Chapter 27 Chapter Twenty Six

Accompanied by Charles, I walked around the hall to say hello to everyone, and he reminded me of the name of the visitor.What a joy to be reunited in such a loving way! I got to know again the children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren of Jackson who passed away fifteen years ago.In fact, their twins still lived together in this room.Leon also did well, married four times and devoted himself to raising children.We have a wide range of ages, the youngest is only three months old and the oldest is eighty-nine years old.The hall was buzzing with hoarse and screaming as waiters made their rounds refilling champagne and lemons.The elderly children of distant cousins ​​greeted me like long-lost friends, and nearly everyone praised my book.A group of very sweet teens told me they were working hard at my books at school.I promised a guest to read a typescript of a novel written by his son, who did not come that day.Notes and business cards filled my hands, and the table in the corner was piled with presents.Several kids have made me have to open presents before they go to bed rather than after they go to bed.I said yes, shook hands with each of them, kissed their cheeks and lips; I looked at the babies and made them laugh.I was trying to find a place to sit down when suddenly the chairs were lined up facing one side.Charles clapped his hands and announced loudly over the din that there was going to be a show for me before dinner.Please take your place.

I was shown to sit in an armchair in the front row.Elder Pierrot sat next to me, talking to a cousin on the left.People waited anxiously, and the room was almost silent.Suddenly from some corner came the anxious murmurs of children.I think it's best to ignore it at this time.In this waiting, I can say that I have a few seconds of my own.While I was looking around, I noticed that all the books and shelves in the library were gone.No wonder the room was much bigger than I remembered.The only reading material was the country magazines on the shelf by the fire.Amidst the sound of "hush" and the friction of chairs, a boy in a black cloak stood in front of me.He was pale, freckled, and dark brown--unmistakably, a Quincy descendant.I figured he was about nine or ten years old, with a thin body, his head seemed oversized, and he looked frail and ethereal.But he looked confident as he looked around the room.Finally, he lifted his elf-like chin, held his momentum, and recited aloud with a crisp, high-pitched child's voice.I thought he was going to perform magic tricks, but who knew that the stories that came to my ears had a magical style.

This is a story about willful Arabella, She eloped with a young man from outside. left home for Eastbourne without consent, Poverty and sickness left her with her last sixpence in her pocket. Seeing his eldest daughter so poor all her life, The hearts of her parents were filled with infinite grief and indignation. In an instant she was standing in front of me, a nosy, pretentious, smug little girl, and she wasn't dead.When "Leaving Home Without Authorization" was recited, people giggled knowingly, and my fragile heart trembled slightly - what an exaggeration, it was ridiculous! The boy recited in a clear and gripping voice For the lines, there was a slight dissonance in his enunciation - what my generation called Cockney, although I don't know what the guttural "t" means these days.I know he read my lines, but I've almost forgotten them.Because so many questions are flooding my mind and so many emotions are surging in my heart at this time, it is difficult for me to focus on myself.Where did they find the script? Is this extraordinary self-confidence a symptom of a different era? I glanced at Pierrot sitting next to me, and he took out his handkerchief and gently wiped his eyes.I think it's more than just great-grandfatherly pride in him.I also suspect it might all be his idea.The prologue of the story naturally advances to the climax.

That lucky girl has a sweet day, She married a handsome prince, but listen, You have to think twice before falling in love, Because Arabella almost regretted it too late. We clapped and clapped enthusiastically, and there were even a few vulgar whistles.Where is that dictionary, that Oxford Concise Dictionary? In North West Scotland? I have to get back.The boy bowed, took a few steps back, and stepped forward with four other children, who I hadn't noticed, were waiting at the side of the stage. And so begins "Arabella's Ordeal," as she says goodbye to her anxious and grieving parents.I immediately recognized the heroine as being played by Leon's great-granddaughter Chloe.How lovely and stately she looked with her thick bass and her mother's Spanish heritage! I remember going to her first birthday party, which seemed like a month ago.I stared at the heroine, who was suddenly impoverished and desperate after being abandoned by the evil count.This earl was the announcer who was wearing a black cloak just now.In less than ten minutes, the show was over.In memory, with a child's understanding, the show always seemed to be as long as a Shakespeare play.I have completely forgotten that after the wedding, Arabella and the doctor prince, arm in arm, stepped forward and spoke the final couplet to the audience in unison.

After our hardships, love begins to breed. Farewell, dear friend, we sail in the evening! I don't think it's perfect, but the whole room -- except me, Leon, and Pierrot -- stood up and applauded until the curtain call.How well trained these kids are.They held hands, stood side by side, took two steps back at Chloe's cue, and then walked forward again, bowing again.In the thunderous applause, no one noticed that poor Piero covered his face with his hands and couldn't help himself.Did he recall the lonely and dreadful time after his parents' divorce? How much they, the twins, had wanted to do the play, that night in the library.Today, sixty-four years later, the play is finally staged, and his brother is long dead.

