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THE MEMORIAL

THE MEMORIAL

CHRISTOPHER ISHERWOOD

UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA PRESS MINNEAPOLIS

Copyright 1946 and renewed 1974 by Christopher Isherwood. All rights reserved. Published by arrangement with Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval

system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic,

mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior

written permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 19 Union Square West,

New York, NY 10003.

First University of Minnesota Press edition, 1999

Published by the University of Minnesota Press

111 Third Avenue South, Suite 290

Minneapolis, MN 55401-2520

http://www.upress.umn.edu

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Isherwood, Christopher, 1904-1986

The memorial / Christopher Isherwood. — 1st University of Minnesota Press ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-8166-3369-X (acid-free paper)

I. Title.

PR6017.S5M4 1999

823'.912 — dc21

98-54201

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

The University of Minnesota is an equal-opportunity educator and employer.

11 10 09 08 07 06 05 04 03 02 01 00 99 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

TO MY FATHER

BOOK ONE 1928

I

"No, not really," Mary was saying. "No, it didn't really help things much."

The doors were ajar. Anne, sticking entertain­ment-tax stamps on to green and orange tickets, listening to her mother's rich lazy ironical voice, frowned.

Mary was describing over the telephone, for the twentieth time, the awful scare they'd had at last week's concert, with the Spanish Quartet. The 'cello and second violin—poor little things, they were almost in tears—had left their parts of the Dohnanyi locked up in a hotel at Victoria, and when Mary had gone round there in a taxi with only a quarter of an hour to spare, while they played the Schubert, she'd had the most terrific job persuading the staff to let her into the rooms. And, of course, it had all been very funny. Very, very funny, thought Anne, frowning. Very funny indeed.

"Ah, well; ah, well. That was just one of the awkward bits."

How Mother, loves all this. And why shouldn't she? Anne's eyes moved round the attractive little room, with stacks of papers everywhere, the Breton armoire, the Steinlen poster on the wall, the bed, the dressing-table, the shelf of yellow paper-bound books, the gay chessboard curtains at the windows. Rather like the inside of a caravan. At night you went to bed on the camouflaged divan surrounded by the day's debris—letters, newspapers, press cuttings, other people's musical instruments, tennis rackets, and usually a little dirty crockery or a few beer glasses which had escaped notice in the wash-up after a picnic meal. And this is my home, Anne thought.

The truth was, she was still feeling a bit peevish at having had to move into the music-room, be­cause of a Central School student whom Mary had invited in to sleep for the next fortnight, until she could get digs. The bed in the music-room had hot pipes running along the wall beside it. One woke up in the morning half-stewed. Why couldn't the wretched girl have known beforehand and made her own arrangements? But nobody ever knew anything beforehand here. Always these last-moment decisions, rushings out to get food, collect people for a party. Always this atmosphere of living in a railway station—just for the sake of living in a railway station. Anne yawned. But I quite see what fun all this is for Mary.

"Yes. We were bidden to a rich supper at the

Gowers'. My dear ... I ain't proud, 'cos Ma says 'tis sinful—but of all the . . . yes, you've said it____"

Not that she didn't work, harder than any office clerk, at her endless letters, which she answered in a great sprawling hand full of spelling mistakes. And the hours she spent at the Gallery, on a hard chair. And then having to sally out in the evenings to studio parties, concerts, shows at clubs, in order to meet, amidst the crush in the artists' room, some person who might, remotely, be "useful." Never tired, always ready to dance, drink, give imitations of Sir Henry Wood or Harriet Cohen, help cook somebody else's dinner, sing:

Late one night, at the theatre,

See him sitting in the stalls,

With one hand upon his programme------

Your Mother's wonderful, they said. Anne had heard it all her life. Your Mother's wonderful. It was quite true.

And feeling this, Anne smiled with real affec­tion at Mary, who appeared in the doorway, smil­ing, her hands full of papers, wearing an apron, a cigarette in her mouth.

"Did we send Mrs. Gidden her membership card?"

"Yes, I think so."

"She's just written to say she hasn't got it."

"Wait a minute, then, I'll look it up . . .yes, we did."

"The bitch!"

With indolent, unhurried movements, Mary added her papers to the pile on the table, selected others, copied an address into the members' book and strolled out.

The truth is, thought Anne, just avoiding stick­ing two stamps on to one ticket, I don't belong here. I'm not one of the Gang.

Yes, she'd felt it often. At charades, only a week or two ago, when they'd done the Ballet scene, and Edward had literally stood on his ear for about fifteen seconds. She'd found herself watching them, as though they were strangers. The curious thing is that Maurice belongs. It isn't merely a question of not being arty.

It wasn't that she was jealous of Mary. Not simply that. Though, of course, I am, slightly. She's awfully good to me. No, much more than good—really decent. Perhaps I should get on better as a lady. Living with Aunt Lily. God forbid.

I shall never be a tenth of what Mother is, thought Anne. And I don't want to be.

"Mrs. Oppenheimer wants two guest-tickets for a daughter and friend," called Mary from the next room.

"Right you are."

"I think the friend must be that plaintive little thing we saw at the Aeolian."

"Very likely," Anne called back, reaching for the tickets and entering them in the book.

If one had to criticise Mary, one could say nothing, absolutely nothing. She was above criticism. But must you always—Anne could some­times have yelled out—must you always be so tolerant? Had Mary ever, during her whole life, had any really absurd, old-fashioned, stupid pre­judice? Had she ever hated anybody? Had she ever really felt anything at all? One could hardly imagine it. Her utmost commendation of anyone: "That's a good number." Her utmost condemna­tion: "Your taste, not mine." She laughed things away—Bolshevism, Christian Science, Lesbians, the General Strike—"Not really very cosy," or, "I couldn't really fancy it meself."

I suppose I ought to go into a convent. A year ago Anne had seriously considered becoming a hospital nurse. She'd made enquiries, even tenta­tively mentioned it to Mary. And it was Mary's indulgent, ever so faintly amused smile that had made her feel: No, never. She couldn't. She could never face the Gang, who, with their little jokes, could turn it all into just one more new sort of game. The questions they'd ask. "Isn't it fright­fully thrilling?" "Isn't it simply terrifying?" "Isn't it tremendous fun?" I suppose I'm just being romantic and schoolgirlish. I used to want to be Joan of Arc. It's all Sex. Good old Sex. I'm being screamingly funny. But I do long, long for someone

who hasn't got this tremendously highly developed sense of humour. She thought at once of Eric. No, Eric wouldn't laugh.

There was the telephone again. Mary in the doorway, smiling: "For you."