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 resigned andsadly far from his palace or tent, a sheikh or eastern princeling;Vanity Fair will be of no interest to him and, probably, not evenHello!.

    A trip to my doctor in Sloane Square — is valetudinarianismsetting in? — led to the suggestion that there might just be asuspicion of cancer of the prostate; so off to Harley Street again.

    A charming, very tall Australian chappie with a warm Sydneyaccent showed me into a small room which contained a highbed of sorts and a rather sinister little TV set. The TV wasshowing a static black and white image of what looked like abunch of a few late chrysanthemums. The young man took myjacket and told me to lie on the bed. `Doctor'll be here in aminute,' he said. `Just undo the top of your pants. Doctor'll dothe rest.' Catching my look of mild apprehension he sought tocomfort me. `They tell me you used to be quite somebody inthe art world,' he said, with amazing admiration. I clicked a littlesnort of denial. `No, truly,' he said. `That's what the receptionistthinks.' He had a devastating smile, which could wipe away theslightest umbrage. I recalled the old, aristocratic actor ErnestThesiger being stopped in Piccadilly by a woman who said,`Didn't you used to be Ernest Thesiger?' `Still am!' he hissed,and passed on. The Aussie dropped his smile and announced,`Here comes Doctor. Ease your pants down a little, lie on yourside and raise your knees. Comfy?'

    The doctor, after asking a few questions, turned to his assistantand, without a trace of drama, said, `Make me up a balloon.' Aballoon? What the hell could they be thinking of? Bravely Idetermined to neither wince nor cry out. He probed me withsome sonic device and I hardly felt a thing. His eye was kept onthe TV and occasionally he gave a little grunt of satisfaction butwhether that boded ill or well I couldn't decide. After ten minutesor so the doctor had finished and assured me that there wasn'tany sign of cancer. Smiles all round. I asked him to repeat that;which he did with emphasis. As I left the room I threw a glanceat the TV. The old clump of chrysanthemums was back onscreen, bleakly indifferent. I was tempted to ask them, `How wasit for you?' but contented myself with a subdued but joyful waveof the hand.

    Naturally I telephoned Merula, as soon as possible. When Ihad left for London in the morning she had suffered a suddenbout of inner-ear trouble which threw her off balance and causednausea. As soon as she heard I was cancer-free her giddinessdisappeared. Well, I suppose that has explicable reasons but I feelit is not far removed from the telepathic communications wesometimes experience, though these are usually about the mosttrivial everyday things.

    Here we are in the midst of an ugly election campaign — butthat is what they have always been — in spite of avowals from allparties that it will be a clean fight. The Lib Dems are the onlypeople who, so far, have kept their heads; but then they haven'ta hope of winning, so their warnings that they would put upincome tax will not be put to the test. I don't know who ourlocal candidates are. The only appeal for our votes has comefrom the Referendum Party, which pushed a video cassettethrough the letter-box. An extravagant gesture. We don't havea video so it was flipped into the waste-paper basket with a lotof German and American Star Wars fan mail. Like unsolicited,unwanted, trashy mail it can take its chance in some remote andreceding galaxy.

    The awe-inspiring events of the month have been the arrivalof the comet Hale-Bopp and the descent from a clear sky of MrPresident Bush. He was attached to what looked like a rainbowlilo. A perfect landing was greeted rapturously by Mrs Bush.For seventy-two he looked trim and trustworthy. Perhaps ourpoliticians could be persuaded to follow suit by jumping alltogether from a plane. A free fall for all. It would certainly attractthe media. The gleeful speculation and excitement for us at thegrass roots would surpass the Grand National.

    Hale-Bopp (I like the classy Home Counties hyphen) is anawesome sight, particularly when seen through binoculars, andmakes all our current political activity no more than a tiny puffof dust. We are told it is made of ice and frozen gas and isthe size of London, travelling at 100,000 m.p.h. From here inPetersfield, when the night skies are clear, we see it to the NWat about 30° over The Hangers. At first I thought its tail wasshuddering with speed but it was the trembling of my handholding the glasses, so impressed was I to be looking at somethingnot seen even by Socrates, Christ or Shakespeare. The astronomerstell us that it hasn't been glimpsed by the human eye foraround four thousand years and it will be another four thousandbefore it drops in again. We shall not be at home; none of us.Tony Blair, John Major, David Mellor, Princess Margaret, thelatest hair-designer, all the pop groups, the City magnates, braveyachtsmen and mountaineers will have lain long and quiet inMelstock churchyard, together with Uncle Tom Cobley, EdithSitwell and us of lower degree when Hale-Bopp next passes by.By the year 6000 even our approaching second millennium willbe seen to have been small beer.

    March has slipped by with but a few lion-like winds and barelya drop of rain. Apparently it is the driest spring month for twohundred years so drought is predicted for the summer and alreadythere are warnings about the use of garden hoses. Reservoirs arealarmingly low and rivers skimpy; we are told of millions ofgallons of water just seeping away through water companies'broken pipes. In spite of dry ground this has been easily the bestyear for daffodils in our neck of the woods; but they haven'tlasted as long as usual. The big plane tree which stands fifty yardsfrom my study window and which was pollarded two years agolooks derelict — not the smallest green flick of a budding leaf.Last year it was vigorous; now it looks like a tree shelled in the1914-18 war.

    We have seen nothing in the theatre but took ourselves tothree films — Shine, Ridicule and The English Patient. Ridiculewas gripping, witty and beautifully acted. Shine involved usemotionally; not only is it marvellously done but among allthe superb acting there is a truly great performance by ArminMueller-Stahl, who plays the father. Marta Kaczmarek was particularlyfine as the mother.

