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THEMEMORIAL

THEMEMORIAL

CHRISTOPHERISHERWOOD

UNIVERSITYOF MINNESOTA PRESS MINNEAPOLIS

Copyright1946 and renewed 1974 by Christopher Isherwood. All rights reserved.Published by arrangement with Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc.

Nopart 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

writtenpermission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 19 Union Square West,

NewYork, NY 10003.

FirstUniversity of Minnesota Press edition, 1999

Publishedby the University of Minnesota Press

111Third Avenue South, Suite 290

Minneapolis,MN 55401-2520

http://www.upress.umn.edu

Libraryof Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Isherwood,Christopher, 1904-1986

Thememorial / Christopher Isherwood. 1st University ofMinnesota Press ed.

p. cm.

ISBN0-8166-3369-X (acid-free paper)

I.Title.

PR6017.S5M4 1999

823'.912 dc21

98-54201

Printedin the United States of America on acid-free paper

TheUniversity of Minnesota is an equal-opportunity educator andemployer.

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

BOOKONE 1928

I

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

Thedoors were ajar. Anne, sticking entertainment-tax stamps on togreen and orange tickets, listening to her mother's rich lazyironical voice, frowned.

Marywas describing over the telephone, for the twentieth time, the awfulscare they'd had at last week's concert, with the Spanish Quartet.The 'cello and second violinpoor little things, they werealmost in tearshad left their parts of the Dohnanyi locked upin a hotel at Victoria, and when Mary had gone round there in a taxiwith only a quarter of an hour to spare, while they played theSchubert, she'd had the most terrific job persuading the staff to lether 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."

HowMother, loves all this. And why shouldn't she? Anne's eyes movedround the attractive little room, with stacks of papers everywhere,the Breton armoire, the Steinlen poster on the wall, the bed, thedressing-table, the shelf of yellow paper-bound books, the gaychessboard curtains at the windows. Rather like the inside of acaravan. At night you went to bed on the camouflaged divan surroundedby the day's debrisletters, newspapers, press cuttings, otherpeople's musical instruments, tennis rackets, and usually a littledirty crockery or a few beer glasses which had escaped notice in thewash-up after a picnic meal. And this is my home, Anne thought.

Thetruth was, she was still feeling a bit peevish at having had to moveinto the music-room, because of a Central School student whomMary had invited in to sleep for the next fortnight, until she couldget digs. The bed in the music-room had hot pipes running along thewall beside it. One woke up in the morning half-stewed. Why couldn'tthe wretched girl have known beforehand and made her ownarrangements? But nobody ever knew anything beforehand here. Alwaysthese last-moment decisions, rushings out to get food, collect peoplefor a party. Always this atmosphere of living in a railwaystationjust for the sake of living in a railway station. Anneyawned. 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 sinfulbut of allthe . . . yes, you've said it____"

Notthat she didn't work, harder than any office clerk, at her endlessletters, which she answered in a great sprawling hand full ofspelling mistakes. And the hours she spent at the Gallery, on a hardchair. And then having to sally out in the evenings to studioparties, concerts, shows at clubs, in order to meet, amidst the crushin the artists' room, some person who might, remotely, be "useful."Never tired, always ready to dance, drink, give imitations of SirHenry Wood or Harriet Cohen, help cook somebody else's dinner, sing:

Lateone night, at the theatre,

Seehim sitting in the stalls,

Withone hand upon his programme------

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

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

"Didwe send Mrs. Gidden her membership card?"

"Yes,I think so."

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

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

"Thebitch!"

Withindolent, unhurried movements, Mary added her papers to the pile onthe table, selected others, copied an address into the members' bookand strolled out.

Thetruth is, thought Anne, just avoiding sticking two stamps on toone 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'ddone the Ballet scene, and Edward had literally stood on his ear forabout fifteen seconds. She'd found herself watching them, as thoughthey were strangers. The curious thing is that Maurice belongs. Itisn't merely a question of not being arty.

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

Ishall never be a tenth of what Mother is, thought Anne. And I don'twant to be.

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

"Rightyou are."

"Ithink the friend must be that plaintive little thing we saw at theAeolian."

"Verylikely," Anne called back, reaching for the tickets and enteringthem in the book.

Ifone had to criticise Mary, one could say nothing, absolutely nothing.She was above criticism. But must you alwaysAnne couldsometimes have yelled outmust 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? Hadshe 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." Shelaughed things awayBolshevism, Christian Science, Lesbians,the General Strike"Not really very cosy," or, "Icouldn't really fancy it meself."

Isuppose I ought to go into a convent. A year ago Anne had seriouslyconsidered becoming a hospital nurse. She'd made enquiries, evententatively mentioned it to Mary. And it was Mary's indulgent,ever so faintly amused smile that had made her feel: No, never. Shecouldn't. She could never face the Gang, who, with their littlejokes, could turn it all into just one more new sort of game. Thequestions they'd ask. "Isn't it frightfully thrilling?""Isn't it simply terrifying?" "Isn't it tremendousfun?" I suppose I'm just being romantic and schoolgirlish. Iused to want to be Joan of Arc. It's all Sex. Good old Sex. I'm beingscreamingly funny. But I do long, longfor someone

whohasn't got this tremendously highly developed sense of humour. Shethought at once of Eric. No, Eric wouldn't laugh.

Therewas the telephone again. Mary in the doorway, smiling: "Foryou."

Annegot up, felt herself beginning to blush, frowned, walked through intothe other room. Should she shut the door? Damn it, no.

Andas she picked up the receiver, her voice seemed to go suddenly out ofher control. Smooth, false, clear as crystal, she drawled: