WHAT A STRANGE time this has been. Today, on the morning of my seventy-seventh birthday, I decided1 to make one last visit to the Imperial War Museum library in Lambeth. It suited my peculiar3 state of mind. The reading room, housed right up in the dome5 of the building, was formerly6 the chapel7 of the Royal Bethlehem Hospital—the old Bedlam8. Where the unhinged once came to offer their prayers, scholars now gather to research the collective insanity9 of war. The car the family was sending was not due until after lunch, so I thought I would distract myself, checking final details, and saying my farewells to the Keeper of Documents, and to the cheerful porters who have been escorting me up and down in the lift during these wintry weeks. I also intended to donate to the archives my dozen long letters from old Mr. Nettle10. It was a birthday present to myself, I suppose, to pass an hour or two in a half-pretense of seeming busy, fussing about with those little tasks of housekeeping that come at the end, and are part of the reluctant process of letting go. In the same mood, I was busy in my study yesterday afternoon; now the drafts are in order and dated, the photocopied11 sources labeled, the borrowed books ready for return, and everything is in the right box file. I’ve always liked to make a tidy finish.
It was too cold and wet, and I was feeling too troubled to go by public transport. I took a taxi from Regent’s Park, and in the long crawl through central London I thought of those sad inmates13 of Bedlam who were once a source of general entertainment, and I reflected in a self-pitying way on how I was soon to join their ranks. The results of my scan have come through and I went to see my doctor about them yesterday morning. It was not good news. This was the way he put it as soon as I sat down. My headaches, the sensation of tightness around the temples, have a particular and sinister14 cause. He pointed15 out some granular smears16 across a section of the scan. I noticed how the pencil tip quivered in his hand, and I wondered if he too was suffering some neural17 disorder18. In the spirit of shoot the messenger, I rather hoped he was. I was experiencing, he said, a series of tiny, nearly imperceptible strokes. The process will be slow, but my brain, my mind, is closing down. The little failures of memory that dog us all beyond a certain point will become more noticeable, more debilitating19, until the time will come when I won’t notice them because I will have lost the ability to comprehend anything at all. The days of the week, the events of the morning, or even ten minutes ago, will be beyond my reach. My phone number, my address, my name and what I did with my life will be gone. In two, three or four years’ time, I will not recognize my remaining oldest friends, and when I wake in the morning, I will not recognize that I am in my own room. And soon I won’t be, because I will need continuous care.
I have vascular20 dementia, the doctor told me, and there was some comfort to be had. There’s the slowness of the undoing21, which he must have mentioned a dozen times. Also, it’s not as bad as Alzheimer’s, with its mood swings and aggression22. If I’m lucky, it might turn out to be somewhat benign23. I might not be unhappy—just a dim old biddy in a chair, knowing nothing, expecting nothing. I had asked him to be frank, so I could not complain. Now he was hurrying me out. There were twelve people in his waiting room wanting their turn. In summary, as he helped me into my coat, he gave me the route map: loss of memory, short- and long-term, the disappearance24 of single words—simple nouns might be the first to go—then language itself, along with balance, and soon after, all motor control, and finally the autonomous25 nervous system. Bon voyage!
I wasn’t distressed26, not at first. On the contrary, I was elated and urgently wanted to tell my closest friends. I spent an hour on the phone breaking my news. Perhaps I was already losing my grip. It seemed so momentous27. All afternoon I pottered about in my study with my housekeeping chores, and by the time I finished, there were six new box files on the shelves. Stella and John came over in the evening and we ordered in some Chinese food. Between them they drank two bottles of Morgon. I drank green tea. My charming friends were devastated28 by my description of my future. They’re both in their sixties, old enough to start fooling themselves that seventy-seven is still young. Today, in the taxi, as I crossed London at walking pace in the freezing rain, I thought of little else. I’m going mad, I told myself. Let me not be mad. But I couldn’t really believe it. Perhaps I was nothing more than a victim of modern diagnostics; in another century it would have been said of me that I was old and therefore losing my mind. What else would I expect? I’m only dying then, I’m fading into unknowing.
My taxi was cutting through the back streets of Bloomsbury, past the house where my father lived after his second marriage, and past the basement flat where I lived and worked all through the fifties. Beyond a certain age, a journey across the city becomes uncomfortably reflective. The addresses of the dead pile up. We crossed the square where Leon heroically nursed his wife, and then raised his boisterous29 children with a devotion that amazed us all. One day I too will prompt a moment’s reflection in the passenger of a passing cab. It’s a popular shortcut30, the Inner Circle of Regent’s Park.