    They say the book of The English Patient is very good butI'm afraid the film left us totally indifferent. I had the impressionthat the other customers, all four of them, in a six-hundred-seatercinema at an early evening performance, felt as blanklyas we did. They groped their way out with unenthusiastic faces,muttering in monosyllables. Emerging into Shaftesbury Avenue,with its half a dozen glittering theatres, was like re-encounteringa real world. We had been deceived by the hype and the razzmatazzof the Oscars. It was good to look at but too oftensuggested bits and pieces of David Lean classics. At least wewere spared the Lard theme from Dr Zhivago. The next timeI see the admirable Mr Ralph Fiennes I hope he will havesloughed off his latex face. It is always a mistake to let the make-updepartment have a field day. God knows I have submitted a fewtimes to artistic endeavour but eventually I learned to do aboutthree films without any make-up at all. Nowadays, of course,most actors look real and it is the newscasters and politicianswho are painted an inch thick with artificial suntan, giving theimpression that they have left their skis, momentarily, outsidethe studio.

    A refurbished Star Wars is on somewhere or everywhere. Ihave no intention of revisiting any galaxy. I shrivel inside eachtime it is mentioned. Twenty years ago, when the film was firstshown, it had a freshness, also a sense of moral good and fun.Then I began to be uneasy at the influence it might be having.The bad penny first dropped in San Francisco when a sweet-facedboy of twelve told me proudly that he had seen Star Wars overa hundred times. His elegant mother nodded with approval.Looking into the boy's eyes I thought I detected little star-shellsof madness beginning to form and I guessed that one day theywould explode.

    `I would love you to do something for me,' I said.

    `Anything! Anything!' the boy said rapturously.

    `You won't like what I'm going to ask you to do,' I said.

    `Anything, sir, anything!'

    `Well,' I said, `do you think you could promise never to seeStar Wars again?'

    He burst into tears. His mother drew herself up to an immenseheight. `What a dreadful thing to say to a child!' she barked, anddragged the poor kid away. Maybe she was right but I just hopethe lad, now in his thirties, is not living in a fantasy world ofsecondhand, childish banalities.

    A couple of weeks ago, in a Chinese restaurant, the dapperlittle Chinese maître D bowed low as I left and, full of Chinesesmiles, said, `Sir Guin, now that Star Wars is being shown againyou will be famous once more.' Oh, to be Ernest Thesiger.

    The mornings, during the past few weeks, have started quitesharply and yet gently blurred in hazy sunshine. There is a veryrounded cherry tree in the middle of the paddock, now in flower,but the haze softly obliterates the trunk of the tree, leaving theblossom looking as if it might be a small pinkish-white cloudthat has settled with us. It spreads a feeling of calm like a blessing.I stand out of doors in my dressing-gown, gazing at it withgratitude, but know that all too soon there will be a thud ofletters falling through the letter-box, including glossy photographswhich no ordinary pen can sign. As often as not theyhave already been signed in a sprawling gilded signature by `DarthVader' from Star Wars — `so-and-so IS Darth Vader'. Maybe — butit wasn't so-and-so's voice or face (when it was finallyrevealed) to the best of my remembrance. The `IS', I suppose,is for reassurance, like clutching at something when waking froma bad dream.

    Last Sunday, as Mass was finishing, a young man leaned overmy shoulder and said, `My pop is a great fan of Star Wars. Willyou say hello to him as you leave the church?'

    I asked where his father was.

    `At the back in a wheelchair,' he said.

    The priest gave his blessing and the ritual words, `The Massis over, go in peace.'

    `Thanks be to God,' we chorused back, the young man adding,`And can I have your autograph?'

    `Not here,' I replied rather crossly.

    At the back of the church, sitting in a wheelchair, was a large,middle-aged, genial-looking man. I went up to him all smiles,like a baby-kissing politician, and exuding the sweet benevolenceof a hospital-visiting princess. I took him warmly by the handand made one or two fatuous inquiries. He suddenly said thedreaded words — `Star Wars!'

    `Ugh — hugh -uh -ha -hm,' I said, but I kept up my smile.

    `Obi-Wan Kenobi,' he nodded at me and, for good measure,`May the Force be with you.'

    `And also with you,' I replied, to ecclesiastical merriment.

    `The Man in the White Suit; that was you, wasn't it?'

    `Yes, about forty-five years ago,' I replied, with a sense ofrelief that we might have reached saner ground; anyway terrafirma. Then his face became grave and he said, `Darth Vader.'

    I backed away as quickly as possible, sketched him a valedictorywave of the hand and stumbled down the church steps into freshair and morning sunlight. The young man pursued me. `Theautograph,' he said, quite politely. But that was suddenly toomuch for me. `Not in front of the parishioners,' I said. Then Idisappeared.

    A second later I was deeply ashamed but the damage had beendone. No excuse. Just sudden bloody-mindedness and panic. It'sno good saying to myself, `Watch out in these declining years,things could turn nasty.' Donkey's years ago I remember seeingan elderly man in Harrods screaming and screaming at a shopassistant because she was buffing her nails. I felt sad contempt forhim and it never occurred to me to mutter, `There, but for theGrace of God, go I some day in the future.'

    The evening news announced that dust bowls have formedon the dry farmlands of Cornwall. Cornwall, of all places, wherethere used to be so many hedges.

    We all need hedges, I thought. They don't have to be pricklythough, like mine.

Continues...

Excerpted from A Positively Final Appearanceby Alec Guinness Copyright © 2001 by Alec Guinness. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.