They helped me out of my comfortable chair, and I thanked them a little.In the back of the room, a baby cries, which reminds me of 1935.In the hot summer of that year, my cousin went south from the north.I turned to face the actor.I said that even if we put this play on stage, our performance could not match theirs at all.Piero nodded again and again.I explained that it was all my fault that the rehearsals had stopped halfway, because I had changed my mind and decided to be a novelist.People laughed heartily and applauded more enthusiastically.Charles took advantage of the situation to announce that the dinner party had begun.And so the evening began—a lively dinner, an unprecedented drink, presents, the children went to bed, and the older brothers and sisters watched TV.Then, we chatted over coffee, and everyone laughed.Near ten o'clock, I began to think about my wonderful room upstairs.It's not that I'm tired, it's that I'm tired of being the center of attention among the crowd, despite their well-meaning.In the end, everyone said good night to each other and said goodbye to each other, and another half hour passed like this.I was then escorted to my room by Charles and his wife Anne.

It's five o'clock in the morning, and I'm still thinking about these two extraordinary days at my desk.Old people don't really need sleep—at least not at night.I still have so many things to think about.In the near future, maybe within this year, I will not be in the mood to act rashly.I've been thinking about my last novel, and this was supposed to be my first.The earliest draft was completed in January 1940, and the last draft was completed in March 1999, during which there were six different manuscripts.The second draft was done in June 1947, the third draft...who wants to know? My fifty-nine-year task is done.We are all guilty—me, Laura, and Marshall are all guilty—and from the second draft onwards, I set out to put it on paper.I have always considered it my duty not to conceal the truth—(names, places, exact circumstances)—and I file it as a historical record.Over the years, however, I have been told by numerous editors that, legally, my courtroom memoirs must not be published as long as my accomplice is alive.If it is published, then you can only discredit yourself and slander the dead.The Marshalls have been active in court since the late forties.They spared no expense and resolutely defended their good reputation.They can easily ruin a publishing house with a checking account.People can't help but wonder: Is there something ulterior about them? Yes, even if you think about it, don't write it down.Replacement, transmutation, cover-up—obviously, this is enlightenment.Get rid of the fog of imagination! What is a novelist for? Go to the limit, set up camp in places that are beyond reach, play the edge of the law, but no one knows the exact distance until the sentence is passed.To be on the safe side, it's best to remain calm and ambiguous.I know I can't publish until they're gone.Until the early hours of this morning, I believed it would remain undisclosed as long as I was around.Only one of them was gone, and that didn't help.Even if Lord Marshall's bony face ended up on the obituary board, my northern cousins ​​couldn't stand accusations of accomplices.

There is sin here, but there is also love and love.I spend all night and night thinking about lovers and their happy endings.Yes, we are sailing into dusk.We tossed and turned, depressed.It occurred to me that since I wrote this little play I haven't really traveled far, that I've strayed so far from the right path that I've come a long way, and now I'm back where I started.It is only in this last draft that my lover is finally married.When I walked away, they were standing side by side on the South London avenue.The previous few manuscripts were so ruthless.But now I really no longer feel that there is any point in trying to convince the reader of the following facts, either directly or indirectly.Robbie Turner died of sepsis in Bredence on 1 June 1940 and Cecilia died in the bombing of Belham Tube station in September of the same year.I never saw them that year.I hiked across London, stopping at the church gate on Clapham Common, and a timid Briony limped back to the hospital, unable to face her bereaved sister.The fish book Hongyan between lovers is now collected in the War Museum.How can all this be the end of the story? What meaning, hope, or comfort can the reader derive from this continual narration? Who would believe that they never met again, never fell in love? Outside of the grim truth, who would believe that? I couldn't treat them that way anyway.I'm getting old, I'm silent, and I'm too attached to the rest of my life.What I faced was a raging wave of forgetting, and then permanent forgetting.I no longer have the courage to overcome pessimism.When I die, when the Marshalls die, when the novel is finally published, we will only exist in the form of works.Like the lovers—they share a bed at Belham, to the rage of their landlady—Briony is nothing more than a figment of existence.No one cares which things in the novel are not true and which people are misrepresented.I know that there will always be a class of readers who can't help but ask, "But what happened?" The answer is simple: "Lover lives forever. As long as a single typed copy of my last draft remains in the world, my pure will And the sisters who have a romantic relationship and his doctor prince will love each other until the end of time."

In the past fifty-nine years, a question has been haunting my mind: How can a God-like female novelist who possesses absolute power, who can call the wind and rain, and direct the country, obtain redemption? There is no one person in this world, and there is no entity or a higher form is something she can appeal to, is reconciled with, or will forgive her.Outside of her, nothing exists.In her imagination, she has drawn boundaries and prescribed conditions.There is no atonement for God or novelists, even if they are atheists.This is always an impossible task.This is where the problem lies.Trying hard is everything.

Standing at the window, I felt a tidal wave of exhaustion hit me, sweeping away the rest of my strength.The floor beneath her feet seemed to be undulating.I stared intently at the first gray morning light showing the park and the bridge over the dry lake, and the long narrow driveway that stretched out into the whiteness of the distance.The police were driving along this driveway, carrying Robbie and taking him away.I deeply feel that making the lovers in my novels finally reunite and live endlessly is by no means cowardice or evasion, but a final good deed, a counterweight to forgetting and despair.I gave them happiness, but I didn't do it selfishly, and I wanted them to forgive me.It's not like that, it's not like that.If I could cast a spell on them at the birthday party... Are Robbie and Cecilia still alive, still in love, still sitting side by side in the library, smiling at The Orb of Arabella?— — It's not impossible.

But now I must sleep. (continued) Excerpt from: "Foreign Literature and Art" Issue 05, 2004 Author: Ian McEwan