to ask
me every couple of hours if I've done it yet."
"I see, sir. It must be most trying under the present pressures."
"Of course, this is far beyond the call of duty, Stevens."
"I will do my best, sir. I may, however, have difficulty finding the appropriate moment
to convey such information."
"I'd be very grateful if you'd even try, Stevens. Awfully decent of you. Look here,
there's no need to make a song and dance of it. Just convey the basic facts and be done with it.
Simple approach is the best, that's my advice, Stevens."
"Yes, sir. I shall do my best."
"Jolly grateful to you, Stevens. Let me know how you get on."
I was, as you might imagine, a little taken aback by this request and ordinarily the
matter might have been one I would have spent some time pondering. Coming upon me as it
did, however, in the midst of such a busy period, I could not afford to let it preoccupy me
unduly, and I thus decided I should resolve it at the earliest opportunity. As I recall, then, it
was only an hour or so after being first entrusted with the mission that I noticed the young Mr
Cardinal alone in the library, sitting at one of the writing tables, absorbed in some documents.
On studying the young gentleman closely, one could, as it were, appreciate the difficulty
experienced by his lordship - and indeed, by the young gentleman's father. My employer's
godson looked an earnest, scholarly young man, and one could see many fine qualities in his
features; yet given the topic one wished to raise, one would have certainly preferred a lighterhearted,
even a more frivolous sort of young gentleman. In any case, resolved to bring the
whole matter to a satisfactory conclusion as quickly as possible, I proceeded further into the
library, and stopping a little way from Mr Cardinal's writing desk, gave a cough.
"Excuse me, sir, but I have a message to convey to you."
"Oh, really?" Mr Cardinal said eagerly, looking up from his papers.
"From Father?"
"Yes, sir. That is, effectively."
"Just a minute."
The young gentleman reached down into the attaché case at his feet and brought out a
notebook and pencil. "Fire away, Stevens."
I coughed again and set my voice into as impersonal a tone as I could manage.
"Sir David wishes you to know, sir, that ladies and gentlemen differ in several key
respects."
I must have paused a little to form my next phrase, for Mr Cardinal gave a sigh and
said: "I'm only too aware of that, Stevens. Would you mind coming to the point?"
"You are aware, sir?"
"Father is perpetually underestimating me. I've done extensive reading and
background work on this whole area."
"Is that so, sir?"
"I've thought about virtually nothing else for the past month."
"Really, sir. In that case, perhaps my message is rather redundant."
"You can assure Father I'm very well briefed indeed. This attaché case"- he nudged it
with his foot - "is chock-full of notes on every possible angle one can imagine."
"Is that so, sir?"
"I really think I've thought through every permutation the human mind is capable of. I
wish you'd reassure Father of that."
"I will, sir."
Mr Cardinal seemed to relax a little. He prodded once more his attaché case - which I
felt inclined to keep my eyes averted from - and said: "I suppose you've been wondering why
I never let go of this case. Well, now you know. Imagine if the wrong person opened it."
"That would be most awkward, sir."
"That is, of course," he said, sitting up again suddenly, "unless Father has come up
with an entirely new factor he wants me to think about."
"I cannot imagine he has, sir."
"No? Nothing more on this Dupont fellow?"
"I fear not, sir."
I did my best not to give away anything of my exasperation on discovering that a task
I had thought all but behind me was in fact still there unassaulted before me. I believe I was
collecting my thoughts for a renewed effort when the young gentleman suddenly rose to his
feet, and clutching his attaché case to his person, said: "Well, I think I'll go and take a little
fresh air. Thanks for your help, Stevens."
It had been my intention to seek out a further interview with Mr Cardinal with
minimum delay, but this proved to be impossible, owing largely to the arrival that same
afternoon - some two days earlier than expected - of Mr Lewis, the American senator. I had
been down in my pantry working through the supplies sheets, when I had heard somewhere
above my head the unmistakable sounds of motor cars pulling up in the courtyard. As I
hastened to go upstairs, I happened to encounter Miss Kenton in the back corridor - the scene,
of course, of our last disagreement - and it was perhaps this unhappy coincidence that
encouraged her to maintain the childish behaviour she had adopted on that previous occasion.
For when I inquired who it was that had arrived, Miss Kenton continued past me, stating
simply: "A message if it is urgent, Mr Stevens." This was extremely annoying, but, of course,
I had no choice but to hurry on upstairs.
My recollection of Mr Lewis is that of a gentleman of generous dimensions with a
genial smile that rarely left his face. His early arrival was clearly something of an
inconvenience to his lordship and his colleagues who had reckoned on a day or two more of
privacy for their preparations. However, Mr Lewis' engagingly informal manner, and his
statement at dinner that the United States "would always stand on the side of justice and didn't
mind admitting mistakes had been made at Versailles" seemed to do much to win the
confidence of his lordship's 'home team'; as dinner progressed, the conversation had slowly
but surely turned from topics such as the merits of Mr Lewis' native Pennsylvania back to the
conference ahead, and by the time the gentlemen were lighting their cigars, some of the
speculations being offered appeared to be as intimate as those exchanged prior to Mr Lewis'
arrival. At one point, Mr Lewis said to the company: "I agree with you, gentlemen, our M.
Dupont can be very unpredictable. But let me tell you, there's one thing you can bet on about
him. One thing you can bet on for sure." He leaned forward and waved his cigar for emphasis.
"Dupont hates Germans. He hated them before the war and he hates them now with a depth
you gentlemen here would find hard to understand." With that, Mr Lewis sat back in his chair
again, the genial smile returning fully to his face. "But tell me, gentlemen," he continued,
"you can hardly blame a Frenchman for hating the Germans, can you? After all, a Frenchman
has good cause to do so, hasn't he?"
There was a moment of slight awkwardness as Mr Lewis glanced around the table.
Then Lord Darlington said: "Naturally, some bitterness is inevitable. But then, of course, we
English also fought the Germans long and hard."
"But the difference with you Englishmen", Mr Lewis said, seems to be that you don't
really hate the Germans any more. But the way the French see it, the Germans destroyed
civilization here in Europe and no punishment is too bad for them. Of course, that looks an
impractical kind of position to us in the United States, but what's always puzzled me is how
you English don't seem to share the view of the French. After all, like you say, Britain lost a
lot in that war too."
There was another awkward pause before Sir David said, rather uncertainly: "We
English have often had a different way of looking at such things from the French, Mr Lewis."
[...]
Mr Lewis' smile seemed to broaden slightly as he said this. He nodded to himself, as
though many things had now become clear to him, and drew on his cigar. It is possible this is
a case of hindsight colouring my memory, but I have a distinct feeling that it was at that
moment I first sensed something odd, something duplicitous perhaps, about this apparently
charming American gentleman.
But if my own suspicions were aroused at that moment, Lord Darlington evidently did
not share them. For after another second or two of awkward silence, his lordship seemed to
come to a decision.
"Mr Lewis," he said, "let me put it frankly. Most of us in England find the present
French attitude despicable. You may indeed call it a temperamental difference, but I venture
we are talking about something rather more. It is unbecoming to go on hating an enemy like
this once a conflict is over. Once you've got a man on the canvas, that ought to be the end of
it. You don't then proceed to kick him. To us, the French behaviour has become increasingly
barbarous. "
This utterance seemed to give Mr Lewis some satisfaction. He muttered something in
sympathy and smiled with contentment at his fellow diners through the clouds of tobacco
smoke by now hanging thickly across the table.
The next morning brought more early arrivals; namely, the two ladies from Germany -
who had travelled together despite what one would have imagined to have been the great
contrast in their backgrounds - bringing with them a large team of ladies-in-waiting and
footmen, as well as a great many trunks. Then in the afternoon, an Italian gentleman arrived
accompanied by a valet, a secretary, an 'expert' and two bodyguards. I cannot imagine what
sort of place this gentleman imagined he was coming to in bringing the latter, but I must say it
struck something of an odd note to see in Darlington Hall these two large silent men staring
suspiciously in all directions a few yards from wherever the Italian gentleman happened to be.
Incidentally, the working pattern of these bodyguards, so it transpired over the following
days, entailed one or the other of them going up to sleep at unusual hours so as to ensure at
least one was on duty throughout the night. But when on first hearing of this arrangement I
tried to inform Miss Kenton of it, she once again refused to converse with me, and in order to
accomplish matters as quickly as possible I was actually obliged to write a note and put it
under the door of her parlour.
The following day brought several more guests and with two days yet to go to the start
of the conference, Darlington Hall was filled with people of all nationalities, talking in rooms,
or else standing around, apparently aimlessly, in the hall, in corridors and on landings,
examining pictures or objects. The guests were never less than courteous to one another, but
for all that, a rather tense atmosphere, characterized largely by distrust, seemed to prevail at
this stage. And reflecting this unease, the visiting valets and footmen appeared to regard one
another with marked coldness and my own staff were rather glad to be too busy to spend
much time with them.
It was around this point, in the midst of dealing with the many demands being made
on my attention, that I happened to glance out of a window and spotted the figure of the
young Mr Cardinal taking some fresh air around the grounds. He was clutching his attaché
case as usual and I could see he was strolling slowly along the path that runs the outer
perimeter of the lawn, deeply absorbed in thought. I was of course reminded of my mission
regarding the young gentleman and it occurred to me that an outdoor setting, with the general
proximity of nature, and in particular the example of the geese close at hand, would not be an
unsuitable setting at all in which to convey the sort of message I was bearing. I could see,
moreover, that if I were quickly to go outside and conceal my person behind the large
rhododendron bush beside the path, it would not be long before Mr Cardinal came by. I would
then be able to emerge and convey my message to him. It was not, admittedly, the most subtle
of strategies, but you will appreciate that this particular task, though no doubt important in its
way, hardly took the highest priority at that moment.
There was a light frost covering the ground and much of the foliage, but it was a mild
day for that time of the year. I crossed the grass quickly, placed my person behind the bush,
and before long heard Mr Cardinal's footsteps approaching. Unfortunately, I misjudged
slightly the timing of my emergence. I had intended to emerge while Mr Cardinal was still a
reasonable distance away, so that he would see me in good time and suppose I was on my way
to the summerhouse, or perhaps to the gardener's lodge. I could then have pretended to notice
him for the first time and have engaged him in conversation in an impromptu manner.
As it happened, I emerged a little late and I fear I rather startled the young gentleman,
who immediately pulled his attaché case away from me and clutched it to his chest with both
arms.
"I'm very sorry, sir."
"My goodness - Stevens. You gave me a shock. I thought things were hotting up a bit
there."
"I'm very sorry, sir. But as it happens I have something to convey to you."
"My goodness yes, you gave me quite a fright."
"If I may come straight to the point, sir. You will notice the geese not far from us."
"Geese?" He looked around a little bewildered. "Oh yes. That's what they are."
"And likewise the flowers and shrubs. This is not, in fact, the best time of year to see
them in their full glory, but you will appreciate, sir, that with the arrival of spring, we will see
a change - a very special sort of change - in these surroundings."
"Yes, I'm sure the grounds are not at their best just now. But to be perfectly frank,
Stevens, I wasn't paying much attention to the glories of nature. It's all rather worrying. That
M. Dupont's arrived in the foulest mood imaginable. Last thing we wanted really."
"M. Dupont has arrived here at this house, sir?"
"About half an hour ago. He's in the most foul temper."
"Excuse me, sir. I must attend to him straight away."
"Of course, Stevens. Well, kind of you to have come out to talk to me."
"Please excuse me, sir. As it happened, I had a word or two more to say on the topic of
- as you put it yourself - the glories of nature. If you will indulge me by listening, I would be
most grateful. But I am afraid this will have to wait for another occasion. "
"Well, I shall look forward to it, Stevens. Though I'm more of a fish man myself. I
know all about fish, fresh water and salt."
"All living creatures will be relevant to our forthcoming discussion, sir. However, you
must now please excuse me. I had no idea M. Dupont had arrived."
I hurried back to the house to be met immediately by the first footman saying: "We've
been looking all over for you, sir. The French gentleman's arrived."
M. Dupont was a tall, elegant gentleman with a grey beard and a monocle.
He had arrived in the sort of clothes one often sees continental gentlemen wearing on
their holidays, and indeed, throughout his stay, he was to maintain diligently the appearance
of having come to Darlington Hall entirely for pleasure and friendship. As Mr Cardinal had
indicated, M. Dupont had not arrived in a good temper; I cannot recall now all the various
things that had upset him since his arrival in England a few days previously, but in particular
he had obtained some painful sores on his feet while sightseeing around London and these, he
feared, were growing septic. I referred his valet to Miss Kenton, but this did not prevent M.
Dupont snapping his fingers at me every few hours to say: "Butler! I am in need of more
bandages."
His mood seemed much lifted on seeing Mr Lewis. He and the American senator
greeted each other as old colleagues and they were to be seen together for much of the
remainder of that day, laughing over reminiscences. In fact, one could see that Mr Lewis'
almost constant proximity to M. Dupont was proving a serious inconvenience to Lord
Darlington, who was naturally keen to make close personal contact with this distinguished
gentleman before the discussions began. On several occasions I witnessed his lordship make
attempts to draw M. Dupont aside for some private conversation, only for Mr Lewis smilingly
to impose himself upon them with some remark like: "Pardon me, gentlemen, but there's
something that's been greatly puzzling me," so that his lordship soon found himself having to
listen to some more of Mr Lewis' jovial anecdotes. Mr Lewis apart, however, the other guests,
perhaps through awe, perhaps through a sense of antagonism, kept a wary distance from M.
Dupont, a fact that was conspicuous even in that generally guarded atmosphere, and
which seemed to underline all the more the feeling that it was M. Dupont who somehow held
the key to the outcome of the following days.
The conference began on a rainy morning during the last week of March 1923 in the
somewhat unlikely setting of the drawing room - a venue chosen to accommodate the 'off the
record' nature of many of the attendances. In fact, to my eyes, the appearance of informality
had been taken to a faintly ludicrous degree. It was odd enough to see that rather feminine
room crammed full with so many stern, dark-jacketed gentlemen, sometimes sitting three or
four abreast upon a sofa; but such was the determination on the part of some persons to
maintain the appearance that this was nothing more than a social event that they had actually
gone to the lengths of having journals and newspapers open on their knees.
I was obliged during the course of that first morning to go constantly in and out of the
room, and so was unable to follow the proceedings at all fully. But I recall Lord Darlington
opening the discussions by formally welcoming the guests, before going on to outline the
strong moral case for a relaxing of various aspects of the Versailles treaty, emphasizing the
great suffering he had himself witnessed in Germany. Of course, I had heard these same
sentiments expressed by his lordship on many occasions before, but such was the depth of
conviction with which he spoke in this august setting that I could not help but be moved
afresh. Sir David Cardinal spoke next, and though I missed much of his speech, it seemed to
be more technical in substance, and quite frankly, rather above my head. But his general gist
seemed to be close to his lordship's, concluding with a call for a freezing of German
reparation payments and the withdrawal of French troops from the Ruhr region. The German
countess then began to speak, but I was at this point, for some reason I do not recollect,
obliged to leave the drawing room for an extended period. By the time I re-entered, the guests
were in open debate, and the discussion - with much talk of commerce and interest rates - was
quite beyond me.
M. Dupont, so far as I could observe, was not contributing to the discussions, and it
was hard to tell from his sullen demeanour if he was attending carefully to what was being
said or else deeply engrossed in other thoughts. At one stage, when I happened to depart the
room in the midst of an address by one of the German gentlemen, M. Dupont suddenly rose
and followed me out.
"Butler," he said, once we were in the hall, "I wonder if I could have my feet changed.
They are giving me so much discomfort now, I can hardly listen to these gentlemen."
As I recall, I had conveyed a plea to Miss Kenton for assistance - via a messenger,
naturally - and had left M. Dupont sitting in the billiard room awaiting his nurse, when the
first footman had come hurrying down the staircase in some distress to inform me that my
father had been taken ill upstairs.
I hurried up to the first floor and on turning at the landing was met by a strange sight.
At the far end of the corridor, almost in front of the large window, at that moment filled with
grey light and rain, my father's figure could be seen frozen in a posture that suggested he was
taking part in some ceremonial ritual. He had dropped down on to one knee and with head
bowed seemed to be pushing at the trolley before him, which for some reason had taken on an
obstinate immobility. Two chambermaids were standing at a respectful distance, watching his
efforts in some awe. I went to my father and releasing his hands from their grip on the edge of
the trolley, eased him down on to the carpet.
His eyes were closed, his face was an ashen colour, and there were beads of sweat on
his forehead. Further assistance was called, a bath-chair arrived in due course, and my father
was transported up to his room.
Once my father had been laid in his bed, I was a little uncertain as to how to proceed;
for while it seemed undesirable that I leave my father in such a condition, I did not really have
a moment more to spare. As I stood hesitating in the doorway, Miss Kenton appeared at my
side and said: "Mr Stevens, I have a little more time than you at the moment. I shall, if you
wish, attend to your father. I shall show Dr Meredith up and notify you if he has anything
noteworthy to say."
"Thank you, Miss Kenton," I said, and took my leave.
When I returned to the drawing room, a clergyman was talking about the hardships
being suffered by children in Berlin. I immediately found myself more than occupied
replenishing the guests with tea and coffee. A few of the gentlemen, I noticed, were drinking
spirits, and one or two, despite the presence of the two ladies, had started to smoke. I was, I
recall, leaving the drawing room with an empty teapot in my hand when Miss Kenton stopped
me and said: "Mr Stevens, Dr Meredith is just leaving now."
As she said this, I could see the doctor putting on his mackintosh and hat in the hall
and so went to him, the teapot still in my hand. The doctor looked at me with a disgruntled
expression. "Your father's not so good," he said. "If he deteriorates, call me again
immediately."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
"How old is your father, Stevens?"
"Seventy-two, sir."
Dr Meredith thought about this, then said again: "If he deteriorates, call me
immediately."
I thanked the doctor again and showed him out.
It was that evening, shortly before dinner, that I overheard the conversation between
Mr Lewis and M. Dupont. I had for some reason gone up to M. Dupont's room and was about
to knock, but before doing so, as is my custom, I paused for a second to listen at the door.
You may not yourself be in the habit of taking this small precaution to avoid knocking at
some highly inappropriate moment, but I always have been and can vouch that it is common
practice amongst many professionals. That is to say, there is no subterfuge implied in such an
action, and I for one had no intention of overhearing to the extent I did that evening.
However, as fortune would have it, when I put my ear to M. Dupont's door, I happened
to hear Mr Lewis' voice, and though I cannot recall precisely the actual words I first heard, it
was the tone of his voice that raised my suspicions. I was listening to the same genial, slow
voice with which the American gentleman had charmed many since his arrival and yet it now
contained something unmistakably covert. It was this realization, along with the fact that he
was in M. Dupont's room, presumably addressing this most crucial personage, that caused me
to stop my hand from knocking, and continue to listen instead.
The bedroom doors of Darlington Hall are of a certain thickness and I could by no
means hear complete exchanges; consequently, it is hard for me now to recall precisely what I
overheard, just as, indeed, it was for me later that same evening when I reported to his
lordship on the matter. Nevertheless, this is not to say I did not gain a fairly clear impression
of what was taking place within the room. In effect, the American gentleman was putting
forward the view that M. Dupont was being manipulated by his lordship and other participants
at the conference; that M. Dupont had been deliberately invited late to enable the others to
discuss important topics in his absence; that even after his arrival, it was to be observed that
his lordship was conducting small private discussions with the most important delegates
without inviting M. Dupont. Then Mr Lewis began to report certain remarks his lordship and
others had made at dinner on that first evening after his arrival.
"To be quite frank, sir," I heard Mr Lewis say, "I was appalled at their attitude towards
your countrymen. They actually used words like 'barbarous' and 'despicable'. In fact, I noted
them in my diary only a few hours afterwards."
M. Dupont said something briefly which I did not catch, then Mr Lewis said again:
"Let me tell you, sir, I was appalled. Are these words to use about an ally you stood shoulder
to shoulder with only a few years back?"
I am not sure now if I ever proceeded to knock; it is quite possible, given the alarming
nature of what I heard, that I judged it best to withdraw altogether. In any case, I did not
linger long enough - as I was obliged to explain to his lordship shortly afterwards - to hear
anything that would give a clue as to M. Dupont's attitude to Mr Lewis' remarks.
The next day, the discussions in the drawing room appeared to reach a new level of
intensity and by lunchtime, the exchanges were becoming rather heated. My impression was
that utterances were being directed accusingly, and with increasing boldness, towards the
armchair where M. Dupont sat fingering his beard, saying little. Whenever the conference
adjourned, I noticed, as no doubt his lordship did with some concern, that Mr Lewis would
quickly take M. Dupont away to some corner or other where they could confer quietly.
Indeed, once, shortly after lunch, I recall I came upon the two gentlemen talking rather
furtively just inside the library doorway, and it was my distinct impression they broke off
their discussion upon my approach.
In the meantime, my father's condition had grown neither better nor worse. As I
understood, he was asleep for much of the time, and indeed, I found him so on the few
occasions I had a spare moment to ascend to that little attic room. I did not then have a chance
actually to converse with him until that second evening after the return of his illness.
On that occasion, too, my father was sleeping when I entered. But the chambermaid
Miss Kenton had left in attendance stood up upon seeing me and began to shake my father's
shoulder.
"Foolish girl!" I exclaimed. "What do you think you are doing?"
"Mr Stevens said to wake him if you returned, sir."
"Let him sleep. It's exhaustion that's made him ill."
"He said I had to, sir," the girl said, and again shook my father's shoulder.
My father opened his eyes, turned his head a little on the pillow, and looked at me.
"I hope Father is feeling better now," I said.
He went on gazing at me for a moment, then asked: "Everything in hand downstairs?"
"The situation is rather volatile. It is just after six o'clock, so Father can well imagine
the atmosphere in the kitchen at this moment."
An impatient look crossed my father's face.
"But is everything in hand?" he said again.
"Yes, I dare say you can rest assured on that. I'm very glad Father is feeling better."
With some deliberation, he withdrew his arms from under the bedclothes and gazed
tiredly at the backs of his hands. He continued to do this for some time.
"I'm glad Father is feeling so much better," I said again eventually. "Now really, I'd
best be getting back. As I say, the situation is rather volatile."
He went on looking at his hands for a moment.
Then he said slowly: "I hope I've been a good father to you."
I laughed a little and said: "I'm so glad you're feeling better now."
"I'm proud of you. A good son. I hope I've been a good father to you. I suppose I
haven't."
"I'm afraid we're extremely busy now, but we can talk again in the morning."
My father was still looking at his hands as though he were faintly irritated by them.
"I'm so glad you're feeling better now," I said again and took my leave.
On descending, I found the kitchen on the brink of pandemonium, and in general, an
extremely tense atmosphere amongst all levels of staff.
However, I am pleased to recall that by the time dinner was served an hour or so later,
nothing but efficiency and professional calm was exhibited on the part of my team.
It is always something of a memorable sight to see that magnificent banqueting hall
employed to its full capacity and that evening was no exception. Of course, the effect
produced by unbroken lines of gentlemen in evening suits, so outnumbering representatives of
the fairer sex, was a rather severe one; but then again, in those days, the two large chandeliers
that hang over the table still ran on gas - resulting in a subtle, quite soft light pervading the
room - and did not produce the dazzling brightness they have done ever since their
electrification. On that second and final dinner of the conference - most guests were expected
to disperse after lunch the following day - the company had lost much of the reserve that had
been noticeable throughout the previous days. Not only was the conversation flowing more
freely and loudly, we found ourselves serving out wine at a conspicuously increased rate. At
the close of dinner, which from a professional viewpoint had been executed without any
significant difficulties, his lordship rose to address his guests.
He opened by expressing his gratitude to all present that the discussions during the
previous two days, 'though at times exhilaratingly frank', had been conducted in a spirit of
friendship and the desire to see good prevail. The unity witnessed over the two days had been
greater than he could ever have hoped for, and the remaining morning's session of 'rounding
up' would, he trusted, be rich in commitments on the part of participants concerning action
each would be taking before the important international conference in Switzerland. It was
around this point - and I have no idea if he had planned to do so beforehand - that his lordship
began to reminisce about his late friend, Herr Karl-Heinz Bremann. This was a little
unfortunate, the topic being one close to his lordship's heart and one he was inclined to
explicate at some length. It should also be said, perhaps, that Lord Darlington was never what
might be called a natural public speaker, and soon all those small sounds of restlessness that
betray that an audience's attention has been lost grew steadily around the room. Indeed, by the
time Lord Darlington had finally come round to bidding his guests rise and drink to 'peace and
justice in Europe', the level of such noises - perhaps on account of the liberal amounts of wine
that had been consumed - struck me as bordering on the ill-mannered.
The company had seated themselves again, and conversation was just beginning to
resume, when there came an authoritative rapping of knuckles upon wood and M. Dupont had
risen to his feet. At once, a hush fell over the room. The distinguished gentleman glanced
around the table with a look almost of severity. Then he said: "I hope I am not trespassing
over a duty ascribed to someone else present here, but then I had heard no proposals for
anyone to give a toast in thanks to our host, the most honourable and kind Lord Darlington."
There was a murmur of approval. M. Dupont went on: "Many things of interest have been
said in this house over the past days. Many important things." He paused, and there was now
utter stillness in the room. "There has been much", he continued, "which has implicitly or
otherwise _criticized__ - it is not so strong a word - _criticized__ the foreign policy of my
country." He paused again, looking rather stern. One might even have thought him to be
angry. "We have heard in these two days several thorough and intelligent analyses of the
present very complex situation in Europe. But none of them, may I say, has fully
comprehended the reasons for the attitude France has adopted towards her neighbour.
However," - he raised a finger - "this is not the time to enter into such debates. In fact, I
deliberately refrained from entering into such debates during these past days because I came
principally to listen. And let me say now that I have been impressed by certain of the
arguments I have heard here. But how impressed, you may be asking." M. Dupont took
another pause during which his gaze travelled in an almost leisurely manner around all the
faces fixed upon him. Then at last he said: "Gentlemen - and ladies, pardon me - I have given
much thought to these matters and I wish to say here in confidence to you, that while there
remains between myself and many of those present differences of interpretation as to what is
really occurring in Europe at this moment, despite this, as to the main points that have been
raised in this house, I am convinced, gentlemen, convinced both of their justice and their
practicality." A murmur which seemed to contain both relief and triumph went around the
table, but this time M. Dupont raised his voice slightly and pronounced over it: "I am happy to
assure you all here that I will bring what modest influence I have to encourage certain
changes of emphasis in French policy in accordance with much of what has been said here.
And I will endeavour to do so in good time for the Swiss conference."
There was a ripple of applause, and I saw his lordship exchange a look with Sir David.
M. Dupont held up his hand, though whether to acknowledge the applause or to stem it was
not clear.
"But before I go on to thank our host, Lord Darlington, I have some small thing I
would wish to remove from my chest. Some of you may say it is not good manners to be
removing such things from one's chest at the dinner table." This brought enthusiastic laughter.
"However, I am for frankness in these matters. Just as there is an imperative to express
gratitude formally and publicly to Lord Darlington, who has brought us here and made
possible this present spirit of unity and goodwill, there is, I believe, an imperative to openly
condemn any who come here to abuse the hospitality of the host, and to spend his energies
solely in trying to sow discontent and suspicion. Such persons are not only socially repugnant,
in the climate of our present day they are extremely dangerous." He paused again and once
more there was utter stillness. M. Dupont went on in a calm, deliberate voice: "My only
question concerning Mr Lewis is this. To what extent does his abominable behaviour
exemplify the attitude of the present American administration? Ladies and gentlemen, let me
myself hazard a guess as to the answer, for such a gentleman capable of the levels of deceit he
has displayed over these past days should not be relied upon to provide a truthful reply. So, I
will hazard my guess. Of course, America is concerned about our debt payments to her in the
event of a freeze in German reparations. But I have over the last six months had occasion to
discuss this very matter with a number of very highly placed Americans, and it seems to me
that thinking in that country is much more far-sighted than that represented by their
countryman here. All those of us who care for the future well-being of Europe will take
comfort from the fact that Mr Lewis is now - how shall we put it? - hardly the influence he
once was. Perhaps you think me unduly harsh to express these things so openly. But the
reality is, ladies and gentlemen, I am being merciful. You see, I refrain from outlining just
what this gentleman has been saying to me - _about you all__. And with a most clumsy
technique, the audacity and crudeness of which I could hardly believe. But enough of
condemnations. It is time for us to thank. Join me then, please, ladies and gentlemen, in
raising your glasses to Lord Darlington."
M. Dupont had not once looked over in Mr Lewis' direction during the course of this
speech, and indeed, once the company had toasted his lordship and were seated again, all
those present seemed to be studiously avoiding looking towards the American gentleman. An
uneasy silence reigned for a moment, and then finally Mr Lewis rose to his feet. He was
smiling pleasantly in his customary manner.
"Well, since everyone's giving speeches, I may as well take a turn," he said, and it was
at once apparent from his voice that he had had a good deal to drink. "I don't have anything to
say to the nonsense our French friend has been uttering. I just dismiss that sort of talk. I've
had people try to put one over on me many times, and let me tell you, gentlemen, few people
succeed. Few people succeed." Mr Lewis came to a halt and for a moment seemed at a loss as
to how he should go on.
Eventually he smiled again and said: "As I say, I'm not going to waste my time on our
French friend over there. But as it happens, I do have something to say. Now we're all being
so frank, I'll be frank too. You gentlemen here, forgive me, but you are just a bunch of naive
dreamers. And if you didn't insist on meddling in large affairs that affect the globe, you would
actually be charming. Let's take our good host here. What is he? He is a gentleman. No one
here, I trust, would care to disagree. A classic English gentleman. Decent, honest, wellmeaning.
But his lordship here is an _amateur__." He paused at the word and looked around
the table. "He is an amateur and international affairs today are no longer for gentlemen
amateurs. The sooner you here in Europe realize that the better. All you decent, well-meaning
gentlemen, let me ask you, have you any idea what sort of place the world is becoming all
around you? The days when you could act out of your noble instincts are over. Except 0f
course, you here in Europe don't yet seem to know it. Gentlemen like our good host still
believe it's their business to meddle in matters they don't understand. So much hog-wash has
been spoken here these past two days. Well-meaning, naive hog-wash. You here in Europe
need professionals to run your affairs. If you don't realize that soon you're headed for disaster.
A toast, gentlemen. Let me make a toast. To professionalism."
There was a stunned silence and no one moved.
Mr Lewis shrugged, raised his glass to all the company, drank and sat back down.
Almost immediately, Lord Darlington stood up.
"I have no wish," his lordship said, "to enter into a quarrel on this our last evening
together which we all deserve to enjoy as a happy and triumphant occasion. But it is out of
respect for your views, Mr Lewis, that I feel one should not simply cast them to one side as
though they were uttered by some soap-box eccentric. Let me say this. What you describe as
'amateurism', sir, is what I think most of us here still prefer to call 'honour'."
This brought a loud murmur of assent with several 'hear, hear's' and some applause.
"What is more, sir," his lordship went on, "I believe I have a good idea of what you
mean by 'professionalism'. It appears to mean getting one's way by cheating and manipulating.
It means ordering one's priorities according to greed and advantage rather than the desire to
see goodness and justice prevail in the world. If that is the 'professionalism' you refer to, sir, I
don't much care for it and have no wish to acquire it."
This was met by the loudest burst of approval yet, followed by warm and sustained
applause. I could see Mr Lewis smiling at his wine glass and shaking his head wearily. It was
just around this stage that I became aware of the first footman beside me, who whispered:
"Miss Kenton would like a word you, sir. She's just outside the door."
I made my exit as discreetly as possible just as his lordship, still on his feet, was
embarking on a further point.
Miss Kenton looked rather upset. "Your father has become very ill, Mr Stevens," she
said. "I've called for Dr Meredith, but I understand he may be a little delayed."
I must have looked a little confused, for Miss Kenton then said: "Mr Stevens, he really
is in a poor state. You had better come and see him."
"I only have a moment. The gentlemen are liable to retire to the smoking room at any
moment."
"Of course. But you must come now, Mr Stevens, or else you may deeply regret it
later."
Miss Kenton was already leading the way, and we hurried through the house up to my
father's small attic room. Mrs Mortimer, the cook, was standing over my father's bed, still in
her apron.
"Oh, Mr Stevens," she said upon our entry, "he's gone very poorly."
Indeed, my father's face had gone a dull reddish colour, like no colour I had seen on a
living being. I heard Miss Kenton say softly behind me: "His pulse is very weak." I gazed at
my father for a moment, touched his forehead slightly, then withdrew my hand.
"In my opinion," Mrs Mortimer said, "he's suffered a stroke. I've seen two in my time
and I think he's suffered a stroke." With that, she began to cry. I noticed she reeked
powerfully of fat and roast cooking. I turned away and said to Miss Kenton: "This is most
distressing. Nevertheless, I must now return downstairs."
"Of course, Mr Stevens. I will tell you when the doctor arrives. Or else when there are
any changes."
"Thank you, Miss Kenton."
I hurried down the stairs and was in time to see the gentlemen proceeding into the
smoking room. The footmen looked relieved to see me, and I immediately signalled them to
get to their positions.
Whatever had taken place in the banqueting hall after my departure, there was now a
genuinely celebratory atmosphere amongst the guests. All around the smoking room,
gentlemen seemed to be standing in clusters laughing and clapping each other on the shoulder.
Mr Lewis, so far as I could ascertain, had already retired. I found myself making my way
through the guests, a bottle of port upon my tray. I had just finished serving a glass to a
gentleman when a voice behind me said: "Ah, Stevens, you're interested in fish, you say."
I turned to find the young Mr Cardinal beaming happily at me. I smiled also and said:
"Fish, sir?"
"When I was young, I used to keep all sorts of tropical fish in a tank. Quite a little
aquarium it was. I say, Stevens, are you all right?"
I smiled again. "Quite all right, thank you, sir."
"As you so rightly pointed out, I really should come back here in the spring.
Darlington Hall must be rather lovely then. The last time I was here, I think it was winter then
too. I say, Stevens, are you sure you're all right there?"
"Perfectly all right, thank you, sir."
"Not feeling unwell, are you?"
"Not at all, sir. Please excuse me."
I proceeded to serve port to some other of the guests. There was a loud burst of
laughter behind me and I heard the Belgian clergyman exclaim: "That is really heretical!
Positively heretical!" then laugh loudly himself. I felt something touch my elbow and turned
to find Lord Darlington.
"Stevens, are you all right?"
"Yes, sir. Perfectly."
"You look as though you're crying."
I laughed and taking out a handkerchief, quickly wiped my face. "I'm very sorry, sir.
The strains of a hard day."
"Yes, it's been hard work."
Someone addressed his lordship and he turned away to reply. I was about to continue
further around the room when I caught sight of Miss Kenton through the open doorway,
signalling to me. I began to make my way towards the doors, but before I could reach them,
M. Dupont touched my arm.
"Butler," he said, "I wonder if you would find me some fresh bandages. My feet are
unbearable again."
"Yes, sir." As I proceeded towards the doors, I realized M. Dupont was following me.
I turned and said: "I will come and find you, sir, just as soon as I have what is
required."
"Please hurry, butler. I am in some pain."
"Yes, sir. I'm very sorry, sir."
Miss Kenton was still standing out in the hall where I had first spotted her. As I
emerged, she walked silently towards the staircase, a curious lack of urgency in her manner.
Then she turned and said: "Mr Stevens, I'm very sorry. Your father passed away about four
minutes ago."
"I see."
She looked at her hands, then up at my face.
"Mr Stevens, I'm very sorry," she said. Then she added: "I wish there was something I
could say."
"There's no need, Miss Kenton."
"Dr Meredith has not yet arrived." Then for a moment she bowed her head and a sob
escaped her. But almost immediately, she resumed her composure and asked in a steady
voice: "Will you come up and see him?"
"I'm very busy just now, Miss Kenton. In a little while perhaps."
"In that case, Mr Stevens, will you permit me to close his eyes?"
"I would be most grateful if you would, Miss Kenton."
She began to climb the staircase, but I stopped her, saying: "Miss Kenton, please don't
think me unduly improper in not ascending to see my father in his deceased condition just at
this moment. You see, I know my father would have wished me to carry on just now."
"Of course, Mr Stevens."
"To do otherwise, I feel, would be to let him down."
"Of course, Mr Stevens."
I turned away, the bottle of port still on my tray, and re-entered the smoking room.
That relatively small room appeared to be a forest of black dinner jackets, grey hair and cigar
smoke. I wended my way past the gentlemen, searching for glasses to replenish. M. Dupont
tapped my shoulder and said: "Butler, have you seen to my arrangements?"
"I am very sorry, sir, but assistance is not immediately available at this precise
moment."
"What do you mean, butler? You've run out of basic medical supplies?"
"As it happens, sir, a doctor is on his way."
"Ah, very good! You called a doctor."
"Yes, sir."
"Good, good."
M. Dupont resumed his conversation and I continued my way around the room for
some moments. At one point, the German countess emerged from the midst of the gentlemen
and before I had had a chance to serve her, began helping herself to some port from my tray.
"You will compliment the cook for me, Stevens," she said.
"Of course, madam. Thank you, madam."
"And you and your team did well also."
"Thank you most kindly, madam."
"At one point during dinner, Stevens, I would have sworn you were at least three
people," she said and laughed.
I laughed quickly and said: "I'm delighted to be of service, madam."
A moment later, I spotted the young Mr Cardinal not far away, still standing on his
own, and it struck me the young gentleman might be feeling somewhat overawed in the
present company. His glass, in any case, was empty and so I started towards him. He seemed
greatly cheered at the prospect of my arrival and held out his glass.
"I think it's admirable that you're a nature-lover, Stevens," he said, as I served him.
"And I dare say it's a great advantage to Lord Darlington to have someone to keep an expert
eye on the activities of the gardener."
"I'm sorry, sir?"
