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TIME: Almanac 1990
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1990 Time Magazine Compact Almanac, The (1991)(Time).iso
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103089
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10308900.070
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1990-09-18
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BOOKS, Page 90Upstairs, DownstairsBy Paul Gray
THE REMAINS OF THE DAY
by Kazuo Ishiguro
Knopf; 245 pages; $18.95
For many people, the idea of the great houses of Britain
induces reveries of a civilized Eden. Never mind that most of these
establishments are now defunct or shells of their former selves;
the graceful existence they once accommodated, celebrated in novels
and films, lives on. Morning strolls across rolling lawns, with
tatters of mist clinging to the ancient oaks and hedgerows. Inside,
an assembly of witty weekend guests. Tea at 4; whisky and soda at
6. A sumptuous meal, with candlelight glancing off starched white
shirtfronts, bare shoulders and glittering jewelry. Port and
cigars, conversation and billiards. And then to bed.
This fantasy, not to mention the reality it enhances, pays
little heed to the army of underlings who made these idle splendors
possible. In The Remains of the Day, Kazuo Ishiguro tries to right
that imbalance: he reconstructs in fiction the world of a stately
home in its heyday, between the two world wars, from the point of
view of a butler.
Ishiguro's mastery of this subject and its proper tone are
uncanny. Born in Nagasaki in 1954, he was brought to England with
his family six years later and educated there. His two earlier
novels were set in Japan, but this one displays a sure grasp of
another island culture -- England's -- that has been notoriously
impervious to outsiders and immigrants. Furthermore, the young
author writes with assurance about events that took place before
he was born, and he does so in the utterly convincing voice of an
aging Englishman.
Stevens has been the butler at Darlington Hall in Oxfordshire
since 1922. It is now 1956, and his new employer, an American named
Mr. Farraday, encourages the butler to take a brief vacation in the
owner's vintage Ford. Stevens hesitantly agrees. Running Darlington
Hall with a staff of four, which Mr. Farraday has requested, as
opposed to the 17 assistants Stevens once supervised, has been hard
on his nerves. A drive to the West Country might do him good.
Besides, Stevens has received a letter from Miss Kenton, the
housekeeper who resigned in 1936 to be married, revealing that she
has left her husband. He will see her in Cornwall, encourage her
to return to her old position and thus combine pleasure with
business.
Ostensibly, Stevens sets out to write an account of his motor
trip. But he tells a story that he only begins to understand when
it and his journey are all but over. He cannot forget Lord
Darlington, dead now three years, the gentleman whom he served for
so long. He defends his late master against the initially
unspecified "utter nonsense" that has been written and spoken about
him since the end of World War II. And he fusses over the
attributes that create a "great" butler, finally coming up with a
definition that satisfies him: "And let me now posit this:
`dignity' has to do crucially with a butler's ability not to
abandon the professional being he inhabits."
By this standard, Stevens has succeeded admirably. He looks
back with pride to the "turning point" in his life, the 1923
conference arranged by Lord Darlington to persuade an array of
international guests to ease or repeal the postwar penalties on
Germany. While his father, an underbutler at Darlington Hall, lies
in his room dying of a stroke, Stevens serves after-dinner drinks
with tears streaming down his face. Told that his father's struggle
is over, he responds, "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."
His professional armor also protects him against Miss Kenton,
who occasionally grows more familiar with him than propriety allows
and who seems to tease him with accounts of her suitor in a nearby
village. When she tells him she has accepted a proposal, he
congratulates her and goes on about his work. This may have been
the occasion, it now occurs to him, on which he heard her crying
behind a closed door.
Eventually, even someone as composed as Stevens cannot fight
off the burden of his memories. He has given his life to a man who
was at best a well-meaning ninny and, at worst, during the '30s,
a dupe of the Nazis. Stevens' devotion to an imposed role drove
Miss Kenton into the arms of her second choice. He breaks into
tears at the end: "I can't even say I made my own mistakes. Really
-- one has to ask oneself -- what dignity is there in that?"
The answer is, oddly enough, plenty. The Remains of the Day may
be an insidious indictment of the British class system. It is also
a remarkably textured tribute to those -- upstairs, downstairs --
who brought the whole show off with such convincing, if illusory,
panache.