We crossed the river at Waterloo Bridge. I sat forward on the edge of my seat to take in my favorite view of the city, and as I turned my neck, downstream to St. Paul’s, upstream to Big Ben, the full panoply31 of tourist London in between, I felt myself to be physically32 well and mentally intact, give or take the headaches and a little tiredness. However withered33, I still feel myself to be exactly the same person I’ve always been. Hard to explain that to the young. We may look truly reptilian34, but we’re not a separate tribe. In the next year or two, however, I will be losing my claim to this familiar protestation. The seriously ill, the deranged35, are another race, an inferior race. I won’t let anyone persuade me otherwise.
My cabbie was cursing. Over the river, roadworks were forcing us on a detour36 toward the old County Hall. As we swung off the roundabout there, toward Lambeth, I had a glimpse of St. Thomas’s Hospital. It took a clobbering37 in the Blitz—I wasn’t there, thank God—and the replacement38 buildings and the tower block are a national disgrace. I worked in three hospitals in the duration—Alder Hey and the Royal East Sussex as well as St. Thomas’s—and I merged39 them in my description to concentrate all my experiences into one place. A convenient distortion, and the least of my offenses40 against veracity41.
It was raining less heavily as the driver made a neat U-turn in the middle of the road to bring us outside the main gates of the museum. With the business of gathering42 up my bag, finding a twenty-pound note and unfolding my umbrella, I did not notice the car parked immediately in front until my cab pulled away. It was a black Rolls. For a moment I thought it was unattended. In fact, the chauffeur44 was a diminutive45 fellow almost lost behind the front wheel. I’m not sure that what I am about to describe really rates as a startling coincidence. I occasionally think of the Marshalls whenever I see a parked Rolls without a driver. It’s become a habit over the years. They often pass through my mind, usually without generating any particular feeling. I’ve grown used to the idea of them. They still appear in the newspapers occasionally, in connection with their Foundation and all its good work for medical research, or the collection they’ve donated to the Tate, or their generous funding of agricultural projects in sub-Saharan Africa. And her parties, and their vigorous libel actions against national newspapers. It was not remarkable47 that Lord and Lady Marshall passed through my thoughts as I approached those massive twin guns in front of the museum, but it was a shock to see them coming down the steps toward me.
A posse of officials—I recognized the museum’s director—and a single photographer made up a farewell party. Two young men held umbrellas over the Marshalls’ heads as they descended48 the steps by the columns. I held back, slowing my pace rather than stopping and drawing attention to myself. There was a round of handshakes, and a chorus of genial49 laughter at something Lord Marshall said. He leaned on a walking stick, the lacquered cane50 that I think has become something of a trademark51. He and his wife and the director posed for the camera, then the Marshalls came away, accompanied by the suited young men with the umbrellas. The museum officials remained on the steps. My concern was to see which way the Marshalls would go so that I could avoid a head-on encounter. They chose to pass the guns on their left, so I did the same.
Concealed52 partly by the raised barrels and their concrete emplacements, partly by my tilted53 umbrella, I kept hidden, but still managed a good look. They went by in silence. He was familiar from his photographs. Despite the liver spots and the purplish swags under his eyes, he at last appeared the cruelly handsome plutocrat, though somewhat reduced. Age had shrunk his face and delivered the look he had always fallen short of by a fraction. It was his jaw54 that had scaled itself down—bone loss had been kind. He was a little doddery and flat-footed, but he walked reasonably well for a man of eighty-eight. One becomes a judge of these things. But his hand was firmly on her arm and the stick was not just for show. It has often been remarked upon, how much good he did in the world. Perhaps he’s spent a lifetime making amends55. Or perhaps he just swept onward56 without a thought, to live the life that was always his.
As for Lola—my high-living, chain-smoking cousin—here she was, still as lean and fit as a racing57 dog, and still faithful. Who would have dreamed it? This, as they used to say, was the side on which her bread was buttered. That may sound sour, but it went through my mind as I glanced across at her. She wore a sable58 coat and a scarlet59 wide-brimmed fedora. Bold rather than vulgar. Near on eighty years old, and still wearing high heels. They clicked on the pavement with the sound of a younger woman’s stride. There was no sign of a cigarette. In fact, there was an air of the health farm about her, and an indoor tan. She was taller than her husband now, and there was no doubting her vigor46. But there was also something comic about her—or was I clutching at straws? She was heavy on the makeup60, quite garish61 around the mouth and liberal with the smoothing cream and powder. I’ve always been a puritan in this, so I count myself an unreliable witness. I thought there was a touch of the stage villain62 here—the gaunt figure, the black coat, the lurid63 lips. A cigarette holder64, a lapdog tucked under one arm and she could have been Cruella De Vil.