"Nature, Stevens. We were talking the other day about the wonders of the natural
world. And I quite agree with you, we are all much too complacent about the great wonders
that surround us."
"Yes, sir.
"I mean, all this we've been talking about. Treaties and boundaries and reparations and
occupations. But Mother Nature just carries on her own sweet way. Funny to think of it like
that, don't you think?"
"Yes, indeed it is, sir."
"I wonder if it wouldn't have been better if the Almighty had created us all as - well -
as sort of plants. You know, firmly embedded in the soil. Then none of this rot about wars and
boundaries would have come up in the first place."
The young gentleman seemed to find this an amusing thought. He gave a laugh, then
on further thought laughed some more. I joined him in his laughter. Then he nudged me and
said: "Can you imagine it, Stevens?" and laughed again.
"Yes, sir," I said, laughing also, "it would have been a most curious alternative."
"But we could still have chaps like you taking messages back and forth, bringing tea,
that sort of thing. Otherwise, how would we ever get anything done? Can you imagine it,
Stevens? All of us rooted in the soil? Just imagine it!"
Just then a footman emerged behind me. "Miss Kenton is wishing to have a word with
you, sir," he said.
I excused myself from Mr Cardinal and moved towards the doors. I noticed M. Dupont
apparently guarding them and as I approached, he said: "Butler, is the doctor here?"
"I am just going to find out, sir. I won't be a moment."
"I am in some pain."
"I'm very sorry, sir. The doctor should not be long now."
On this occasion, M. Dupont followed me out of the door. Miss Kenton was once
more standing out in the hall.
"Mr Stevens," she said, "Dr Meredith has arrived and gone upstairs."
She had spoken in a low voice, but M. Dupont behind me exclaimed immediately:
"Ah, good!"
I turned to him and said: "If you will perhaps follow me, sir."
I led him into the billiard room where I stoked the fire while he sat down in one of the
leather chairs and began to remove his shoes.
"I'm sorry it is rather cold in here, sir. The doctor will not be long now."
"Thank you, butler. You've done well."
Miss Kenton was still waiting for me in the hallway and we ascended through the
house in silence. Up in my father's room, Dr Meredith was making some notes and Mrs
Mortimer weeping bitterly. She was still wearing her apron which, evidently, she had been
using to wipe away her tears; as a result there were grease marks all over her face, giving her
the appearance of a participant in a minstrel show. I had expected the room to smell of death,
but on account of Mrs Mortimer - or else her apron – the room was dominated by the smell of
roasting.
Dr Meredith rose and said: "My condolences, Stevens. He suffered a severe stroke. If
it's any comfort to you, he wouldn't have suffered much pain. There was nothing in the world
you could have done to save him."
"Thank you, sir."
"I'll be on my way now. You'll see to arrangements?"
"Yes, sir. However, if I may, there is a most distinguished gentleman downstairs in
need of your attention."
"Urgent?"
"He expressed a keen desire to see you, sir." I led Dr Meredith downstairs, showed
him into the billiard room, then returned quickly to the smoking room where the atmosphere,
if anything, had grown even more convivial.
Of course, it is not for me to suggest that I am worthy of ever being placed alongside
the likes of the 'great' butlers of our generation, such as Mr Marshall or Mr Lane - though it
should be said there are those who, perhaps out of misguided generosity, tend to do just this.
Let me make clear that when I say the conference of 1923, and that night in particular,
constituted a turning point in my professional development, I am speaking very much in terms
of my own more humble standards. Even so, if you consider the pressures contingent on me
that night, you may not think I delude myself unduly if I go so far as to suggest that I did
perhaps display, in the face of everything, at least in some degree a 'dignity' worthy of
someone like Mr Marshall - or come to that, my father. Indeed, why should I deny it? For all
its sad associations, whenever I recall that evening today, I find I do so with a large sense of
triumph.
Day Two - Afternoon
Mortimer's Pond, Dorset
IT would seem there is a whole dimension to the question 'what is a 'great' butler?' I have
hitherto not properly considered. It is, I must say, a rather unsettling experience to realize this
about a matter so close to my heart, particularly one I have given much thought to over the
years. But it strikes me I may have been a little hasty before in dismissing certain aspects of
the Hayes Society's criteria for membership. I have no wish, let me make clear, to retract any
of my ideas on 'dignity' and its crucial link with 'greatness'. But I have been thinking a little
more about that other pronouncement made by the Hayes Society - namely the admission that
it was a prerequisite for membership of the Society that 'the applicant be attached to a
distinguished household'. My feeling remains, no less than before, that this represents a piece
of unthinking snobbery on the part of the Society. However, it occurs to me that perhaps what
one takes objection to is, specifically, the outmoded understanding of what a 'distinguished
household' is, rather than to the general principle being expressed.
Indeed, now that I think further on the matter, I believe it may well be true to say it
_is__ a prerequisite of greatness that one 'be attached to a distinguished household' - so long
as one takes 'distinguished' here to have a meaning deeper than that understood by the Hayes
Society.
In fact, a comparison of how I might interpret 'a distinguished household' with what
the Hayes Society understood by that term illuminates sharply, I believe, the fundamental
difference between the values of our generation of butlers and those of the previous
generation. When I say this, I am not merely drawing attention to the fact that our generation
had a less snobbish attitude as regards which employers were landed gentry and which were
'business'. What I am trying to say - and I do not think this an unfair comment - is that we
were a much more idealistic generation. Where our elders might have been concerned with
whether or not an employer was titled, or otherwise from one of the 'old' families, we tended
to concern ourselves much more with the moral status of an employer. I do not mean by this
that we were preoccupied with our employers' private behaviour. What I mean is that we were
ambitious, in a way that would have been unusual a generation before, to serve gentlemen
who were, so to speak, furthering the progress of humanity. It would have been seen as a far
worthier calling, for instance, to serve a gentleman such as Mr George Ketteridge, who,
however humble his beginnings, has made an undeniable contribution to the future well-being
of the empire, than any gentleman, however aristocratic his origin, who idled away his time in
clubs or on golf courses.
In practice, of course, many gentlemen from the noblest families have tended to devote
themselves to alleviating the great problems of the day, and so, at a glance, it may have
appeared that the ambitions of our generation differed little from those of our predecessors.
But I can vouch there was a crucial distinction in attitude, reflected not only in the sorts of
things you would hear fellow professionals express to each other, but in the way many of the
most able persons of our generation chose to leave one position for another. Such decisions
were no longer a matter simply of wages, the size of staff at one's disposal or the splendour of
a family name; for our generation, I think it fair to say, professional prestige lay most
significantly in the moral worth of one's employer.
I believe I can best highlight the difference between the generations by expressing
myself figuratively. Butlers of my father's generation, I would say, tended to see the world in
terms of a ladder - the houses of royalty, dukes and the lords from the oldest families placed at
the top, those of 'new money' lower down and so on, until one reached a point below which
the hierarchy was determined simply by wealth - or the lack of it. Any butler with ambition
simply did his best to climb as high up this ladder as possible, and by and large, the higher he
went, the greater was his professional prestige. Such are, of course, precisely the values
embodied in the Hayes Society's idea of a 'distinguished household', and the fact that it was
confidently making such pronouncements as late as 1929 shows clearly why the demise of
that society was inevitable, if not long overdue. For by that time, such thinking was quite out
of step with that of the finest men emerging to the forefront of our profession. For our
generation, I believe it is accurate to say, viewed the world not as a ladder, but more as a
_wheel__.
Perhaps I might explain this further.
It is my impression that our generation was the first to recognize something which had
passed the notice of all earlier generations: namely that the great decisions of the world are
not, in fact, arrived at simply in the public chambers, or else during a handful of days given
over to an international conference under the full gaze of the public and the press. Rather,
debates are conducted, and crucial decisions arrived at, in the privacy and calm of the great
houses of this country.
What occurs under the public gaze with so much pomp and ceremony is often the
conclusion, or mere ratification, of what has taken place over weeks or months within the
walls of such houses. To us, then, the world was a wheel, revolving with these great houses at
the hub, their mighty decisions emanating out to all else, rich and poor, who revolved around
them. It was the aspiration of all those of us with professional ambition to work our way as
close to this hub as we were each of us capable. For we were, as I say, an idealistic generation
for whom the question was not simply one of how well one practised one's skills, but to _what
end__ one did so; each of us harboured the desire to make our own small contribution to the
creation of a better world, and saw that, as professionals, the surest means of doing so would
be to serve the great gentlemen of our times in whose hands civilization had been entrusted.
Of course, I am now speaking in broad generalizations and I would readily admit there
were all too many persons of our generation who had no patience for such finer
considerations. Conversely, I am sure there were many of my father's generation who
recognized instinctively this 'moral' dimension to their work. But by and large, I believe these
generalizations to be accurate, and indeed, such 'idealistic' motivations as I have described
have played a large part in my own career. I myself moved quite rapidly from employer to
employer during my early career - being aware that these situations were incapable of
bringing me lasting satisfaction - before being rewarded at last with the opportunity to serve
Lord Darlington.
It is curious that I have never until today thought of the matter in these terms; indeed,
that through all those many hours we spent discussing the nature of 'greatness' by the fire of
our servants' hall, the likes of Mr Graham and I never considered this whole dimension to the
question. And while I would not retract anything I have previously stated regarding the
quality of 'dignity', I must admit there is something to the argument that whatever the degree
to which a butler has attained such a quality, if he has failed to find an appropriate outlet for
his accomplishments he can hardly expect his fellows to consider him 'great'. Certainly, it is
observable that figures like Mr Marshall and Mr Lane have served only gentlemen of
indisputable moral stature - Lord Wakeling, Lord Camberley, Sir Leonard Gray - and one
cannot help get the impression that they simply would not have offered their talents to
gentlemen of lesser calibre. Indeed, the more one considers it, the more obvious it seems:
association with a _truly__ distinguished household _is__ a prerequisite of 'greatness'. A
'great' butler can only be, surely, one who can point to his years of service and say that he has
applied his talents to serving a great gentleman - and through the latter, to serving humanity.
As I say, I have never in all these years thought of the matter in quite this way; but
then it is perhaps in the nature of coming away on a trip such as this that one is prompted
towards such surprising new perspectives on topics one imagined one had long ago thought
through thoroughly. I have also, no doubt, been prompted to think along such lines by the
small event that occurred an hour or so ago - which has, I admit, unsettled me somewhat.
Having enjoyed a good morning's motoring in splendid weather, and having lunched
well at a country inn, I had just crossed the border into Dorset. It was then I had become
aware of a heated smell emanating from the car engine. The thought that I had done some
damage to my employer's Ford was, of course, most alarming and I had quickly brought the
vehicle to a halt.
I found myself in a narrow lane, hemmed in on either side by foliage so that I could
gain little idea of what was around me. Neither could I see far ahead, the lane winding quite
sharply twenty yards or so in front.
It occurred to me that I could not remain where I was for long without incurring the
risk of an oncoming vehicle coming round that same bend and colliding into my employer's
Ford. I thus started the engine again and was partially reassured to find that the smell seemed
not as powerful as before.
My best course, I could see, was to look for a garage, or else a large house of a
gentleman where there would be a good chance I might find a chauffeur who could see what
the matter was. But the lane continued to wind for some distance, and the high hedges on
either side of me also persisted, obscuring my vision so that though I passed several gates,
some of which clearly yielded on to driveways, I was unable to glimpse the houses
themselves. I continued for another half-mile or so, the disturbing smell now growing stronger
by the moment, until at last I came out on to a stretch of open road. I could now see some
distance before me, and indeed, ahead to my left there loomed a tall Victorian house with a
substantial front lawn and what was clearly a driveway converted from an old carriage track.
As I drew up to it, I was encouraged further to glimpse a Bentley through the open doors of a
garage attached to the main house.
The gate too had been left open and so I steered the Ford a little way up the drive, got
out and made my way to the back door of the house.
This was opened by a man dressed in his shirt sleeves, wearing no tie, but who, upon
my asking for the chauffeur of the house, replied cheerfully that I had 'hit the jackpot first
time'. On hearing of my problem, the man without hesitation came out to the Ford, opened the
bonnet and informed me after barely a few seconds' inspection: "Water, guv. You need some
water in your radiator." He seemed to be rather amused by the whole situation, but was
obliging enough; he returned inside the house and after a few moments emerged again with a
jug of water and a funnel. As he filled the radiator, his head bent over the engine, he began to
chat amiably, and on ascertaining that I was undertaking a motoring tour of the area,
recommended I visit a local beauty spot, a certain pond not half a mile away.
I had had in the meantime more opportunity to observe the house; it was taller than it
was broad, comprising four floors, with ivy covering much of the front right up to the gables.
I could see from its windows, however, that at least half of it was dust-sheeted. I remarked on
this to the man once he had finished with the radiator and closed the bonnet.
"A shame really," he said. "It's a lovely old house. Truth is, the Colonel's trying to sell
the place off. He ain't got much use for a house this size now."
I could not help inquiring then how many staff were employed there, and I suppose I
was hardly surprised to be told there was only himself and a cook who came in each evening.
He was, it seemed, butler, valet, chauffeur and general cleaner. He had been the Colonel's
batman in the war, he explained; they had been in Belgium together when the Germans had
invaded and they had been together again for the Allied landing.
Then he regarded me carefully and said: "Now I got it. I couldn't make you out for a
while, but now I got it. You're one of them top-notch butlers. From one of them big posh
houses."
When I told him he was not so far off the mark, he continued: "Now I got it. Couldn't
make you out for a while, see, cause you talk almost like a gentleman. And what with you
driving an old beauty like this" - he gestured to the Ford - "I thought at first, here's a really
posh geezer. And so you are, guv. Really posh, I mean. I never learnt any of that myself, you
see. I'm just a plain old batman gone civvy."
He then asked me where it was I was employed, and when I told him he leant his head
to one side with a quizzical look.
"Darlington Hall," he said to himself. "Darlington Hall. Must be a really posh place, it
rings a bell even to an idiot like yours truly. Darlington Hall. Hang on, you don't mean
_Darlington__ Hall, Lord Darlington's place?"
"It was Lord Darlington's residence until his death three years ago," I informed him.
"The house is now the residence of Mr John Farraday, an American gentleman."
"You really must be top-notch working in a place like that. Can't be many like you
left, eh?" Then his voice changed noticeably as he inquired: "You mean you actually used to
work for that Lord Darlington?"
He was eyeing me carefully again. I said: "Oh no, I am employed by Mr John
Farraday, the American gentleman who bought the house from the Darlington family."
"Oh, so you wouldn't have known that Lord Darlington. Just that I wondered what he
was like. What sort of bloke he was."
I told the man that I would have to be on my way and thanked him emphatically for
his assistance. He was, after all, an amiable fellow, taking the trouble to guide me in reversing
out through the gateway, and before I parted, he bent down and recommended again that I
visit the local pond, repeating his instructions on how I would find it. "It's a beautiful little
spot," he added. "You'll kick yourself for missing it. In fact, the Colonel's doing a bit of
fishing there this minute."
The Ford seemed to be in fine form again, and since the pond in question was but a
small detour off my route, I decided to take up the batman's suggestion. His directions had
seemed clear enough, but once I had turned off the main road in an attempt to follow them, I
found myself getting lost down narrow, twisting lanes much like the one in which I had first
noticed the alarming smell. At times, the foliage on either side became so thick as practically
to blot out the sun altogether, and one found one's eyes struggling to cope with the sudden
contrasts of bright sunlight and deep shade. Eventually, however, after some searching, I
found a signpost to 'Mortimer's Pond', and so it was that I arrived here at this spot a little over
half an hour ago.
I now find myself much indebted to the batman, for quite aside from assisting with the
Ford, he has allowed me to discover a most charming spot which it is most improbable I
would ever have found otherwise. The pond is not a large one - a quarter of a mile around its
perimeter perhaps - so that by stepping out to any promontory, one can command a view of its
entirety. An atmosphere of great calm pervades here. Trees have been planted all around the
water just closely enough to give a pleasant shade to the banks, while here and there clusters
of tall reeds and bulrushes break the water's surface and its still reflection of the sky. My
footwear is not such as to permit me easily to walk around the perimeter - I can see even from
where I now sit the path disappearing into areas of deep mud - but I will say that such is the
charm of this spot that on first arriving, I was sorely tempted to do just that. Only the thought
of the possible catastrophes that might befall such an expedition, and of sustaining damage to
my travelling suit, persuaded me to content myself with sitting here on this bench. And so I
have done for the past half-hour, contemplating the progress of the various figures seated
quietly with their fishing rods at various points around the water. At this point, I can see a
dozen or so such figures, but the strong lights and shades created by the low-hanging branches
prevent me from making any of them out clearly and I have had to forgo the small game I had
been anticipating of guessing which of these fishermen is the Colonel at whose house I have
just received such useful assistance.
It is no doubt the quiet of these surroundings that has enabled me to ponder all the
more thoroughly these thoughts which have entered my mind over this past half-hour or so.
Indeed, but for the tranquillity of the present setting, it is possible I would not have thought a
great deal further about my behaviour during my encounter with the batman. That is to say, I
may not have thought further why it was that I had given the distinct impression I had never
been in the employ of Lord Darlington.
For surely, there is no real doubt that is what occurred. He had asked: "You mean you
actually worked for that Lord Darlington?" and I had given an answer which could mean little
other than that I had not. It could simply be that a meaningless whim had suddenly overtaken
me at that moment - but that is hardly a convincing way to account for such distinctly odd
behaviour. In any case, I have now come to accept that the incident with the batman is not the
first of its kind; there is little doubt it has some connection - though I am not quite clear of the
nature of it - with what occurred a few months ago during the visit of the Wakefields.
Mr and Mrs Wakefield are an American couple who have been settled in England -
somewhere in Kent, I understand - for some twenty years.
Having a number of acquaintances in common with Mr Farraday amidst Boston
society, they paid a short visit one day to Darlington Hall, staying for lunch and leaving
before tea. I now refer to a time only a few weeks after Mr Farraday had himself arrived at the
house, a time when his enthusiasm for his acquisition was at a height; consequently, much of
the Wakefields' visit was taken up with my employer leading them on what might have
seemed to some an unnecessarily extensive tour of the premises, including all the dust-sheeted
areas. Mr and Mrs Wakefield, however, appeared to be as keen on the inspection as Mr
Farraday, and as I went about my business, I would often catch various American
exclamations of delight coming from whichever part of the house they had arrived at. Mr
Farraday had commenced the tour at the top of the house, and by the time he had brought his
guests down to inspect the magnificence of the ground-floor rooms, he seemed to be on an
elevated plane, pointing out details on cornicings and window frames, and describing with
some flourish 'what the English lords used to do' in each room. Although of course I made no
deliberate attempt to overhear, I could not help but get the gist of what was being said, and
was surprised by the extent of my employer's knowledge, which, despite the occasional
infelicity, betrayed a deep enthusiasm for English ways. It was noticeable, moreover, that the
Wakefields - Mrs Wakefield in particular - were themselves by no means ignorant of the
traditions of our country, and one gathered from the many remarks they made that they too
were owners of an English house of some splendour.
It was at a certain stage during this tour of the premises - I was crossing the hall under
the impression that the party had gone out to explore the grounds - when I saw that Mrs
Wakefield had remained behind and was closely examining the stone arch that frames the
doorway into the dining room. As I went past, muttering a quiet "excuse me, madam," she
turned and said: "Oh, Stevens, perhaps you're the one to tell me. This arch here _looks__
seventeenth century, but isn't it the case that it was built quite recently? Perhaps during Lord
Darlington's time?"
"It is possible, madam."
"It's very beautiful. But it is probably a kind of mock period piece done only a few
years ago. Isn't that right?"
"I'm not sure, madam, but that is certainly possible."
Then, lowering her voice, Mrs Wakefield had said: "But tell me, Stevens, what was
this Lord Darlington like? Presumably you must have worked for him."
"I didn't, madam, no."
"Oh, I thought you did. I wonder why I thought that."
Mrs Wakefield turned back to the arch and putting her hand to it, said: "So we don't
know for certain then. Still, it looks to me like it's mock. Very skilful, but mock."
It is possible I might have quickly forgotten this exchange; however, following the
Wakefields' departure, I took in afternoon tea to Mr Farraday in the drawing room and noticed
he was in a rather preoccupied mood. After an initial silence, he said: "You know, Stevens,
Mrs Wakefield wasn't as impressed with this house as I believe she ought to have been."
"Is that so, sir?"
"In fact, she seemed to think I was exaggerating the pedigree of this place. That I was
making it up about all these features going back centuries."
"She kept asserting everything was 'mock' this and 'mock' that. She even thought you
were 'mock', Stevens."
"Indeed, sir?"
"Indeed, Stevens. I'd told her you were the real thing. A real old English butler. That
you'd been in this house for over thirty years, serving a real English lord. But Mrs Wakefield
contradicted me on this point. In fact, she contradicted me with great confidence."
"Is that so, sir?"
"Mrs Wakefield, Stevens, was convinced you never worked here until I hired you. In
fact, she seemed to be under the impression she'd had that from your own lips. Made me look
pretty much a fool, as you can imagine."
"It's most regrettable, sir."
"I mean to say, Stevens, this is a genuine grand old English house, isn't it? That's what
I paid for. And you're a genuine old-fashioned English butler, not just some waiter pretending
to be one. You're the real thing, aren't you? That's what I wanted, isn't that what I have?"
"I venture to say you do, sir."
"Then can you explain to me what Mrs Wakefield is saying? It's a big mystery to me."
"It is possible I may well have given the lady a slightly misleading picture concerning
my career, sir. I do apologize if this caused embarrassment."
"I'll say it caused embarrassment. Those people have now got me down for a braggart
and a liar. Anyway, what do you mean, you may have given her a 'slightly misleading
picture'?"
"I'm very sorry, sir. I had no idea I might cause you such embarrassment."
"But dammit, Stevens, why did you tell her such a tale?"
I considered the situation for a moment, then said: "I'm very sorry, sir. But it is to do
with the ways of this country."
"What are you talking about, man?"
"I mean to say, sir, that it is not customary in England for an employee to discuss his
past employers."
"OK, Stevens, so you don't wish to divulge past confidences. But does that extend to
you actually denying having worked for anyone other than me?"
"It does seem a little extreme when you put it that way, sir. But it has often been
considered desirable for employees to give such an impression. If I may put it this way, sir, it
is a little akin to the custom as regards marriages. If a divorced lady were present in the
company of her second husband, it is often thought desirable not to allude to the original
marriage at all. There is a similar custom as regards our profession, sir."
"Well, I only wish I'd known about your custom before, Stevens," my employer said,
leaning back in his chair. "It certainly made me look like a chump."
I believe I realized even at the time that my explanation to Mr Farraday - though, of
course, not entirely devoid of truth - was woefully inadequate. But when one has so much else
to think about, it is easy not to give such matters a great deal of attention, and so I did, indeed,
put the whole episode out of my mind for some time. But now, recalling it here in the calm
that surrounds this pond, there seems little doubt that my conduct towards Mrs Wakefield that
day has an obvious relation to what has just taken place this afternoon.
Of course, there are many people these days who have a lot of foolish things to say
about Lord Darlington, and it may be that you are under the impression I am somehow
embarrassed or ashamed of my association with his lordship, and it is this that lies behind
such conduct. Then let me make it clear that nothing could be further from the truth. The great
majority of what one hears said about his lordship today is, in any case, utter nonsense, based
on an almost complete ignorance of the facts. Indeed, it seems to me that my odd conduct can
be very plausibly explained in terms of my wish to avoid any possibility of hearing any
further such nonsense concerning his lordship; that is to say, I have chosen to tell white lies in
both instances as the simplest means of avoiding unpleasantness. This does seem a very
plausible explanation the more I think about it; for it is true, nothing vexes me more these
days than to hear this sort of nonsense being repeated. Let me say that Lord Darlington was a
gentleman of great moral stature - a stature to dwarf most of these persons you will find
talking this sort of nonsense about him - and I will readily vouch that he remained that to the
last.
Nothing could be less accurate than to suggest that I regret my association with such a
gentleman. Indeed, you will appreciate that to have served his lordship at Darlington Hall
during those years was to come as close to the hub of this world's wheel as one such as I could
ever have dreamt. I gave thirty-five years' service to Lord Darlington; one would surely not be
unjustified in claiming that during those years, one was, in the truest terms, 'attached to a
distinguished household'.
In looking back over my career thus far, my chief satisfaction derives from what I
achieved during those years, and I am today nothing but proud and grateful to have been
given such a privilege.
Day Three - Morning
Taunton, Somerset
I LODGED last night in an inn named the Coach and Horses a little way outside the town of
Taunton, Somerset. This being a thatch-roofed cottage by the roadside, it had looked a
conspicuously attractive prospect from the Ford as I had approached in the last of the
daylight.
The landlord led me up a timber stairway to a small room, rather bare, but perfectly
decent. When he inquired whether I had dined, I asked him to serve me with a sandwich in
my room, which proved a perfectly satisfactory option as far as supper was concerned. But
then as the evening drew on, I began to feel a little restless in my room, and in the end
decided to descend to the bar below to try a little of the local cider.
There were five or six customers all gathered in a group around the bar - one guessed
from their appearance they were agricultural people of one sort or another - but otherwise the
room was empty. Acquiring a tankard of cider from the landlord, I seated myself at a table a
little way away, intending to relax a little and collect my thoughts concerning the day. It soon
became clear, however, that these local people were perturbed by my presence, feeling
something of a need to show hospitality. Whenever there was a break in their conversation,
one or the other of them would steal a glance in my direction as though trying to find it in
himself to approach me. Eventually one raised his voice and said to me: "It seems you've let
yourself in for a night upstairs here, sir."
When I told him this was so, the speaker shook his head doubtfully and remarked:
"You won't get much of a sleep up there, sir. Not unless you're fond of the sound of old Bob"
- he indicated the landlord - "banging away down here right the way into the night. And then
you'll get woken by his missus shouting at him right from the crack of dawn."
Despite the landlord's protests, this caused loud laughter all round.
"Is that indeed so?" I said. And as I spoke, I was struck by the thought - the same
thought as had struck me on numerous occasions of late in Mr Farraday's presence - that some
sort of witty retort was required of me. Indeed, the local people were now observing a polite
silence, awaiting my next remark. I thus searched my imagination and eventually declared: "A
local variation on the cock crow, no doubt." At first the silence continued, as though the local
persons thought I intended to elaborate further. But then noticing the mirthful expression on
my face, they broke into a laugh, though in a somewhat bemused fashion. With this, they
returned to their previous conversation, and I exchanged no further words with them until
exchanging good nights a little while later.
I had been rather pleased with my witticism when it had first come into my head, and I
must confess I was slightly disappointed it had not been better received than it was. I was
particularly disappointed, I suppose, because I have been devoting some time and effort over
recent months to improving my skill in this very area. That is to say, I have been
endeavouring to add this skill to my professional armoury so as to fulfil with confidence all
Mr Farraday's expectations with respect to bantering.
For instance, I have of late taken to listening to the wireless in my room whenever I
find myself with a few spare moments - on those occasions, say, when Mr Farraday is out for
the evening. One programme I listen to is called _Twice a Week or More__, which is in fact
broadcast three times each week, and basically comprises two persons making humorous
comments on a variety of topics raised by readers' letters. I have been studying this
programme because the witticisms performed on it are always in the best of taste and, to my
mind, of a tone not at all out of keeping with the sort of bantering Mr Farraday might expect
on my part. Taking my cue from this programme, I have devised a simple exercise which I try
to perform at least once a day; whenever an odd moment presents itself, I attempt to formulate
three witticisms based on my immediate surroundings at that moment. Or, as a variation on
this same exercise, I may attempt to think of three witticisms based on the events of the past
hour.
You will perhaps appreciate then my disappointment concerning my witticism
yesterday evening. At first, I had thought it possible its limited success was due to my not
having spoken clearly enough. But then the possibility occurred to me, once I had retired, that
I might actually have given these people offence. After all, it could easily have been
understood that I was suggesting the landlord's wife resembled a cockerel - an intention that
had not remotely entered my head at the time. This thought continued to torment me as I tried
to sleep, and I had half a mind to make an apology to the landlord this morning. But his mood
towards me as he served breakfast seemed perfectly cheerful and in the end I decided to let
the matter rest.
But this small episode is as good an illustration as any of the hazards of uttering
witticisms. By the very nature of a witticism, one is given very little time to assess its various
possible repercussions before one is called to give voice to it, and one gravely risks uttering
all manner of unsuitable things if one has not first acquired the necessary skill and experience.
There is no reason to suppose this is not an area in which I will become proficient given time
and practice, but, such are the dangers, I have decided it best, for the time being at least, not to
attempt to discharge this duty in respect of Mr Farraday until I have practised further.
In any case, I am sorry to report that what the local people had themselves offered last
night as a witticism of sorts - the prediction that I would not have a good night owing to
disturbances from below - proved only too true. The landlord's wife did not actually shout, but
one could hear her talking incessantly both late into the night as she and her husband went
about their tasks, and again from very early this morning. I was quite prepared to forgive the
couple, however, for it was clear they were of diligent hard-working habits, and the noise, I
am sure, was all attributable to this fact. Besides, of course, there had been the matter of my
unfortunate remark. I thus gave no indication of having had a disturbed night when I thanked
the landlord and took my leave to explore the market town of Taunton.
Perhaps I might have done better to have lodged here in this establishment where I
now sit enjoying a pleasant mid-morning cup of tea. For indeed, the notice outside advertises
not only 'teas, snacks and cakes', but also 'clean, quiet, comfortable rooms'. It is situated on
the high street of Taunton, very close to the market square, a somewhat sunken building, its
exterior characterized by heavy dark timber beams. I am at present sitting in its spacious tearoom,
oak-panelled, with enough tables to accommodate, I would guess, two dozen people
without a feeling of crowding. Two cheery young girls serve from behind a counter displaying
a good selection of cakes and pastries.
All in all, this is an excellent place to partake of morning tea, but surprisingly few of
the inhabitants of Taunton seem to wish to avail themselves of it. At present, my only
companions are two elderly ladies, sitting abreast one another at a table along the opposite
wall, and a man - perhaps a retired farmer - at a table beside one of the large bay windows. I
am unable to discern him clearly because the bright morning sunlight has for the moment
reduced him to a silhouette. But I can see him studying his newspaper, breaking off regularly
to look up at the passers-by on the pavement outside. From the way he does this, I had
thought at first that he was waiting for a companion, but it would seem he wishes merely to
greet acquaintances as they pass by.
I am myself ensconced almost at the back wall, but even across the distance of this
room, I can see clearly out into the sunlit street, and am able to make out on the pavement
opposite a signpost pointing out several nearby destinations. One of these destinations is the
village of Mursden. Perhaps 'Mursden' will ring a bell for you, as it did for me upon my first
spotting it on the road atlas yesterday. In fact, I must say I was even tempted to make a slight
detour from my planned route just to see the village. Mursden, Somerset, was where the firm
of Giffen and Co. was once situated, and it was to Mursden one was required to dispatch one's
order for a supply of Giffen's dark candles of polish, 'to be flaked, mixed into wax and applied
by hand'. For some time, Giffen's was undoubtedly the finest silver polish available, and it
was only the appearance of new chemical substances on the market shortly before the war that
caused demand for this impressive product to decline.
As I remember, Giffen's appeared at the beginning of the twenties, and I am sure I am
not alone in closely associating its emergence with that change of mood within our profession
- that change which came to push the polishing of silver to the position of central importance
it still by and large maintains today. This shift was, I believe, like so many other major shifts
around this period, a generational matter; it was during these years that our generation of
butlers 'came of age', and figures like Mr Marshall, in particular, played a crucial part in
making silver-polishing so central. This is not to suggest, of course, that the polishing of
silver - particularly those items that would appear at table - was not always regarded a serious
duty. But it would not be unfair to suggest that many butlers of, say, my father's generation
did not consider the matter such a key one, and this is evidenced by the fact that in those days,
the butler of a household rarely supervised the polishing of silver directly, being content to
leave it to, say, the under-butler's whims, carrying out inspections only intermittently. It was
Mr Marshall, it is generally agreed, who was the first to recognize the full significance of
silver - namely, that no other objects in the house were likely to come under such intimate
scrutiny from outsiders as was silver during a meal, and as such, it served as a public index of
a house's standards. And Mr Marshall it was who first caused stupefaction amongst ladies and
gentlemen visiting Charleville House with displays of silver polished to previously
unimagined standards. Very soon, naturally, butlers up and down the country, under pressure
from their employers, were focusing their minds on the question of silver-polishing. There
quickly sprang up, I recall, various butlers, each claiming to have discovered methods by
which they could surpass Mr Marshall - methods they made a great show of keeping secret, as
though they were French chefs guarding their recipes. But I am confident - as I was then - that
the sorts of elaborate and mysterious processes performed by someone like Mr Jack
Neighbours had little or no discernible effect on the end result. As far as I was concerned, it
was a simple enough matter: one used good polish, and one supervised closely. Giffen's was
the polish ordered by all discerning butlers of the time, and if this product was used correctly,
one had no fear of one's silver being second best to anybody's.
I am glad to be able to recall numerous occasions when the silver at Darlington Hall
had a pleasing impact upon observers. For instance, I recall Lady Astor remarking, not
without a certain bitterness, that our silver 'was probably unrivalled'. I recall also watching Mr
George Bernard Shaw, the renowned playwright, at dinner one evening, examining closely the
dessert spoon before him, holding it up to the light and comparing its surface to that of a
nearby platter, quite oblivious to the company around him. But perhaps the instance I recall
with most satisfaction today concerns the night that a certain distinguished personage - a
cabinet minister, shortly afterwards to become foreign secretary - paid a very 'off the record'
visit to the house. In fact, now that the subsequent fruits of those visits have become well
documented, there seems little reason not to reveal that I am talking of Lord Halifax.
As things turned out, that particular visit was simply the first of a whole series of such
'unofficial' meetings between Lord Halifax and the German Ambassador of that time, Herr
Ribbentrop. But on that first night, Lord Halifax had arrived in a mood of great wariness;
virtually his first words on being shown in were: "Really, Darlington, I don't know what
you've put me up to here. I know I shall be sorry."
Herr Ribbentrop not being expected for a further hour or so, his lordship had
suggested to his guest a tour of Darlington Hall - a strategy which had helped many a nervous
visitor to relax. However, as I went about my business, all I could hear for some time was
Lord Halifax, in various parts of the building, continuing to express his doubts about the
evening ahead, and Lord Darlington trying in vain to reassure him.
But then at one point I overheard Lord Halifax exclaiming: "My goodness, Darlington,
the silver in this house is a delight." I was of course very pleased to hear this at the time, but
what was for me the truly satisfying corollary to this episode came two or three days later,
when Lord Darlington remarked to me: "By the way, Stevens, Lord Halifax was jolly
impressed with the silver the other night. Put him into a quite different frame of mind
altogether." These were - I recollect it clearly - his lordship's actual words and so it is not
simply my fantasy that the state of the silver had made a small, but significant contribution
towards the easing of relations between Lord Halifax and Herr Ribbentrop that evening.
It is probably apt at this point to say a few words concerning Herr Ribbentrop. It is, of
course, generally accepted today that Herr Ribbentrop was a trickster: that it was Hitler's plan
throughout those years to deceive England for as long as possible concerning his true
intentions, and that Herr Ribbentrop's sole mission in our country was to orchestrate this
deception. As I say, this is the commonly held view and I do not wish to differ with it here. It
is, however, rather irksome to have to hear people talking today as though they were never for
a moment taken in by Herr Ribbentrop - as though Lord Darlington was alone in believing
Herr Ribbentrop an honourable gentleman and developing a working relationship with him.
The truth is that Herr Ribbentrop was, throughout the thirties, a well-regarded figure, even a
glamorous one, in the very best houses. Particularly around 1936 and 1937, I can recall all the
talk in the servants' hall from visiting staff revolving around 'the German Ambassador', and it
was clear from what was said that many of the most distinguished ladies and gentlemen in this
country were quite enamoured of him. It is, as I say, irksome to have to hear the way these
same people now talk of those times, and in particular, what some have said concerning his
lordship. The great hypocrisy of these persons would be instantly obvious to you were you to
see just a few of their own guest lists from those days; you would see then not only the extent
to which Herr Ribbentrop dined at these same persons' tables, but that he often did so as guest
of honour.
And then again, you will hear these same persons talking as though Lord Darlington
did something unusual in receiving hospitality from the Nazis on the several trips he made to
Germany during those years. I do not suppose they would speak quite so readily if, say, _The
