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TIME: Almanac 1995
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<text id=89TT2875>
<title>
Oct. 30, 1989: Upstairs, Downstairs
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1989
Oct. 30, 1989 San Francisco Earthquake
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
BOOKS, Page 90
Upstairs, Downstairs
</hdr><body>
<p>By Paul Gray
</p>
<qt> <l>THE REMAINS OF THE DAY</l>
<l>by Kazuo Ishiguro</l>
<l>Knopf; 245 pages; $18.95</l>
</qt>
<p> 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.
</p>
<p> 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.
</p>
<p> 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.
</p>
<p> 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.
</p>
<p> 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."
</p>
<p> 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."
</p>
<p> 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.
</p>
<p> 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?"
</p>
<p> 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.
</p>
</body></article>
</text>