Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Sir Alec Guinness was born in London in 1914 and began his professional acting career in 1933. His many films include Oliver Twist, Kind Hearts and Coronets, The Bridge on the River Kwai (for which he won an Oscar), Lawrence of Arabia, Doctor Zhivago, and Star Wars. He was knighted in 1959 and made a Companion of Honour in 1994.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

A Positively Final Appearance

Penguin Books

Chapter One

Men as Trees, Walking

The view from the small, spotless white room on the twelfthfloor of the hospital was almost Wordsworthian: the Houses ofParliament glowing in summer afternoon sunlight, the mudcolouredThames slowly eddying as the tide turned and a string ofbarges chugging towards Westminster Bridge. The river probablywasn't as brown as it looked; the outside of the hospital windowwas filthy. I wondered if it would all look clearer to me in twodays' time or possibly dimmer; clever people were to operate onmy left eye, which had been almost useless for ten years andvirtually blind for the past twelve months.

    A voice behind me said, `I'm your sister.' I turned roundrather sharply to be confronted by a stalwart young man flutteringsheets of paper. `Would you please fill in these forms?' he said.`And accounts would like a cheque. Oh, and the TV isn'tworking.' He disappeared and I studied the small print.

    The forms, as far as I could make out, required my agreementto exonerate the hospital, staff, doctors and surgeons from allculpability should there be any mishap. In short, the operationwas all my fault and no questions asked. Well, I had to sign; andthen I wrote a surprisingly large cheque, unpacked my smallsuitcase and settled myself, as best I could, on a slippery chair bythe window with the latest Patrick O'Brian novel unopened onmy lap. The sister-chap reappeared to say they would like to dosome tests on me on the ground floor and a thousand miles away.

    Having successfully bypassed a starch-faced nurse who wassuspicious of me wandering around in her area, I eventuallyfound the team who were to operate on me the next day. Theywere housed in a vast ill-lit cavern but exuded confidenceand charm. One of them ran a sort of magic pencil over myeyelid while the others discussed with enthusiasm the swirlingpictures they saw on their little TV screen. I had the impressionthey were keen to take out my eye and give it a goodscrub.

    One of them said, `We will now tell you what we intenddoing.'

   `I would rather not know,' I said.

   `But you have to know,' he went on, `it's the law.'

    More signing, I thought. `You fire ahead,' I told him, `andI'll stop my ears.' And I signed something which said I thoroughlyunderstood what they were going to do. To this day I don'tknow what they got up to.

    A very attractive, sophisticated, Argentinian lady with dazzlingfair hair and a shimmering smile introduced herself as the anaesthetist.She asked me in a whisper if all my teeth were my own.I assured her they were and she gave a nod of relief and approval.We encountered each other again the following morning whenI was wheeled into the presence of the team, who were now alldressed as for a TV medical soap opera. `Is the Princess of Waleshere?' I asked facetiously. They smiled politely behind theirgauze masks. The Argentinian lady took my hand. `Just a littleprick,' she said. `And now another little prick. Now I think weare feeling sleepy, yes?'

    An hour and a half later I sort of woke up in the recoveryroom.

    `All is over, all has been well done,' said Argentina. I tried tosay `Good!' or `Amen' but the words stuck in my throat, whichwas fiery and raw. Wherefore could I not say `Amen'? `Youhave small passage,' Argentina explained rather severely. It crossedmy mind that she might have taken revenge for the sinking ofthe Belgrano in the Falklands war; but no, she was too good-naturedfor that. `Soon you have some voice,' she reassuredme. `Tomorrow perhaps.' As they wheeled me back to my room,at a dizzying pace, I wondered if I could sue them all if my vocalchords had been destroyed. Then I remembered the small print.An emphatic No.

    There was neither pain nor even discomfort under my plasticeyeshield, just the slightest irritation. With my good eye I lookedtowards Big Ben, which was striking ten o'clock. A sunnymorning. I fell asleep.

    Later in the day I croaked at a nurse that I would love someice-cream. That proved a great comfort. The brilliant surgeonand Argentina looked in to see how I was and they were followedby a couple of jolly Scottish technicians who turned out to beStar Wars enthusiasts. They wanted me to write `May the Forcebe with you' on scraps of paper.

    No one mended the TV. I didn't see Sister again.

    That was 14 August 1996.

    The following morning I was told I could go home. As Ididn't fancy the fifty-odd-mile car journey down to Petersfieldafter a general anaesthetic I booked myself a room at the Connaught.I got there at noon. It was another lovely day. As soonas I was by myself I took off the eyeshield. I was so astonished Iburst into happy tears. The eye that had been operated on couldsee quite sharply and in full colour. The bedroom furniture wasclearly defined, the bed-cover — which had a delicate, complicatedpattern — looked brightly new and, at the window, I could seeto the far side of Carlos Place. The only oddity was the bedroomdoor, which appeared decidedly crooked.

    A week after the operation a slight deterioration set in. `Justa little detritus,' the surgeon said. `Give it a month or two. It'llget better and better.' I live in hope, of a sort. Hope has neverbeen a virtue of mine. Gratitude I believe I do express, or certainlymean to. The operation has been more successful than expected.A useless eye can now see `Men as trees, walking'; `After that heput his hands again upon his eyes and made him look up; andhe was restored, and saw every man clearly.' At least, when Ilook out of the back door with my good eye closed, I can tellwhether it is my wife or the milkman.

    This is not going to be the end of the eye saga. Cataracts areforming rapidly on both eyes. I was wondering if the nationalpress had started to use grey printers' ink. Forty years ago I startedcomplaining about the fuzzy printing of the London telephonedirectory (now nauseatingly called The Phone Book) but a pair ofglasses rectified that. A few years ago I became exasperated bywhat I took to be the sloppy diction of a new generation ofactors; a little machine in the ear assured me that their speechwas fine, except for the slipshod accents they choose to use.

    The humiliations of age are not always easy to accept.

Chapter Two

A Dry Month

During the early part of March I spent a lot of time on medicaljaunts, crossing, recrossing and criss-crossing the area boundedby Wimpole, Wigmore and Harley Streets. London providesintense specialist areas, whether in diamonds, bookshops,silver, painting, antiques or disease. It was the route of possibledisease which I was following. It is not the consultationswhich are depressing but the awareness, as you trudge the emptypavements, that behind almost every facade are gloomy, high-ceilingedwaiting-rooms with worn brocaded armchairs andpolished tables covered with dog-eared, out-of-date copies ofVogue, Country Life and The National Geographic. In the cornerof each room there is likely to be sitting, patiently...