Times__ were to publish even one of the guest lists of the banquets given by the Germans
around the time of the Nuremberg Rally. The fact is, the most established, respected ladies
and gentlemen in England were availing themselves of the hospitality of the German leaders,
and I can vouch at first hand that the great majority of these persons were returning with
nothing but praise and admiration for their hosts. Anyone who implies that Lord Darlington
was liaising covertly with a known enemy is just conveniently forgetting the true climate of
those times.
It needs to be said too what salacious nonsense it is to claim that Lord Darlington was
anti-Semitic, or that he had close association with organizations like the British Union of
Fascists. Such claims can only arise from complete ignorance of the sort of gentleman his
lordship was.
Lord Darlington came to abhor anti-Semitism; I heard him express his disgust on
several separate occasions when confronted with anti-Semitic sentiments. And the allegation
that his lordship never allowed Jewish people to enter the house or any Jewish staff to be
employed is utterly unfounded - except, perhaps, in respect to one very minor episode in the
thirties which has been blown up out of all proportion. And as for the British Union of
Fascists, I can only say that any talk linking his lordship to such people is quite ridiculous. Sir
Oswald Mosley, the gentleman who led the 'blackshirts', was a visitor at Darlington Hall on, I
would say, three occasions at the most, and these visits all took place during the early days of
that organization before it had betrayed its true nature. Once the ugliness of the blackshirts'
movement became apparent - and let it be said his lordship was quicker than most in noticing
it - Lord Darlington had no further association with such people.
In any case, such organizations were a complete irrelevance to the heart of political
life in this country. Lord Darlington, you will understand, was the sort of gentleman who
cared to occupy himself only with what was at the true centre of things, and the figures he
gathered together in his efforts over those years were as far away from such unpleasant fringe
groups as one could imagine. Not only were they eminently respectable, these were figures
who held real influence in British life: politicians, diplomats, military men, clergy. Indeed,
some of the personages were Jewish, and this fact alone should demonstrate how nonsensical
is much of what has been said about his lordship.
But I drift. I was in fact discussing the silver, and how Lord Halifax had been suitably
impressed on the evening of his meeting with Herr Ribbentrop at Darlington Hall. Let me
make clear, I was not for a moment suggesting that what had initially threatened to be a
disappointing evening for my employer had turned into a triumphant one solely on account of
the silver. But then, as I indicated, Lord Darlington himself suggested that the silver might
have been at least a small factor in the change in his guest's mood that evening, and it is
perhaps not absurd to think back to such instances with a glow of satisfaction.
There are certain members of our profession who would have it that it ultimately
makes little difference what sort of employer one serves; who believe that the sort of idealism
prevalent amongst our generation - namely the notion that we butlers should aspire to serve
those great gentlemen who further the cause of humanity - is just high-flown talk with no
grounding in reality. It is of course noticeable that the individuals who express such
scepticism invariably turn out to be the most mediocre of our profession - those who know
they lack the ability to progress to any position of note and who aspire only to drag as many
down to their own level as possible - and one is hardly tempted to take such opinions
seriously. But for all that, it is still satisfying to be able to point to instances in one's career
that highlight very clearly how wrong such people are. Of course, one seeks to provide a
general, sustained service to one's employer, the value of which could never be reduced to a
number of specific instances - such as that concerning Lord Halifax. But what I am saying is
that it is these sorts of instances which over time come to symbolize an irrefutable fact;
namely that one has had the privilege of practising one's profession at the very fulcrum of
great affairs. And one has a right, perhaps, to feel a satisfaction those content to serve
mediocre employers will never know - the satisfaction of being able to say with some reason
that one's efforts, in however modest a way, comprise a contribution to the course of history.
But perhaps one should not be looking back to the past so much. After all, I still have
before me many more years of service I am required to give. And not only is Mr Farraday a
most excellent employer, he is an American gentleman to whom, surely, one has a special
duty to show all that is best about service in England. It is essential, then, to keep one's
attention focused on the present; to guard against any complacency creeping in on account of
what one may have achieved in the past. For it has to be admitted, over these last few months,
things have not been all they might at Darlington Hall. A number of small errors have
surfaced of late, including that incident last April relating to the silver. Most fortunately, it
was not an occasion on which Mr Farraday had guests, but even so, it was a moment of
genuine embarrassment to me.
It had occurred at breakfast one morning, and for his part, Mr Farraday - either through
kindness, or because being an American he failed to recognize the extent of the shortcoming -
did not utter one word of complaint to me throughout the whole episode. He had, upon seating
himself, simply picked up the fork, examined it for a brief second, touching the prongs with a
fingertip, then turned his attention to the morning headlines. The whole gesture had been
carried out in an absent-minded sort of way, but of course, I had spotted the occurrence and
had advanced swiftly to remove the offending item. I may in fact have done so a little too
swiftly on account of my disturbance, for Mr Farraday gave a small start, muttering: "Ah,
Stevens."
I had continued to proceed swiftly out of the room, returning without undue delay
bearing a satisfactory fork. As I advanced again upon the table - and a Mr Farraday now
apparently absorbed in his newspaper - it occurred to me I might slip the fork on to the
tablecloth quietly without disturbing my employer's reading. However, the possibility had
already occurred to me that Mr Farraday was simply feigning indifference in order to
minimize my embarrassment, and such a surreptitious delivery could be interpreted as
complacency on my part towards my error - or worse, an attempt to cover it up.
This was why, then, I decided it appropriate to put the fork down on to the table with a
certain emphasis, causing my employer to start a second time, look up and mutter again: "Ah,
Stevens."
Errors such as these which have occurred over the last few months have been,
naturally enough, injurious to one's self-respect, but then there is no reason to believe them to
be the signs of anything more sinister than a staff shortage. Not that a staff shortage is not
significant in itself; but if Miss Kenton were indeed to return to Darlington Hall, such little
slips, I am sure, would become a thing of the past. Of course, one has to remember there is
nothing stated specifically in Miss Kenton's letter - which, incidentally, I reread last night up
in my room before putting out the light - to indicate unambiguously her desire to return to her
former position. In fact, one has to accept the distinct possibility that one may have previously
- perhaps through wishful thinking of a professional kind - exaggerated what evidence there
was regarding such a desire on her part. For I must say I was a little surprised last night at
how difficult it was actually to point to any passage which clearly demonstrated her wish to
return.
But then again, it seems hardly worthwhile to speculate greatly on such matters now
when one knows one will, in all likelihood, be talking face to face with Miss Kenton within
forty-eight hours. Still, I must say, I did spend some long minutes turning those passages over
in my mind last night as I lay there in the darkness, listening to the sounds from below of the
landlord and his wife clearing up for the night.
Day Three - Evening
Moscombe, near Tavistock, Devon
I FEEL I should perhaps return a moment to the question of his lordship's attitude to Jewish
persons, since this whole issue of anti- Semitism, I realize, has become a rather sensitive one
these days. In particular, let me clear up this matter of a supposed bar against Jewish persons
on the staff at Darlington Hall. Since this allegation falls very directly into my own realm, I
am able to refute it with absolute authority. There were many Jewish persons on my staff
throughout all my years with his lordship, and let me say furthermore that they were never
treated in any way differently on account of their race. One really cannot guess the reason for
these absurd allegations - unless, quite ludicrously, they originate from that brief, entirely
insignificant few weeks in the early thirties when Mrs Carolyn Barnet came to wield an
unusual influence over his lordship.
Mrs Barnet, the widow of Mr Charles Barnet, was at that point in her forties - a very
handsome, some might say glamorous lady. She had a reputation for being formidably
intelligent, and in those days one often tended to hear of how she had humiliated this or that
learned gentleman at dinner over some important contemporary issue. For much of the
summer of 1932, she was a regular presence at Darlington Hall, she and his lordship often
spending hour after hour deep in conversation, typically of a social or political nature. And it
was Mrs Barnet, as I recall, who took his lordship on those 'guided inspections' of the poorest
areas of London's East End, during which his lordship visited the actual homes of many of the
families suffering the desperate plight of those years.
That is to say, Mrs Barnet, in all likelihood, made some sort of contribution to Lord
Darlington's developing concern for the poor of our country and as such, her influence cannot
be said to have been entirely negative. But she was too, of course, a member of Sir Oswald
Mosley's 'blackshirts' organization, and the very little contact his lordship ever had with Sir
Oswald occurred during those few weeks of that summer.
And it was during those same weeks that those entirely untypical incidents took place
at Darlington Hall which must, one supposes, have provided what flimsy basis exists for these
absurd allegations.
I call them 'incidents' but some of these were extremely minor. For instance, I recall
overhearing at dinner one evening, when a particular newspaper had been mentioned, his
lordship remarking: "Oh, you mean that Jewish propaganda sheet." And then on another
occasion around that time, I remember his instructing me to cease giving donations to a
particular local charity which regularly came to the door on the grounds that the management
committee was 'more or less homogeneously Jewish'. I have remembered these remarks
because they truly surprised me at the time, his lordship never previously having shown any
antagonism whatsoever towards the Jewish race.
Then, of course, came that afternoon his lordship called me into his study. Initially, he
made rather general conversation, inquiring if all was well around the house and so on. Then
he said: "I've been doing a great deal of thinking, Stevens. A great deal of thinking. And I've
reached my conclusion. We cannot have Jews on the staff here at Darlington Hall."
"Sir?"
"It's for the good of this house, Stevens. In the interests of the guests we have staying
here. I've looked into this carefully, Stevens, and I'm letting you know my conclusion."
"Very well, sir."
"Tell me, Stevens, we have a few on the staff at the moment, don't we? Jews, I mean."
"I believe two of the present staff members would fall into that category, sir."
"Ah." His lordship paused for a moment, staring out of his window. "Of course, you'll
have to let them go."
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"It's regrettable, Stevens, but we have no choice. There's the safety and well-being of
my guests to consider. Let me assure you, I've looked into this matter and thought it through
thoroughly. It's in all our best interests."
The two staff members concerned were, in fact, both housemaids. It would hardly
have been proper, then, to have taken any action without first informing Miss Kenton of the
situation, and I resolved to do just this that same evening when I met her for cocoa in her
parlour. I should perhaps say a few words here concerning these meetings in her parlour at the
end of each day. These were, let me say, overwhelmingly professional in tone - though
naturally we might discuss some informal topics from time to time. Our reason for instituting
such meetings was simple: we had found that our respective lives were often so busy, several
days could go by without our having an opportunity to exchange even the most basic of
information. Such a situation, we recognized, seriously jeopardized the smooth running of
operations, and to spend fifteen minutes or so together at the end of the day in the privacy of
Miss Kenton's parlour was the most straightforward remedy. I must reiterate, these meetings
were predominantly professional in character; that is to say, for instance, we might talk over
the plans for a forthcoming event, or else discuss how a new recruit was settling in.
In any case, to return to my thread, you will appreciate I was not unperturbed at the
prospect of telling Miss Kenton I was about to dismiss two of her maids. Indeed, the maids
had been perfectly satisfactory employees and - I may as well say this since the Jewish issue
has become so sensitive of late - my every instinct opposed the idea of their dismissal.
Nevertheless, my duty in this instance was quite clear, and as I saw it, there was nothing to be
gained at all in irresponsibly displaying such personal doubts. It was a difficult task, but as
such, one that demanded to be carried out with dignity. And so it was that when I finally
raised the matter towards the end of our conversation that evening, I did so in as concise and
businesslike a way as possible, concluding with the words: "I will speak to the two employees
in my pantry tomorrow morning at ten thirty. I would be grateful then, Miss Kenton, if you
would send them along. I leave it entirely to yourself whether or not you inform them
beforehand as to the nature of what I am going to say to them."
At this point, Miss Kenton seemed to have nothing to say in response. So I continued:
"Well, Miss Kenton, thank you for the cocoa. It's high time I was turning in. Another busy
day tomorrow."
It was then that Miss Kenton said: "Mr Stevens, I cannot quite believe my ears. Ruth
and Sarah have been members of my staff for over six years now. I trust them absolutely and
indeed they trust me. They have served this house excellently."
"I am sure that is so, Miss Kenton. However, we must not allow sentiment to creep
into our judgement. Now really, I must bid you good night…"
"Mr Stevens, I am outraged that you can sit there and utter what you have just done as
though you were discussing orders for the larder. I simply cannot believe it. You are saying
Ruth and Sarah are to be dismissed on the grounds that they are Jewish?"
"Miss Kenton, I have just this moment explained the situation to you fully. His
lordship has made his decision and there is nothing for you and I to debate over."
"Does it not occur to you, Mr Stevens, that to dismiss Ruth and Sarah on these grounds
would be simply _wrong__? I will not stand for such things. I will not work in a house in
which such things can occur."
"Miss Kenton, I will ask you not to excite yourself and to conduct yourself in a
manner befitting your position. This is a very straight-forward matter. If his lordship wishes
these particular contracts to be discontinued, then there is little more to be said."
"I am warning you, Mr Stevens, I will not continue to work in such a house. If my
girls are dismissed, I will leave also."
"Miss Kenton, I am surprised to find you reacting in this manner. Surely I don't have
to remind you that our professional duty is not to our own foibles and sentiments, but to the
wishes of our employer."
"I am telling you, Mr Stevens, if you dismiss my girls tomorrow, it will be wrong, a
sin as any sin ever was one and I will not continue to work in such a house."
"Miss Kenton, let me suggest to you that you are hardly well placed to be passing
judgements of such a high and mighty nature. The fact is, the world of today is a very
complicated and treacherous place. There are many things you and I are simply not in a
position to understand concerning, say, the nature of Jewry. Whereas his lordship, I might
venture, is somewhat better placed to judge what is for the best. Now, Miss Kenton, I really
must retire. I thank you again for the cocoa. Ten thirty tomorrow morning. Send the two
employees concerned, please."
It was evident from the moment the two maids stepped into my pantry the following
morning that Miss Kenton had already spoken to them, for they both came in sobbing. I
explained the situation to them as briefly as possible, underlining that their work had been
satisfactory and that they would, accordingly, receive good references. As I recall, neither of
them said anything of note throughout the whole interview, which lasted perhaps three or four
minutes, and they left sobbing just as they had arrived.
Miss Kenton was extremely cold towards me for some days following the dismissal of
the employees. Indeed, at times she was quite rude to me, even in the presence of staff. And
although we continued our habit of meeting for cocoa in the evening, the sessions tended to be
brief and unfriendly. When there had been no sign of her behaviour abating after a fortnight or
so, I think you will understand that I started to become a little impatient. I thus said to her
during one of our cocoa sessions, in an ironic tone of voice: "Miss Kenton, I'd rather expected
you to have handed in your notice by now," accompanying this with a light laugh. I did, I
suppose, hope that she might finally relent a little and make some conciliatory response or
other, allowing us once and for all to put the whole episode behind us.
Miss Kenton, however, simply looked at me sternly and said: "I still have every
intention of handing in my notice, Mr Stevens. It is merely that I have been so busy, I have
not had time to see to the matter."
This did, I must admit, make me a little concerned for a time that she was serious
about her threat. But then as week followed week, it became clear that there was no question
of her leaving Darlington Hall, and as the atmosphere between us gradually thawed, I suppose
I tended to tease her every now and again by reminding her of her threatened resignation.
For instance, if we were discussing some future large occasion to be held at the house,
I might put in: "That is, Miss Kenton, assuming you are still with us at that stage." Even
months after the event, such remarks still tended to make Miss Kenton go quiet - though by
this stage, I fancy, this was due more to embarrassment than anger.
Eventually, of course, the matter came to be, by and large, forgotten.
But I remember it coming up one last time well over a year after the dismissal of the
two maids.
It was his lordship who initially revived the matter one afternoon when I was serving
his tea in the drawing room. By then, Mrs Carolyn Barnet's days of influence over his lordship
were well over - indeed, the lady had ceased to be a visitor at Darlington Hall altogether. It is
worth pointing out, furthermore, that his lordship had by that time severed all links with the
'blackshirts', having witnessed the true, ugly nature of that organization.
"Oh, Stevens," he had said to me. "I've been meaning to say to you. About that
business last year. About the Jewish maids. You recall the matter?"
"Indeed, sir."
"I suppose there's no way of tracing them now, is there? It was wrong what happened
and one would like to recompense them somehow."
"I will certainly look into the matter, sir. But I am not at all certain it will be possible
to ascertain their whereabouts at this stage."
"See what you can do. It was wrong, what occurred."
I assumed this exchange with his lordship would be of some interest to Miss Kenton,
and I decided it only proper to mention it to her - even at the risk of getting her angry again.
As it turned out, my doing so on that foggy afternoon I encountered her in the summerhouse
produced curious results.
I recall a mist starting to set in as I crossed the lawn that afternoon.
I was making my way up to the summerhouse for the purpose of clearing away the
remains of his lordship's taking tea there with some guests a little while earlier. I can recall
spotting from some distance - long before reaching the steps where my father had once fallen
- Miss Kenton's figure moving about inside the summerhouse. When I entered she had seated
herself on one of the wicker chairs scattered around its interior, evidently engaged in some
needlework. On closer inspection, I saw she was performing repairs to a cushion. I went about
gathering up the various items of crockery from amidst the plants and the cane furniture, and
as I did so, I believe we exchanged a few pleasantries, perhaps discussed one or two
professional matters. For the truth was, it was extremely refreshing to be out in the
summerhouse after many continuous days in the main building and neither of us was inclined
to hurry with our tasks. Indeed, although one could not see out far that day on account of the
encroaching mist, and the daylight too was rapidly fading by this stage, obliging Miss Kenton
to hold her needlework up to the last of it, I remember our often breaking off from our
respective activities simply to gaze out at the views around us. In fact, I was looking out over
the lawn to where the mist was thickening down around the poplar trees planted along the
cart-track, when I finally introduced the topic of the previous year's dismissals. Perhaps a little
predictably, I did so by saying: "I was just thinking earlier, Miss Kenton. It's rather funny to
remember now, but you know, only this time a year ago, you were still insisting you were
going to resign. It rather amused me to think of it." I gave a laugh, but behind me Miss
Kenton remained silent. When I finally turned to look at her, she was gazing through the glass
at the great expanse of fog outside.
"You probably have no idea, Mr Stevens," she said eventually, "how seriously I really
thought of leaving this house. I felt so strongly about what happened. Had I been anyone
worthy of any respect at all, I dare say I would have left Darlington Hall long ago." She
paused for a while, and I turned my gaze back out to the poplar trees down in the distance.
Then she continued in a tired voice: "It was cowardice, Mr Stevens. Simple cowardice. Where
could I have gone? I have no family. Only my aunt. I love her dearly, but I can't live with her
for a day without feeling my whole life is wasting away. I did tell myself, of course, I would
soon find some new situation. But I was so frightened, Mr Stevens. Whenever I thought of
leaving, I just saw myself going out there and finding nobody who knew or cared about me.
There, that's all my high principles amount to. I feel so ashamed of myself. But I just couldn't
leave, Mr Stevens. I just couldn't bring myself to leave."
Miss Kenton paused again and seemed to be deep in thought. I thus thought it
opportune to relate at this point, as precisely as possible, what had taken place earlier between
myself and Lord Darlington. I proceeded to do so and concluded by saying: "What's done can
hardly be undone. But it is at least a great comfort to hear his lordship declare so
unequivocally that it was all a terrible misunderstanding. I just thought you'd like to know,
Miss Kenton, since I recall you were as distressed by the episode as I was."
"I'm sorry, Mr Stevens," Miss Kenton said behind me in an entirely new voice, as
though she had just been jolted from a dream, "I don't understand you." Then as I turned to
her, she went on: "As I recall, you thought it was only right and proper that Ruth and Sarah be
sent packing. You were positively cheerful about it."
"Now really, Miss Kenton, that is quite incorrect and unfair. The whole matter caused
me great concern, great concern indeed. It is hardly the sort of thing I like to see happen in
this house."
"Then why, Mr Stevens, did you not tell me so at the time?"
I gave a laugh, but for a moment was rather at a loss for an answer.
Before I could formulate one, Miss Kenton put down her sewing and said: "Do you
realize, Mr Stevens, how much it would have meant to me if you had thought to share your
feelings last year? You knew how upset I was when my girls were dismissed. Do you realize
how much it would have helped me? Why, Mr Stevens, why, why, why do you always have
to _pretend__?" I gave another laugh at the ridiculous turn the conversation had suddenly
taken. "Really, Miss Kenton," I said, "I'm not sure I know what you mean. Pretend? Why,
really..."
"I suffered so much over Ruth and Sarah leaving us. And I suffered all the more
because I believed I was alone."
"Really, Miss Kenton..." I picked up the tray on which I had gathered together the used
crockery. "Naturally, one disapproved of the dismissals. One would have thought that quite
self-evident."
She did not say anything, and as I was leaving I glanced back towards her. She was
again gazing out at the view, but it had by this point grown so dark inside the summerhouse,
all I could see of her was her profile outlined against a pale and empty background. I excused
myself and proceeded to make my exit.
Now that I have recalled this episode of the dismissing of the Jewish employees, I am
reminded of what could, I suppose, be called a curious corollary to that whole affair: namely,
the arrival of the housemaid called Lisa. That is to say, we were obliged to find replacements
for the two dismissed Jewish maids, and this Lisa turned out to be one of them.
This young woman had applied for the vacancy with the most dubious of references,
which spelt out to any experienced butler that she had left her previous situation under
something of a cloud. Moreover, when Miss Kenton and I questioned her, it became clear that
she had never remained in any position for longer than a few weeks. In general, her whole
attitude suggested to me that she was quite unsuitable for employment at Darlington Hall. To
my surprise, however, once we had finished interviewing the girl, Miss Kenton began to insist
we take her on. "I see much potential in this girl," she continued to say in the face of my
protests. "She will be directly under my supervision and I will see to it she proves good."
I recall we became locked in disagreement for some time, and it was perhaps only the
fact that the matter of the dismissed maids was so recent in our minds that I did not hold out
as strongly as I might against Miss Kenton. In any case, the result was that I finally gave way,
albeit by saying: "Miss Kenton, I hope you realize that the responsibility for taking on this girl
rests squarely with yourself. There is no doubt as far as I am concerned that at this present
moment she is far from adequate to be a member of our staff. I am only allowing her to join
on the understanding that you will personally oversee her development."
"The girl will turn out well, Mr Stevens. You will see."
And to my astonishment, during the weeks that followed, the young girl did indeed
make progress at a remarkable rate. Her attitude seemed to improve by the day, and even her
manner of walking and going about tasks - which during the first days had been so slovenly
that one had to avert one's eyes - improved dramatically.
As the weeks went on, and the girl appeared miraculously to have been transformed
into a useful member of staff, Miss Kenton's triumph was obvious. She seemed to take
particular pleasure in assigning Lisa some task or other that required a little extra
responsibility, and if I were watching, she would be sure to try and catch my eye with her
rather mocking expression. And the exchange we had that night in Miss Kenton's parlour over
cocoa was fairly typical of the sort of conversation we tended to have on the topic of Lisa.
"No doubt, Mr Stevens," she said to me, "you will be extremely disappointed to hear
Lisa has still not made any real mistake worth speaking of."
"I'm not disappointed at all, Miss Kenton. I'm very pleased for you and for all of us. I
will admit, you have had some modest success regarding the girl thus far."
"Modest success! And look at that smile on your face, Mr Stevens. It always appears
when I mention Lisa. That tells an interesting story in itself. A very interesting story indeed."
"Oh, really, Miss Kenton. And may I ask what exactly?"
"It is very interesting, Mr Stevens. Very interesting you should have been so
pessimistic about her. Because Lisa is a pretty girl, no doubt about it. And I've noticed you
have a curious aversion to pretty girls being on the staff."
"You know perfectly well you are talking nonsense, Miss Kenton."
"Ah, but I've noticed it, Mr Stevens. You do not like pretty girls to be on the staff.
Might it be that our Mr Stevens fears distraction? Can it be that our Mr Stevens is flesh and
blood after all and cannot fully trust himself?"
"Really, Miss Kenton. If I thought there was one modicum of sense in what you are
saying I might bother to engage with you in this discussion. As it is, I think I shall simply
place my thoughts elsewhere while you chatter away."
"Ah, but then why is that guilty smile still on your face, Mr Stevens?"
"It is not a guilty smile at all, Miss Kenton. I am slightly amused by your astonishing
capacity to talk nonsense, that is all."
"It _is__ a guilty little smile you have on, Mr Stevens. And I've noticed how you can
hardly bear to look at Lisa. Now it is beginning to become very clear why you objected so
strongly to her."
"My objections were extremely solid, Miss Kenton, as you very well know. The girl
was completely unsuitable when she first came to us."
Now of course, you must understand we would never have carried on in such a vein
within the hearing of staff members. But just around that time, our cocoa evenings, while
maintaining their essentially professional character, often tended to allow room for a little
harmless talk of this sort - which did much, one should say, to relieve the many tensions
produced by a hard day.
Lisa had been with us for some eight or nine months - and I had largely forgotten her
existence by this point - when she vanished from the house together with the second footman.
Now, of course, such things are simply part and parcel of life for any butler of a large
household. They are intensely irritating, but one learns to accept them. In fact, as far as these
sorts of 'moonlight' departures were concerned, this was among the more civilized. Aside
from a little food, the couple had taken nothing that belonged to the house, and furthermore,
both parties had left letters. The second footman, whose name I no longer recall, left a short
note addressed to me, saying something like: 'Please do not judge us too harshly. We are in
love and are going to be married.' Lisa had written a much longer note addressed to 'the
Housekeeper', and it was this letter Miss Kenton brought into my pantry on the morning
following their disappearance. There were, as I recall, many misspelt, ill-formed sentences
about how much in love the couple were, how wonderful the second footman was, and how
marvellous the future was that awaited them both. One line, as I recall it, read something to
the effect of: 'We don't have money but who cares we have love and who wants anything else
we've got one another that's all anyone can ever want.' Despite the letter being three pages
long, there was no mention of any gratitude towards Miss Kenton for the great care she had
given the girl, nor was there any note of regret at letting all of us down.
Miss Kenton was noticeably upset. All the while I was running my eye over the young
woman's letter, she sat there at the table before me, looking down at her hands. In fact - and
this strikes one as rather curious - I cannot really recall seeing her more bereft than on that
morning. When I put the letter down on the table, she said: "So, Mr Stevens, it seems you
were right and I was wrong."
"Miss Kenton, there is nothing to upset yourself over," I said. "These things happen.
There really is little the likes of us can ever do to prevent these things."
"I was at fault, Mr Stevens. I accept it. You were right all along, as ever, and I was
wrong."
"Miss Kenton, I really cannot agree with you. You did wonders with that girl. What
you managed with her proved many times over that it was in fact I who was in error. Really,
Miss Kenton, what has happened now might have happened with any employee. You did
remarkably well with her. You may have every reason to feel let down by her, but no reason
at all to feel any responsibility on your own part."
Miss Kenton continued to look very dejected.
She said quietly: "You're very kind to say so, Mr Stevens. I'm very grateful." Then she
sighed tiredly and said: "She's so foolish. She might have had a real career in front of her. She
had ability. So many young women like her throw away their chances, and all for what?"
We both looked at the notepaper on the table between us, and then Miss Kenton turned
her gaze away with an air of annoyance.
"Indeed," I said. "Such a waste, as you say."
"So foolish. And the girl is bound to be let down. And she had a good life ahead of her
if only she'd persevered. In a year or two, I could have had her ready to take on a
housekeeper's post in some small residence. Perhaps you think that far-fetched, Mr Stevens,
but then look how far I came with her in a few months. And now she's thrown it all away. All
for nothing."
"It really is most foolish of her."
I had started to gather up the sheets of notepaper before me, thinking I might file them
away for reference. But then as I was doing so, I became a little uncertain as to whether Miss
Kenton had intended me to keep the letter, or if she herself wished to do so, and I placed the
pages back down on the table between the two of us. Miss Kenton, in any case, seemed far
away.
"She's bound to be let down," she said again.
"So foolish."
But I see I have become somewhat lost in these old memories. This had never been my
intention, but then it is probably no bad thing if in doing so I have at least avoided becoming
unduly preoccupied with the events of this evening - which I trust have now finally concluded
themselves. For these last few hours, it must be said, have been rather trying ones.
I find myself now in the attic room of this small cottage belonging to Mr and Mrs
Taylor.
That is to say, this is a private residence; this room, made so kindly available to me
tonight by the Taylors, was once occupied by their eldest son, now long grown and living in
Exeter. It is a room dominated by heavy beams and rafters, and the floorboards have no carpet
or rug to cover them, and yet the atmosphere is surprisingly cosy. And it is clear Mrs Taylor
has not only made up the bed for me, she has also tidied and cleaned; for aside from a few
cobwebs near the rafters, there is little to reveal that this room has been unoccupied for many
years. As for Mr and Mrs Taylor themselves, I have ascertained that they ran the village
greengrocery here from the twenties until their retirement three years ago. They are kind
people, and though I have on more than one occasion tonight offered remuneration for their
hospitality, they will not hear of it.
The fact that I am now here, the fact that I came to be to all intents and purposes at the
mercy of Mr and Mrs Taylor's generosity on this night, is attributable to one foolish,
infuriatingly simple oversight: namely, I allowed the Ford to run out of petrol. What with this
and the trouble yesterday concerning the lack of water in the radiator, it would not be
unreasonable for an observer to believe such general disorganization endemic to my nature. It
may be pointed out, of course, that as far as long-distance motoring is concerned, I am
something of a novice, and such simple oversights are only to be expected. And yet, when one
remembers that good organization and foresight are qualities that lie at the very heart of one's
profession, it is hard to avoid the feeling that one has, somehow, let oneself down again.
But it is true, I had been considerably distracted during the last hour or so of motoring
prior to the petrol running out. I had planned to lodge the night in the town of Tavistock,
where I arrived a little before eight o'clock. At the town's main inn, however, I was informed
all the rooms were occupied on account of a local agricultural fair.
Several other establishments were suggested to me, but though I called at each, I was
met every time with the same apology. Finally, at a boarding house on the edge of the town,
the landlady suggested I motor on several miles to a roadside inn run by a relative of hers -
which, she assured me, was bound to have vacancies, being too far out of Tavistock to be
affected by the fair.
She had given me thorough directions, which had seemed clear enough at the time,
and it is impossible'· to say now whose fault it was that I subsequently failed to find any trace
of this roadside establishment.
Instead, after fifteen minutes or so of motoring, I found myself out on a long road
curving across bleak, open moorland. On either side of me were what appeared to be fields of
marsh, and a mist was rolling across my path. To my left, I could see the last glow of the
sunset. The skyline was broken here and there by the shapes of barns and farmhouses some
way away over the fields, but otherwise, I appeared to have left behind all signs of
community.
I recall turning the Ford round at about this stage and doubling back some distance in
search of a turning I had passed earlier. But when I found it, this new road proved, if
anything, more desolate than the one I had left. For a time, I drove in near-darkness between
high hedges, then found the road beginning to climb steeply. I had by now given up hope of
finding the roadside inn and had set my mind on motoring on till I reached the next town or
village and seeking shelter there. It would be easy enough, so I was reasoning to myself, to
resume my planned route first thing in the morning. It was at this point, half-way up the hill
road, that the engine stuttered and I noticed for the first time that my petrol was gone.
The Ford continued its climb for several more yards, then came to a halt. When I got
out to assess my situation, I could see I had only a few more minutes of daylight left to me. I
was standing on a steep road bound in by trees and hedgerows; much further up the hill, I
could see a break in the hedges where a wide barred gate stood outlined against the sky. I
began to make my way up to it, supposing that a view from this gate would give me some
sense of my bearings; perhaps I had even hoped to see a farmhouse near by where I could
gain prompt assistance. I was a little disconcerted then by what eventually greeted my eyes.
On the other side of the gate a field sloped down very steeply so that it fell out of vision only
twenty yards or so in front of me. Beyond the crest of the field, some way off in the distance -
perhaps a good mile or so as the crow would fly - was a small village. I could make out
through the mist a church steeple, and around about it, clusters of dark-slated roofs; here and
there, wisps of white smoke were rising from chimneys.
One has to confess, at that moment, to being overcome by a certain sense of
discouragement. Of course, the situation was not by any means hopeless; the Ford was not
damaged, simply out of fuel. A walk down to the village could be accomplished in a half-hour
or so and there I could surely find accommodation and a can of petrol. And yet it was not a
happy feeling to be up there on a lonely hill, looking over a gate at the lights coming on in a
distant village, the daylight all but faded, and the mist growing ever thicker.
There was little to be gained in growing respondent, however. In any case, it would
have been foolish to waste the few remaining minutes of daylight. I walked back down to the
Ford where I packed a briefcase with some essential items. Then, arming myself with a
bicycle lamp, which cast a surprisingly good beam, I went in search of a path by which I
could descend to the village. But n&' such path offered, itself, though I went some distance up
the hill, a good way past my gate. Then when I sensed that the road had ceased to climb, but
was beginning to curve slowly down in a direction /away /from the village - the lights of
which I could glimpse regularly through the foliage - I was overcome again by a sense of
discouragement. In fact, for a moment I wondered if my best strategy would not be to retrace
my steps to the Ford and simply sit in it until another motorist came by. By then, however, it
was very close to being dark, and I could see that if one were to attempt to hail a passing
vehicle in these circumstances, one might easily be taken for a highwayman or some such.
Besides, not a single vehicle had passed since I had got out of the Ford; In fact, I could not
really remember having seen another vehicle at all since leaving Tavistock. I resolved then to
return as far as the gate, and from there, descend the field, walking in as direct a line as
possible towards the lights of the village, regardless of whether or not there was a proper path.
It was not, in the end, too arduous a descent. A series of grazing fields, one alter the
next, led the way down to the village and by keeping close to the edge of each field as one
descended, one could be ensured of reasonable walking. Only once, with the village very
close, could I find no obvious way to gain access to the next field down, and I had to shine my
bicycle lamp to and fro along the hedgerow obstructing me. Eventually, I discovered a small
gap through which I proceeded to squeeze my person, but only at some cost to the shoulder of
my jacket and the turn-ups of my trousers. The last few fields, furthermore, became
increasingly muddy and I deliberately refrained from shining my lamp on to my shoes and
turn-ups for fear of further discouragement.
By and by I found myself on a paved path going down into the village, and it was
while descending this path that I met Mr Taylor, my kind host of this evening. He had
emerged out of a turning a few yards in front of me, and had courteously waited for me to
catch up, whereupon he had touched his cap and asked if he could be of any assistance to me.
I had explained my position as succinctly as possible, adding that I would be most gratified to
be guided towards a good inn.
At this, Mr Taylor had shaken his head, saying: "I'm afraid there's no inn as such in
our village, sir. John Humphreys usually takes in travellers at the Crossed Keys, but he's
having work done to the roof at the moment." Before this distressing piece of information
could have its full effect, however, Mr Taylor said: "If you didn't mind roughing it a little, sir,
we could offer you a room and a bed for the night. It's nothing special, but the wife will see to
it everything's clean and comfortable enough in a basic sort of way.
I believe I uttered some words, perhaps in a rather half-hearted way, to the effect that I
could not inconvenience them to such an extent. To which Mr Taylor had said: "I tell you, sir,
it would be an honour to have you. It's not often we get the likes of yourself passing through
Moscombe. And quite honestly, sir, I don't know what else you could do at this hour. The
wife would never forgive me if'-I were to let you away into the night."
Thus it was that I came to accept the kind hospitality of Mr and Mrs Taylor. But when
I spoke earlier of this evening's events being 'trying', I was not referring simply to the
frustrations of running out of petrol and of having to make such an uncouth journey down into
the village. For what occurred subsequently - what unfolded once I sat down to supper with
Mr and Mrs Taylor and their neighbours - proved in its own way far more taxing on one's
resources than the essentially physical discomforts I had faced earlier. It was, I can assure
you, a relief indeed to be able at last to come up to this room and to spend some moments
turning over these memories of Darlington Hall from all those years ago.
The fact is, I have tended increasingly of late to indulge myself in such recollections.
And ever since the prospect of seeing Miss Kenton again first arose some weeks ago, I
suppose I have tended to spend much time pondering just why it was our relationship
underwent such a change.
For change it certainly did, around 1935 or 1936, after many years in which we had
steadily achieved a fine professional understanding. In fact, by the end, we had even
abandoned our routine of meeting over a cup of cocoa at the end of each day. But as to what
really caused such changes, just what particular chain of events was really responsible, I have
never quite been able to decide.
In thinking about this recently, it seems possible that that odd incident the evening
Miss Kenton came into my pantry uninvited may have marked a crucial turning point. Why it
was she came to my pantry I cannot remember with certainty. I have a feeling she may have
come bearing a vase of flowers 'to brighten things up', but then again, I may be getting
