Writing this a couple weeks after finishing The Remains of the Day (1989) I found I had forgotten how the book began. “It seems increasingly likely I will undertake the expedition that has been preoccupying my imagination now for some days,” begins Mr. Stevens, the irreproachable, long-time butler of Darlington Hall, circa 1950. There is so much here in what reads and appears to be well-written and straight forward. Kazuo Ishiguro believes in approachability here, but between quaint Mr. Stevens’ meandering, he carefully folds layer after layer–incorporating class myopia, misplaced patriotism, and a very personal, anguished, unspoken loneliness. It is masterful.
Some small spoilers here if you haven’t read it yet.
Mr. Stevens, we should first establish, appears deeply and affectionately entrenched in the quintessential English butler role. The reader, in the first few pages, only need keep up with Mr. Stevens’ elegant if unartful narration. For that is what it feels like–reading a written letter or hearing the story retold. The narration turns out to be about two things: the “expedition,” which is a modern day drive in his current employer’s (a newcomer, an American) car on a rare holiday from his duties. The other are his reminiscences–memories of service under the prior master of the house, Lord Darlington. The drive is half meant to retrieve Miss Kenton–once housekeeper of Darlington–from what he believes is an unhappy marriage and unfulfilling retirement in Devon.
Mr. Stevens, one discovers quickly, doesn’t get out much. He is inestimably polite and likely dapper (if a tad old fashioned), so his fellow Englishmen and women seem to take an instant liking to him. But he struggles a bit with normal conversation and forgets the barest minimum of maintenance for the fancy Ford he’s driving (gas for instance). There is something almost childlike or stunted from childhood that results in a few protective lies and blushing embarrassment. But he enjoys his freedom and expounds with feeling on the landscape of his country.
His country and his service to it (by way of serving his lordship) take up the other half of the narration. Lord Darlington, a veteran of the First World War and a gentleman of the old school, feels honor bound to ensure his former foe, Germany, is fairly treated. Inevitably, this attitude strays into dangerous territory. As the 20s and 30s roll through Lord Darlington sleepwalks into supporting the Nazis. The story, as it unfolds, feels like a roundabout confession–a grappling with a second self that needs to hear it. Mr. Stevens at first defends his former boss and disparages the apparent criticism leveled against him, then delicately admits some memories may be faulty. He recounts these two decades of elaborate conferences and late night meetings held at the house with great pride, thinking of his father (also a butler) and referring often to an elusive “dignity.” One may be able to read between the lines here and find that Mr. Stevens believes it is his duty to suck it up, stuff it down, and keep a stiff upper lip. The pride he expresses is a shabby curtain on the emotional strain and blind sacrifice he makes to bringing off Lord Darlington’s dog and pony shows.
A light spot here is of course Miss Kenton–a woman sharp yet sweet and quick. Mr. Stevens speaks warmly of their relationship, their growing pains together, and eventual peak of their friendship–late night chats over cocoa in her chambers. These talks represent Mr. Stevens at his happiest, and, with beautiful suggestion, the unrealized love affair between him and Miss Kenton.
Their final meeting–at a bus stop, rain dripping over the eaves of the shelter–is perfect and heartbreaking. His moment on a bench by the sea afterwards is even more so. A fantastic book.