We passed by each other in a matter of seconds. I went on up the steps, then stopped under the pediment, out of the rain, to watch the group make its way to the car. He was helped in first, and I saw then how frail65 he was. He couldn’t bend at the waist, nor could he take his own weight on one foot. They had to lift him into his seat. The far door was held open for Lady Lola who folded herself in with a terrible agility66. I watched the Rolls pull away into the traffic, then I went in. Seeing them laid something heavy on my heart, and I was trying not to think about it, or feel it now. I already had enough to deal with today. But Lola’s health was on my mind as I gave my bag in at the cloakroom, and exchanged cheery good mornings with the porters. The rule here is that one must be escorted up to the reading room in a lift, whose cramped67 space makes small talk compulsory68 as far as I’m concerned. As I made it—shocking weather, but improvements were due by the weekend—I couldn’t resist thinking about my encounter outside in the fundamental terms of health: I might outlive Paul Marshall, but Lola would certainly outlive me. The consequences of this are clear. The issue has been with us for years. As my editor put it once, publication equals litigation. But I could hardly face that now. There was already enough that I didn’t want to be thinking about. I had come here to be busy.
I spent a while chatting with the Keeper of Documents. I handed over the bundle of letters Mr. Nettle wrote me about Dunkirk—most gratefully received. They’ll be stored with all the others I’ve given. The Keeper had found me an obliging old colonel of the Buffs, something of an amateur historian himself, who had read the relevant pages of my typescript and faxed through his suggestions. His notes were handed to me now—irascible, helpful. I was completely absorbed by them, thank God.
“Absolutely no [underlined twice] soldier serving with the British army would say ‘On the double.’ Only an American would give such an order. The correct term is ‘At the double.’”
I love these little things, this pointillist approach to verisimilitude, the correction of detail that cumulatively69 gives such satisfaction.
“No one would ever think of saying ‘twenty-five-pound guns.’ The term was either ‘twenty-five pounders’ or ‘twenty-five-pounder guns.’ Your usage would sound distinctly bizarre, even to a man who was not with the Royal Artillery70.”
Like policemen in a search team, we go on hands and knees and crawl our way toward the truth.
“You have your RAF chappie wearing a beret. I really don’t think so. Outside the Tank Corps71, even the army didn’t have them in 1940. I think you’d better give the man a forage72 cap.”
Finally, the colonel, who began his letter by addressing me as “Miss Tallis,” allowed some impatience73 with my sex to show through. What was our kind doing anyway, meddling74 in these affairs?
“Madame [underlined three times]—a Stuka does not carry ‘a single thousand-ton bomb.’ Are you aware that a navy frigate75 hardly weighs that much? I suggest you look into the matter further.”
Merely a typo. I meant to type “pound.” I made a note of these corrections, and wrote a letter of thanks to the colonel. I paid for some photocopies76 of documents which I arranged into orderly piles for my own archives. I returned the books I had been using to the front desk, and threw away various scraps77 of paper. The work space was cleared of all traces of me. As I said my goodbyes to the Keeper, I learned that the Marshall Foundation was about to make a grant to the museum. After a round of handshaking with the other librarians, and my promise to acknowledge the department’s help, a porter was called to see me down. Very kindly79, the girl in the cloakroom called a taxi, and one of the younger members of the door staff carried my bag all the way out to the pavement.
During the ride back north, I thought about the colonel’s letter, or rather, about my own pleasure in these trivial alterations80. If I really cared so much about facts, I should have written a different kind of book. But my work was done. There would be no further drafts. These were the thoughts I had as we entered the old tram tunnel under the Aldwych, just before I fell asleep. When I was woken by the driver, the cab was outside my flat in Regent’s Park.
I filed away the papers I had brought from the library, made a sandwich, then packed an overnight case. I was conscious as I moved about my flat, from one familiar room to another, that the years of my independence could soon be over. On my desk was a framed photograph of my husband, Thierry, taken in Marseille two years before he died. One day I would be asking who he was. I soothed81 myself by spending time choosing a dress to wear for my birthday dinner. The process was actually rejuvenating82. I’m thinner than I was a year ago. As I trailed my fingers along the racks I forgot about the diagnosis83 for minutes on end. I decided on a shirtwaisted cashmere dress in dove gray. Everything followed easily then: a white satin scarf held by Emily’s cameo brooch, patent court shoes—low-heeled, of course—a black dévoré shawl. I closed the case and was surprised by how light it seemed as I carried it into the hallway.
My secretary would be coming in tomorrow, before I returned. I left her a note, setting out the work I wanted her to do, then I took a book and a cup of tea and sat in an armchair at a window with a view over the park. I’ve always been good at not thinking about the things that are really troubling me. But I was not able to read. I felt excited. A journey into the country, a dinner in my honor, a renewal85 of family bonds. And yet I’d had one of those classic conversations with a doctor. I should have been depressed86. Was it possible that I was, in the modern term, in denial? Thinking this changed nothing. The car was not due for another half hour and I was restless. I got out of the chair, and went up and down the room a few times. My knees hurt if I sit too long. I was haunted by the thought of Lola, the severity of that gaunt old painted face, her boldness of stride in the perilous87 high heels, her vitality88, ducking into the Rolls. Was I competing with her as I trod the carpet between the fireplace and the Chesterfield? I always thought the high life, the cigarettes, would see her off. Even in our fifties I thought that. But at eighty she has a voracious89, knowing look. She was always the superior older girl, one step ahead of me. But in that final important matter, I will be ahead of her, while she’ll live on to be a hundred. I will not be able to publish in my lifetime.
The Rolls must have turned my head, because the car when it came—fifteen minutes late—was a disappointment. Such things do not usually trouble me. It was a dusty minicab, whose rear seat was covered in nylon fur with a zebra pattern. But the driver, Michael, was a cheerful West Indian lad who took my case and made a fuss of sliding the front passenger seat forward for me. Once it was established that I would not tolerate the thumping90 music at any volume from the speakers on the ledge78 behind my head, and he had recovered from a little sulkiness, we got along well and talked about families. He had never known his father, and his mother was a doctor at the Middlesex Hospital. He himself graduated in law from Leicester University, and now he was going to the LSE to write a doctoral thesis on law and poverty in the third world. As we headed out of London by the dismal91 Westway, he gave me his condensed version: no property law, therefore no capital, therefore no wealth.
“There’s a lawyer talking,” I said. “Drumming up business for yourself.”
He laughed politely, though he must have thought me profoundly stupid. It is quite impossible these days to assume anything about people’s educational level from the way they talk or dress or from their taste in music. Safest to treat everyone you meet as a distinguished92 intellectual.
After twenty minutes we had spoken enough, and as the car reached a motorway94 and the engine settled into an unvarying drone, I fell asleep again and when I woke we were on a country road, and a painful tightness was around my forehead. I took from my handbag three aspirins which I chewed and swallowed with distaste. Which portion of my mind, of my memory, had I lost to a minuscule95 stroke while I was asleep? I would never know. It was then, in the back of that tinny little car, that I experienced for the first time something like desperation. Panic would be too strong a word. Claustrophobia was part of it, helpless confinement96 within a process of decay, and a sensation of shrinking. I tapped Michael’s shoulder and asked him to turn on his music. He assumed I was indulging him because we were close to our destination, and he refused. But I insisted, and so the thumping twangy bass97 noise resumed, and over it, a light baritone chanting in Caribbean patois98 to the rhythms of a nursery rhyme, or a playground skipping-rope jingle99. It helped me. It amused me. It sounded so childish, though I had a suspicion that some terrible sentiments were being expressed. I didn’t ask for a translation.
The music was still playing as we turned into the drive of Tilney’s Hotel. More than twenty-five years had passed since I came this way, for Emily’s funeral. I noticed first the absence of parkland trees, the giant elms lost to disease I supposed, and the remaining oaks cleared to make way for a golf course. We were slowing now to let some golfers and their caddies cross. I couldn’t help thinking of them as trespassers. The woods that surrounded Grace Turner’s old bungalow100 were still there, and as the drive cleared a last stand of beeches101, the main house came into view. There was no need to be nostalgic—it was always an ugly place. But from a distance it had a stark102 and unprotected look. The ivy103 which used to soften104 the effect of that bright red fa?ade had been stripped away, perhaps to preserve the brickwork. Soon we were approaching the first bridge, and already I could see that the lake was no longer there. On the bridge we were suspended above an area of perfect lawn, such as you sometimes see in an old moat. It was not unpleasant in itself, if you did not know what had once been there—the sedge, the ducks, and the giant carp that two tramps had roasted and feasted on by the island temple. Which had also gone. Where it stood was a wooden bench, and a litter basket. The island, which of course was no longer that, was a long mound105 of smooth grass, like an immense ancient barrow, where rhododendrons and other shrubbery were growing. There was a gravel106 path looping round, with more benches here and there, and spherical107 garden lights. I did not have time to try and estimate the spot where I once sat and comforted the young Lady Lola Marshall, for we were already crossing the second bridge and then slowing to turn into the asphalted car park that ran the length of the house.
Michael carried my case into the reception area in the old hall. How odd that they should have taken the trouble to lay needlecord carpet over those black and white tiles. I supposed that the acoustic108 was always troublesome, though I never minded it. A Vivaldi Season was burbling through concealed speakers. There was a decent rosewood desk with a computer screen and a vase of flowers, and standing109 guard on each side were two suits of armor; mounted on the paneling, crossed halberds and a coat of arms; above them, the portrait that used to be in the dining room which my grandfather imported to give the family some lineage. I tipped Michael and earnestly wished him luck with property rights and poverty. I was trying to unsay my foolish remark about lawyers. He wished me happy birthday and shook my hand—how feathery and unassertive his grip was—and left. From behind the desk a grave-faced girl in a business suit gave me my key and told me that the old library had been booked for the exclusive use of our party. The few who had already arrived had gone out for a stroll. The plan was to gather for drinks at six. A porter would bring my case up. There was a lift for my convenience.
No one to greet me then, but I was relieved. I preferred to take it in alone, the interest of so much change, before I was obliged to become the guest of honor. I took the lift to the second floor, went through a set of glass fire doors, and walked along the corridor whose polished boards creaked in a familiar way. It was bizarre, to see the bedrooms numbered and locked. Of course, my room number—seven—told me nothing, but I think I’d already guessed where I would be sleeping. At least, when I stopped outside the door, I wasn’t surprised. Not my old room, but Auntie Venus’s, always considered to have the best view in the house, over the lake, the driveway, the woods and the hills beyond. Charles, Pierrot’s grandson and the organizing spirit, would have reserved it for me.
It was a pleasant surprise, stepping in. Rooms on either side had been incorporated to make a grand suite2. On a low glass table stood a giant spray of hothouse flowers. The huge high bed Auntie Venus had occupied for so long without complaint had gone, and so had the carved trousseau chest and the green silk sofa. They were now the property of the eldest110 son by Leon’s second marriage and installed in a castle somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. But the new furnishings were fine, and I liked my room. My case arrived, I ordered a pot of tea and hung my dress. I explored my sitting room which had a writing desk and a good lamp, and was impressed by the vastness of the bathroom with its potpourri111 and stacks of towels on a heated rack. It was a relief not to see everything in terms of tasteless decline—it easily becomes a habit of age. I stood at the window to admire the sunlight slanting112 over the golf course, and burnishing113 the bare trees on the distant hills. I could not quite accept the absence of the lake, but it could be restored one day perhaps, and the building itself surely embraced more human happiness now, as a hotel, than it did when I lived here.
Charles phoned an hour later, just as I was beginning to think about getting dressed. He suggested that he come to get me at six-fifteen, after everyone else was gathered, and bring me down so that I could make an entrance. And so it was that I entered that enormous L-shaped room, on his arm, in my cashmere finery, to the applause, and then the raised glasses of fifty relatives. My immediate43 impression as I came in was of recognizing no one. Not a familiar face! I wondered if this was a foretaste of the incomprehension I had been promised. Then slowly people came into focus. One must make allowances for the years, and the speed with which babes-in-arms become boisterous ten-year-olds. There was no mistaking my brother, curled and slumped114 to one side in his wheelchair, a napkin at his throat to catch the spills of champagne115 that someone held to his lips. As I leaned over to kiss Leon, he managed a smile in the half of his face still under his control. And nor did I mistake for long Pierrot, much shriveled and with a shining pate84 I wanted to put my hand on, but still twinkly as ever and very much the paterfamilias. It’s accepted that we never mention his sister.
I made a progress round the room, with Charles at my side, prompting me with the names. How delightful116 to be at the heart of such a good-willed reunion. I reacquainted myself with the children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren of Jackson who died fifteen years ago. In fact, between them the twins had fairly peopled the room. And Leon had not done so badly either, with his four marriages and dedicated117 fathering. We ranged in age from three months to his eighty-nine years. And what a din4 of voices, from gruff to shrill118, as the waiters came round with more champagne and lemonade. The aging children of distant cousins greeted me like long-lost friends. Every second person wanted to tell me something kind about my books. A group of enchanting119 teenagers told me how they were studying my books at school. I promised to read the typescript novel of someone’s absent son. Notes and cards were pressed into my hands. Piled on a table in the corner of the room were presents which I would have to open, several children told me, before, not after, their bedtime. I made my promises, I shook hands, kissed cheeks and lips, admired and tickled120 babies, and just as I was beginning to think how much I wanted to sit down somewhere, I noticed that chairs were being set out, facing one way. Then Charles clapped his hands and, shouting over the noise that barely subsided121, announced that before dinner there was to be an entertainment in my honor. Would we all take our seats.