confused with the time she attempted the same thing years earlier at the start of our
acquaintanceship. I know for a fact she tried to introduce flowers to my pantry on at least
three occasions over the years, but perhaps I am confused in believing this to have been what
brought her that particular evening. I might emphasize, in any case, that notwithstanding our
years of good working relations, I had never allowed the situation to slip to one in which the
housekeeper was coming and going from my pantry all day. The butler's pantry, as far as I am
concerned, is a crucial office, the heart of the house's operations; not unlike a general's
headquarters during a battle, and it is imperative that all things in it are ordered - and left
ordered - in precisely the way I wish them to be. I have never been that sort of butler who
allows all sorts of people to wander in and out - with their queries and grumbles. If operations
are to be conducted in a smoothly co-ordinated way, it is surely obvious that the butler's
pantry must be the one place in the house where privacy and solitude are guaranteed.
As it happened, when she entered my pantry that evening, I was not in fact engaged in
professional matters. That is to say, it was towards the end of the day during a quiet week and
I had been enjoying a rare hour or so off duty. As I say, I am not certain if Miss Kenton
entered with her vase of flowers, but I certainly do recall her saying: "Mr Stevens, your room
looks even less accommodating at night than it does in the day. That electric bulb is too dim,
surely, for you to be reading by."
"It is perfectly adequate, thank you, Miss Kenton."
"Really, Mr Stevens, this room resembles a prison cell. All one needs is a small bed in
the corner and one could well imagine condemned men spending their last hours here."
Perhaps I said something to this, I do not know.
In any case, I did not look up from my reading, and a few moments passed during
which I waited for Miss Kenton to excuse herself and leave. But then I heard her say: "Now I
wonder what it could be you are reading there, Mr Stevens."
"Simply a book, Miss Kenton."
"I can see that, Mr Stevens. But what sort of book - that is what interests me."
I looked up to see Miss Kenton advancing towards me. I shut the book, and clutching
it to my person, rose to my feet.
"Really, Miss Kenton," I said, "I must ask you to respect my privacy."
"But why are you so shy about your book, Mr Stevens? I rather suspect it may be
something rather racy."
"It is quite out of the question, Miss Kenton, that anything 'racy', as you put it, should
be found on his lordship's shelves."
"I have heard it said that many learned books contain the most racy of passages, but I
have never had the nerve to look. Now, Mr Stevens, do please allow me to see what it is you
are reading."
"Miss Kenton, I must ask you to leave me alone. It is quite impossible that you should
persist in pursuing me like this during the very few moments of spare time I have to myself."
But Miss Kenton was continuing to advance and I must say it was a little difficult to
assess what my best course of action would be. I was tempted to thrust the book into the
drawer of my desk and lock it, but this seemed absurdly dramatic. I took a few paces back, the
book still held to my chest.
"Please show me the volume you are holding, Mr Stevens," Miss Kenton said,
continuing her advance, "and I will leave you to the pleasures of your reading. What on earth
can it be you are so anxious to hide?"
"Miss Kenton, whether or not you discover the title of this volume is in itself not of the
slightest importance to me. But as a matter of principle, I object to your appearing like this
and invading my private moments."
"I wonder, is it a perfectly respectable volume, Mr Stevens, or are you in fact
protecting me from its shocking influences?"
Then she was standing before me, and suddenly the atmosphere underwent a peculiar
change -almost as though the two of us had been suddenly thrust on to some other plane of
being altogether. I am afraid it is not easy to describe clearly what I mean here. All I can say
is that everything around us suddenly became very still; it was my impression that Miss
Kenton's manner also underwent a sudden change; there was a strange seriousness in her
expression, and it struck me she seemed almost frightened..
"Please, Mr Stevens, let me see your book." She reached forward and began gently to
release the volume from my grasp. I, judged it best to look away while she did so, but with
her person positioned so closely, this could only be achieved by my twisting my head away at
a somewhat unnatural angle. Miss Kenton continued very gently to prise the book away,
practically one finger at a time. The process seemed to take a very long time - throughout
which I managed to maintain my posture - until finally I heard her say: "Good gracious, Mr
Stevens, it isn't anything so scandalous at all.
Simply a sentimental love story."
I believe it was around this point that I decided there was no need to tolerate any more.
I cannot recall precisely what I said, but I remember showing Miss Kenton out of my pantry
quite firmly and the episode was thus brought to a close.
I suppose I should add a few words here concerning the matter of the actual volume
around which this small episode revolved. The book was, true enough, what might be
described as a 'sentimental romance' - one of a number kept in the library, and also in several
of the guest bedrooms, for the entertainment of lady visitors. There was a simple reason for
my having taken to perusing such works; it was an extremely efficient way to maintain and
develop one's command of the English language. It is my view - I do not know if you will
agree - that in so far as our generation is concerned, there has been too much stress placed on
the professional desirability of good accent and command of language; that is to say, these
elements have been stressed sometimes at the cost of more important professional qualities.
For all that, it has never been my position that good accent and command of language are not
attractive attributes, and I always considered it my duty to develop them as best I could. One
straightforward means of going about this is simply to read a few pages of a well-written book
during odd spare moments one may have.
This had been my own policy for some years, and I often tended to choose the sort of
volume Miss Kenton had found me reading that evening simply because such works tend to
be written in good English, with plenty of elegant dialogue of much practical value to me. A
weightier book - a scholarly study, say - while it might have been more generally improving
would have tended to be couched in terms likely to be of more limited use in the course of
one's normal intercourse with ladies and gentlemen.
I rarely had the time or the desire to read any of these romances cover to cover, but so
far as I could tell, their plots were invariably absurd - indeed, sentimental - and I would not
have wasted one moment on them were it not for these aforementioned benefits. Having said
that, however, I do not mind confessing today - and I see nothing to be ashamed of in this -
that I did at times gain a sort of incidental enjoyment from these stories. I did not perhaps
acknowledge this to myself at the time, but as I say, what shame is there in it? Why should
one not enjoy in a light-hearted sort of way stories of ladies and gentlemen who fall in love
and express their feelings for each other, often 'in the most elegant phrases?
But when I say this, I do not mean to imply the stance I took over the matter of the
book that evening was somehow unwarranted. For you must understand, there was an
important principle at issue. The fact was, I had been 'off duty' at that moment Miss Kenton
had come marching into my pantry. And of course, any butler who regards his vocation with
pride, any butler who aspires at all to a 'dignity in keeping with his position', as the Hayes
Society once put it, should never allow himself to be 'off duty' in the presence of others. It
really was immaterial whether it was Miss Kenton or a complete stranger who had walked in
at that moment. A butler of any quality must be seen to /inhabit /his role, utterly and fully; he
cannot be seen casting it aside one moment simply to don it again the next as though it were
nothing more than a pantomime costume. There is one situation and one situation only in
which a butler who cares about his dignity may feel free to unburden himself of his role; that
is to say, when he is entirely alone. You will appreciate then that in the event of Miss Kenton
bursting in at a time when I had presumed, not unreasonably, that I was to be alone, it came to
be a crucial matter of principle, a matter indeed of dignity, that I did not appear in anything
less than my full and proper role.
However, it had not been my intention to analyse here the various facets of this small
episode from years ago. The main point about it was that it alerted me to the fact that things
between Miss Kenton and myself had reached - no doubt after a gradual process of many
months - an inappropriate footing. The fact that she could behave as she had done that
evening was rather alarming, and after I had seen her out of my pantry, and had had a chance
to gather my thoughts a little, I recall resolving to set about reestablishing our professional
relationship on a more proper basis. But as to just how much that incident contributed to the
large changes our relationship subsequently underwent, it is very difficult now to say. There
may well have been other more fundamental developments to account for what took place.
Such as, for instance, the matter of Miss Kenton's days off.
From the time she first arrived at Darlington Hall right up until perhaps a month or so
before that incident in my pantry, Miss Kenton's days off had followed a predictable pattern.
She would, once every six weeks, take two days off to visit her aunt in Southampton;
otherwise, following my own example, she would not really take days off as such unless we
were going through a particularly quiet time, in which case she might spend a day strolling
around the grounds and doing a little reading in her' parlour. But then, as I say, the pattern
changed. She began suddenly to take full advantage of her contracted time off, disappearing
regularly from the house from early in the morning, leaving no information other than the
hour she might be expected back that night. Of course, she never took more time than her
entitlement, and thus I felt it improper to inquire further concerning these outings of hers. But
I suppose this change did perturb me somewhat, for I remember mentioning it to Mr Graham,
valet-butler to Sir James Chainbers - a good colleague who, incidentally, I seem now to have
lost touch with - as we sat talking by the fire one night during one of his regular visits to
Darlington Hall.
In fact, all I had said was something to the effect that the housekeeper had been 'a little
moody of late', and so had been rather surprised when Mr Graham nodded, leaned towards me
and said knowingly: "I'd been wondering how much longer it would be."
When I asked him what he meant, Mr Graham went on: "Your Miss Kenton. I believe
she's now what? Thirty-three? Thirty-four? Missed out on the best of her mothering years, but
it's not too late yet."
"Miss Kenton", I assured him, "is a devoted professional. I happen to know for a fact
that she has no wish for a family."
But Mr Graham had smiled and shook his head, saying: "Never believe a housekeeper
who tells. you she doesn't want a family. Indeed, Mr Stevens, I should think you and I could
sit here now and count up at least a dozen between us that once said as much, then got
married and left the profession. "
I recall I dismissed Mr Graham's theory with some confidence that evening, but
thereafter, I must admit, I found it hard to keep out of my mind the possibility that the purpose
of these mysterious outings of Miss Kenton was to meet a suitor. This was indeed a disturbing
notion, for it was not hard to see that Miss Kenton's departure would constitute a professional
loss of some magnitude, a loss Darlington Hall would have some difficulty recovering from.
Furthermore, I was obliged to recognize certain other little signs which tended to support Mr
Graham's theory.
For instance, the collection of mail being one of my duties, I could not help noticing
that Miss Kenton had started to get letters on a fairly regular basis - once a week or so - from
the same correspondent, and that these letters bore a local postmark. I should perhaps point
out here that it would have been well nigh impossible for me not to have noticed such things,
given that throughout all her preceding years at the house, she had received very few letters
indeed.
Then there were other more nebulous signs to support Mr Graham's view.
For instance, although she continued to discharge her professional duties with all her
usual diligence, her general mood tended to undergo swings of a sort I had hitherto never
witnessed. In fact the times when she became extremely cheerful for days on end - and for no
observable reason - were almost as disturbing to me as her sudden, often prolonged sullen
spells. As I say, she remained utterly professional throughout it all, but then again, it was my
duty to think about the welfare of the house in the long term, and if indeed these signs tended
to support Mr Graham's notion that Miss Kenton was contemplating departing for romantic
purposes, I clearly had a responsibility to probe the matter further. I did then venture to ask
her one evening during one of our sessions over cocoa: "And will you be going off again on
Thursday, Miss Kenton? On your day off, I mean."
I had half expected her to be angry at this inquiry, but on the contrary, it was almost as
though she had been long awaiting an opportunity to raise the very topic. For she said in
something of a relieved way: "Dh, Mr Stevens, it's just someone I knew once when I was at
Granchester Lodge. As a matter of fact, he was the butler there at the time, but now he's left
service altogether and is employed by a business near by. He somehow learnt of my being
here and started writing to me, suggesting we renew our acquaintance. And that, Mr Stevens,
is really the long and short of it."
"I see, Miss Kenton. No doubt, it is refreshing to leave the house at times."
"I find it so, Mr Stevens."
There was a short silence. Then Miss Kenton appeared to make some decision and
went on: "This acquaintance of mine. I remember when he was butler at Granchester Lodge,
he was full of the most marvellous ambitions. In fact, I imagine his ultimate dream would
have been to become butler of a house like this one. Oh, but when I think now of some of his
methods! Really, Mr Stevens, I can just imagine your face if you were to be confronted by
them now. It really is no wonder his ambitions remained unfulfilled."
I gave a small laugh. "In my experience," I said, "too many people believe themselves
capable of working at these higher levels without having the least idea of the exacting
demands involved. It is certainly not suited to just anybody."
"So true. Really, Mr Stevens, what would you have said if you had observed him in
those days!"
"At these sorts of levels, Miss Kenton, the profession isn't for everybody. It is easy
enough to have lofty ambitions, but without certain qualities, a butler will simply not progress
beyond a certain point."
Miss Kenton seemed to ponder this for a moment, then said: "It occurs to me you must
be a well-contented man, Mr Stevens. Here you are, after all, at the top of your profession,
every aspect of your domain well under control. I really cannot imagine what more you might
wish for in life."
I could think of no immediate response to this.
In the slightly awkward silence that ensued, Miss Kenton turned her gaze down into
the depths of her cocoa cup as if she had become engrossed by something she had noticed
there. In the end, after some consideration, I said: "As far as I am concerned, Miss Kenton,
my vocation will not be fulfilled until I have done all I can to see' his lordship through the
great tasks he has set himself. The day his lordship's work is complete, the day /he /is able to
rest on his laurels, content in the knowledge that he has done all anyone should ever
reasonably ask of him, only on that day, Miss Kenton, will I be able to call myself, as you put
it, a well-contented man."
She may have been a little puzzled by my words; or perhaps it was that they had for
some reason displeased her. In any case, her mood seemed to change at that point, and our
conversation rapidly lost the rather personal tone it had begun to adopt.
It was not so long afterwards that these meetings over cocoa in her parlour came to an
end. In fact, I recall quite clearly the very last time we met like that; I was wishing to discuss
with Miss Kenton a forthcoming event - a weekend gathering of distinguished persons from
Scotland. It is true the event was still a month or so away, but then it had always been our
habit to talk over such events from an early stage.
On this particular evening, I had been discussing various aspects of it for a little while
when I realized Miss Kenton was contributing very little; indeed, after a time, it became
perfectly obvious her thoughts were somewhere else altogether. I did on a few occasions say
things like: "Are you with me, Miss Kenton?" particularly if I had been making a lengthy
point, and though whenever I did so she would become a little more alert, within seconds I
could see her attention drifting again.
After several minutes of my talking and her contributing only statements such as, 'Of
course, Mr Stevens,' or, 'I quite agree, Mr Stevens,' I finally said to her: "I am sorry, Miss
Kenton, but I see little point in our continuing. You simply do not seem to appreciate the
importance of this discussion."
"I'm sorry, Mr Stevens," she said, sitting up a little. "It's simply that I'm rather tired
this evening."
"You are increasingly tired now, Miss Kenton. It used not to be an excuse you needed
to resort to."
To my astonishment, Miss Kenton responded to this in a sudden burst: "Mr Stevens, I
have had a very busy week. I am very tired. In fact, I have been wishing for my bed for the
last three or four hours. I am very, very tired, Mr Stevens, can you not appreciate that?"
It is not as though I had expected an apology from her, but the stridency of this reply
did, I must say, take me aback a little.
However, I decided not to get drawn into an unseemly argument with her and made
sure to pause for a telling moment or two before saying quite calmly: "If that is how you feel
about it, Miss Kenton, there is no need at all for us to continue with these evening meetings. I
am sorry that all this time I had no idea of the extent to which they were inconveniencing
you."
"Mr Stevens, I merely said that I was tired tonight."
"No, no, Miss Kenton, it's perfectly under-standable. You have a busy life, and these
meetings are a quite unnecessary addition to your burden. There are many alternative options
for achieving the level of professional communication necessary without our meeting on this
basis."
"Mr Stevens, this is quite unnecessary. I merely said…"
"I mean- it, Miss Kenton. In fact, I had been wondering for some time if we should not
discontinue these meetings, given how they prolong our already very busy days. The fact that
we have met here now for years is no reason in itself why we should not-seek a more
convenient arrangement from here on."
"Mr Stevens, please, I believe these meetings are very useful... "
"But they are inconvenient for you, Miss Kenton. They tire you out. May I suggest that
from now on, we simply make a special point of communicating important information during
the course of the normal working day. Should we not be able to find each other readily, I
suggest we leave written messages at one another's doors. That seems to me a perfectly fine
solution. Now, Miss Kenton, I apologize for keeping you up so long. Thank you very kindly
for the cocoa."
Naturally - and why should I not admit this - I have occasionally wondered to myself
how things might have turned out in the long run had I not been so determined over the issue
of our evening meetings; that is to say, had I relented on those several occasions over the
weeks that followed when Miss Kenton suggested we reinstitute them. I only speculate over
this now because in the light of subsequent events, it could well be argued that in making my
decision to end those evening meetings ~once and for all, I was perhaps not entirely aware of
the full implications of what I was doing. Indeed, it might even be said that this small decision
of mine constituted something of a key turning point; that that decision set things on an
inevitable course towards what eventually happened.
But then, I suppose, when with the benefit of hindsight one begins to search one's past
for such 'turning points', one is apt to start seeing them everywhere. Not only my decision in
respect of our evening meetings, but also that episode in my pantry, if one felt so inclined,
could be seen as such a 'turning point'. What would have transpired, one may ask, had one
responded slightly differently that evening she came in with her vase of flowers? And perhaps
- occurring as it did around the same time as these events - my encounter with Miss Kenton in
the dining room the afternoon" she received the news of her aunt's death might be seen as yet
another 'turning point' of sorts.
News of the death had arrived some hours earlier; indeed, I had myself knocked on the
door of her parlour that morning to hand her the letter.
I had stepped inside for a brief moment to discuss some professional matter, and I
recall we were seated at her table and in mid-conversation at the moment she opened the
letter. She became very still, but to her credit she remained composed, reading the letter
through at least twice.
Then she put the letter carefully back in its envelope and looked across the table to me.
"It is from Mrs Johnson, a companion of my aunt. She says my aunt died the day
before yesterday." She paused a moment, then said: "The funeral is to take place tomorrow. I
wonder if it might be possible for me to take the day off."
"I am sure that could be arranged, Miss Kenton."
"Thank you, Mr Stevens. Forgive me, but perhaps I may now have a few moments
alone."
"Of course, Miss Kenton."
I made my exit, and "it was not until after I had done so that it occurred to me I had
not actually offered her my condolences. I could well imagine the blow the news would be to
her, her aunt having been, to all intents and purposes, like a mother to her, and I paused out in
the corridor, wondering if I should go back, knock and make good my omission. But then it
occurred to me that if I were to do so, I might easily intrude upon her private grief.
Indeed, it was not impossible that Miss Kenton, at that very moment, and only a few
feet from me, was actually crying. The thought provoked a strange feeling to rise within me,
causing me to stand there hovering in the corridor for some moments. But eventually I judged
it best to await another opportunity to express my sympathy and went on my way.
As it turned out, I did not see her again until the afternoon, when, as I say, I came
across her in the dining room, replacing crockery into the sideboard. By this point, I had been
preoccupied for some hours with the matter of Miss Kenton's sorrow, having given particular
thought to the question of what I might best do or say to ease her burden a little. And when I
had heard her footsteps entering the dining room - I was busy with some task out in the hall - I
had waited a minute or so, then put down what I was doing and followed her in.
"Ah, Miss Kenton," I said. "And how might you be this afternoon?"
"Quite well, thank you, Mr Stevens."
"Is everything in order?"
"Everything is quite in order, thank you."
"I had been meaning to ask you if you were experiencing any particular problems with
the new recruits." I gave a small laugh. "Various small difficulties are apt to arise when so
many new recruits arrive all at once. I dare say the best of us can often profit by a little
professional discussion at such times."
"Thank you, Mr Stevens, but the new girls are very satisfactory to me."
"You don't consider any changes necessary to the present staff plans on account of the
recent arrivals?"
"I don't think any such changes will be necessary, Mr Stevens. However, if I change
my view on this, I will let you know immediately."
She turned her attention back to the sideboard, and for a moment, I thought about
leaving the dining room. In fact, I believe I actually took a few steps towards the doorway, but
then I turned to her again and said: "So, Miss Kenton, the new recruits are getting on well,
you say."
"They are both doing very well, I assure you."
"Ah, that is good to hear." I gave another short laugh. "I merely wondered, because we
had established that neither girls had worked previously in a house of this size."
"Indeed, Mr Stevens."
I watched her filling the sideboard and waited to see if she would say anything further.
When after several moments it became clear she would not, I said: "As a matter of fact, Miss
Kenton, I have to say this. I have noticed one or two things have fallen in standard just
recently. I do feel you might be a little less complacent as regards new arrivals."
"Whatever do you mean, Mr Stevens?"
"For my part, Miss Kenton, whenever new recruits arrive, I like to make doubly sure
all is well. I check all aspects of their work and try to gauge how they are conducting
themselves with other staff members. It is, after all, important to form a clear view of them
both technically and in terms of their impact on general morale. I regret to say this, Miss
Kenton, but I believe you have been a little remiss in these respects."
For a second, Miss Kenton looked confused.
Then she turned towards me and a certain strain was visible in her face.
"I beg your pardon, Mr Stevens?"
"For instance, Miss Kenton, although the crockery is being washed to as high a
standard as ever, I have noticed it is being replaced on the kitchen shelves in a manner which,
while not obviously dangerous, would nevertheless over time result in more breakages than
necessary."
'Is that so, Mr Stevens?"
"Yes, Miss Kenton. Furthermore, that little alcove outside the breakfast room has not
been dusted for some time. You will excuse me, but there are one or two other small things I
might mention."
"You needn't press your point, Mr Stevens. I will, as you suggest, check the work of
the new maids."
"It is not like you to have overlooked such obvious things, Miss Kenton."
Miss Kenton looked away from me, and again an expression crossed her face as
though she were trying to puzzle out something that had quite confused her. She did not look
upset so much as very weary. Then she closed the sideboard, said: "Please excuse me, Mr
Stevens," and left the room.
But what is the sense in forever speculating what might have happened had such and
such a moment turned out differently? One could presumably drive oneself to distraction in
this way. In any case, while it is all very well to talk of 'turning points', one can surely only
recognize such moments in retrospect. Naturally, when one looks back to such instances
today, they may indeed take the appearance of being crucial, precious moments in one's life;
but of course, at the time, this was not the impression one had. Rather, it was as though one
had available a never-ending number of days, months, years in which to sort out the vagaries
of one's relationship with Miss Kenton; an infinite number of further opportunities in which to
remedy the effect of this or that misunderstanding. There was surely nothing to indicate at the
time that such evidently small incidents would render whole dreams forever irredeemable.
But I see I am becoming unduly introspective, and in a rather morose sort of way at
that. No doubt, this has to do with the late hour, and the trying nature of the events I have had
to endure this evening. No doubt, too, my present mood is not unconnected with the fact that
tomorrow – provided I am supplied with petrol by the local garage, as the Taylors assure me I
will be - I should arrive in Little Compton by lunch-time and will, presumably, see Miss
Kenton again after all these years. There is, of course, no reason at all to suppose our meeting
will be anything but cordial. In fact, I would expect our interview - aside from a few informal
exchanges quite proper in the circumstances - to be largely professional in character. That is
to say, it will be my responsibility to determine whether or not Miss Kenton has any interest,
now that her marriage, sadly, appears to have broken down and she is without a home, in
returning to her old post at Darlington Hall. I may as well say here that having reread her
letter again tonight, I am inclined to believe I may well have read more into certain of her
lines than perhaps was wise. But I would still maintain there is more than a hint of nostalgic
longing in certain parts of her letter, particularly when she writes such things as: 'I was so
fond of that view from the second-floor bedrooms overlooking the lawn with the downs
visible in the distance.'
But then again, what is the purpose in endlessly speculating as to Miss Kenton's
present wishes when I will be able to ascertain these from her own person tomorrow? And in
any case, I have drifted considerably from the account I was giving of this evening's events.
These last few hours, let me say it, have proved unreasonably taxing ones. One would have
thought that having to abandon the Ford on some lonely hill, having to walk down to this
village in near-darkness by the unorthodox route one did, would be sufficient inconvenience
to befall one for a single evening. And my kind hosts, Mr and Mrs Taylor, would never, I am
certain, have knowingly put' me through what I have just endured. But the fact is, once I had
sat down to supper at their table, once a number of their neighbours had come calling, a most
discomforting set of events began to unfold around me.
The room downstairs at the front of this cottage would appear to serve Mr and Mrs
Taylor as both dining room and general living quarters. It is a rather cosy room, dominated by
a large, roughly hewn table of the sort one might expect to see in a farmhouse kitchen, its
surface unvarnished and bearing many small marks left by choppers and breadknives. These
latter I could see quite clearly despite the fact that we were sitting in a low yellow light cast
by an oil lamp on a shelf in one corner.
"It's not as though we don't have electricity out here, sir," Mr Taylor remarked to me at
one point, nodding towards the lamp. "But something went wrong with the circuit and we've
been without it now for almost two months. To tell you the truth, we don't miss it so much.
There's a few houses in the village that's never had electricity at all. Oil gives a warmer light."
Mrs Taylor had served us with- a good broth, which we had eaten with helpings of
crusty bread, and at that point, there had been little to suggest the evening held for me
anything more daunting than an hour or so of pleasant conversation before retiring to bed.
However, just as we had finished supper and Mr Taylor was pouring for me a glass of ale
brewed by a neighbour, we heard footsteps approaching on the gravel outside. To my ears,
there was something a little sinister in the sound of feet coming ever closer in the darkness up
to an isolated cottage, but neither my host nor hostess seemed to anticipate any menace. For it
was with curiosity and nothing else in his voice that Mr Taylor said: "Hello, now who could
this be?"
He had said this more or less to himself, but then we heard, as though in reply, a voice
call outside: "It's George Andrews. Just happened to be walking by."
The next moment, Mrs Taylor was showing in a well-built man, perhaps in his fifties,
who judging from his dress had spent the day engaged in agricultural work. With a familiarity
which suggested he was a regular visitor, he placed himself on a small stool by the entrance
and removed his wellington boots with some effort, exchanging a few casual remarks with
Mrs Taylor as he did so. Then he came towards the table and stopped, standing to attention
before me as though reporting to an officer in the army.
"The name's Andrews, sir," he said. "A very good evening to you. I'm very sorry to
hear about your mishap, but I hope you're not too put out to be spending the night here in
Moscombe."
I was a little puzzled as to how this Mr Andrews had come to hear of my 'mishap', as
he termed it. In any case, I replied with a smile that far from being 'putout', I felt extremely
indebted for the hospitality I was receiving. By this I had of course been referring to Mr and
Mrs Taylor's kindness, but Mr Andrews seemed to believe himself included by my expression
of gratitude, for he said immediately, holding up defensively his two large hands: "Oh no, sir,
you're most welcome. We're very pleased to have you. It's not often the likes of yourself
comes through here. We're all very pleased you could stop by."
The way he said this seemed to suggest the whole village was aware of my 'mishap'
and subsequent arrival at this cottage. In fact, as I was soon to discover, this was very close to
being the case; I can only imagine that in the several minutes after I had first been shown up
to this bedroom - while I was washing my hands and doing what I could to make good the
damage inflicted upon my jacket and trouser turn-ups - Mr and Mrs Taylor had conveyed
news of me to passers-by. In any case, the next few minutes saw the arrival of another visitor,
a man with an appearance much like that of Mr Andrews - that is to say, somewhat broad and
agricultural, and wearing muddy wellington boots, which he proceeded to remove in much the
way Mr Andrews had just done. Indeed, their similarity was such that I supposed them to be
brothers, until the newcomer introduced himself to me as, "Morgan, sir, Trevor Morgan."
Mr Morgan expressed regret concerning my 'misfortune', assuring me all would be
well in the morning before going on to say how welcome I was in the village. Of course, I had
already heard similar sentiments a few moments earlier, but Mr Morgan actually said: "It's a
privilege to have a gentleman like yourself here in Moscombe, sir."
Before I had had any time to think of a reply to this, there came the sound of more
footsteps on the path outside. Soon, a middle-aged couple were shown in, who were
introduced to me as Mr and Mrs Harry Smith.
These people did not look at all agricultural; she was a large, matronly woman who
rather reminded me of Mrs Mortimer, the cook at Darlington Hall through much of the
twenties and thirties. In contrast, Mr Harry Smith was a small man with a rather intense
expression that furrowed his brow. As they took their places around the table, he said to me:
"Your car would be the vintage Ford up there on Thornley Bush Hill, sir?"
"If that is the hill road overlooking this village," I said. "But I'm surprised to hear
you've seen it."
"I've not seen it myself, sir. But Dave Thornton passed it on his tractor a short while
ago as he was coming home. He was so surprised to see it sitting there, he actually stopped
and got out." At this point, Mr Harry Smith turned to address the others around the table.
"Absolute beauty, it is. Said he'd never seen anything like it. Put the car Mr Lindsay used to
drive completely in the shade!"
This caused laughter around the table, which Mr Taylor next to me explained by
saying: "That was a gent used to live in the big house not far from here, sir. He did one or two
odd things and wasn't appreciated around here."
This brought a general murmur of assent. Then someone said: "Your health, sir,"
lifting one of the tankards of ale Mrs Taylor had just finished distributing, and the next
moment I was being toasted by the whole company.
I smiled and said: "I assure you the privilege is all mine."
"You're very kind, sir," Mrs Smith said. "That's the way a real gentleman is. That Mr
Lindsay was no gentleman. He may have had a lot of money, but he was never a gentleman."
Again, there was agreement all round. Then Mrs Taylor whispered something in Mrs
Smith's ear, causing the latter to reply: "He said he'd try to be along as soon as he could."
They both turned towards me with a self-conscious air, then Mrs Smith said: "We told Dr
Carlisle you were here, sir. The doctor would be very pleased to make your acquaintance."
"I expect he has patients to see," Mrs Taylor added apologetically. "I'm afraid we can't
say for certain he'll be able to call in before you'd be wan ting to retire., sir."
It was then that Mr Harry Smith, the little man with the furrowed brow, leaned
forward again and said: "That Mr Lindsay, he had it all wrong, see? Acting the way he did.
Thought he was so much better than us, and he took us all for fools. Well, I can tell you, sir,
he soon learnt otherwise. A lot of hard thinking and talking goes on in this place.
There's plenty· of good strong opinion around. and people here aren't shy about
expressing it. That's something your Mr Lindsay learnt quickly enough."
"He was no gentleman," Mr Taylor said quietly.
"He was no gentleman, that Mr Lindsay."
"That's right, sir," Mr Harry Smith said. "You could tell just watching him he was no
gentleman. All right, he had a fine house and good suits, but somehow you just knew. And so
it proved in good time."
There was a murmur of agreement, and for a moment all present seemed to be
considering whether or not it would be proper to divulge to me the tale concerning this local
personage. Then Mr Taylor broke the silence by saying: "That's true what Harry says. You
can tell a true gentleman from a false one that's just dressed in finery. Take yourself, sir. It's
not just the cut of your clothes, nor is it even the fine way you've got of speaking.
There's something else that marks you out as a gentleman. Hard to put your finger on
it, but it's plain for all to see that's got eyes."
This brought more sounds of agreement around the table.
"Dr Carlisle shouldn't be long now, sir," Mrs Taylor put in. "You'll enjoy talking with
him."
"Dr Carlisle's got it too," Mr Taylor said. "He's got it. He's a true gent, that one."
Mr Morgan, who had said little since his arrival, bent forward and said to me: "What
do you suppose it is, sir? Maybe one that's got it can better say what it is. Here we are all
talking about who's got it and who hasn't, and we're none the wiser about what we're talking
about.
Perhaps you could enlighten us a bit, sir."
A silence fell around the table and I could sense all the faces turn to me. I gave a small
cough and said: "It is hardly for me to pronounce upon qualities I may or may not possess.
However, as far as this particular question is concerned, one would suspect that the quality
being referred to might be most usefully termed 'dignity'."
I saw little point in attempting to explain this statement further.
Indeed, I had merely given voice to the thoughts running through my mind while
listening to the preceding talk and it is doubtful I would have said such a thing had the
situation not suddenly demanded it of me.
My response, however, seemed to cause much satisfaction.
"There's a lot of truth in what you say there, sir," Mr Andrews said, nodding, and a
number of other voices echoed this.
"That Mr Lindsay could certainly have done with a little more dignity,"
Mrs Taylor said. "The trouble with his sort is they mistake acting high and mighty for
dignity."
"Mind you," put in Mr Harry Smith, "with all respect for what you say, sir, it ought to
be said. Dignity isn't just something gentlemen have.
Dignity's something every man and woman in this country can strive for and get.
You'll excuse me, sir, but like I said before, we don't stand on ceremony here when it comes
to expressing opinions. And that's my opinion for what it's worth. Dignity's not just something
for gentlemen."
I perceived, of course, that Mr Harry Smith and I were rather at cross purposes on this
matter, and that it would be far too complicated a task for me to explain myself more clearly
to these people. I thus judged it best simply to smile and say: "Of course, you're quite
correct."
This had the immediate effect of dispelling the slight tension that had built in the room
while Mr Harry Smith had been speaking. And Mr Harry Smith himself seemed to lose all
inhibitions, for now he leaned forward and continued: "That's what we fought Hitler for, after
all. If Hitler had had things his way, we'd just be slaves now. The whole world would be a few
masters and millions upon millions of slaves. And I don't need to remind anyone here, there's
no dignity to be had in being a slave. That's what we fought for and that's what we won. We
won the right to be free citizens.
And it's one of the privileges of being born English that no matter who you are, no
matter if you're rich or poor, you're born free and you're born so that you can express your
opinion freely, and vote in your member of parliament or vote him out. That's what dignity's
really about, if you'll excuse me, sir."
"Now now, Harry," Mr Taylor said. "I can see you're warming up to one of your
political speeches."
This brought laughter. Mr Harry Smith smiled a little shyly, but went on: "I'm not
talking politics. I'm just saying, that's all. You can't have dignity if you're a slave. But every
Englishman can grasp it if only he cares to. Because we fought for that right."
"This may seem like a small, out of the way place we have here, sir," his wife said.
"But we gave more than our share in the war. More than our share."
A solemnness hung in the air after she said this, until eventually Mr Taylor said to me:
"Harry here does a lot of organizing for our local member. Give him half a chance and he'll
tell you everything that's wrong with the way the country's run."
"Ah, but I was just saying what was /right /about the country this time."
"Have you had much to do with politics yourself, sir?" Mr Andrews asked.
"Not directly as such," I said. "And particularly not these days. More so before the war
perhaps."
"It's just that I seem to remember a Mr Stevens who was a member of parliament a
year or two ago. Heard him on the wireless once or twice.
Had some very sensible things to say about housing. But that wouldn't be yourself,
sir?"
"Oh no," I said with a laugh. Now I am not at all sure what made me utter my next
statement; all I can say is that it seemed somehow called for in the circumstances in which I
found myself. For I then said: "In fact, I tended to concern myself with international affairs
more than domestic ones. Foreign policy, that is to say."
I was a little taken aback by the effect this seemed to have upon my listeners. That is
to say, a sense of awe seemed to descend on them. I added quickly: "I never held any high
office, mind you. Any influence I exerted was in a strictly unofficial capacity." But the hushed
silence remained for several more seconds.
"Excuse me, sir," Mrs Taylor said eventually, "but have you ever met Mr Churchill?"
"Mr Churchill? He did come to the house on a number of occasions. But to be quite
frank, Mrs Taylor, during the time I was most involved in great affairs, Mr Churchill was not
such a key figure and was not really expected to become one. The likes of Mr Eden and Lord
Halifax were more frequent visitors in those days."
"But you have actually met Mr Churchill, sir?
What an honour to be able to say that."
"I don't agree with many things Mr Churchill says," Mr Harry Smith said, "but there's
no doubt about it, he's a great man. It must be quite something, sir, to be discussing matters
with his like."
"Well, I must reiterate," I said, "I didn't have a great deal to do with Mr Churchill. But
as you rightly point out, it's rather gratifying to have consorted with him. In fact, all in all, I
suppose I have been very fortunate, I would be the first to admit that. It has been my good
fortune, after all, to have consorted not just with Mr Churchill, but with many other great
leaders and men of influence - from America and from Europe. And when you think that it
was my good fortune to have had their ear on many great issues of the day, yes, when I think
back, I do feel a certain gratitude. It's a great privilege, after all, to have been given a part to
play, however small, on the world's stage."
"Excuse me asking, sir," Mr Andrews said, "but what sort of a man is Mr Eden? I
mean, at the personal level. I've always had the impression he's a jolly decent sort. The sort
that can talk to anyone high or low, rich or poor. Am I right, sir?"
"I would say that is, by and large, an accurate picture. But of course I have not seen
Mr Eden in recent years, and he may have been much changed by pressures. One thing I have
witnessed is that public life can change people unrecognizably in a few short years."
"I don't doubt that, sir," said Mr Andrews.
"Even Harry here. Got himself involved with his politics a few years back and he's
never been the same man since."
There was laughter again, while Mr Harry Smith shrugged and allowed a smile to
cross his face. Then he said: "It's true I've put a lot into the campaigning work. It's only at a
local level, and I never meet anyone half as grand as the likes you associate with, sir, but in
my own small way I believe I'm doing my part. The way I see it, England's a democracy, and
we in this village have suffered as much as anyone fighting to keep it that way. Now it's up to
us to exercise our rights, every one of us. Some fine young lads from this village gave their
lives to give us that privilege, and the way I see it, each one of us here now owes it to them to
play our part.
We've all got strong opinions here, and it's our responsibility to get them heard. We're
out of the way, all right, a small village, we're none of us getting younger, and the village is
getting smaller. But the way I see it we owe it to the lads we lost from this village. That's
why, sir, I give so much of my time now to making sure our voice gets heard in high places.
And if it changes me, or sends me to an early grave, I don't mind."
"I did warn you, sir," Mr Taylor said with a smile. "There was no way Harry was
going to let an influential gentleman like yourself come through the village without giving
you his usual earful."
There was laughter again, but I said almost immediately: "I think I understand your
position very well, Mr Smith. I can well understand that you wish the world to be a better
place and that you and your fellow residents here should have an opportunity to contribute to
the making of a better world. It is a sentiment to be applauded. I dare say it was a very similar
urge which led me to become involved in great affairs before the war. Then, as now, world
peace seemed something we had only the most fragile grasp of, and I wished to do my part."
"Excuse me, sir," said Mr Harry Smith, "but my point was a slightly different one. For
the likes of yourself, it's always been easy to exert your influence. You can count the most
powerful in the land as your friends. But the likes of us here, sir, we can go year in year out
and never even lay eyes on a real gentleman - other than maybe Dr Carlisle.
He's a first-class doctor, but with all respect, he doesn't have /connections /as such. It
gets easy for us here to forget our responsibility as citizens. That's why I work so hard at the
campaigning. Whether people agree or disagree - and I know there's not one soul in this room
now who'd agree with everything I say - at least I'll get them thinking. At least I'll remind
them of their duty. This is a democratic country we're living in. We fought for it. We've all
got to play our part."
"I wonder what could have happened to Dr Carlisle," Mrs Smith said. "I'm sure the
gentleman could just about use some /educated /talk now."
This provoked more laughter.
"In fact," I said, "although it has been extremely enjoyable to meet you all, I must
confess I'm beginning to feel rather exhausted... "
"Of course, sir," Mrs Taylor said, "you must be very tired. Perhaps I'll fetch another
blanket for you. It's getting much chillier at night now."
"No, I assure you, Mrs Taylor, I'll be most comfortable."
But before I could rise from the table, Mr Morgan said: "I just wondered, sir, there's a
fellow we like to listen to on the wireless, his name's Leslie Mandrake. I just wondered if
you'd happened to have met him."
I replied that I had not, and was about to make another attempt to retire only to find
myself detained by further inquiries regarding various persons I may have met. I was, then,
still seated at the table when Mrs Smith remarked: "Ah, there's someone coming. I expect
that's the doctor at last."
"I really ought to be retiring," I said. "I feel quite exhausted."
"But I'm sure this is the doctor now, sir," said Mrs Smith. "Do wait a few more
minutes."
Just as she said this, there came a knock and a voice said:"
"It's just me, Mrs -Taylor."
The gentleman who was shown in was still fairly young - perhaps around forty or so -
tall and thin; tail enough, in fact, that he was obliged to stoop to enter the doorway of the
cottage. No sooner had he bade us all a good evening than Mrs Taylor said to him: "This is
our gentleman here, Doctor. His car's stuck up there on Thornley Bush and he's having to
endure Harry's speeches as a result."
The doctor came up to the table and held out his hand to me.
"Richard Carlisle," he said with a cheerful smile as I rose to shake it.
"Rotten bit of luck about your car. Still, trust you're being well looked after here.
Looked after rather too well, I imagine."
"Thank you," I replied. "Everyone has been most kind."
"Well, nice to have you with us." Dr Carlisle seated himself almost directly across the
table from me. "Which part of the country are you from?"
"Oxfordshire," I said, and indeed, it was no easy task to suppress the instinct to add
"sir".
"Fine part of the country. I have an uncle lives just outside Oxford.
Fine part of the country."
"The gentleman was just telling us, Doctor," Mrs Smith said, "he knows Mr
Churchill."
"Is that so? I used to know a nephew of his, but I've rather lost touch.
Never had the privilege of meeting the great man, though."
"And not only Mr Churchill," Mrs Smith went on. "He knows Mr Eden. And Lord
Halifax."
"Really?"
I could sense the doctor's eyes examining me closely. I was about to make some
appropriate remark, but before I could do so, Mr Andrews said to the doctor: "Gentleman was
just telling us he's had a lot to do with foreign affairs in his time."
"Is that so indeed?"
It seemed to me that Dr Carlisle went on looking at me for an inordinate length of
time. Then he regained his cheerful manner and asked: "Touring around for pleasure?"
"Principally," I said, and gave a small laugh. "Plenty of nice country around here. Oh,
by the way, Mr Andrews, I'm sorry not to have returned that saw yet."
"No hurry at all, Doctor."
For a little time, the focus of attention left me and I was able to remain silent. Then,
seizing what seemed a suitable moment, I rose to my feet, saying: "Please excuse me. It has
been a most enjoyable evening, but I really must now retire."
"Such a pity you have to retire already, sir," Mrs Smith said. "The doctor's only just
arrived."
Mr Harry Smith leaned across his wife and said to Dr Carlisle: "I was hoping the
gentleman would have a few words to say about your ideas on the Empire, Doctor." Then
turning to me, he went on: "Our doctor here's for all kinds of little countries going
independent. I don't have the learning to prove him wrong, though I know he is. But I'd have
been interested to hear what the likes of yourself would have to say to him on the subject, sir."
Yet again, Dr Carlisle's gaze seemed to study me. Then he said: "A pity, but we must
let the gentleman go off to bed. Had a tiring day, I expect."
"Indeed," I said, and with another small laugh, began to make my way round the table.
To my embarrassment, everyone in the room, including Dr Carlisle, rose to their feet.
"Thank you all very much," I said, smiling.
"Mrs Taylor, I did enjoy a splendid supper. I wish you all a very good night."
There came a chorus of, "Good night, sir," in reply. I had almost left the room when
the doctor's voice caused me to halt at the door.
"I say, old chap," he said, and when I turned, I saw he had remained on his feet. "I
have a visit to make in Stanbury first thing in the morning.
I'd be happy to give you a lift up to your car. Save you the walk. And we can pick up a
can of petrol from Ted Hardacre's on the way."
"That is most kind," I said. "But I don't wish to put you to any trouble."
"No trouble at all. Seven thirty all right for you?"
"That would be most helpful indeed."
"Right then, seven thirty it is. Make sure your guest's up and breakfasted for seven
thirty, Mrs Taylor." Then turning back to me, he added: "So we can have our talk after all.
Though Harry here won't have the satisfaction of witnessing my humiliation."
There was laughter, and another exchange of good nights before I was at last allowed
to ascend to the sanctuary of this room.
I trust I need hardly underline the extent of the discomfort I suffered tonight on
account of the unfortunate misunderstanding concerning my person. I can only say now that
in all honesty I fail to see how I might reasonably have prevented the situation developing as
it did; for by the stage I had become aware of what was occurring, things had gone so far I
could not have enlightened these people without creating much embarrassment all round. In
any case, regrettable as the whole business was, I do not see that any real harm has been done.
I will, after all, take my leave of these people in the morning and presumably never encounter
them again. There seems little point in dwelling on the matter.
However, the unfortunate misunderstanding aside, there are perhaps one or two other
aspects to this evening's events which warrant a few moments' thought - if only because
otherwise they may come to niggle one throughout the coming days. For instance, there is the
matter of Mr Harry Smith's pronouncements on the nature of 'dignity'. There is surely little in
his statements that merits serious consideration. Of course, one has to allow that Mr Harry
Smith was employing the word 'dignity' in a quite different sense altogether from my own
understanding of it. Even so, even taken on their own terms, his statements were, surely, far
too idealistic, far too theoretical, to deserve respect. Up to a point, no doubt, there is some
truth in what he says: in a country such as ours, people may indeed have a certain duty to
think about great affairs and form their opinions. But life being what it is, how can ordinary
people truly be expected to have 'strong opinions' on all manner of things - as Mr Harry Smith
rather fancifully claims the villagers here do? And not only are these expectations unrealistic,
I rather doubt if they are even desirable. There is, after all, a real limit to how much ordinary
people can learn and know, and to demand that each and everyone of them contribute 'strong
opinions' to the great debates of the nation cannot, surely, be wise. It is, in any case, absurd
that anyone should presume to define a person's 'dignity' in these terms.
As it happens, there is an instance that comes to mind which I believe illustrates rather
well the real limits of whatever truth may be contained in Mr Harry Smith's views. It is, as it
happens, an instance from my own experience, an episode that took place before the war,
around 1935.
As I recall, I was rung for late one night - it was past midnight - to the drawing room
where his lordship had been entertaining three gentlemen since dinner. I had, naturally, been
called to the drawing room several times already that night to replenish refreshments, and had
observed on these occasions the gentlemen deep in conversation over weighty issues. When I
entered the drawing room on this last occasion, however, all the gentlemen stopped talking
and looked at me. Then his lordship said: "Step this way a moment, will you, Stevens?
Mr Spencer here wishes a word with you."
The gentleman in question went on gazing at me for a moment without changing the
somewhat languid posture he had adopted in his armchair.
Then he said: "My good man, I have a question for you.
We need your help on a certain matter we've been debating. T ell me, do you suppose
the debt situation regarding America is a significant factor in the present low levels of trade?
Or do you suppose this is a red herring and that the abandonment of the gold standard is at the
root of the matter?"
I was naturally a little surprised by this, but then quickly saw the situation for what it
was; that is to say, it was clearly expected that I be baffled by the question. Indeed, in the
moment or so that it took for me to perceive this and compose a suitable response, I may even
have given the outward impression of struggling with the question, for I saw all the gentlemen
in the room exchange mirthful smiles.
"I'm very sorry, sir," I said, "but I am unable to be of assistance on this matter."
I was by this point well on top of the situation, but the gentlemen went on laughing
covertly. Then Mr Spencer said: "Then perhaps you will help us on another matter. Would
you say that the currency problem in Europe would be made better or worse if there were to
be an arms agreement between the French and the Bolsheviks?"
"I'm very sorry, sir, but I am unable to be of assistance on this matter."
"Oh dear," said Mr Spencer. "So you can't help us here either."
There was more suppressed laughter before his lordship said: "Very well, Stevens.
That will be all."
"Please, Darlington, I have one more question to put to our good man here," Mr
Spencer said. "I very much wanted his help on the question presently vexing many of us, and
which we all realize is crucial to how we should shape our foreign policy. My good fellow,
please come to our assistance. What was M. Laval really intending, by his recent speech on
the situation in North Africa? Are you also of the view that it was simply a ruse to scupper the
nationalist fringe of his own domestic party?"
"I'm sorry, sir, but I am unable to assist in this matter."
"You see, gentlemen," Mr Spencer said, turning to the others, "our man here is unable
to assist us in these matters."
This brought fresh laughter, now barely suppressed.
"And yet," Mr Spencer went on, "we still persist with the notion that this nation's
decisions be left in the hands of our good man here and to the few million others like him. Is it
any wonder, saddled as we are with our present parliamentary system, that we are unable to
find any solution to our many difficulties? Why, you may as well ask a committee of the
mothers' union to organize a war campaign."
There was open, hearty laughter at this remark, during which his lordship muttered:
"Thank you, Stevens," thus enabling me to take my leave.
While of course this was a slightly uncomfortable situation, it was hardly the most
difficult, or even an especially unusual one to encounter in the course of one's duties, and you
will no doubt agree that any decent professional should expect to take such events in his
stride. I had, then, all but forgotten the episode by the following morning, when Lord
Darlington came into the billiard room while I was up on a step-ladder dusting portraits, and
said: "Look here, Stevens, it was dreadful. The ordeal we put you through last night."
I paused in what I was doing and said: "Not at all, sir. I was only too happy to be of
service."
"It was quite dreadful. We'd all had rather too good a dinner, I fancy.
Please accept my apologies."
"Thank you, sir. But I am happy to assure you I was not unduly inconvenienced."
His lordship walked over rather wearily to a leather armchair, seated himself and
sighed. From my vantage point up on my ladder, I could see practically the whole of his long
figure caught in the winter sunshine pouring in through the french windows and streaking
much of the room. It was, as I recall it, one of those moments that brought home how much
the pressures of life had taken their toll on his lordship over a relatively small number of
years. His frame, always slender, had become alarmingly thin and somewhat misshapen, his
hair prematurely white, his face strained and haggard. For awhile, he sat gazing out of the
french windows towards the downs, then said again: "It really was quite dreadful. But you
see, Stevens, Mr Spencer had a point to prove to Sir Leonard. In fact, if it's any consolation,
you did assist in demonstrating a very important point. Sir Leonard had been talking a lot of
that old-fashioned nonsense. About the will of the people being the wisest arbitrator and so
on. Would you believe it, Stevens?"
"Indeed, sir."
"We're really so slow in this country to recognize when a thing's outmoded. Other
great nations know full well that to meet the challenges of each new age means discarding
old, sometimes well-loved methods. Not so here in Britain. There's still so many talking like
Sir Leonard last night. That's why Mr Spencer felt the need to demonstrate his point. And I
tell you, Stevens, if the likes of Sir Leonard are made to wake up and think a little, then you
can take it from me your ordeal last night was not in vain."
"Indeed, sir."
Lord Darlington gave another sigh. "We're always the last, Stevens.
Always the last to be clinging on to outmoded systems. But sooner or later, we'll need
to face up to the facts. Democracy is something for a bygone era. The world's far too
complicated a place now for universal suffrage and such like. For endless members of
parliament debating things to a standstill. All fine a few years ago perhaps, but in today's
world? What was it Mr Spencer said last night? He put it rather well."
"I believe, sir, he compared the present parliamentary system to a committee of the
mothers' union attempting to organize a war campaign."
"Exactly, Stevens. We are, quite frankly, behind the times in this country. And it's
imperative that all forward-looking people impress this on the likes of Sir Leonard."
"Indeed, sir."
"I ask you, Stevens. Here we are in the midst of a continuing crisis.
I've seen it with my own eyes when I went north with Mr Whittaker.
People are suffering. Ordinary, decent working people are suffering terribly. Germany
and Italy have set their houses in order by acting.
And so have the wretched Bolsheviks in their own way, one supposes. Even President
Roosevelt, look at him, he's not afraid to take a few bold steps on behalf of his people. But
look at us here, Stevens. Year after year goes by, and nothing gets better. All we do is argue
and debate and procrastinate.
Any decent idea is amended to ineffectuality by the time it's gone half-way through the
various committees it's obliged to pass through.
The few people qualified to know what's what are talked to a standstill by ignorant
people all around them. What do you make of it, Stevens?"
"The nation does seem to be in a regrettable condition, sir."
"I'll say. Look at Germany and Italy, Stevens.
See what strong leadership can do if it's allowed to act. None of this universal suffrage
nonsense there. If your house is on fire, you don't call the household into the drawing room
and debate the various options for escape for an hour, do you? It may have been all very well
once, but the world's a complicated place now. The man in the street can't be expected to
know enough about politics, economics, world commerce and what have you. And why
should he? In fact, you made a very good reply last night, Stevens. How did you put it?
Something to the effect that it was not in your realm? Well, why should it be?
It occurs to me in recalling these words that, of course, many of Lord Darlington's
ideas will seem today rather odd - even, at times, unattractive. But surely it cannot be denied
that there is an important element of truth in these things he said to me that morning in the
billiard room. Of course, it is quite absurd to expect any butler to be in a position to answer
authoritatively questions of the sort Mr Spencer had put to me that night, and the claim of
people like Mr Harry Smith that one's 'dignity' is conditional on being able to do so can be
seen for the nonsense it is. Let us establish this quite clearly: a butler's duty is to provide good
service. It is not to meddle in the great affairs of the nation. The fact is, such great affairs will
always be beyond the understanding of those such as you and I, and those of us who wish to
make our mark must realize that we best do so by concentrating on what /is /within our realm;
that is to say, by devoting our attention to providing the best possible service to those great
gentlemen in whose hands the destiny of civilization truly lies. This may seem obvious, but
then one can immediately think of too many instances of butlers who, for a time anyway,
thought quite differently. Indeed, Mr Harry Smith's words tonight remind me very much of
the sort of misguided idealism which beset significant sections of our generation throughout
the twenties and thirties. I refer to that strand of opinion in the profession which suggested
that any butler with serious aspirations should make it his business to be forever reappraising
his employer - scrutinizing the latter's motives, analysing the implications of his views.' Only
in this way, so the argument ran, could one be sure one's skills were being employed to a
desirable end. Although one sympathizes to some extent with the idealism contained in such
an argument, there can be little doubt that it is the result, like Mr Smith's sentiments tonight,
of misguided thinking. One need only look at the butlers who attempted to put such an
approach into practice, and one will see that their careers - and in some cases they were highly
promising careers - came to nothing as a direct consequence. I personally knew at least two
professionals, both of some ability, who went from one employer to the next, forever
dissatisfied, never settling anywhere, until they drifted from view altogether. That this should
happen is not in the least surprising. For it is, in practice, simply not possible to adopt such a
critical attitude towards an employer and at the same time provide good service.
It is not simply that one is unlikely to be able to meet the many demands of service at
the higher levels while one's attentions are being diverted by such matters; more
fundamentally, a butler who is forever attempting to formulate his own 'strong opinions' on
his employer's affairs is bound to lack one quality essential in all good professionals: namely,
loyalty. Please do not misunderstand me here; I do not refer to the mindless sort of 'loyalty'
that mediocre employers bemoan the lack of when they find themselves unable to retain the
services of high-calibre professionals. Indeed, I would be among the last to advocate
bestowing one's loyalty carelessly on any lady or gentleman who happens to employ one for a
time.
However, if a butler is to be of any worth to anything or anybody in life, there must
surely come a time when he ceases his searching; a time when he must say to himself: 'This
employer embodies all that I find noble and admirable. I will hereafter devote myself to
serving him.'
This is loyalty /intelligently /bestowed. What is there 'undignified' in this? One is
simply accepting an inescapable truth: that the likes of you and I will never be in a position to
comprehend the great affairs of today's world, and our best course will always be to put our
trust in an employer we judge to be wise and honourable, and to devote our energies to the
task of serving him to the best of our ability. Look at the likes of Mr Marshall, say, or Mr
Lane - surely two of the greatest figures in our profession. Can we imagine Mr Marshall
arguing with Lord Camberley over the latter's latest dispatch to the Foreign Office? Do we
admire Mr Lane any the less because we learn he is not in the habit of challenging Sir
Leonard Gray before each speech in the House of Commons? Of course we do not. What is
there 'undignified', what is there at all culpable in such an attitude? How can one possibly be
held to blame in any sense because, say, the passage of time has shown that Lord Darlington's
efforts were misguided, even foolish? Throughout the years I served him, it was he and he
alone who weighed up evidence and judged it best to proceed in the way he did, while I
simply confined myself, quite properly, to affairs within my own professional realm. And as
far as I am concerned, I carried out my duties to the best of my abilities, indeed to a standard
which many may consider 'first rate'. It is hardly my fault if his lordship's life and work have
turned out today to look, at best, a sad waste - and it is quite illogical that I should feel any
regret or shame on my own account.
Day Four - Afternoon
Little Compton, Cornwall l HAVE finally arrived at Little Compton, and at this moment, am
sitting in the dining hall of the Rose Garden Hotel having recently finished lunch. Outside, the
rain is falling steadily.
The Rose Garden Hotel, while hardly luxurious, is certainly homely and comfortable,
and one cannot begrudge the extra expense of accommodating oneself here. It is conveniently
situated on one corner of the village square, a rather charming ivy-covered manor house
capable of housing, I would suppose, thirty or so guests. This 'dining hall' where I now sit,
however, is a modern annexe built to adjoin the main building - a long, fiat room
characterized by rows of large windows on either side. On one side, the village square is
visible; on the other, the rear garden, from which this establishment presumably takes its
name. The garden, which seems well sheltered from the wind, has a number of tables
arranged about it, and when the weather is fine, I imagine it is a very pleasant place to partake
of meals or refreshments. In fact, I know that a little earlier, some guests had actually
commenced lunch out there, only to be interrupted by the appearance of ominous storm
clouds. When I was first shown in here an hour or so ago, staff were hurriedly stripping down
the garden tables - while their recent occupants, including one gentleman with a napkin still
tucked into his shirt, were standing about looking rather lost. Then, very soon afterwards, the
rain had come down with such ferocity that for a moment all the guests seemed to stop eating
just to stare out of the windows.
My own table is on the village square side of the room and I have thus spent much of
the past hour watching the rain falling on the square, and upon the Ford and one or two other
vehicles stationed outside. The rain has now steadied somewhat, but it is still sufficiently hard
as to discourage one from going out and wandering around the village. Of course, the
possibility has occurred to me that I might set off now to meet Miss Kenton; but then in my
letter, I informed her I would be calling at three o'clock, and I do not think it wise to surprise
her by arriving any earlier. It would seem quite likely then, if the rain does not cease very
shortly, that I will remain here drinking tea until the proper time comes for me to set off. I
have ascertained from the young woman who served me lunch that the address where Miss
Kenton is presently residing is some fifteen minutes' walk away, which implies I have at least
another forty minutes to wait.
I should say, incidentally, that I am not so foolish as to be unprepared for
disappointment. I am only too aware that I never received a reply from Miss Ken ton
confirming she would be happy about a meeting.
However, knowing Miss Kenton as I do, I am inclined to think that a lack of any letter
can be taken as agreement; were a meeting for any reason inconvenient, I feel sure she would
not have hesitated to inform me.
Moreover, I had stated in my letter the fact that I had made a reservation at this hotel
and that any last-minute message could be left for me here; that no such message was
awaiting me can, I believe, be taken as further reason to suppose all is well.
This present downpour is something of a surprise, since the day started with the bright
morning sunshine I have been blessed with each morning since leaving Darlington Hall. In
fact, the day had generally begun well with a breakfast of fresh farm eggs and toast, provided
for me by Mrs Taylor, and with Dr Carlisle calling by at seven thirty as promised, I was able
to take my leave of the Taylors - who continued not to hear of remuneration - before any
further embarrassing conversations had had a chance to develop.
"I found a can of petrol for you," Dr Carlisle announced, as he ushered me into the
passenger seat of his Rover." I thanked him for his thoughtfulness but when I made inquiries
as to payment, I found that he, too, would hear none of it.
"Nonsense, old boy. It's only a little bit I found at the back of my garage. But it'll be
enough for you to reach Crosby Gate and you can fill up good and proper there."
The village centre of Moscombe, in the morning sunshine, could be seen to be a
number of small shops surrounding a church, the steeple of which I had seen from the hill
yesterday evening. I had little chance to study the village, however, for Dr Carlisle turned his
car briskly into the driveway of a farmyard.
"Just a little short cut," he said, as we made our way past barns and stationary farm
vehicles. There seemed to be no persons present anywhere, and at one point, when we were
confronted by a closed gate, the doctor said: "Sorry - old chap, but if you wouldn't mind doing
the honours."
Getting out, I went to the gate, and as soon as I did so, a furious chorus of barking
erupted in one of the barns near by, so that it was with some relief that I rejoined Dr Carlisle
again in the front of his Rover.
We exchanged a few pleasantries as we climbed a narrow road between tall trees, he
inquiring after how I had slept at the Taylors and so forth.
Then he said quite abruptly: "I say, I hope you don't think me very rude. But you aren't
a manservant of some sort, are you?" I must confess, my overwhelming feeling on hearing
this was one of relief.
"I am indeed, sir. In fact, I am the butler of Darlington Hall, near Oxford."
"Thought so. All that about having met Winston Churchill and so on. I thought to
myself, well, either the chap's been lying his head off, or -then it occurred to me, there's one
simple explanation. "
Dr Carlisle turned to me with a smile as he continued to steer the car up the steep
winding road. I said: "It wasn't my intention to deceive anyone, sir. However…"
"Oh, no need to explain, old fellow. I can quite see how it happened. I mean to say,
you are a pretty impressive specimen. The likes of the people here, they're bound to take you
for at least a lord or a duke."
The doctor gave a hearty laugh. "It must do one good to be mistaken for a lord every
now and then."
We travelled on in silence for a few moments.
Then Dr Carlisle said to me: "Well, I hope you enjoyed your little stay with us here."
"I did very much, thank you, sir."
"And what did you make of the citizens of Moscombe? Not such a bad bunch, are
they?"
"Very engaging, sir. Mr and Mrs Taylor were extremely kind."
"I wish you wouldn't call me 'sir' like that all the time, Mr Stevens.
No, they're not such a bad bunch at all around here. As far as I'm concerned, I'd
happily spend the rest of my life out here." l thought I heard something slightly odd in the
way Dr Carlisle said this. There was, too, a curiously deliberate edge to the way he went on to
inquire again: "So you found them an engaging bunch, eh?"
"Indeed, Doctor. Extremely congenia1."
"So what were they all telling you about last night? Hope they didn't bore you silly
with all the village gossip."
"Not at all, Doctor. As a matter of fact, the conversation tended to be rather earnest in
tone and some very interesting viewpoints were expressed. "
"Oh, you mean Harry Smith," the doctor said with a laugh. "You shouldn't mind him.
He's entertaining enough to listen to for a while, but really, he's all in a muddle. At times
you'd think he was some sort of Communist, then he comes out with something that makes
him sound true blue Tory. Truth is, he's all in a muddle."
"Ah, that is very interesting to hear."
"What did he lecture you on last night? The Empire? The National Health?"
"Mr Smith restricted himself to more general topics."
"Oh? For instance?"
I gave a cough. "Mr Smith had some thoughts on the nature of dignity."
"I say. Now that sounds rather philosophical for Harry Smith. How the devil did he get
on to that?"
"I believe Mr Smith was stressing the importance of his campaigning work in the
village."
"Ah, yes?"
"He was impressing upon me the point that the residents of Moscombe held strong
opinions on all manner of great affairs."
"Ah, yes. Sounds like Harry Smith. As you probably guessed, that's all nonsense, of
course. Harry's always going around trying to work everybody up over issues. But the truth is,
people are happier left alone."
We were silent again for a moment or two.
Eventually, I said: "Excuse me for asking, sir. But may I take it Mr Smith is
considered something of a comic figure?"
"Hmm. That's taking it a little too far, I'd say.
People do have a political conscience of sorts here. They feel they /ought /to have
strong feelings on this and that, just as Harry urges them to. But really, they're no different
from people anywhere. They want a quiet life. Harry has a lot of ideas about changes to this
and that, but really, no one in the village wants upheaval, even if it might benefit them. People
here want to be left alone to lead their quiet little lives. They don't want to be bothered with
this issue and that issue."
I was surprised by the tone of disgust that had entered the doctor's voice. But he
recovered himself quickly with a short laugh and remarked: "Nice view of the village on your
side." Indeed, the village had become visible some way below us. Of course, the morning
sunshine gave it a very different aspect, but otherwise it looked much the same view as the
one I had first encountered in the evening gloom, and I supposed from this that we were now
close to the spot where I had left the Ford.
"Mr Smith seemed to be of the view", I said, "that a person's dignity rested on such
things. Having strong opinions and such."
"Ah, yes, dignity. I was forgetting. Yes, so Harry was trying to tackle philosophical
definitions. My word. I take it, it was a lot of rot."
"His conclusions were not necessarily those that compelled agreement, sir."
Dr Carlisle nodded, but seemed to have become immersed in his own thoughts. "You
know, Mr Stevens," he said, eventually, "when I first came out here, I was a committed
socialist. Believed in the best services for all the people and all the rest of it. First came here
in 'forty-nine. Socialism would allow people to live with dignity. That's what I believed when
I came out here. Sorry, you don't want to hear all this rot." He turned to me cheerily. "What
about you, old chap?"
"I'm sorry, sir?"
"What do /you /think dignity's all about?"
The directness of this inquiry did, I admit, take me rather by surprise.
"It's rather a hard thing to explain in a few words, sir," I said. "But I suspect it comes
down to not removing one's clothing in public."
"Sorry. What does?"
"Dignity, sir."
"Ah." The doctor nodded, but looked a little bemused. Then he said: "Now, this road
should be familiar to you. Probably looks rather different in the daylight. Ah, is that it there?
My goodness, what a handsome vehicle!"
Dr Carlisle pulled up just behind the Ford, got out and said again: "My, what a
handsome vehicle." The next moment he had produced a funnel and a can of petrol and was
most kindly assisting me in filling the tank of the Ford. Any fears I had that some deeper
trouble was afflicting the Ford were laid to rest when I tried the ignition and heard the engine
come to life with a healthy murmur. At this point, I thanked Dr Carlisle and we took leave of
each other, though I was obliged to follow the back of his Rover along the twisting hill road
for a further mile or so before our routes separated.
It was around nine o'clock that I crossed the border into Cornwall. This was at least
three hours before the rain began and the clouds were still all of a brilliant white. In fact,
many of the sights that greeted me this morning were among the most charming I have so far
encountered. It was unfortunate, then, that I could not for much of the time give to them the
attention they warranted; for one may as well declare it, one was in a condition of some
preoccupation with the thought that - barring some unseen complication - one would be
meeting Miss Kenton again before the day's end. So it was, then, that while speeding along
between large open fields, no human being or vehicle apparent for miles, or else steering
carefully through marvellous little villages, some no more than a cluster of a few stone
cottages, I found myself yet again turning over certain recollections from the past. And now,
as I sit here in Little Compton, here in the dining room of this pleasant hotel with a little time
on my hands, watching the rain splashing on the pavements of the village square outside, I am
unable to prevent my mind from continuing to wander along these same tracks.
One memory in particular has preoccupied me all morning - or rather, a fragment of a
memory, a moment that has for some reason remained with me vividly through the years. It is
a recollection of standing alone in the back corridor before the closed door of Miss Kenton's
parlour; I was not actually facing the door, but standing with my person half turned towards it,
transfixed by indecision as to whether or not I should knock; for at that moment, as I recall, I
had been struck by the conviction that behind that very door, just a few yards from me, Miss
Kenton was in fact crying. As I say, this moment has remained firmly embedded in my mind,
as has the memory of the peculiar sensation I felt rising within me as I stood there like that.
However, I am not at all certain now as to the actual circumstances which had led me to be
standing thus in the back corridor. It occurs to me that elsewhere in attempting to gather such
recollections, I may well have asserted that this memory derived from the minutes
immediately after Miss Kenton's receiving news of her aunt's death; that is to say, the
occasion when, having left her to be alone with her grief, I realized out in the corridor that I
had not offered her my condolences. But now, having thought further, I believe I may have
been a little confused about this matter; that in fact this fragment of memory derives from
events that took place on an evening at least a few months after the death of Miss Kenton's
aunt - the evening, in fact, when the young Mr Cardinal turned up at Darlington Hall rather
unexpectedly.
Mr Cardinal's father, Sir David Cardinal, had been for many years his lordship's
closest friend and colleague, but had been tragically killed in a riding accident some three or
four years prior to the evening I am now recalling. Meanwhile, the young Mr Cardinal had
been building something of a name for himself as a columnist, specializing in witty comments
on international affairs. Evidently, these columns were rarely to Lord Darlington's liking, for I
can recall numerous instances of his looking up from a journal and saying something like:
"Young Reggie writing such nonsense again. Just as well his father's not alive to read this."
But Mr Cardinal's columns did not prevent him being a frequent visitor at the house; indeed,
his lordship never forgot that the young man was his godson and always treated him as kin. At
the same time, it had never been Mr Cardinal's habit to turn up to dinner without any prior
warning, and I was thus a little surprised when on answering the door that evening I found
him standing there, his briefcase cradled in both arms.
"Oh, hello, Stevens, how are you?" he said.
"Just happened to be in a bit of a jam tonight and wondered if Lord Darlington would
put me up for the night."
"It's very nice to see you again, sir. I shall tell his lordship you are here."
"I'd intended to stay at Mr Roland's place, but there seems to have been some
misunderstanding and they've gone away somewhere. Hope it's not too inconvenient a time to
call. I mean, nothing special on tonight, is there?"
"I believe, sir, his lordship is expecting some gentlemen to call after dinner."
"Oh, that's bad luck. I seem to have chosen a bad night. I'd better keep my head low.
I've got some pieces I have to work on tonight anyway." Mr Cardinal indicated his briefcase.
"I shall tell his lordship you are- here, sir. You are, in any case, in good time to join
him for dinner."
"Jolly good, I was hoping I might have been. But I don't expect Mrs Mortimer's going
to be very pleased with me."
I left Mr Cardinal in the drawing room and made my way to the study, where I found
his lordship working through some pages with a look of deep concentration. When I told him
of Mr Cardinal's arrival, a look of surprised annoyance crossed his face. Then he leaned back
in his chair as though puzzling something out.
"Tell Mr Cardinal I'll be down shortly," he said finally. "He can amuse himself for a
little while."
When I returned downstairs, I discovered Mr Cardinal moving rather restlessly around
the drawing room examining objects he must long ago have become familiar with. I conveyed
his lordship's message and asked him what refreshments I might bring him.
"Oh, just some tea for now, Stevens. Who's his lordship expecting tonight?"
"I'm sorry, sir, I'm afraid I am unable to help you."
"No idea at all?"
"I'm sorry, sir."
"Hmm, curious. Oh, well. Better keep my head low tonight."
It was not long after this, I recall, that I went down to Miss Kenton's parlour. She was
sitting at her table, though there was nothing before her and her hands were empty; indeed,
something in her demeanour suggested she had been sitting there like that for some time prior
to my knocking.
"Mr Cardinal is here, Miss Kenton," I said. "He'll be requiring his usual room tonight."
"Very good, Mr Stevens. I shall see to it before I leave."
"Ah. You are going out this evening, Miss Kenton?"
"I am indeed, Mr Stevens."
Perhaps I looked a little surprised, for she went on: "You will recall, Mr Stevens, we
discussed this a fortnight ago."
"Yes, of course, Miss Kenton. I beg your pardon, it had just slipped my mind for the
moment."
"Is something the matter, Mr Stevens?"
"Not at all, Miss Kenton. Some visitors are expected this evening, but there is no
reason why your presence will be required."
"We did agree to my taking this evening off a fortnight ago, Mr Stevens."
"Of course, Miss Kenton. I do beg your pardon."
I turned to leave, but then I was halted at the door by Miss Kenton saying: "Mr
Stevens, I have something to tell you."
"Yes, Miss Kenton?"
"It concerns my acquaintance. Who I am going to meet tonight."
"Yes, Miss Kenton."
"He has asked me to marry him. I thought you had a right to know that."
"Indeed, Miss Kenton. That is very interesting."
"l am still giving the matter thought."
"Indeed."
She glanced down a second at her hands, but then almost immediately her gaze
returned to me. "My acquaintance is to start a job in the West Country as of next month."
"Indeed."
"As I say, Mr Stevens, I am still giving the matter some thought.
However, I thought you should be informed of the situation."
"I'm very grateful, Miss Kenton. I do hope you have a pleasant evening.
Now if you will excuse me."
It must have been twenty minutes or so later that I encountered Miss Kenton again,
this time while I was busy with preparations for dinner.
In fact, I was half-way up the back staircase, carrying a fully laden tray, when I heard
the sound of angry footsteps rattling the floorboards somewhere below me. Turning, I saw
Miss Kenton glaring up at me from the foot of the stairs.
"Mr Stevens, do I understand that you are wishing me to remain on duty this
evening?"
"Not at all, Miss Kenton. As you pointed out, you did notify me some time ago."
"But I can see you are very unhappy about my going out tonight."
"On the contrary, Miss Kenton."
"Do you imagine that by creating so much commotion in the kitchen and by stamping
back and forth like this outside my parlour you will get me to change my mind?"
"Miss Kenton, the slight excitement in the kitchen is solely on account of Mr Cardinal
coming to dinner at the last moment. There is absolutely no reason why you should not go out
this evening."
"I intend to go with or without your blessing, Mr Stevens, I wish to make this clear. I
made arrangements weeks ago."
"Indeed, Miss Kenton. And once again, I would wish you a very pleasant evening."
At dinner, an odd atmosphere seemed to hang in the air between the two gentlemen.
For long moments, they ate in silence, his lordship in particular seeming very far away. At
one point, Mr Cardinal said: "Something special tonight, sir?"
"Eh?"
"Your visitors this evening. Special?"
"Afraid I can't tell you, my boy. Strictly confidentia1."
"Oh dear. I suppose this means I shouldn't sit in on it."
"Sit in on what, my boy?"
"Whatever it is that's going to take place tonight."
"Oh, it wouldn't be of any interest to you. In any case, confidentiality is of the utmost.
Can't have someone like you around. Oh no, that wouldn't do at all."
"Oh, dear. This does sound very specia1."
Mr Cardinal was watching his lordship very keenly, but the latter simply went back to
his food without saying anything further.
The gentlemen retired to the smoking room for port and cigars. In the course of
clearing the dining room, and also in preparing the drawing room for the arrival of the
evening's visitors, I was obliged to walk repeatedly past the smoking room doors. It was
inevitable, then, that I would notice how the gentlemen, in contrast to their quiet mood at
dinner, had begun to exchange words with some urgency. A quarter of an hour later, angry
voices were being raised. Of course, I did not stop to, listen, but I could not avoid hearing his
lordship'! shouting: "But that's not your business, my boy! That's not your business!"
I was in the dining room when the gentlemen eventually came out. They seemed to
have calmed themselves, and the only words exchanged as they walked across the hall were
his lordship's: "Now remember, my boy. I'm trusting you." To which Mr Cardinal muttered
with irritation: "Yes, yes, you have my word." Then their footsteps separated, his lordship's
going towards his study, Mr Cardinal's towards the library.
At almost precisely eight thirty, there came the sound of motor cars pulling up in the
courtyard. I opened the door to a chauffeur, and past his shoulder I could see some police
constables dispersing to various points of the grounds. The next moment, I was showing in
two very distinguished gentlemen, who were met by his lordship in the hall and ushered
quickly into the drawing room. Ten minutes or so later came the sound of another car and I
opened the door to Herr Ribbentrop, the German Ambassador, by now no stranger to
Darlington Hall. His lordship emerged to meet him and the two gentlemen appeared to
exchange complicit glances before disappearing together into the drawing room. When a few
minutes later I was called in to provide refreshments, the four gentlemen were discussing the
relative merits of different sorts of sausage, and the atmosphere seemed on the surface at least
quite convivial.
Thereafter I took up my position out in the hall - the position near the entrance arch
that I customarily took up during important meetings - and was not obliged to move from it
again until some two hours later, when the back door bell was rung. On descending, I
discovered a police constable standing there with Miss Kenton, requesting that I verify the