I was led to an armchair in the front row. Next to me was old Pierrot, who was in conversation with a cousin on his left. A fidgety near-silence descended on the room. From a corner came the agitated122 whispers of children, which I thought it tactful to ignore. While we waited, while I had, as it were, some seconds to myself, I looked about me, and only now properly absorbed the fact that all the books were gone from the library, and all the shelves too. That was why the room had seemed so much bigger than I remembered. The only reading matter was the country magazines in racks by the fireplace. At the sound of shushing, and the scrape of a chair, there stood before us a boy with a black cloak over his shoulders. He was pale, freckled123 and ginger-haired—no mistaking a Quincey child. I guessed him to be about nine or ten years old. His body was frail, which made his head seem large and gave him an ethereal look. But he looked confident as he gazed around the room, waiting for his audience to settle. Then at last he raised his elfin chin, filled his lungs, and spoke93 out in a clear pure treble. I’d been expecting a magic trick, but what I heard had the ring of the supernatural.
This is the tale of spontaneous Arabella
Who ran off with an extrinsic124 fellow.
It grieved her parents to see their firstborn
Evanesce from her home to go to Eastbourne
Without permission, to get ill and find indigence125
Until she was down to her last sixpence.
Suddenly, she was right there before me, that busy, priggish, conceited126 little girl, and she was not dead either, for when people tittered appreciatively at “evanesce” my feeble heart—ridiculous vanity!—made a little leap. The boy recited with a thrilling clarity, and a jarring touch of what my generation would call Cockney, though I have no idea these days what the significance is of a glottal t. I knew the words were mine, but I barely remembered them, and it was hard to concentrate, with so many questions, so much feeling, crowding in. Where had they found the copy, and was this unearthly confidence a symptom of a different age? I glanced at my neighbor, Pierrot. He had his handkerchief out and was dabbing127 at his eyes, and I don’t think it was only great-grandfatherly pride. I also suspected that this was all his idea. The prologue128 rose to its reasonable climax129:
For that fortuitous girl the sweet day dawned
To wed12 her gorgeous prince. But be warned,
Because Arabella almost learned too late,
That before we love, we must cogitate130!
We made a rowdy applause. There was even some vulgar whistling. That dictionary, that Oxford131 Concise132. Where was it now? Northwest Scotland? I wanted it back. The boy made a bow and retreated a couple of yards and was joined by four other children who had come up, unnoticed by me, and were waiting in what would have been the wings.
And so The Trials of Arabella began, with a leave-taking from the anxious, saddened parents. I recognized the heroine immediately as Leon’s great-granddaughter, Chloe. What a lovely solemn girl she is, with her rich low voice and her mother’s Spanish blood. I remember being at her first birthday party, and it seemed only months ago. I watched her fall convincingly into poverty and despair, once abandoned by the wicked count—who was the prologue speaker in his black cloak. In less than ten minutes it was over. In memory, distorted by a child’s sense of time, it had always seemed the length of a Shakespeare play. I had completely forgotten that after the wedding ceremony Arabella and the medical prince link arms and, speaking in unison133, step forward to address to the audience a final couplet.
Here’s the beginning of love at the end of our travail134.
So farewell, kind friends, as into the sunset we sail!
Not my best, I thought. But the whole room, except for Leon, Pierrot and myself, rose for the applause. How practiced these children were, right down to the curtain call. Hand in hand, they stood in line abreast135, taking their cue from Chloe, stepped back two paces, came forward, bowed again. In the uproar136, no one noticed that poor Pierrot was completely overcome and put his face in his hands. Was he reliving that lonely, terrifying time here after his parents’ divorce? They’d so much wanted to be in the play, the twins, for that evening in the library, and here it was at last, sixty-four years late, and his brother long dead.
I was helped out of my comfortable chair and made a little speech of thanks. Competing with a wailing137 baby at the back of the room, I tried to evoke138 that hot summer of 1935, when the cousins came down from the north. I turned to the cast and told them that our production would have been no match for theirs. Pierrot was nodding emphatically. I explained that it was entirely139 my fault the rehearsals140 fell apart, because halfway141 through I had decided to become a novelist. There was indulgent laughter, more applause, then Charles announced that it was dinner. And so the pleasant evening unraveled—the noisy meal at which I even drank a little wine, the presents, bedtime for the younger children, while their bigger brothers and sisters went off to watch television. Then speeches over coffee and much good-natured laughter, and by ten o’clock I was beginning to think of my splendid room upstairs, not because I was tired, but because I was tired of being in company and the object of so much attention, however kindly. Another half hour passed in good nights and farewells before Charles and his wife Annie escorted me to my room.
Now it is five in the morning and I am still at the writing desk, thinking over my strange two days. It’s true about the old not needing sleep—at least, not in the night. I still have so much to consider, and soon, within the year perhaps, I’ll have far less of a mind to do it with. I’ve been thinking about my last novel, the one that should have been my first. The earliest version, January 1940, the latest, March 1999, and in between, half a dozen different drafts. The second draft, June 1947, the third . . . who cares to know? My fifty-nine-year assignment is over. There was our crime—Lola’s, Marshall’s, mine—and from the second version onward, I set out to describe it. I’ve regarded it as my duty to disguise nothing—the names, the places, the exact circumstances—I put it all there as a matter of historical record. But as a matter of legal reality, so various editors have told me over the years, my forensic142 memoir143 could never be published while my fellow criminals were alive. You may only libel yourself and the dead. The Marshalls have been active about the courts since the late forties, defending their good names with a most expensive ferocity. They could ruin a publishing house with ease from their current accounts. One might almost think they had something to hide. Think, yes, but not write. The obvious suggestions have been made—displace, transmute144, dissemble. Bring down the fogs of the imagination! What are novelists for? Go just so far as is necessary, set up camp inches beyond the reach, the fingertips of the law. But no one knows these precise distances until a judgment145 is handed down. To be safe, one would have to be bland146 and obscure. I know I cannot publish until they are dead. And as of this morning, I accept that will not be until I am. No good, just one of them going. Even with Lord Marshall’s bone-shrunk mug on the obituary147 pages at last, my cousin from the north would not tolerate an accusation148 of criminal conspiracy149.
There was a crime. But there were also the lovers. Lovers and their happy ends have been on my mind all night long. As into the sunset we sail. An unhappy inversion150. It occurs to me that I have not traveled so very far after all, since I wrote my little play. Or rather, I’ve made a huge digression and doubled back to my starting place. It is only in this last version that my lovers end well, standing side by side on a South London pavement as I walk away. All the preceding drafts were pitiless. But now I can no longer think what purpose would be served if, say, I tried to persuade my reader, by direct or indirect means, that Robbie Turner died of septicemia at Bray151 Dunes152 on 1 June 1940, or that Cecilia was killed in September of the same year by the bomb that destroyed Balham Underground station. That I never saw them in that year. That my walk across London ended at the church on Clapham Common, and that a cowardly Briony limped back to the hospital, unable to confront her recently bereaved153 sister. That the letters the lovers wrote are in the archives of the War Museum. How could that constitute an ending? What sense or hope or satisfaction could a reader draw from such an account? Who would want to believe that they never met again, never fulfilled their love? Who would want to believe that, except in the service of the bleakest154 realism? I couldn’t do it to them. I’m too old, too frightened, too much in love with the shred155 of life I have remaining. I face an incoming tide of forgetting, and then oblivion. I no longer possess the courage of my pessimism156. When I am dead, and the Marshalls are dead, and the novel is finally published, we will only exist as my inventions. Briony will be as much of a fantasy as the lovers who shared a bed in Balham and enraged157 their landlady158. No one will care what events and which individuals were misrepresented to make a novel. I know there’s always a certain kind of reader who will be compelled to ask, But what really happened? The answer is simple: the lovers survive and flourish. As long as there is a single copy, a solitary159 typescript of my final draft, then my spontaneous, fortuitous sister and her medical prince survive to love.
The problem these fifty-nine years has been this: how can a novelist achieve atonement when, with her absolute power of deciding outcomes, she is also God? There is no one, no entity160 or higher form that she can appeal to, or be reconciled with, or that can forgive her. There is nothing outside her. In her imagination she has set the limits and the terms. No atonement for God, or novelists, even if they are atheists. It was always an impossible task, and that was precisely161 the point. The attempt was all.