latter's identity.
"Just security, miss, no offence meant," the officer muttered as he wandered off again
into the night.
As I was bolting the door, I noticed Miss Kenton waiting for me, and said: "I trust you
had a pleasant evening, Miss Kenton."
She made no reply, so I said again, as we were making our way across the darkened
expanse of the kitchen floor: "I trust you had a pleasant evening, Miss Ken ton."
"I did, thank you, Mr Stevens. "I'm pleased to hear that."
Behind me, Miss Kenton's footsteps came to a sudden halt, and I heard her say: "Are
you not in the least interested in what took place tonight between my acquaintance and I, Mr
Stevens?"
"I do not mean to be rude, Miss Kenton, but I really must return upstairs without
further delay. The fact is, events of a global significance are taking place in this house at this
very moment."
"When are they not, Mr Stevens? Very well, if you must be rushing off, I shall just tell
you that I accepted my acquaintance's proposal."
"I beg your pardon, Miss Kenton?"
"His proposal of marriage."
"Ah, is that so, Miss Kenton? Then may I offer you my congratulations."
"Thank you, Mr Stevens. Of course, I will be happy to serve out my notice. However,
should it be that you are able to release me earlier, we would be very grateful. My
acquaintance begins his new job in the West Country in two weeks' time."
"I will do my best to secure a replacement at the earliest opportunity, Miss Kenton.
Now if you will excuse me, I must return upstairs."
I started to walk away again, but then when I had all but reached the doors out to the
corridor, I heard Miss Kenton say: "Mr Stevens," and thus turned once more. She had not
moved, and consequently she was obliged to raise her voice slightly in addressing me, so that
it resonated rather oddly in the cavernous spaces of the dark and empty kitchen.
"Am I to take it," she said, "that after the many years of service I have given in this
house, you have no more words to greet the news of my possible departure than those you
have just uttered?"
"Miss Kenton, you have my warmest congratu-lations. But I repeat, there are matters
of global significance taking place upstairs and I must return to my post."
"Did you know, Mr Stevens, that you have been a very important figure for my
acquaintance and I?"
"Really, Miss Kenton?"
"Yes, Mr Stevens. We often pass the time amusing ourselves with anecdotes about
you. For instance, my acquaintance is always wanting me to show him the way you pinch
your nostrils together when you put pepper on your food. That always gets him laughing."
"Indeed."
"He's also rather fond of your staff 'pep-talks'. l must say, I've become quite expert in
recreating them. I only have to do a few lines to have the pair of us in stitches."
"Indeed, Miss Kenton. Now you will please excuse me."
I ascended to the hall and took up my position again. However, before five minutes
had passed, Mr Cardinal appeared in the doorway of the library and beckoned me over.
"Hate to bother you, Stevens," he said. "But I couldn't trouble you to fetch a little more
brandy, could I? The bottle you brought in earlier appears to be finished."
"You are very welcome to whatever refreshments you care for, sir.
However, in view of the fact that you have your column to complete, I wonder if it is
entirely wise to partake further."
"My column will be fine, Stevens. Do get me a little more brandy, there's a good
fellow."
"Very well, sir."
When I returned to the library a moment later, Mr Cardinal was wandering around the
shelves, scrutinizing spines. I could see papers scattered untidily over one of the writing desks
nearby. As I approached, Mr Cardinal made an appreciative sound and slumped down into a
leather armchair. I went over to him, poured a little brandy and handed it to him.
"You know, Stevens," he said, "we've been friends for some time now, haven't we?"
"Indeed, sir."
"I always look forward to a little chat with you whenever I come here."
"Yes, sir."
"Won't you care to join me in a little drink?"
"That's very kind of you, sir. But no, thank you, I won't."
"l say, Stevens, are you all right there?"
"Perfectly all right, thank you, sir," I said with a small laugh.
"Not feeling unwell, are you?"
"A little tired, perhaps, but I'm perfectly fine, thank you, sir."
"Well, then, you should sit down. Anyway, as I was saying. We've been friends for
some time. So I really ought to be truthful with you. As you no doubt guessed, I didn't happen
by tonight just by accident. I had a tip-off, you see. About what's going on. Over there across
the hall at this very moment."
"Yes, sir."
"l do wish you'd sit down, Stevens. I want us to talk as friends, and you're standing
there holding that blasted tray looking like you're about to wander off any second."
"I'm sorry, sir."
I put down my tray and seated myself - in an appropriate posture - on the armchair Mr
Cardinal was indicating.
. "That's better," Mr Cardinal said. "Now, Stevens, I don't suppose the Prime Minister
is presently in the drawing room, is he?"
'The Prime Minister, sir?"
"Oh, it's all right, you don't have to tell me.
I understand you're in a tricky position." Mr Cardinal heaved a sigh, and looked
wearily towards his papers scattered over the desk. Then he said: "l hardly need to tell you, do
I, Stevens, what I feel towards his lordship. I mean to say, he's been like a second father to
me. I hardly need to tell you, Stevens."
"No, sir."
"l care deeply for him."
"Yes, sir."
"And I know you do too. Care deeply for him. Don't you, Stevens?"
"I do indeed, sir."
"Good. So we both know where we stand. But let's face facts. His lordship is in deep
waters. I've watched him swimming further and further out and let me tell you, I'm getting
very anxious. He's out of his depth, you see, Stevens."
"Is that so, sir?"
"Stevens, do you know what is happening at this very moment as we sit here talking?
What's happening just several yards from us? Over in that room - and I don't need you to
confirm it - there is gathered at this moment the British Prime Minister, the Foreign Secretary
and the German Ambassador. His lordship has worked wonders to bring this meeting about,
and he believes - faithfully believes - he's doing something good and honourable. Do you
know why his lordship has brought these gentlemen here tonight? Do you know, Stevens,
what is going on here?"
"I'm afraid not,"
"You're afraid not. Tell me, Stevens, don't you care at all? Aren't you curious? Good
God, man, something very crucial is going on in this house. Aren't you at all curious?"
"It is not my place to be curious about such matters, sir."
"But you care about his lordship. You care deeply, you just told me that. If you care
about his lordship, shouldn't you be concerned? At least a little curious? The British Prime
Minister and the German Ambassador are brought together by your employer for secret talks
in the night, and you're not even curious?"
"I would not say I am not curious, sir. However, it is not my position to display
curiosity about such matters."
"It's not your position? Ah, I suppose you believe that to be loyalty.
Do you? Do you think that's being loyal? To his lordship? Or to the Crown, come to
that?"
"I'm sorry, sir, I fail to see what it is you are proposing."
Mr Cardinal sighed again and shook his head.
"I'm not proposing anything, Stevens. Quite frankly, I don't know what's to be done.
But you might at least be curious."
He was silent for a moment, during which time he seemed to be gazing emptily at the
area of carpet around my feet.
"Sure you won't join me in a drink, Stevens?" he said eventually.
"No, thank you, sir."
"'I'll tell you this, Stevens. His lordship is being made a fool of.
I've done a lot of investigating, I know the situation in Germany now as well as
anyone in this country, and I tell you, his lordship is being made a fool of."
I gave no reply, and Mr Cardinal went on gazing emptily at the floor.
After a while, he continued: "His lordship is a dear, dear man. But the fact is, he is out
of his depth. He is being manoeuvred. The Nazis are manoeuvring him like a pawn. Have you
noticed this, Stevens? Have you noticed this is what has been happening for the last three or
four years at least?"
"I'm sorry, sir, I have failed to notice any such development."
"Haven't you even had a suspicion? The smallest suspicion that Herr Hitler, through
our dear friend Herr Ribbentrop, has been manoeuvring his lordship like a pawn, just as easily
as he manoeuvres any of his other pawns back in Berlin?"
"I'm sorry, sir, I'm afraid I have not noticed any such development."
"But I suppose you wouldn't, Stevens, because you're not curious. You just let all this
go on before you and you never think to look at it for what it is."
Mr Cardinal adjusted his position in the armchair so that he was a little more upright,
and for a moment he seemed to be contemplating his unfinished work on the desk near by.
Then he said: "His lordship is a gentleman. That's what's at the root of it. He's a gentleman,
and he fought a war with the Germans, and it's his instinct to offer generosity and friendship
to a defeated foe. It's his instinct.
Because he's a gentleman, a true old English gentleman. And you must have seen it,
Stevens. How could you not have seen it? The way they've used it, manipulated it, turned
something fine and noble into something else - something they can use for their own foul
ends? You must have seen it, Stevens."
Mr Cardinal was once again staring at the floor. He remained silent for a few
moments, then he said: "l remember coming here years ago, and there was this American chap
here. We were having a big conference, my father was involved in organizing it. I remember
this American chap, even drunker than I am now, he got up at the dinner table in front of the
whole company. And he pointed at his lordship and called him an amateur. Called him a
bungling amateur and said he was out of his depth. Well, I have to say, Stevens, that
American chap was quite right. It's a fact of life. Today's world is too foul a place for fine and
noble instincts. You've seen it yourself, haven't you, Stevens? The way they've manipulated
something fine and noble. You've seen it yourself, haven't you?"
"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't say I have."
"You can't say you have. Well, I don't know about you, but I'm going to do something
about it. If Father were alive, he would do something to stop it."
Mr Cardinal fell silent again and for a moment -perhaps it was to do with his having
evoked memories of his late father - he looked extremely melancholy. "Are you content,
Stevens," he said finally, "to watch his lordship go over the precipice just like that?"
"I'm sorry, sir, I don't fully understand what it is you're referring to."
"You don't understand, Stevens. Well, we're friends and so I'll put it to you frankly.
Over the last few years, his lordship has probably been the single most useful pawn Herr
Hitler has had in this country for his propaganda tricks. All the better because he's sincere and
honourable and doesn't recognize the true nature of what he's doing. During the last three
years alone, his lordship has been crucially instrumental in establishing links between Berlin
and over sixty of the most influential citizens of this country. It's worked beautifully for them.
Herr Ribbentrop's been able virtually to bypass our foreign office altogether. And as if their
wretched Rally and their wretched Olympic Games weren't enough, do you know what
they've got his lordship working on now? Do you have any idea what is being discussed
now?"
"I'm afraid not, sir."
"His lordship has been trying to persuade the Prime Minister himself to accept an
invitation to visit Herr Hitler. He really believes there's a terrible misunderstanding on the
Prime Minister's part concerning the pres en t German regime."
"I cannot see what there is to object to in that, sir. His lordship has always striven to
aid better understanding between nations."
"And that's not all, Stevens. At this very moment, unless I am very much mistaken, at
this very moment, his lordship is discussing the idea of His Majesty himself visiting Herr
Hitler. It's hardly a secret our new king has always been an enthusiast for the Nazis. Well,
apparently he's now keen to accept Herr Hitler's invitation. At this very moment, Stevens, his
lordship is doing what he can to remove Foreign Office objections to this appalling idea."
"I'm sorry, sir, but I cannot see that his lordship is doing anything other than that
which is highest and noblest. He is doing what he can, after all, to ensure that peace will
continue to prevail in Europe."
"Tell me, Stevens, aren't you struck by even the remote possibility that I am correct?
Are you not, at least, /curious /about what I am saying?"
"I'm sorry, sir, but I have to say that I have every trust in his lordship's good
judgement."
"No one with good judgement could persist in believing anything Herr Hitler says
after the Rhineland, Stevens. His lordship is out of his depth. Oh dear, now I've really
offended you."
"Not at all, sir," I said, for I had risen on hearing the bell from the drawing room. "I
appear to be required by the gentlemen. Please excuse me."
In the drawing room, the air was thick with tobacco smoke. Indeed, the distinguished
gentlemen continued to smoke their cigars, solemn expressions on their faces, not uttering a
word, while his lordship instructed me to bring up a certain exceptionally fine bottle of port
from the cellar.
At such a time of night, one's footsteps descending the back staircase are bound to be
conspicuous and: no doubt they were responsible for arousing Miss Kenton. For as I was
making my way along the darkness of the corridor, the door to her parlour opened and she
appeared at the threshold, illuminated by the light from within.
"I am surprised to find you still down here, Miss Kenton," I said as I approached.
"Mr Stevens, I was very foolish earlier on."
"Excuse me, Miss Kenton, but I have not time to talk just now."
"Mr Stevens, you mustn't take anything I said earlier to heart. I was simply being
foolish."
"I have not taken anything you have said to heart, Miss Kenton. In fact, I cannot recall
what it is you might be referring to. Events of great importance are unfolding upstairs and I
can hardly stop to exchange pleasantries with you. I would suggest you retire for the night."
With that I hurried on, and it was not until I had all but reached the kitchen doors that
the darkness falling again in the corridor told me Miss Kenton had closed her parlour door.
It did not take me long to locate the bottle in question down in the cellar and to make
the necessary preparations for its serving. It was, then, only a few minutes after my short
encounter with Miss Kenton that I found myself walking down the corridor again on my
return journey, this time bearing a tray. As I approached Miss Kenton's door, I saw from the
light seeping around its edges that she was still within. And that was the moment, I am now
sure, that has remained so persistently lodged in my memory - that moment as I paused in the
dimness of the corridor, the tray in my hands, an ever-growing conviction mounting within
me that just a few yards away, on the other side of that door, Miss Kenton was at that moment
crying. As I recall, there was no real evidence to account for this conviction - I had certainly
not heard any sounds of crying - and yet I remember being quite certain that were I to knock
and enter, I would discover her in tears. I do not know how long I remained standing there; at
the time it seemed a significant period, but in reality, I suspect, it was only a matter of a few
seconds. For, of course, I was required to hurry upstairs to serve some of the most
distinguished gentlemen of the land and I cannot imagine I would have delayed unduly.
When I returned to the drawing room, I saw that the gentlemen were still in a rather
serious mood. Beyond this, however, I had little chance to gain any impression of the
atmosphere, for no sooner had I entered than his lordship was taking the tray from me, saying:
"Thank you, Stevens, I'll see to it. That'll be all."
Crossing the hall again, I took up my usual position beneath the arch, and for the next
hour or so, until, that is, the gentlemen finally departed, no event occurred which obliged me
to move from my spot.
Nevertheless, that hour I spent standing there has stayed very vividly in my mind
throughout the years. At first, my mood was- I do not mind admitting it - somewhat downcast.
But then as I continued to stand there, a curious thing began to take place; that is to say, a
deep feeling of triumph started to well up within me. I cannot remember to what extent I
analysed this feeling at the time, but today, looking back on it, it does not seem so difficult to
account for. I had, after all, just come through an extremely trying evening, throughout which
I had managed to preserve a 'dignity in keeping with my position' - and had done so,
moreover, in a manner even my father might have been proud of.
And there across the hall, behind the very doors upon which my gaze was then resting,
within the very room where I had just executed my duties, the most powerful gentlemen of
Europe were conferring over the fate of our continent. Who would doubt at that moment that I
had indeed come as close to the great hub of things as any butler could wish? I would
suppose, then, that as I stood there pondering the events of the evening - those that had
unfolded and those still in the· process of doing so - they appeared to me a sort of summary of
all that I had come to achieve thus far in my life. I can see few other explanations for that
sense of triumph I came to be uplifted by that night.
Day Six - Evening
Weymouth
THIS seaside town is a place I have thought of coming to for many years.
I have heard various people talk of having spent a pleasant holiday here, and Mrs
Symons too, in /The Wonder of England, /calls it a 'town that can keep the visitor fully
entertained for many days on end'. In fact, she makes special mention of this pier, upon which
I have been promenading for the past half-hour, recommending particularly that it be visited
in the evening when it becomes lit up with bulbs of various colours. A moment ago, I learnt
from an official that the lights would be switched on 'fairly soon', and so I have decided to sit
down here on this bench and await the event. I have a good view from here of the sun setting
over the sea, and though there is still plenty of daylight left - it has been a splendid day - I can
see, here and there, lights starting to come on all along the shore. Meanwhile, the pier remains
busy with people; behind me, the drumming of numerous footsteps upon these boards
continues without interruption.
I arrived in this town yesterday afternoon, and have decided to remain a second night
here so as to allow myself this whole day to spend in a leisurely manner. And I must say, it
has been something of a relief not to be motoring; for enjoyable though the activity can be,
one can also get a little weary of it after a while. In any case, I can well afford the time to
remain this further day here; an early start tomorrow will ensure that I am back at Darlington
Hall by tea-time.
It is now fully two days since my meeting with Miss Kenton in the tea lounge of the
Rose Garden Hotel in Little Compton. For indeed, that was where we met Miss Kenton
surprising me by coming to the hotel. I had been whiling away some time after finishing my
lunch - I was, I believe, simply staring at the rain from the window by my table - when a
member of the hotel staff had come to inform me that a lady was wishing to see me at the
reception. I rose and went out into the lobby, where I could see no one I recognized. But then
the receptionist had said from behind her counter: "The lady's in the tea lounge, sir."
Going in through the door indicated, I discovered a room filled with ill-matching
armchairs and occasional tables. There was no one else present other than Miss Kenton, who
rose as I entered, smiled and held out her hand to me.
"Ah, Mr Stevens. How nice to see you again."
"Mrs Benn, how lovely."
The light in the room was extremely gloomy on account of the rain, and so we moved
two armchairs up close to the bay window. And that was how Miss Kenton and I talked for
the next two hours or so, there in the , pool of grey light while the rain continued to fall
steadily on the square outside. She had, naturally, aged somewhat, but to my eyes at least, she
seemed to have done so very gracefully. Her figure remained slim, her posture as upright as
ever. She had maintained, too, her old way of holding her head in a manner that verged on the
defiant. Of course, with the bleak light falling on her face, I could hardly help but notice the
lines that had appeared here and there. But by and large the Miss Kenton I saw before me
looked surprisingly similar to the person who had inhabited my memory over these years.
That is to say, it was, on the whole, extremely pleasing to see her again.
For the first twenty or so minutes, I would say we exchanged the sort of remarks
strangers might; she inquired politely about my journey thus far, how I was enjoying my
holiday, which towns and landmarks I had visited and so on. As we continued to talk, I must
say I thought I began to notice further, more subtle changes which the years had wrought on
her. For instance, Miss Kenton appeared, somehow, /slower. /It is possible this was simply the
calmness that comes with age, and I did try hard for some time to see it as such. But I could
not escape the feeling that what I was really seeing was a weariness with life; the spark which
had once made her such a lively, and at times volatile person seemed now to have gone. In
fact, every now and then, when she was not speaking, when her face was in repose, I thought I
glimpsed something like sadness in her expression. But then again, I may well have been
mistaken about this.
After a little while, what little awkwardness as existed during the initial minutes of our
meeting had dissipated completely, and our conversation took a more personal turn. We spent
some time reminiscing about various persons from the past, or else exchanging any news we
had concerning them, and this was, I must say, most enjoyable. But it was not so much the
content of our conversation as the little smiles she gave at the end of utterances, her small
ironic inflexions here and there, certain gestures with her shoulders or her hands, which began
to recall unmistakably the rhythms and habits of our conversations from all those years ago.
It was around this point, also, that I was able to establish some facts concerning her
present circumstances. For instance, I learnt that her marriage was not in quite as parlous a
state as might have been supposed from her letter; that although she had indeed left her home
for a period of four or five days - during which time the letter I received had been composed -
she had returned home and Mr. Benn had been very pleased to have her back. "It's just as well
one of us is sensible about these things," she said with a smile.
I am aware, of course, that such matters were hardly any of my business, and I should
make clear I would not have dreamt of prying into these areas were it not that I did have, you
might recall, important professional reasons for doing so; that is to say, in respect to the
present staffing problems at Darlington Hall. In any case, Miss Kenton did not seem to mind
at all confiding in me over these matters and I took this as a pleasing testimony to the strength
of the close working relationship we had once had.
For a little while after that, I recall, Miss Kenton went on talking more generally about
her husband, who is to retire soon, a little early on account of poor health, and of her
daughter, who is now married and expecting a child in the autumn. In fact, Miss Kenton gave
me her daughter's address in Dorset, and I must say, I was rather flattered to see how keen she
was that I call in on my return journey. Although I explained that it was unlikely I would pass
through that part of Dorset, Miss Kenton continued to press me, saying: "Catherine's heard all
about you, Mr Stevens. She'd be so thrilled to meet you."
For my own part, I tried to describe to her as best I could the Darlington Hall of today.
'I attempted to convey to her what a genial employer Mr Farraday is; and I described the
changes to the house itself, the alterations and the dust-sheetings, as well as the present
staffing arrangements. Miss Kenton, I thought, became visibly happier when I talked about
the house and soon we were recollecting together various old memories, frequently laughing
over them.
Only once do I recall our touching upon Lord Darlington. We had been enjoying some
recollection or other concerning the young Mr Cardinal, so that I was then obliged to go on to
inform Miss Kenton of the gentleman's being killed in Belgium during the war. And I had
gone on to say: "Of course, his lordship was very fond of Mr Cardinal and took it very badly."
I did not wish to spoil the pleasant atmosphere with unhappy talk, so tried to leave the
topic again almost immediately. But as I had feared, Miss Kenton had read of the
unsuccessful libel action, and inevitably, took the opportunity to probe me a little. As I recall,
I rather resisted being drawn in, though in the end I did say to her: "The fact is, Mrs Benn,
throughout the war, some truly terrible things had been said about his lordship - and by /that
/newspaper in particular. He bore it all while the country remained in peril, but once the war
was over, and the insinuations simply continued, well, his lordship saw no reason to go on
suffering in silence. It's easy enough to see now, perhaps, all the dangers of going to court just
at that time, what with the climate as it was. But there you are. His lordship sincerely believed
he would get justice. Instead, of course, the newspaper simply increased its circulation. And
his lordship's good name was destroyed for ever. Really, Mrs Benn, afterwards, well, his
lordship was virtually an invalid. And the house became so quiet. I would take him tea in the
drawing room and, well... It really was most tragic to see."
"I'm very sorry, Mr Stevens. I had no idea things had been so bad."
"Oh yes, Mrs Benn. But enough of this. I know you remember Darlington Hall in the
days when there were great gatherings, when it was filled with distinguished visitors. Now
that's the way his lordship deserves to be remembered."
As I say, that was the only time we mentioned Lord Darlington.
Predominantly, we concerned ourselves with very happy memories, and those two
hours we spent together in the tea lounge were, I would say, extremely pleasant ones. I seem
to remember various other guests coming in while we were talking, sitting down for a few
moments and leaving again, but they did not distract us in any way at all. Indeed, one could
hardly believe two whole hours had elapsed when Miss Kenton looked up at the clock on the
mantelshelf and said she would have to be returning home. On establishing that she would
have to walk in the rain to a bus stop a little way out of the village, I insisted on running her
there in the Ford, and so it was that after obtaining an umbrella from the reception desk, we
stepped outside together.
Large puddles had formed on the ground around where I had left the Ford, obliging me
to assist Miss Kenton a little to allow her to reach the passenger door. Soon, however, we
were, motoring down the village high street, and then the shops had gone and we found
ourselves in open country. Miss Kenton, who had been sitting quietly watching the passing
view, turned to me at this point, saying: "What are you smiling to yourself about like that, Mr
Stevens?"
"Oh... You must excuse me, Mrs Benn, but I was just recalling certain things you
wrote in your letter. I was a little worried when I read them, but I see now I had little reason to
be."
"Oh? What things in particular do you mean, Mr Stevens?"
"Oh, nothing in particular, Mrs Benn."
"Oh, Mr Stevens, you really must tell me."
"Well, for instance, Mrs Benn," I said with a laugh, "at one point in your letter, you
write - now let me see - 'the rest of my life stretches out like an emptiness before me'. Some
words to that effect."
"Really, Mr Stevens," she said, also laughing a little. "I couldn't have written any such
thing."
"Oh, I assure you you did, Mrs Benn. I recall it very clearly."
"Oh dear. Well, perhaps there are some days when I feel like that. But they pass
quickly enough. Let me assure you, Mr Stevens, my life does /not /stretch out emptily before
me. For one thing, we are looking forward to the grandchild. The first of a few perhaps."
"Yes, indeed. That will be splendid for you." We drove on quietly for a few further
moments.
Then Miss Ken ton said: "And what about you, Mr Stevens? What does the future hold
for you back at Darlington Hall?"
"Well, whatever awaits me, Mrs Benn, I know I'm not awaited by emptiness. If only I
were. But oh no, there's work, work and more work."
We both laughed at this. Then Miss Kenton pointed out a bus shelter visible further up
the road. As we approached it, she said: "Will you wait with me, Mr Stevens? The bus will
only be a few minutes."
The rain was still falling steadily as we got out of the car and hurried towards the
shelter. This latter - a stone construct complete with a tiled roof - looked very sturdy, as
indeed it needed to be, standing as it did in a highly exposed position against a background of
empty fields. Inside, the paint was peeling everywhere, but the place was clean enough. Miss
Ken ton seated herself on the bench provided, while I remained on my feet where I could
command a view of the approaching bus.
On the other side of the road, all I could see were more farm fields; a line of telegraph
poles led my eye over them into the far distance.
After we had been waiting in silence for a few minutes, I finally brought myself to
say: "Excuse me, Mrs Benn. But the fact is we may not meet again for a long time. I wonder
if you would perhaps permit me to ask you something of a rather personal order. It is
something that has been troubling me for some time."
"Certainly, Mr Stevens. We are old friends after all."
"Indeed, as you say, we are old friends. I simply wished to ask you, Mrs Benn. Please -
do not reply if you feel you shouldn't. But the fact is, the letters I have had from you over the
years, and in particular the last letter, have tended to suggest that you are - how might one put
it?- rather unhappy. I simply wondered if you were being ill-treated in some way. Forgive me,
but as I say, it is something that has worried me for some time. I would feel foolish had I
come all this way and seen you and not at least asked you."
"Mr Stevens, there's no need to be so embarrassed.
We're old friends, after all, are we not? In fact, I'm very touched you should be so
concerned. And I can put your mind at rest on this matter absolutely. My husband does not
mistreat me at all in any way. He is not in the least a cruel or ill- tempered man."
"I must say, Mrs Benn, that does take a load from my mind."
I leaned forward in to the rain, looking for signs of the bus.
"I can see you are not very satisfied, Mr Stevens," Miss Kenton said.
"Do you not believe me?"
"Oh, it's not that, Mrs Benn, not that at all.
It's just that the fact remains, you do not seem to have been happy over the years. That
is to say - forgive me - you have taken it on yourself to leave your husband on a number of
occasions. If he does not mistreat you, then, well... one is rather mystified as to the cause of
your unhappiness."
I looked out into the drizzle again. Eventually, I heard Miss Kenton say behind me:
"Mr Stevens, how can I explain? I hardly know myself why I do such things. But it's true, I've
left three times now." She paused a moment, during which time I continued to gaze out
towards the fields on the other side of the road. Then she said: "I suppose, Mr Stevens, you're
asking whether or not I love my husband."
"Really, Mrs Benn, I would hardly presume... "
"I feel I should answer you, Mr Stevens. As you say, we may not meet again for many
years. Yes, I do love my husband. I didn't at first. I didn't at first for a long time. When I left
Darlington Hall all those years ago, I never realized I was really, truly leaving. I believe I
thought of it as simply another ruse, Mr Stevens, to annoy you.
It was a shock to come out here and find myself 'J married. For a long time, I was very
unhappy, very unhappy indeed. But then year after year went by, there was the war, Catherine
grew up, and one day I realized I loved my husband. You spend so much time with someone,
you find you get used to him. He's a kind, steady man, and yes, Mr Stevens, I've grown to
love him."
Miss Kenton fell silent again for a moment.
Then she went on: "But that doesn't mean to say, of course, there aren't occasions now
and then - extremely desolate occasions - when you think to yourself: 'What a terrible mistake
I've made with my life.' And you get to thinking about a different life, a /better /life you might
have had. For instance, I get to thinking about a life I may have had with you, Mr Stevens.
And I suppose that's when I get angry over some trivial little thing and leave. But each time I
do so, I realize before long - my rightful place is with my husband. After all, there's no
turning back the clock now. One can't be forever dwelling on what might have been.
One should realize one has as good as most, perhaps better, and be grateful."
I do not think I responded immediately, for it took me a moment or two to fully digest
these words of Miss Kenton. Moreover, as you might appreciate, their implications were such
as to provoke a certain degree of sorrow within me. Indeed - why should I not admit it? - at
that moment, my heart was breaking. Before long, however, I turned to her and said with a
smile: "You're very correct, Mrs Benn. As you say, it is too late to turn back the clock.
Indeed, I would not be able to rest if I thought such ideas were the cause of unhappiness for
you and your husband. We must each of us, as you point out, be grateful for what we /do
/have. And from what you tell me, Mrs Benn, you have reason to be contented. In fact I would
venture, what with Mr Benn retiring, and with grandchildren on the way, that you and Mr
Benn have some extremely happy years before you. You really mustn't let any more foolish
ideas come between yourself and the happiness you deserve."
"Of course, you're right, Mr Stevens. You're so kind."
"Ah, Mrs Benn, that appears to be the bus coming now."
I stepped outside and signalled, while Miss Kenton rose and came to the edge of the
shelter. Only as the bus pulled up did I glance at Miss Kenton and perceived that her eyes had
filled with tears. I smiled and said: "Now, Mrs Benn, you must take good care of yourself.
Many say retirement is the best part of life for a married couple. You must do all you can to
make these years· happy ones for yourself and your husband. We may never meet again, Mrs
Benn, so I would ask you to take good heed of what I am saying."
"I will, Mr Stevens, thank you. And thank you for the lift. It was so very kind of you.
It was so nice to see you again."
"It was a great pleasure to see you again, Mrs Benn."
The pier lights have been switched on and behind me a crowd of people have just
given a loud cheer to greet this event. There is still plenty of daylight left - the sky over the
sea has turned a pale red - but it would seem that all these people who have been gathering on
this pier for the past half-hour are now willing night to fall. This confirms very aptly, I
suppose, the point, made by the man who until a little while ago was sitting here beside me on
this bench, and with whom I had my curious discussion. His claim was that for a great many
people, the evening was the best part of the day, the part they most looked forward to. And as
I say, there would appear to be some truth in this assertion, for why else would all these
people give a spontaneous cheer simply because the pier lights have come on?"
Of course, the man had been speaking figuratively, but it is rather interesting to see his
words borne out so immediately at the literal level. I would suppose he had been sitting here
next to me for some minutes without my noticing him, so absorbed had I become with my
recollections of meeting Miss Kenton two days ago. In fact, I do not think I registered his
presence on the bench at all until he declared out loud: "Sea air does you a lot of good."
I looked up and saw a heavily built man, probably in his late sixties, wearing a rather
tired tweed jacket, his shirt open at the neck. He was gazing out over the water, perhaps at
some seagulls in the far distance, and so it was not at all clear that he had been talking to me.
But since no one else responded, and since I could see no other obvious persons close by who
might do so, I eventually said: "Yes, I'm sure it does."
"The doctor says it does you good. So I come up here as much as the weather will let
me."
The man went on to tell me about his various ailments, only very occasionally turning
his eyes away from the sunset in order to give me a nod or a grin. I really only started to pay
any attention at all when he happened to mention that until his retirement three years ago, he
had been a butler of a nearby house. On inquiring further, I ascertained that the house had
been a very small one in which he had been the only full-time employee. When I asked him if
he had ever worked with a proper staff under him, perhaps before the war, he replied: "Oh, in
those days, I was just a footman. I wouldn't have had the know-how to be a butler in /those
/days. You'd be surprised what it involved when you had those big houses you had then."
At this point, I thought it appropriate to reveal my identity, and although I am not sure
'Darlington Hall' meant anything to him, my companion seemed suitably impressed.
"And here I was trying to explain it all to you," he said with a laugh.
"Good job you told me when you did before I made a right fool of myself.
Just shows you never know who you're addressing when you start talking to a stranger.
So you had a big staff, I suppose. Before the war, I mean."
He was a cheerful fellow and seemed genuinely interested, so I confess I did spend a
little time telling him about Darlington Hall in former days. In the main, I tried to convey to
him some of the 'know-how', as he put it, involved in overseeing large events of the sort we
used often to have. Indeed, I believe I even revealed to him several of my professional
'secrets' designed to bring that extra bit out of staff, as well as the various 'sleights-of-hand' -
the equivalent of a conjuror's - by which a butler could cause a thing to occur at just the right
time and place without guests even glimpsing the often large and complicated manoeuvre
behind the operation. As I say, my companion seemed genuinely interested, but after a time I
felt I had revealed enough and so concluded by saying: "Of course, things are quite different
today under my present employer.
An American gentleman."
"American, eh? Well, they're the only ones can afford it now. So you stayed on with
the house. Part of the package." He turned and gave me a grin.
"Yes," I said, laughing a little. "As you say, part of the package."
The man turned his gaze back to the sea again, took a deep breath and sighed
contentedly. We then proceeded to sit there together quietly for several moments.
"The fact is, of course," I said after a while, "I gave my best to Lord Darlington. I gave
him the very best I had to give, and now - well - I find I do not have a great deal more left to
give."
The man said nothing, but nodded, so I went on: "Since my new employer Mr
Farraday arrived, I've tried very hard, very hard indeed, to provide the sort of service I would
like him to have.
I've tried and tried, but whatever I do I find I am far from reaching the standards I once
set myself. More and more errors are appearing in my work. Quite trivial in themselves - at
least so far. But they're of the sort I would never have made before, and I know what they
signify.
Goodness knows, I've tried and tried, but it's no use. I've given what/ /I had to give. I
gave it all to Lord Darlington."
"Oh dear, mate. Here, you want a hankie? I've got one somewhere. Here we are. It's
fairly clean. Just blew my nose once this morning, that's all.
"Have a go, mate."
"Oh dear, no, thank you, it's quite all right. I'm very sorry, I'm afraid the travelling has
tired me. I'm very sorry."
"You must have been very attached to this Lord whatever. And it's three years since he
passed away, you say? I can see you were very attached to him, mate."
"Lord Darlington wasn't a bad man. He wasn't a bad man at all. And at least he had the
privilege of being able to say at the end of his life that he made his own mistakes. His lordship
was a courageous man. He chose a certain path in life, it proved to be a misguided one, but
there, he chose it, he can say that at least. As for myself, I cannot even claim that. You see, I
/trusted. /I trusted in his lordship's wisdom. All those years I served him, I trusted I was doing
something worthwhile. I can't even say I made my own mistakes. Really - one has to ask
oneself - what dignity is there in that?"
"Now, look, mate, I'm not sure I follow everything you're saying. But if you ask me,
your attitude's all wrong, see? Don't keep looking back all the time, you're bound to get
depressed. And all right, you can't do your job as well as you used to. But it's the same for all
of us, see?
We've all got to put our feet up at some point. Look at me. Been happy as a lark since
the day I retired. All right, so neither of us are exactly in our first flush of youth, but you've
got to keep looking forward." And I believe it was then that he said: "You've got to enjoy
yourself. The evening's the best part of the day.
You've done your day's work. Now you can put your feet up and enjoy it.
That's how I look at it. Ask anybody, they'll all tell you. The evening's the best part of
the day."
"I'm sure you're quite correct," I said. "I'm so sorry, this is so unseemly. I suspect I'm
over-tired. I've been travelling rather a lot, you see."
It is now some twenty minutes since the man left, but I have remained here on this
bench to await the event that has just taken place - namely, the switching on of the pier lights.
As I say, the happiness with which the pleasure-seekers gathering on this pier greeted this
small event would tend to vouch for the correctness of my companion's words; for a great
many people, the evening is the most enjoyable part of the day. Perhaps, then, there is
something to his advice that I should cease looking back so, much, that I should adopt a more
positive outlook and try to make the best of what remains of my day. After all, what can we
ever gain in forever looking back and blaming ourselves if our lives have not turned out quite
as we might have wished? The hard reality is, surely that for the likes of you and I there is
little choice other than to leave our fate, ultimately, in the hands of those great gentlemen at
the hub of this world what employ our services. What is the point in worrying oneself too
much about what one could or could not have done to control the course one's life took?
Surely it is enough that the likes of you and I at least try to make our small contribution count
for something true and worthy. And if some of us are prepared to sacrifice much in life in
order to pursue such aspirations, surely that is in itself, whatever the outcome, cause for pride
and contentment.
A few minutes ago, incidentally, shortly after the lights came on, I did turn on my
bench a moment to study more closely these throngs of people laughing and chatting behind
me. There are people of all ages strolling around this pier: families with children; couples,
young and elderly, walking arm in arm. There is a group of six or seven people gathered just a
little way behind me who have aroused my curiosity a little. I naturally assumed at first that
they were a group of friends out together for the evening. But as I listened to their exchanges,
it became apparent they were strangers who had just happened upon one another here on this
spot behind me. Evidently, they had all paused a moment for the lights coming on, and then
proceeded to fall into conversation with one another. As I watch them now, they are laughing
together merrily. It is curious how people can build such warmth among themselves so
swiftly. It is possible these particular persons are simply united by the anticipation of the
evening ahead. But, then, I rather fancy it has more to do with this skill of bantering.
Listening to them now, I can hear them exchanging one bantering remark after another. It is, I
would suppose, the way many people like to proceed. In fact, it is possible my bench
companion of a while ago expected me to banter with him - in which case, I suppose I was
something of a sorry disappointment. Perhaps it is indeed time I began to look at this whole
matter of bantering more enthusiastically. After all, when one thinks about it, it is not such a
foolish thing to indulge in - particularly if it is the case that in bantering lies the key to human
warmth.
It occurs to me, furthermore, that bantering is hardly an unreasonable duty for an
employer to expect a professional to perform. I have of course already devoted much time to
developing my bantering skills, but it is possible I have never previously approached the task
with the commitment I might have done. Perhaps, then, when I return to Darlington Hall
tomorrow - Mr Farraday will not himself be back for a further week - I will begin practising
with renewed effort. I should hope, then, that by the time of my employer's return, I shall be
in a position to pleasantly surprise him.
The End

Kazuo Ishiguro

2012-02-13T22:35:00.001+00:00

Kazuo Ishiguro

One of the most distinguished contemporary authors. He was born in Nagasaki in 1954, the year when the Lord of the Flies came out. The family moved to England, he received a typical English education, in a school in which he was the only non-English student. Back then, England was very class conscious and his presence invoked curiosity. He had the bi-cultural upbringing. That account for his sense of uprootedness. He thought of himself as of homeless writer. He travelled to the United States and Canada in 1974, he wrote a journal and he even tried to launch a musical career, not successfully. He studied English and philosophy at Kent University. He graduated with BA in 1978, he attended the course in creative writing with Malcolm Bradbury and Angela Carter. He earned his MA degree in 1980 at the University of East Anglia. He worked as a social worker and community worker. He was very socially conscious. Writing came somewhat later. He helped the homeless in London and in Scotland. His literary career begins in the 80s. He had written some short stories before, but in 1981, he has one of his short stories published in a volume introducing contemporary writers, it was an anthology. At that point, Faber and Faber, the famous publishing house committed him to write a novel. From that point on, his literary career begins to flourish, from 1982 with the Pale View of Hills, his first novel about the Japanese born woman protagonist. She moves to English countryside, remembers the past involving the nuclear devastation of Nagasaki. The relationship with her two daughters is also one of the themes of the Novel. In 1986, An Artist of the Floating World comes out, again it is about the Japanese painter obsessed with the past. The protagonist is plagued by the guilt caused by his war time experiences. Both novels received prestigious literary awards. Ishiguro attributes his success with good timing. So, he demystifies himself as an artist. He was labelled an Anglo-Japanese writer which was lucrative at the time. The Remains of the Day came out in 1989 and was something completely different from his previous two novels. Not only did it take place on the English soil but it also had an English protagonist. Just like his preceding and succeeding novels, it deals with personal history with emphasis on moulding one’s history in order to meet the psychological needs of the character.

The Remains of the Day

The protagonist of the Novel tries to grow as a character throughout the novel, but he fails in his attempt. Stevens, the protagonist of the novel, is the head butler of the respectable old English house and estate called Darlington Hall. His master was Lord Darlington. He remembers the past, before the WWII and after it. At the beginning of the novel he makes a trip for a first time after a long period of time of self imposed confinement on the estate. The motive of the trip is a meeting with a woman who he had been in love with, which is something he never admitted to himself. Miss Campton, is the former co worker. The journey is not only physical, but also a mental journey, in which he has a chance to come to terms with the past, in which he fails. During the trip, he clearly sees the failure that his life was for the first time, but he hides it behind the mask, the illusion of that he puts up in order to be able to carry on with his life. Many critics agree that this novel was a perfection of Ishiguro’s narrative techniques and a brilliant psychological portrait. He is not a typical postmodernist writer, we do not have framing, but again, there are elements of meta-fiction, combined with the interest in the past. Ishiguro admitted that his literary model were 19^th century English and Russian realist writers. He looks back to realism in much the similar way Fowles does. Among the modernists, the one who exerted influence on Ishiguro was E. M. Forster because of his exploration of Englishness. There was also Henry James, because of his psychological approach. He also discusses this idea of Englishness in The Remains of the Day.

What all of Ishiguro’s novels have in common is the first person narrator. These narrators are protagonists at the same time, so we have internal viewpoint. The protagonists usually hide something from themselves; they are people who do not have courage to be true to themselves. They are usually very ordinary people, they are not artists or hyper sensitive characters, they are well adjusted, down to earth conformists, of whom Stevens is a perfect example. They have simple and limited perspective. They usually do not see much beyond their own world, they do not dare to cross over to the big world. They remain caught in their own microcosm. All characters, including Stevens, try to reconstruct the past, usually their own past, not to make it right, but to make it look better. Nostalgia is the feeling of regret for the past that has never been. The moment of remembrance is the very moment of modification when truth is left behind. At the moment of remembrance, we are instantly altering the past, so remembrance, again cannot be taken as reliable. What Stevens does is he beautifies his own past. He rationalises his own mistakes providing comforting explanations in order to avoid the unpleasant truth. The truth is that he has lead the meaningless of life, pretending that his life had a meaning. He strived to be an excellent butler, like his father was. He does this, constructs this lie, to give his life a sense of purpose. Then also, he explores the psychological mechanisms of repression, which is reflected in the use of language not to create meaning, but to hide the real meaning, or to suppress the unpleasant truth. The language serves the purpose of creating and maintaining illusion. So we delude ourselves through language. That is what Stevens does. That is the source or irony and sarcasm. We are at the same time irritated by him and we feel sorry for him. Steven claims to invoke in his memory the truth about the past, while it becomes very clear to the reader early on that he is trying to conceal from himself and from the reader the truth, because the truth is shameful, painful, threatening for his personal integrity and his sense of dignity. The narrator reveals the truth to the reader unintentionally, unconsciously. We recognise as readers that he is beating around the bush all the time. He is more interested in the inner then the outer. History and politics are very much present, but these are not his primary concerns, which means that he is only interested in history and politics only as a reflection of his own mind. Here they are a testing ground for the character’s response. Ishiguro’s main concern is psychology, inner mechanism of suppression of emotions, the idealisation of oneself, self-deception, the way in which people protect themselves from the truth about themselves, mostly through language.

Ishiguro is not postmodernist overtly, as much as the form is concerned, but his concern for the use of language for the purpose of constructing one’s life, makes him a postmodernist writer. Ishiguro shows how language is used by the character to fictionalise his own past, which is exactly what Stevens does. He is rewriting his own past, recreating himself in a more favourable light. We all do that, suggests Ishiguro. Again we have the distinction between art and life blurred in a new way. We are all artists. Language is not used to construct reality. He points to that. It is not there as a meaningful tool of creating reality or truth, it is only there to create somebody’s version of reality. Unlike other postmodernists, Ishiguro does not experiment with form, his novels do not contain inter-textuality, framing, etc. they are not meta fictions, they do not discuss the nature of fiction, they are not concerned with the art of writing of fiction. On the contrary, he tries to hide the elements that could be experimental. Formally, he is quite unlike postmodernists, but his themes are postmodernist. Ishiguro did not believe that the nature of fiction was one of the burning issues of the late 20^th century. In this sense, he is not postmodernist, which makes him totally opposite from Barnes. However, his novels are experimental, in this quiet way.

The central theme deals with psychological methods of suppression of feelings. Stevens suppresses his feelings and uses psychological mechanisms of defence to keep unpleasant memories at bay, to keep unacceptable desires at bay. That is the goal that is why people repress contents they do not want to face. Stevens represses knowledge about the past to protect himself from the painful memory of political flirtation of Lord Darlington with fascism and Nazism and the fact that he, Stevens accepted it passively. Silence is acceptance. He was a collaborator of Nazis indirectly. He never condemn Lord Darlington’s behaviour. The fact that he does not defend Lord Darlington shows that he knows very well right from wrong. He poses here very unpleasant question of personal responsibility. Throughout history, many people resorted to this type of repression. He is very well aware of how wrong it was what Lord Darlington did. Stevens is coward. This aspect dealt with political repression.

Second thing he repn ressed was his sexual desire. Just as he is unable to admit to himself that he was in a way collaborating with the Nazis, another thing that he was in love with Miss Kenton and that he wanted to sleep with her. He cannot admit this, because he thinks sex was something dirty. He was brought up to think this way. What he keeps at distance are his sexual attraction with Miss Kenton, his disappointment with her engagement. He pretends to miss her only for professional reasons. He masks his romantic and sexual interest in her as professional interest. Even when he makes his trip, he does not admit his true motive. The reason is completely different, but he persists in lying to himself. His view of right or wrong political affiliation makes Stevens completely identify with his master. As if he does not have to think with his brain, and whatever Lord Darlington is doing, with whom he identified himself, is right. The incident occurs on the estate and Lord Darlington want two of his Jewish servants dismissed. This causes serous confrontation between Stevens and Miss Kenton. She is a person who is politically conscious, whereas Stevens is a coward, like unfortunately millions of people. Majority of people would act in the way in which Stevens acted, rather then in a way in which Miss Kenton acted. It is easier for him to identify with Lord Darlington.

There is also a trauma over his father’s death, but despite being devastated, he keeps on working and he pretends to be OK. He wanted to ‘live up with the ideals of his profession’. He is not indifferent, but with tremendous effort of will, he convinces himself he should be indifferent, so he carries on with his work. There is also this element of competition between father and son, another Freudian theme. On very rare occasions, Stevens does tell the truth. That is a minor illustration of his ability to tell the truth. When his car stops out of gas, he refuses to look at his shoes, which serves as a symbol of his entire behaviour. He always chooses to look aside, rather then confronting with the issues he has. Likewise, he is unable to comfort Miss Kenton when her aunt dies. He does not know how to do it. He cannot face sadness and grief, he is person who has never grown up entirely. Indirectly, if he managed to comfort Miss Kenton after her loss, he would then also have to acknowledge his own loss, which he is not prepared to do.

He also has problem coming to terms with his own sexuality. He is embarrassed with Faraday’s joke about his lady friend. He permanently describes his relationship with Miss Kenton, whom he always addresses with her family name, as strictly professional. He hates flowers, which are a symbol of nature, that is a symbolical way of suggesting how he resents any natural impulse. He is embarrassed in each of his encounters with attractive women, so he is completely repressed in every way. The culmination is when he rejects Miss Kenton’s open sexual invitation in the pantry. She plays the reversed gender role, playing the role of seducer, to try to get somewhere with him. When she finds him reading the love story, which he explains by his ambition to learn better English. Stevens convinces himself that he is not interested, because it is easier for him. He is afraid and that is a typical reaction for someone who is afraid. He resents adventure and risk. There is also a scene with the couple who eloped and resigned only to get married, which he resented explaining that it was irresponsible act.

There is the character called Reginald Cardinal who tries to talk to Stevens and to explain that Lord Darlington was used by the Nazis as a pawn. Stevens does not want to hear that and acknowledge this truth. He simply rejects to see anything that is going on. He is furious with Reginald for his attempt to confront him with the truth about Lord Darlington. Ishiguro shows parallels between English and Japanese cultures, both of which are very repressive, very authoritarian, very prone to be manipulated. He even claimed they were easy targets of skilful political manipulators. Authoritarian education creates obedient citizens, which can make them very vulnerable to manipulation of totalitarian rules, who then become father substitutes. It worked on the Balkans with Milosevic Tudjman and Izetbegović, all three of whom were fathers of the nation. Reflections of all of these ideas are found here, for Stevens, Lord Darlington is this father substitute. Stevens also totally identifies with his upper class father substitute and symbolically and even physically abandons his own father. He comes to indirectly support Nazism, because he is completely naïve person and a coward. He fakes responsibility to avoid thinking with his own head. He wants to become a gentleman like Lord Darlington, he dresses above his class, which makes him a tragicomic character.

Stevens masks his repression as professionalism, which is his excuse for everything. He is obsessed with professional dignity, with being a perfect butler, is an excuse for himself for being politically and sexually disengaged. He avoids every kind of responsibility. He is furious about the decision of the housekeeper and the under butler to get married and leave profession. The reason he is upset is that they dared to do what he does not. He masks his disappointment with Miss Kenton’s seeing someone as a purely professional disappointment. He says her marriage would be a professional loss. When she surprises him in the pantry, revealing her interest in him, he tries to reassert their ‘professional relation in a more proper manner’. So the language he uses, very formal, stiff and artificial, is a reflection of himself.

He exempts him from political responsibility claiming that as a butler, it was not his job to think. He believed he needed to agree with views of his master. There are very disturbing conclusions here that make us seriously question democracy. In the early 30s Stevens has to fire two Jewish maids, under the excuse of just following orders. There is even a suggestion of homo erotic connection between Brehman, German aristocrat and Lord Darlington.

This is Ishiguro’s very subtle criticism of stiffness and conventionality of British and also of Japanese societies. As a result, these societies produced characters much like Stevens is, cowards who are easy targets of authoritarian manipulators.

Unintentionally and ironically, his words reveal just the things he is trying to hide. He only accomplishes to speak of himself through what he says of others. He says Lord Darlington’s life was a ‘sad waste’ and that the life of Miss Kenton was pervaded by the ‘sense of waste’, which suggests it is Stevens’s life that was wasted. This is the strategy most of us resort to. When he speaks of Miss Kenton’s nostalgia about the past, it is his nostalgia. He also suggests that Miss Kenton regrets the decision she made in the past, and it turns out he regrets his own decision.

His obsession with the clothes, suggest he wants to hide his true self. He has later inherited Lord Darlington’s clothes. So symbolically, he becomes Lord Darlington. He also was to be mistaken for a gentleman, but in the moment of crisis, he does not deny his own identity.

The significance of the Journey

Journey is his first attempt ever to break out from the prison house in which he voluntarily confined himself. The journey is both physical and psychological. In the struggle between his desire to cast off this mask and his desire to keep it as something familiar, he succumbs to the latter. So, he does not really change. The chance is only offered for a brief moment of time and he is to frightened of the new to embrace it. He fails in breaking free emotionally and physically. The political activist he meets during the journey makes no impact on Stevens. He also fails to overcome his sexual repression, when he finally meets Miss Kenton. This final encounter turns out to be a disappointment, while Stevens is even strongly as before, trying to keep up this pretence. In the end he sits on a bench next to a retired butler. He concludes that he has given everything to Darlington, then he masks his tears as fatigue, so he is back to the old pattern of behaviour. He finally ironically tries to learn to banter, which is not part of his personality, which means he never truly changes. That does not mark any kind of transformation, he does so just because his new employer would like him to. There is no development. It could not be taken as a sing of true, profound change. This might be a criticism of the entire culture of suppression.

The concept of Englishness

Ishiguro claims that this novel reworks certain stereotypes and myths about England. He uses a lot of clichés that people usually have about the English. Whether he reinforces or subverts them is difficult to decide. Stevens’ politeness is only politeness on the surface and it masks destructive political passivity. The myth of merry old England is harmless nostalgia for the times that have never been, so Ishiguro subverts them.

Historical personages appear in the novel, who are at the same level with Stevens and other character, so again there is a postmodernist element in the novel which is not exactly true postmodernist work.

Julian Barnes

2012-02-13T22:34:00.002+00:00

Julian Barnes

Julian Barnes belongs to the generation of British postmodernist writers, and postmodernism is not exclusively literary phenomenon.

Generally, postmodernism is a very paradoxical phenomenon. It is never either/or, it is always both/and at the same time. The contradiction would be the very second name of postmodernism.

Reflections on Postmodernism

Postmodernists rejected the view which culminated with realism, that literature was a reliable source of universal truths, though such view was never before questioned. In the tradition of postmodernism this assumption is questioned. There are no universal truths, according to postmodernism, there is no one constant, measurable reality, there are only realities. The very assumption that art imitates life is questionable; it could be that art imitates life. There is a lot of scepticism, as a typical element of the postmodernist world view. Postmodernists are also very sceptical about the modernist view that reality is to be found in its inner rather then outer manifestation. So, there are no clear definitions, there are no clear solutions. There is no realm that contains objective reality and objective truth, according to postmodernist, and in this context we speak of relativism, which is another typical postmodernist trait. Modernists also believed in the cult of the genius, which they inherited from the Romantics, according to which artists were the elite, hypersensitive persons who can grasp the ultimate truth, which was another idea of modernists that postmodernists rejected. Modernists still pretended that their novels were not constructs but that they somehow revealed the truth, which again the postmodernist challenged. Even the notion of consciousness, personality, mind, were rejected by the postmodernists, who claimed that consciousness was rooted in language which describes nothing but itself according to them. Postmodernist literature is not only literature; they integrate philosophical, linguistic, anthropological theories of the 20^th century, theories of human sexuality, which reflects the eclectic nature of the postmodernist literature. To postmodernists, language is another construct, a toy invented by human beings, not necessary for the purpose of describing the outside phenomena, but it is a play, signifier does not refer to the signified, but what we have is the constant play of signifiers. Language refers back to itself, especially in literature. Per convention, when 10 people use the word ‘tree’ all ten of them may have a different image on their mind, which is the reason there can never be true communication. According to postmodernists, one needs to be very careful using the language. Human mind, according to postmodernists, is not a constant, it remains in the state of constant flux, which proves their notion that there is no such thing as personality, because it is not a stabile phenomenon, just a set of moods, which is never the same, even in the single day. They say it is a very delicate, phantom like phenomenon called consciousness. Even our thinking is rooted in language, according to postmodernists, which means it is unreliable, because language itself is unreliable and provisory. We have the Post-Freudian approach according to which, the unconscious is also rooted in language, which makes it highly elusive, just as the reality is illusive. Our view of reality, regardless of whether it is external or internal reality, is always subjective. Postmodernism is on the other hand it is very liberating and creative, because if there are just realities or truths all of them subjective, there are no borders or rules as to how to create or write. Freedom involves great possibilities, but also great pitfalls. Literature in postmodernism can by no means claim to represent the truth, it can only present one or two or three versions of the same story, which means that the author can deliberately play with the idea and offer several solutions, or endings. Even the interpretation of the work of art by the reader greatly depends on reader’s point of view, education, social standing, making it again, highly subjective.

Flaubert’s Parrot

Flaubert’s Parrot is almost a textbook example of a postmodernist novel, of the second half of the 20^th century, one of the major messages of Flaubert’s parrot is that literature or art in general, cannot fully represent life. They constantly draw attention to the limitations of art and literature, reminding the reader that what he is reading is fiction, which is in a very intricate way connected with the reality.

In Flaubert’s Parrot, in Chapter 2 entitled Chronology, Barnes offers us three different versions of Flaubert’s biography. There is no text in the traditional sense. Text is anything that someone writes, says, etc. So, even the past is always highly subjective, and context is very important. For that reason, neither literature, not history can claim to represent the truth. Postmodernists completely abolish the old fashioned distinction to fiction and non fiction, to them any discourse is equally reliable and equally unreliable as the rest of them. There is also inter-textuality, that is another characteristic of postmodernist novels, present in Flaubert’s Parrot. It is not only open to the literary discourse, with the plot, the characters, the story, the style, etc, it makes only part of postmodernist novels. Alongside with the literary discourse, there is also a scientific discourse, present in Flaubert’s Parrot in the lectures on Gustave Flaubert given by literary critics some of whom existed, while others are invented, there is also a biography, which is a third kind of discourse, there is also exam, letters, etc. People not accustomed to postmodernism are confused by this. They want to abolish distinction between fiction and non-fiction. Sometimes we do not even know if these inserted texts really existed, or if perhaps they were invented by the author. So, just as they mix real personages with fictional characters, there is also a mixture of real, authentic texts and texts invented by the author. The point of that is to make the reader realise that it is impossible to make the distinction between what is real and what is fictitious.

As we said, postmodernist literature did not even attempt to assert itself as the source of reliable truth, they instead keep reminding the reader constantly reminded of this unreliability. That is the game that they play with the reader and themselves. They play with this chaos very creatively, they draw attention to the disorder, unreliability, relativity and to the absence of reliable answers. Just like modernists before them, they keep betraying expectations of the reader. They combine many things, and take a lot from modernists. Postmodernist novels, just like modernist novels before them, get the readers confused, irritated and provoked. That is a deliberate plan on the part of the postmodernist writer, because they believe that when the reader is provoked or irritated, maybe he or she will start thinking.

Barnes makes it clear that his narrator Geoffrey Braithwaite does not know everything. Barnes ridicules his own narrator, by showing that he knows very little, let alone the truth. His narrator’s perspective is limited and subjective, which makes all answers illusive, temporary, provisory and unreliable. Living means living with uncertainty, which we have to come to terms with. That is one of the provocative messages of the postmodernist literature, which could also lead to a creative, liberating experience.

Themes

This issue of elusiveness of the truth is one of the major themes of this novel. It is thematised through the very figure of the narrator, who is widowed physician who is obsessed with Flaubert’s fiction and his life. Geoffrey Braithwaite he believes in the humanist illusions that the postmodernism rejects. He is taken by the author as the example of the old way of thinking. This humanist view of the narrator is reflected in his notion that education matters very much, that one can accomplish anything if she or he desires it very much, that there are certain universal truths applicable to all human beings, that history progresses, that each historical period is more advanced then the previous. When Barnes makes such a narrator, the reason he makes it that was is to ironise him. He makes him question his own notions. One of the illusions in which the narrator believes and which Barnes ridicules, is that if you want to learn something about your favourite author, you can understand it better if you learn as much as you can about his life. In order to ridicule this view, Barnes offers us in Chapter two three different versions of Flaubert’s life. The author make it deliberately obvious that such notion is ridiculous by giving two completely opposed versions of the biography with the third one being somewhere in between. Indirectly, the author wants to suggest that it is foolish to believe you could get much better insight into the work of art by close study of artist’s life, just as it is ridiculous to believe that one’s path to the truth has anything to do with minor facts or details that make no difference at all, such as the fact of which of the stuffed parrots was the one that Flaubert used briefly, as he was writing one of his short stories. So Flaubert’s parrot becomes the symbol of the desire for the objective truth, which Braithwaite pursues, but which keeps escaping. So Braithwaite concentrates on one of Flaubert’s short stories “The Sacred Heart”, not even “Madame Bovary”, his major work. He makes a journey to Rouanne and hears that there are two stuffed parrots, and he tries to decide which one of the two was the one Flaubert used and kept on his desk as he was writing his short story. So Barnes ridicules this enterprise, making it apparent how impossible this task of finding the real parrot really is, and the pursuit of the parrot really serves as a symbol of Braithwaite’s humanist desire to grasp the objective truth and to establish the exact amount of relation between reality and fiction. The novel ends in Rouanne in France, just where it begun, with Braithwaite being unable to identify the right parrot, finding that there could even be the third parrot, indicating that his pursuit was impossible and even unnecessary. Barnes ironises these humanist notions of the narrator, suggesting how pointless it is to keep trying to find out anything about the parrot, or the life of the author, suggesting the absence of reliable answers as the only reality. He suggests this at the very end of the novel. The parrot is then the symbol of illusiveness of the truth.

Another important aspect is meta-fictionality. All postmodernist novels have the element of meta fiction. They are not only fiction, they are fiction about writing fiction. That is one of the recurrent themes. They remind us of how difficult it has become to write books, so they write books about impossibility of writing books. Sometimes it is called self-referentiality. All of the postmodernist works are self-referential, they all refer back to themselves, just as the language does. Postmodernist novels draw attention back to themselves. Postmodernist writers draw attention to the reader that what he or she is reading is a construct, a work of fiction, they keep reminding the reader of fictionality of fiction, again connected with the view that art cannot imitate reality, which undermines the Aristotelian notion of art as mimesis, so their works are anti-mimetic, anti-illusionist, they make it impossible for the reader to identify with characters. They are doing it to show that every creative act is a play. When it is a play, it is both fictional and real. When they seem most playful on the surface, they turn out to be very serious. That is the approach of postmodernist artists.

In chapter 7 titled Cross Channel, there is section about the omniscient narrator and the unreliable partial narrator in the postmodernist fiction. Barnes talks about this convention of the narrator, ridiculing and ironising it. Barnes explains how it was merely a formal device that even the artists of the old times did not believe in. He also comments on the partial narrator of the postmodernist fiction. He claims it was a “form of cubism”, the artifice is not reflection of reality. To draw attention of postmodernist novels being very playful, Barnes draw attention to the so-called authorial intrusion. Other devices include framing and inter-textuality. Barnes keeps a dialogue, a sort of debate on the literary issues, mentioning the novel with two endings to suggest that even that is an illusion, because there is always the author who is behind. The true postmodernist novel will have to have a blank page at the end, to let the reader decide what the ending would be. That would be the true postmodernist novel, that would be the true freedom. That is postmodernisms taken to the extreme. It demystifies literature as serious, elevated business, reinforcing at the same time its importance.

Authorial intrusion: Throughout Flaubert’s Parrot, the story is broken off, or delayed by the intrusion of either the narrator or the author. In the realist tradition, authorial intrusion also existed, reflected through the omniscient narrator, but now it happens for the different purpose. When the realists did it, the purpose was to uphold the illusion, not to dismantle it, as postmodernists do. These various insertions about the search for the real parrot are interconnected with the story of narrator’s life. Again the distinction here is abolished and very vague. His search for the real parrot is inseparable from his life. Geoffrey Braithwaite is obsessed with Flaubert and Madame Bovary, his major work. Barnes indicates indirectly why this story of Madame Bovary is so interesting and fascinating to Geoffrey Braithwaite, and as it turns out, there are parallels between the story of Madame Bovary and his life, in which he also had an adulteress wife who also committed suicide. He thinks that he might be responsible for the suicide of his wife. His profession was also the same as the profession of Madame Bovary’s husband, namely, he was a physician and Madame Bovary’s husband was apothecary. Not only that he identifies himself with the novel, but he also has a feeling that his life and his marriage are almost a replica of Madame Bovary. Life here imitates art, which is

a complete postmodernist inversion.

The private life of Geoffrey Braithwaite is a copy of the book. Additional irony is when we look at different frames. By studying Gustave Flaubert, Geoffrey Braithwaite hopes to be able to understand his marriage better, which is another humanist illusion, because art can never be pursued in therapeutic purposes. He thinks that if he somehow grasps better Madame Bovary, he would find a key to his own life and find out why his wife committed suicide, which is not something he is aware of, he masks it as his own intellectual pursuit. It enforces the belief that art does mingle with reality. It should not be taken as a reality, but it does contain elements of reality, and it remains very indefinite. There is another ironic juxtaposition, namely, the juxtaposition between the life of Emma Bovary and the life of Madame Bovary’s English translator whose name is Eleanor Marx, daughter of Karl Marx, in examination paper in Chapter 14. This woman who translates Madame Bovary into English feels the connection between herself and Emma Bovary. In the same Chapter, the first exam question is the relationship between art and life, so in a way, Barnes puts the reader in the role of a student, not a student of literature, but the student of life. In introduction to the exam questions, it is said: “It has become clear to the examiners in recent years that candidates are finding it increasingly difficult to distinguish between art and life. Everyone claims to understand the difference, but perceptions vary greatly. For some, life is rich and creamy, made according to old peasant recipe, from nothing but natural products, while art is a pallid commercial confection, consisting mainly of artificial colourings and flavourings.” That is the traditional view. “For others, art is the truer thing, full, bustly and emotionally satisfying, while life is worse then the poorest novel, devoid of narrative, peopled by whores and rogues, short on wit, long on unpleasant incidents and leading to a painfully predictable ending. Adherence of the latter view tends to cite Logan Smith “People say that life is the thing, but I prefer reading.” Candidates are advised not to use this quotation. Consider the relationship between art and life suggested by any two of the following statements or situations.” The text is the discourse of exam.

We are invited to think about this, which is a major goal here. Another typical postmodernist technique applied here, which we have also seen at work in the Golden Notebook, is framing, which sums up to existence of several layers of the narrator. This again reinforces the view that there is no clear distinction between art and life.

The first narrative level is the story of the physician Geoffrey Braithwaite, on that very level, already complications begin, because various real personages make appearance, like Jean Paul Sartre who is there, in addition to Enid Starky, one of the real, existing scholars specialising in French literature, thee is also Christopher Rigs, a truly existing person. This is a post modernism because it relativises Geoffrey Braithwaite as a fictional character, because he appears together with real persons who are frequently inserted.

The third level is that Geoffrey Braithwaite, the fictional character is interested in Gustave Flaubert, dead, but real writer of the 19^th century.

So, the third level is the life of Gustave Flaubert, his relationship with Louise Colette. There are other long dead persons who come to voice, there is Flaubert himself speaking n the third version of his biography, and his long dead lover, who was also a real person. Occasionally they completely supplant the first level, the level of Geoffrey Braithwaite, challenging what he knows about Flaubert’s life. We wonder who to believe, which again means that we should not be too hasty that Flaubert or Colette can offer the more reliable story. The final level is the level of fictitious characters in Flaubert’s works, namely the world of Emma Bovary, Felicity, and others, all of whom seem to Geoffrey Braithwaite as real as he is himself. So much so, that he suspects and fears that his life and his marriage had been anticipated in Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, which is particularly ironic, because we know that both Braithwaite and Emma Bovary are fiction. Furthermore, the novel Flaubert’s Parrot is the quest for the real parrot on which the fiction was based and Geoffrey Braithwaite tries to establish the exact nature of this connection. The answer is always complicated, Barnes deliberately confuses the reader to show how difficult it is to distinguish between life and fiction.