I’ve been standing at the window, feeling waves of tiredness beat the remaining strength from my body. The floor seems to be undulating beneath my feet. I’ve been watching the first gray light bring into view the park and the bridges over the vanished lake. And the long narrow driveway down which they drove Robbie away, into the whiteness. I like to think that it isn’t weakness or evasion162, but a final act of kindness, a stand against oblivion and despair, to let my lovers live and to unite them at the end. I gave them happiness, but I was not so self-serving as to let them forgive me. Not quite, not yet. If I had the power to conjure163 them at my birthday celebration . . . Robbie and Cecilia, still alive, still in love, sitting side by side in the library, smiling at The Trials of Arabella? It’s not impossible.
But now I must sleep.
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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bedlam
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| n.混乱，骚乱；疯人院 | |
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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nettle
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| n.荨麻；v.烦忧，激恼 | |
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photocopied
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| v.影印，照相复制（photocopy的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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smears
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| 污迹( smear的名词复数 )； 污斑； （显微镜的）涂片； 诽谤 | |
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neural
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| adj.神经的，神经系统的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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debilitating
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| a.使衰弱的 | |
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vascular
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| adj.血管的，脉管的 | |
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undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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aggression
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| n.进攻，侵略，侵犯，侵害 | |
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benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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autonomous
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| adj.自治的；独立的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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devastated
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| v.彻底破坏( devastate的过去式和过去分词)；摧毁；毁灭；在感情上（精神上、财务上等）压垮adj.毁坏的；极为震惊的 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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shortcut
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| n.近路，捷径 | |
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panoply
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| n.全副甲胄，礼服 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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33
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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34
reptilian
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| adj.（像）爬行动物的；（像）爬虫的；卑躬屈节的；卑鄙的n.两栖动物；卑劣的人 | |
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deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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detour
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| n.绕行的路，迂回路；v.迂回，绕道 | |
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clobbering
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| v.狠揍， （不停）猛打( clobber的现在分词 )；彻底击败 | |
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replacement
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| n.取代，替换，交换；替代品，代用品 | |
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merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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offenses
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| n.进攻( offense的名词复数 )；（球队的）前锋；进攻方法；攻势 | |
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veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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50
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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trademark
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| n.商标；特征；vt.注册的…商标 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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56
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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57
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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58
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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59
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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60
makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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61
garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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62
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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holder
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| n.持有者，占有者；(台，架等)支持物 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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68
compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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cumulatively
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| adv.累积地，渐增地 | |
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70
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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71
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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72
forage
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| n.(牛马的)饲料，粮草；v.搜寻，翻寻 | |
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73
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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74
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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frigate
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| n.护航舰，大型驱逐舰 | |
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photocopies
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| n.影印本( photocopy的名词复数 )；复印件 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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81
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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rejuvenating
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| 使变得年轻，使恢复活力( rejuvenate的现在分词 ) | |
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diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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85
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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voracious
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| adj.狼吞虎咽的，贪婪的 | |
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thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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motorway
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| n.高速公路，快车道 | |
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minuscule
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| adj.非常小的；极不重要的 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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99
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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103
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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104
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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105
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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106
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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107
spherical
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| adj.球形的；球面的 | |
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108
acoustic
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| adj.听觉的，声音的；(乐器)原声的 | |
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109
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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111
potpourri
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| n.混合之事物；百花香 | |
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112
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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113
burnishing
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| n.磨光，抛光，擦亮v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的现在分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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114
slumped
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| 大幅度下降，暴跌( slump的过去式和过去分词 )； 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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115
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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116
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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117
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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118
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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120
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
extrinsic
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| adj.外部的；不紧要的 | |
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125
indigence
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| n.贫穷 | |
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126
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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127
dabbing
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| 石面凿毛，灰泥抛毛 | |
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prologue
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| n.开场白，序言；开端，序幕 | |
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129
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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cogitate
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| v.慎重思考，思索 | |
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131
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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concise
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| adj.简洁的，简明的 | |
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133
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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134
travail
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| n.阵痛；努力 | |
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135
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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137
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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138
evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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139
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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forensic
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| adj.法庭的，雄辩的 | |
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143
memoir
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| n.[pl.]回忆录，自传；记事录 | |
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transmute
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| vt.使变化，使改变 | |
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145
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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146
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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147
obituary
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| n.讣告，死亡公告；adj.死亡的 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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149
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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150
inversion
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| n.反向，倒转，倒置 | |
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151
bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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152
dunes
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| 沙丘( dune的名词复数 ) | |
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153
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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154
bleakest
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| 阴冷的( bleak的最高级 )； （状况）无望的； 没有希望的； 光秃的 | |
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shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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156
pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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157
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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158
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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159
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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160
entity
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| n.实体，独立存在体，实际存在物 | |
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161
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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162
evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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163
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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