Next issue is the inter-textuality. Barnes inserts the array of different texts, which are not not necessarily traditionally associated with literature, we have texts, excerpts from students’ guides, essays, letters, portions of literary criticism, allusions to other works of art (modernist technique taken to the extreme). Other literary works alluded to here include Madame Bovary, French Lieutenant’s Woman and Lord of the Flies. So, this is no longer a novel in a traditional sense, it includes different discourses in text. It includes not only the main story, the story of Geoffrey Braithwaite, which is by no means the most prominent one in the novel, but also the author’s numerous theoretical discussions about the nature of literature, his dislike for the coincidences. According to Aristotle, accidents in the work of art are an indication of the incompetence of the artist.

There is also a passage in which the narrator expresses his hatred to critics. He is very disrespectful and provocative. It is to be found in Chapter 4 – Emma Bovary’s eyes. In this Chapter, an excerpt is given from Enid Starky’s critical overview of Flaubert’s work. Barnes ridicules this as rubbish, because this kind of information is not needed by anyone. Barnes also mocks the halo of seriousness which surrounds literary critics. He speaks of Enid Starky’s lecture and mocks her manner of speech with French accent, he says this through the narrator, Geoffrey Braithwaite. He is not irritated only with Enid Starky, he was first irritated with Flaubert, because such literary genius failed to be consistent in describing the exact colour of his most famous character’s eyes, but his anger soon shifted to Ms. Starky. He relativises the distinction between the ordinary reader and the professional critic. This passage, like many like it, has nothing to do with the action. Everything is equally worthy to be present in the novel, both the main action and the digression. In this particular Chapter he attack the attitude of literary critics, whose approach to the books is obsolete.

Another thing he deliberately abandons in the novel is chronology. There is no chronological sequence. The author himself is no longer a presiding authority. Here, Barnes abandons the norms of narrative, like chronology structure, the beginning, the middle and the end. The author can no longer expect that his moral vision of the world is binding by the reader, so he also gives up the didactic function of literature. The moral relativism concerning all kinds of moral issues makes it increasingly difficult to get anything of a message or a solution or a instruction from the novel, they merely make moral inquiries, without preaching or advocating a certain moral view. If they do preach, they preach in a way that ironises preaching. The narrator, fails not only in finding the truth, but also in trying to understand himself, both the truth and he himself, remain mysteries. Geoffrey Braithwaite has lived through a traumatic experience, he is yet to cope first with the infidelity of his wife and then with her suicide (which could have also been a murder), because he does not find a straightforward way to tell the story of his life.

Another typical postmodernist theme is the view of history or the official historiography and its relation to literature. Official history is no longer seen as the source of objective truth, because it is rooted in language, just like any other discourse. Biography is also a form of historiography. What we get to read in history books, including biographies, are only somebody else’s versions, which are inevitably subjective, and as such, they are unreliable as evidence of what has really happened. We can never know exactly what the past was like. There is always the aspect of personal perspective. He subverts the notion of scientific objectivity, because any kind of intellectual work, reflect the attitudes, the views and the values of its author. Literature, more then about anything else, speaks about its author, just as the language speaks most of itself. This means that social, moral and political prejudices, wherever they are, be it a work of literature of a history, are unreliable. Context is everything in postmodernism. Text is always embedded in some context. Historiographer in writing history, just like the novelist in writing novels, presents only one of the possible stories, based on what he or she has heard or read, often relying on equally unreliable sources. He creates out of a chaotic mess of material, which he has been able to gather about a certain historical period, to make it a meaningful piece. So historiography is fictionalised and fiction is historicised, both equally reliable and both equally unreliable. A lot of postmodernist novels deal with history.

In the end of the novel, the narrator finds himself unable to reveal the exact truth of Flaubert’s life. Illusiveness of the knowledge of the past is emphasised here.

Biographies in the Novel

The first biography emphasises the facts from Flaubert’s life. It focuses on Flaubert’s artistic, intellectual and romantic strengths and his triumphs in professional and private life.

Biography No.2, focuses on Gustave’s poor health, intellectual underdevelopment, his pitiful achievement as lover. It focuses on his downfalls and his weaknesses. It notes problems with alcoholism, problems in writing, romantic problems, etc. It even mentions how he contracted syphilis.

Flaubert’s autobiography is a compilation of Flaubert’s own thoughts on his experiences.

The narrator highlights our inability to know the truth exactly. History is just another literary genre, in the view of the narrator. History is something highly subjective presented to be objective. Cross Channel – “The past is a distant receding coastline and we are all in the same boat, along the stern rail there is a line of telescopes, each brings the shore into focus at a given distance. If the boat is becalmed, one of the telescopes will be in continual use, it will seem to tell the whole, the unchanging truth. But this is an illusion and as the boat sets off again, we return to our normal activities, scanning from one telescope to another. Seeing the sharpness fade in one, waiting for the blur to clear in another, and when the blur does clear, we imagine that we did it all by ourselves.

The Chapter “The Case Against” enumerates a number of views contrasted again against the postmodernist view, namely the view of constant progression of human race, the view of historical progression, etc. “What makes us want to know the worst? Is it that we tire of preferring to know the best? Does curiosity always hurdle self-interest, or is it simply that our desire to know the worst is love’s favourite perversion?” This is very philosophical. “For some this curiosity operates as baleful fantasy. .. I loved Ellen and I wanted to know the worst. I never provoked her, I was cautious and defensive, as is my habit. I didn’t even ask questions, but I wanted to know the worst. Ellen never returned this caress. She was fond of me, she would automatically agree as if the matter wasn’t worth discussing that she loved me. But she unquestioningly believed the best about me, that was the difference. She never searched for that sliding panel that opens the secret chamber of the heart, the chamber where memory and corpses are kept. Sometimes you find the panel, but it doesn’t open. Sometimes it opens but your gaze meets nothing but a mouse skeleton, but at least you looked. That’s the real distinction between people. Not between those who have secrets and those who don’t, but between those who want to know everything and those who don’t. This search is a sign of love.” Geoffrey Braithwaite has a very postmodernist definition of love; he makes clear distinction of people who live in illusion and those who do not. The Chapter continues with enumeration of various accusations made against Gustave Flaubert, namely that he hated democracy and humankind and that he did not believe in progress. On this third accusation, Braithwaite says: “I cite the 20^th century in his defence”. Later he says that literature is affected by politics (context), not vice versa. He discusses all sorts of issues in small segments.

John Fowles

2012-02-13T22:34:00.000+00:00

John Fowles

Biography

Born in 1926 in the middle class family in a place called Leigh at Sea.

He was living in a province which suffocated him. He then explained that his background might explained why he became something of a misanthrope early on.

Unlike modernists, who were always depressed by the modern civilisation,

postmodernists are depressed with civilisation in general.

During the WWII, he was evacuated to Devon. He was educated at Bedford school; he served in the army as the lieutenant in the royal marines, after the war,

in 1950, he graduated from Oxford,

in 1956 he married.

From 1954 to 1963 he taught at the university of Poitiers in France and in schools in Greece and England, becoming the Head of the English department at the London College in Hampstead.

He as a scholarly career, which was his official profession for quite a long time, with writing being his part time activity for quite a while.

The situation abruptly changed in 1963 because the first novel came out under the title The Collector. It was well received and he then turned to full time writing.

In 1965 another novel becomes a success; it is published under the title Magus.

In 1965 Fowles retires in a small town in Dorset, which is the setting of the French Lieutenant’s woman, so in line with his dislike with mankind, he turns to solitude and nature. He believes that the novelist has to live in a self-imposed exile. He is also an active ecologist.

In 1969 The French Lieutenant’s Woman comes out, again it is filmed in 1981. The screenplay for the film version was written by Harold Pinter. It is one of very few examples of successful film adaptation of a novel. He published a collection of stories under the title The Ebony Tower in 1974 and in 1977 Daniel Martin, in 1985 A Maggot.

The Collector 1963

Magus 1965

The French Lieutenant’s Woman 1969

The French Lieutenant’s Woman

The French Lieutenant’s Woman was highly acclaimed and even considered as one of the best books that came from England since the war.

It is a mixture of Victorian and postmodernist novel.

What makes it a Victorian novel is the setting. It also offers a brilliant picture of Victorian England, which is where the game begins.

He presents a panorama of various social classes, typical of 19^th century England. Characters are also typical of the Victorian novel. He perfectly recreates the style of writing of the time. Again, it is not a historical novel, despite all that.

It in not postmodernist novel when it comes to the form. He imitates the form of Victorian novels and recreates their style, but he does it ironically, so the novel is an ironic commentary of what he decided to put in his novel.

The novel presupposes that the reader should be well informed of the Victorian literature, values, gender roles and manners.

He wrote an essay about how he wrote this novel, under the title “Notes on writing a novel”, which was based on a journal he was keeping at the time. The initial idea came to him in a waking dream of a woman standing alone on a deserted harbour wall gazing seaward, with her back turned to the village.

This vision came to him in the fall of 1966. He began working on a story about the woman from his vision, and he knew at the beginning that the woman from the vision was associated with a long gone age.

He reduced the illusion breaking comments by the narrator.

He also switched the order of the endings, so that the conventional happy ending would not come last.

.Postmodernist method in French Lieutenant's Woman

The postmodernist aspect of the novel is primarily reflected in the role of the narrator. What is the role of the narrator?

On the one had, the narrator is the omniscient narrator, in line with the tradition of the literary realism (he stops the action, discusses certain things, he was the construct, invention of the author, just like the rest of them, he is outside the world of action, not outside the novel, he also refers to the characters in the third person, he takes the reader by the hand, he sums up for the reader, he forms the opinion of the reader, leads him almost physically and mentally. The viewpoint of the narrator is external because the narrator looks at what happens to the characters and reports it, it is external, Olympian viewpoint.

He serves the function of the mediator between the protagonist and the reader. He may be similar to the author, but it is not necessary.).

On the other hand, Fowles uses this tradition of the all knowing narrator, and plays with it in a typical post modernist way, to suggest that such type of narrator was a convention as everything else, that he was made up by the author just like the characters. As readers, we can never tell if he is ridiculing or reinforces this tradition of the omniscient narrator. It turns out he is doing both at the same time. Since these narrators are all knowing, they intervene, they control the moves of their characters. But the twist that Fowles deliberately does here, he makes his narrator the all-knowing, but also makes him not intervene, not use his power. That is how Fowles plays with the tradition of the omniscient narrator.

Fowles also applies the theory of evolution to the social context. Sara would be a prototype of a free woman, she anticipates new times. Applying Darwin’s theory of evolution, she makes Sarah the species who will successfully adapt to the coming times. Charles is yet to become an emancipated men. On the other hand, Ernestina and most of the other characters are doomed to extinction, they fail to adapt and adopt the new norms.

Postmodernism is a very playful phenomenon. On one occasion, Charles needs to make up his mind about whether he would meet Sarah in Exiter or not. That is one of the moments where the narrator intrudes on the action and addresses the reader. He says: look at him now. So he stops the action and addresses the reader. The narrator suggest that he could make Charles do what he wanted him to do, such as, go to his fiancée and forget all about Sarah. Probably, he should go to his fiancée, the narrator says, which is a reflection of Fowles’ irony, here we have through the narrator Fowles speaking and ironising the right and wrong of the time, suggesting that there is no right and wrong, but simply right and wrong from the perspective of the particular set of norms and conventions.

According to Victorian norms, what would be right for Charles to do would be to go to his fiancée and forget about the mysterious woman. He should decide not to have an affair with her, because it is right from the Victorian perspective. “That is what he should do, but he won’t, what can I do?”, says the narrator, “I could intervene, but I won’t, I am just here, I want to make my characters free (another paradox, how can we make someone free, we can only grant freedom, which only means that they are not free).”

There is also an ending. At the end of the novel, Charles enters the house, sees Sarah and they have a typical Victorian happy ending. Another indication that Sarah has completely changed and accepted the new times is reflected in the fact that Charles finds her living in the house of the artists, Pre-Raphaelites (another postmodernist element), who rejected Victorian morality, which reinforces the theory of evolution applied on the social context. Fowles deliberately associates her, the invented character of his fiction, to the Pre-Raphaelite artists who truly existed, which is another postmodernist mix. There are fictitious characters, functioning on the same level with true personages who truly existed in history.

As a result, we are confused and the borderline between fiction and reality is very thin. In the traditional happy ending, he is happy to have found her, they decide happily ever after as husband and wife and miraculously, they even have a daughter, who is the child of love, born from one sexual encounter they had.

All of the sudden, the narrator reappears, takes his watch, winds the hands of the watch backwards 15 minutes, which suggests narrator’s unlimited control and power. We then see Charles re-entering the house and we see the whole episode rerun, but with a different outcome. It is very 20^th century like ending, more in tune with the expectations of the 20^th century reader, who feels the first type of ending to be sweet, but unrealistic.

She decides to let him go, they realise that their differences are too great to be bridged, she is not very happy about the idea of marriage.

She has simply found some model, some way of life that appeals to her. She also decides not to tell him of the child. This is much more realistic, much more down to earth ending.

On his way out, Charles sees the child, and it never occurs to him it could be his child. That is another example of intervention in the name of non-intervention.

Charles is the character that develops throughout the novel, he dares not to marry Ernestina, proving, in line with the Darwin’s theory, that he will adapt to survive.

Sarah does not grow, we already find her different at the beginning of the novel. Even her first appearance in the novel establishes her as a rebel, with her back turned to the village. Only her circumstances change, and she finds her place, she finds her true, natural environment, and she no longer seems to be an outcast.

Doris Lessing

2012-02-13T22:33:00.001+00:00

Doris Lessing

Biography

She war born in Persia in 1919 of British parents.

Her father was a banker, becoming disillusioned, he had the family to move to a farm in Rhodesia, in Africa, which is today’s Zimbabwe.

The father changes from a banker to a farmer, which turned out to be a very bad move for the family, but a very good move for Doris Lessing.

She attended school in Africa, and she did not like the school very much.

She was a rather introverted, imaginative and neurotic child, according to her own account. She left school at 14 and became a nurse maid.That was a brief episode and she soon decided to return to the farm with the family.

Generally speaking, Doris Lessing was formed by Africa. She was also a passionate reader. While on the farm, she wrote two novels, but thinking they were bad, she destroyed them.

After this brief period on the farm, she returned back to Salisbury and worked there for a while as a telephone operator. During that period she socialised a lot and made a lot of friends. That way of life is described in one of her early novels, in which Martha Quest portrays Doris Lessing.

She marries for the first time to a civil servant and gives birth to a son and a daughter. Soon the marriage breaks up and she leaves the children behind.

She marries for the second time to a German officer named Lessing, who was a communist activist in Africa. In the second marriage, she gives birth to a son. This second marriage also fails very soon and she decides to leave Africa and go to England with the son from the second marriage.

She tries to establish herself in London in the post-war years and it was the first time she lived in Europe. By then, she had already destroyed six novels. So she was a prolific writer but had no confidence. She did bring along one of her novels and dared to publish it in 1950 under the title “The Grass is Singing”. It was received well by the critics.

Some of her other works during the 50s included a trilogy under the title:

The Children of Violence. Part one appeared under the title Martha Quest in 1951,

Part two under the title A Proper Marriage in 1954

Part three under the title A Ripple from the Storm.

That is the same period in which she joined the Communist Party and she had already been involved in the leftist policy while being in Rhodesia. She became disillusioned with the Communist Party and its ideology, so she left the Party in 1956.

In the next decade, the Golden Notebook, which was regarded as one of her most ambitious works, came out in 1962. It was a highly profound novel, which was not instantly recognised by the literary critics.

They claimed that literature could not be brought in connection with history, linguistics, journalism, etc. and that the context in which the work of art was created should be disregarded. For that reasons, the critics of the time failed to recognise its greatness. This is the novel that already announces post-modernism.

This was a new type of the novel, in many ways ahead of its time.

Doris Lessing was disappointed by the failure of critics.

Wherein lies the value of the book? The novel deals with a number of mutually related issues. There are three or four interconnected major themes.

One of the major ideas of the novel in general is that everything is interconnected and that we should strive to have a complete picture.

A number of closely related themes of the novel are:

the problems of writing (which is what makes this novel a post-modernist novel, the fact that the author problematic the phenomenon of art making, the position of artist, the relationship between art and life, the search for an adequate form of expression);

political issues, or maybe political and social context, where society and politics are seen quite contrary to Golding, as something that hinders the development of the individual, emotional and artistic development of the individual in both socialist or communist and capitalist systems

theme of madness or insanity, namely the experience of fragmentation of personality and the idea that such condition might be creative, and finally,

the theme of feminism, the gender issue, the study of a woman who is trying to live in a way women never lived before, namely, as a single mother striving for artistic career, working for living, and problems that arise from such a lifestyle, not only the problems imposed by the society, but also inner problems resulting from individual’s upbringing.

So, the value of the novel is in showing how complex life is. One is always reflection of the other. That is what the novel is about, that is what the title of the novel is trying to suggest, namely that it is impossible to neatly separate all of these separate aspects, because life in the 20^th century has simply become too complex.

The troubles Anna Wulf is facing as a writer or as an artist trying to write cannot be separated from her identity as a woman and from her psychological problems. Those are tree inseparable aspects of one problem, which again cannot be separated from her political activism and her political views. So all of these aspects are intertwined, but we will try to deal with them separately.

Structure

Doris Lessing liked to emphasise that the novel could not be taken merely as a personal confession, as critics declared, because it is a highly structured and carefully constructed novel.

Even from the point of view ofkjj technical skill of writing, Doris Lessing invested a special effort into structuring the novel properly, and the structure of the novel, again reflects these interconnected themes. So, the structure itself adds to the themes, or illustrates, or underlines them, namely that things cannot be separated. She deliberately broke the novel into fragments and these fragments make implicit statements about all of these main themes, such as alienation, fragmentation of the individual, etc. The novel is an attempt to break the literary form, which is similar to the effort of the modernists, just as much as it is an attempt to break social norms. Both the form and the content are original and unusual. For that reason the book was confusing to the critics of the 60s.

The central character is Anna Wulf, the writer who has not published for many years and who is suffering from the so-called writers’ block, who is in an artistic crisis.

Anna has already become famous in the novel, she is already somewhat an established writer, and the book that established her in the literary world is her novel “Frontiers of the War”, so we have a novel within a novel, which is a reflection of postmodernism already.

This novel that has made her known deals with the problem of racial issue in Africa during the WWII. So that is the theme that Anna writes in the Golden Notebook. As a protagonist, Anna Wulf feels that life has become too complex.

Much in a similar way in which Virginia Woolf had said in her essay the Narrow Bridge of Art in the early 20^th century that life has become too complex and that this complexity had to be reflected in the new type of literature and that the new type of literature should be the modernist novel.

The problem Anna experiences in the novel is that life has become so complex that it has become impossible to record it in a single book, so she tries to break these aspects of her experience into several books. She keeps four different books, at almost the same time, and each book deals with a different aspect of her life.

The four notebooks are all written in the first person and then make up the greater portion of the novel. They deal with Anna’s life during the period between 1950 and 1957. In addition to these four notebooks, there is a fifth one, in the second part of the novel, and that is the Golden Notebook, and it is no coincidence that it is the golden one, meant to suggest how precious it is. It was written by Anna in 1957, as a kind of conclusion, it is only related to events that took place in that year.

Besides these notebooks, there are also various sections of novel within the novel, which is a typical postmodernist element.

The Golden Notebook begins with the novel within the novel, not with her reality, just like in Hamlet, where we have a play within a play. In it, in this novel within a novel, Anna is having a conversation with her friends Molly, Tommy and Richard, who are her friends in her real life.

Then the notebooks follow, with excerpts from the four notebooks, always in the same order, first we have excerpts from the black notebook, followed by the red one, followed by the yellow one, and finally followed by the blue one (there is also a colour symbolism) after that, there is another section of free women following, and then come the four notebooks again. That is the general structure of the novel.

Altogether, we have four sections of the Free Women, always followed by the sections from the notebooks, always in the same order. After the last of the four repetitions, comes the section called the Golden Notebook. After that, we have the final, fifth section of the Fee Women, ending the novel.

So the novel begins and ends with the novel within the novel.

The reader finds it very difficult to distinguish reality from fiction, which is a technique typical for postmodernism.

The relationship between the sections of Fee Women, her novel and the notebooks which portray her reality is of central importance because it determines both the structure and the form, and the structure and the form reflect the main themes

Postmodernists write in a very playful, seemingly superficial way, their tone is disrespectful, they challenge all notions inherited from modernism and preceding literary schools, they doubt in the very existence of personality or absolute truth, objective truth. They say it always depends on the point of view, so there is no universal truth, but there are truths and realities.

Theme of Insanity

Lessing coins in her novel the liberating experience of madness.

Anna journeys deep into her consciousness, she has to cast off her ego completely, and through that, she gains a more complex vision.

So madness can potentially be the source of great knowledge of oneself and one’s environment.

The theme of madness recurs in her novels. She goes to the edge and back. She is then rewarded with integration, which she achieves after having surmounted fragmentation. While she experiences disintegration and while suffering from the artistic block, she goes to psychiatric sessions, which are unsuccessful, which is a criticism of organised therapy. It is unsuccessful because her therapist believes she needs to neutralise her painful experiences.

Anna disagrees with it, and she believes that all of her feelings may be a sign of courage, sensitivity, superiority and that they might be constructive rather then destructive, because it is these feelings that make us look beyond the surface. She manages to achieve this new kind of unity taking enormous effort. She must resolve several dualities, paradoxes; she needs to learn to cling to her emotions, despite the difficulty of enduring the pain, rather then burying them.

Theme of Politics

Political system and society hinder creative development of personality in both communism and capitalism. She shows that everything is a construct and everything is ideology. That is the realisation that Anna comes to.

Doris Lessing was influenced by Marxist philosophy and communism, just as is her protagonist Anna, who shares the political view of her maker and her later disappointment.

Doris Lessing goes a step further and suggests that there is no essential difference between the communist systems and modern democracies.

The literature of the west which presents itself as free, is just as false. Western literary practices are just as much connected with ideology and the rhetoric of freedom as the Russian soc-realistic art.

The central question for her is how to oppose the system, not communist system, but she, implanted in the western system, tries to oppose it by using the language and literary conventions and practices forged and shaped by the system, so for her, the central question is how to use the system against itself.There is a blacklisted American writer named Nelson, who appears in the Golden Notebook, who speaks in the novel about the American kind of oppression, for which he claims is efficient because it works in a subtle way. They, meaning the state apparatus, do not need prison and firing squads to beat people and force them into obedience. They work in the subtle way, they use the rhetoric of freedom, but in reality, they have very subtle mechanisms of preventing people from succeeding.

Both systems use sate and unreal jargon to keep people obedient.

Theme of Gender or Feminism

Gender roles are a construct, like everything else.

The gender roles (not sex roles, as sex is a biological category) are something completely different, although they are presented as something completely natural, so we see ideology at work again. So gender roles are artificial constructs created for real men and real women. But in order to be efficient, they are presented as natural, unfortunately they are successfully sold to people as natural. Anna realises her becoming conscious citizen in this sense. Male critics have tried to discredit Doris Lessing and condemn the Golden Notebook as too narrow in scope. It is all but narrow. They tried to claim that the book is too concerned with feminism, probably because they were provoked by a rather unflattering picture of men. The truth is that feminism is only one of several issues and unfavourable review of the book by male critics claimed that all of her uncertainties she experiences in the novel, namely her artistic and intellectual crisis, her uncertainty about her political beliefs, her unhappiness with her love life, were all the result of her sexual frustration, deliberately trying to reduce it to all that. With time, this view changed. Even those who admitted that the book was interesting for her reflection on feminine experience, denied its artistic quality. Women greeted the book, calling it the first “Tampax” in world literature, because never were the menstruation and tampons mentioned in literature.

The feminist issue here is reflected in the woman’s position in the 20^th century. Anna changes as an individual, as an artist, as a political thinker, but also as a woman.

In her novel, all of her female and male characters act as cripples, because they act in accordance with the prescribed gender roles,

The major idea is that gender roles are limiting and they had to be redefined, along with the entire relationship between men and women.

Doris Lessing repeatedly refused to be classified as the feminist writer, she was never involved in organised feminism. Still, the book is feminist because it focuses on female fears, the fears that Anna has and how necessary it is to be reborn, how necessary it is to oppose the traditional models, which starts with fighting oneself first, which is what Anna comes to realise.

Another thing that she needs to overcome is this typical female fear of being alone and finally, she needs to overcome her emotional dependence on men. She believes she needs to be dependent on a man to love some man, as if to justify her own existence. So now, she needs to view herself not through her attachment with some man, but through her attachment to herself. That does not mean that the relationships should stop. Only through confrontation with these fears, she arrives at the new position, so her vision which is partly hinted at, at the end of the novel is a transformation of gender roles. But the woman needs to work on herself, not just blame it all on others, and with transformation of women, what comes as the next necessary rtthing is the transformation of men as well and the society as a whole. She examines these western values of competition, materialism, individualism, which are seen as very negative things at times, and never focuses exclusively on women.

William Golding

2012-02-13T22:32:00.000+00:00

William Golding

Biography

From childhood on, he was drawn to the unpleasant and the dark. He had generally very pessimistic view of human ability.

He wrote an autobiographical piece under the title the Ladder and the Tree in which he describes the house in which he was raised as being under the shadow of a nearby graveyard.

At the age of seven, he became fascinated with the ancient Egyptian civilization, its world view and its mysticism.

His first work entitled Poems (1934) had a conventional, Georgian form, but the attitude reflected in it was of the feeling of loss and satire.

Before having written The Lord of the Flies, he experienced two things that affected his further work.

First was that he served in the navy during the WWII

and the second was that he learned ancient Greek.

Golding’s novels frequently involve a change of perspective.

Lord of the Flies (1954) is still his most popular work of art. This novel astonished, appalled and consternated many people because it reflected what many understood in private.

It revealed that men enjoyed violence. He was not modernist himself in terms of form, but his pessimism and scepticism made him close to modernists.

He wanted to show that aggression and violence were particularly appealing to the humankind.

Scholars have competed in determining the form of the novel. (Is it an allegory, is it a parable, is it a science fiction, it is a romance). We see it either as a moral fable, or as a social fable.

Another important note is that the title itself is highly suggestive; Lord of the Flies in Bible is the devil. There are various contradictory interpretations of the novel.

The Lord of the Flies

The story itself is very simple. On the surface, it is just a regular adventure story. The basis is a simple adventure story of a group of boys who are trying to survive on the deserted island after the shipwreck, much like the story of Robinson Crusoe or the Treasure Island.

If we read it as a moral fable, the novel concentrates on human psyche. It examines psychological disintegration of characters; we have a group of boys who are seen as representatives of various patterns of behaviour, various instincts and various aspects of personality. All of them symbolize almost allegorically one of these aspects. Each boy character stands for a particular aspect of human behaviour.

Piggy stands for intelligence, reason and civilisation. Piggy, associated with pig is not negative quality, but just the opposite, because pigs are believed to be intelligent animals. Glasses he wears reinforce this symbolism; he is the character who analyses, looks under the surface of things.

Jack stands for evil and destructive instincts in human nature. He stands for the darkest drives within human beings. He is also very manipulative and charismatic person.

Ralph symbolises a natural born leader, politician, statesman, capable of either good or bad, depending on a context in which he is placed.

Simon is a saint – like figure. Simon stands for honesty and decency; that is what makes him a saint–like figure. The author wants to show that such decency and honesty in our world strikes us as something out of place, something naïve. He is a Jesus like figure.

The problem is that each of the characters lacks some vital element, and none of them is a complete person.

So, if we read the novel as the moral fable, the novel is not about the devil (Beelzebub – The Lord of the Flies), though the title suggests it, it is about an unconscious level of the human mind. The title and its suggestion to devil, suggests the dark, immoral, most primitive drive of the human mind, which is present in each of us and which is devastating when come to the surface.

Golding wants to show that some people are capable of acting morally, when put into extreme situations they prove able to resist evil and take moral action. Simon, being a saint like figure, proves capable to resist the instinct which he recognises in himself and admit the evil in himself. That is one of the most important points that Golding wants to make. In order to act morally, the first and the most important step is to recognise the evil in oneself and admit it. Denying evil is no answer. That is what makes Simon a saint like figure.

Other characters do not have the ability that Simon has, the ability of moral behaviour. All of the other characters are not capable of that, because they do not consciously admit the existence of the evil within themselves, they are unable to recognise it. Instead, they try to rationalise it, they try to find justification for it, they try to blame the other for it, they try to find the scapegoats. They find various kinds of excuses for what is not excusable.

When we look at Ralph, who in contrast to Simon, we find he lacks moral imagination. He is not capable of recognising his own motives, he is motivated by selfishness, at times, blind selfishness, and usually he places his personal interest above the interest of the community and puts everyone in danger. That is exactly what political leaders are often accused of, namely, of taking their own interest to be more important then the interest of the community.

This novel shows immense pessimism of its author. Establishing order in the society has much to do with individual recognition. That is what revolutions proved throughout the history. It one wants to reform the society from above, such attempt will likely fail, because the true change can only come from the individual. This is the point of awareness raising campaigns of today. Society is just the sum of individuals; one cannot change the society if individuals are not changed.

Individual reform requires one’s own awareness of one’s own evil deep inside, inclination towards savagery, inevitably leads to anarchy, chaos, deterioration. He has a very positive view of society, unlike most modernists.

To Golding, nature is opposed to culture, nature suggests instincts, animalistic drives, anarchic forces, while culture suggest civilisation, control of one’s instincts, society, laws of behaviour. Golding believed that society, no matter how faulty and imperfect, was the only true environment for men.

We see at the very beginning that when boys are physically put into the nature, they automatically try to establish some form of the society; unfortunately they fail in their ‘project’. According to Golding, the society ensures that the evil would be kept in check, that is what the government structure is there for.

Looking at another aspect of the novel, namely the novel as a social fable, the novel becomes a very harsh satire, anti utopian social satire.

What Golding presents in the novel is not an utopia, he tricks the reader at the beginning into believing it would turn out to be the utopia, but it turns out quite the opposite, the so-called dystopia. The society created by the boys on the island symbolises the society in general and the boys symbolise the human race in general.

One interpretation would also be that this island society stands for all primitive societies at the beginning of their development, without the organised structures of state apparatus..

The reason adults were shocked with what they have seen on the island is the result of their own inability to recognise this evil that resides in all human beings, children and adults alike. The ruin that the boys bring upon themselves is universal.

In the chapter Beast from the Water, Golding offers not only different elements of human psyche, but also various possible elements of social system.

In this case it is a very dark social satire. It shows how intelligence (Piggy) and common sense (Ralph) will always be overthrown by totalitarianism (Jack) or savagery (Roger). It is a very pessimistic view. According to Golding, every kind of system, including this parliamentarian system, seem to be inefficient. He also suggests that totalitarian leaders, such as Jack, obviously have some charismatic ability to appeal to the darkest in us.

The novel can be read as a dramatisation of an extreme political scenario, which shows how democracy, a responsible kind of a system, which is unfortunately boring to most people, can quickly be replaced by totalitarianism. The charismatic, the totalitarian, the evil, always seem to be more exciting to most people then the good. When we look at the context (1954) it must be brought in connection with disillusionment of the author after the war.

James Joyce (1882-1941)

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James Joyce

Biography

James Joyce (1882-1941), Irish novelist, noted for his experimental use of language in such works as Ulysses (1922) and Finnegans Wake (1939).

Joyce's technical innovations in the art of the novel include an extensive use of interior monologue; he used a complex network of symbolic parallels drawn from the mythology, history, and literature, and created a unique language of invented words, puns, and allusions.

James Joyce was born in Dublin, on February 2, 1882, as the son of John Stanislaus Joyce, an impoverished gentleman, who had failed in a distillery business and tried all kinds of professions, including politics and tax collecting. Joyce's mother, Mary Jane Murray, was ten years younger than her husband. She was an accomplished pianist, whose life was dominated by the Roman Catholic Church. In spite of their poverty, the family struggled to maintain a solid middle-class facade.

Joyce's first publication was an essay on Ibsen's play When We Dead Awaken. It appeared in the Fortnightly Review in 1900. At this time he also began writing lyric poems.

After graduation in 1902 the twenty-year-old Joyce went to Paris, where he worked as a journalist, teacher and in other occupations under difficult financial conditions. He spent a year in France, returning when a telegram arrived saying his mother was dying.

Not long after her death, Joyce was traveling again. He left Dublin in 1904 with Nora Barnacle, a chambermaid who he married in 1931.

Joyce published Dubliners in 1914,

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man in 1916, a play Exilesin 1918 and Ulysses in 1922. In 1907 Joyce had published a collection of poems, Chamber Music.

At the outset of the First World War, Joyce moved with his family to Zürich.

Next to Virginia Woolf, he is one of the two most prominent modernist artists. He is a contemporary of Virginia Woolf, both were born and both died in the same years.

His entire work represents a rebellion against tradition, namely against Catholicism, which was deeply rooted in Ireland.

He had an offer just like Stephen Dedalus and just like Dedalus, he refused because he was drawn to the art, again, just like Dedalus, Joyce’s alter ego.

He was under a strong influence of Henry Ibsen, who promoted in his works a very modernist idea of the need of each individual to break free from the tradition. That is something that appealed to James Joyce, and he became a rebel breaking without mercy all ties with the tradition. He was not afraid like Clarissa Dalloway to betray the expectations of his family, his teachers, his society, probably because being a man, it was easier to him. He felt himself constantly constraint by the norm and rules.

A Portrait of Artist as a Young Man

A Portrait of Artist as a Young Man is Joyce’s first serious novel, where the technique of the stream of consciousness and interior monologue are employed.

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man tells the story of Stephen Dedalus, a boy growing up in Ireland at the end of the nineteenth century, as he gradually decides to cast off all his social, familial, and religious constraints to live a life devoted to the art of writing. As a young boy, Stephen's Catholic faith and Irish nationality heavily influence him.

Stephen's father, Simon, is inept with money, and the family sinks deeper and deeper into debt.

After a summer spent in the company of his Uncle Charles, Stephen learns that the family cannot afford to send him back to Clongowes, and that they will instead move to Dublin. Stephen starts attending a prestigious day school called Belvedere, where he grows to excel as a writer and as an actor in the student theater.

His first sexual experience, with a young Dublin prostitute, unleashes a storm of guilt and shame in Stephen, as he tries to reconcile his physical desires with the stern Catholic morality of his surroundings. For a while, he ignores his religious upbringing, throwing himself with debauched abandon into a variety of sins—masturbation, gluttony, and more visits to prostitutes, among others.

Then, on a three-day religious retreat, Stephen hears a trio of fiery sermons about sin, judgment, and hell.

Deeply shaken, the young man decides to (resolves to= rededicate himself to a life of Christian piety.

Stephen begins attending Mass every day, becoming a model of Catholic piety, abstinence, and self-denial.

-His religious devotion is so pronounced that the director of his school asks him to consider entering the priesthood.

After briefly considering the offer, Stephen realizes that the austerity of the priestly life is utterly incompatible with his love for sensual beauty.

That day, Stephen learns from his sister that the family will be moving, once again for financial reasons. Stephen goes for a walk on the beach, where he observes a young girl wading in the tide. He is struck by her beauty, and realizes, in a moment of epiphany, that the love and desire of beauty should not be a source of shame.

Stephen resolves to live his life to the fullest, and vows not to be constrained by the boundaries of his family, his nation, and his religion.

Stephen moves on to the university, where he develops a number of strong friendships, and is especially close with a young man named Cranly. In a series of conversations with his companions, Stephen works to formulate his theories about art.

While he is dependent on his friends as listeners,

he is also determined to create an independent existence, liberated from the expectations of friends and family.

He becomes more and more determined to free himself from all limiting pressures, and eventually decides to leave Ireland to escape them.

Like his namesake, the mythical Daedalus, Stephen hopes to build himself wings on which he can fly above all obstacles and achieve a life as an artist.