Campbell Corner Language Exchange
excerpts from Reading
with Diana
by Kathleen Hill
As published in The Yale Review
For ten years I read aloud to Diana Trilling
every week. Her eyesight, by 1987, had badly deteriorated
and she had trouble making out the printed page.
Some years we met on Mondays, others on Wednesdays
or Thursdays. If something interfered so that
one of us couldn't arrange to be free that day,
we tried to find another time in the same week.
We were dedicated to our readings, and although
she might occasionally be ill, or I might be away
for a month or more, we resumed with a sense of
relief. If there had been a long hiatus, or if
one of us had something pressing to talk about,
we might not read at all that day. But the book
was always waiting, and when I arrived at her
apartment at four in the afternoon, after the
working day was over, we settled to the comfort
of the unwinding story with a sense of arriving
home.
We read in the front room of the ground-floor
apartment, looking out on Claremont Avenue. The
chairs were wide and deep, the lamps ready on
the table next to the sofa where Diana sat in
her accustomed place and beside the chair where
I had finally come to settle across the room.
A double row of etchings hung in their frames
above the sofa, and sometimes, when Diana was
out of the room for a moment, I would set one
straight that had been knocked askew. In a little
elevated bookcase set in one wall, leaning against
one another, were books recognizable from Lionel's
essays: Ernest Jones's biography of Freud, the
letters of Oscar Wilde, William Wordsworth's collected
poems. And lying broadside, a picture book on
Marcel Proust that Lionel had given Diana on Valentine's
Day.
A gingko tree stood on the sidewalk outside the
window. In late May its leaves cast a green light
in the room, and in the fall, as the afternoons
grew short, the fan leaves flickered gold in the
twilight. By November they would be lying at the
base of the trunk like drifted snow and the branches
in the window would be stark and bare. One afternoon
in April 1996, six months before Diana died, I
arrived to tell her that finally, after a long
and punishing winter, a green mist was hanging
in the trees on Riverside Drive and there, too,
in the gingko just outside the window. "I don't
believe a word of it," she cried. "It's an illusion
of spring." Then, a moment later, "That would
make a good title for a novel, wouldn't it?"
I had watched the tree grow from a sapling since
the afternoon I first came to visit Diana in the
fall of 1973, having met her by chance that summer
in Venice. My husband and I, with our children,
had been spending the summer in the former Zaire
on Lake Kivu, in Vukavu, working for the Peace
Corps, and I had come ahead early to spend some
days in Paris at the Bibliotheque Nationale. I
was writing a dissertation on Proust and wanted
to look at the manuscripts. But the city the narrator
of Proust's novel had visited with his mother
was on the way and it would cost no more to stop
there. It was Venice, the charmed city of his
imagination, which he had seen resolve into a
commonplace pile of stones when he was faced with
the prospect of staying on alone after her departure.
And it was Venice, I remembered, that Thomas Mann
had chosen for his story of death and love.
One morning in late August, two days after my
arrival, I found my way to the Scuola de San Giorgio
degli Schiavoni to look at the Carpaccios. The
day was all white heat, but the interior of the
scuola was shadowy and cool. After a few minutes,
when the dazzle of light had yielded to the startling
particularity of the large canvases that lined
the walls, I became aware of a man and woman looking
at one of them. The woman was describing aloud
the monks streaming away in fright from Saint
Jerome's lion, robes flying, bold streaks of black
on white. She pointed out the book dropped in
a tuft of grass, its center pages standing upright
from its spine, the slippered foot of the frightened
reader pushing off for greater speed. The man
was silent, his head inclined toward hers. I knew
they were the Trillings because my father, like
Lionel and Langston Hughes and Lou Gehrig, had
been a member of Columbia's class of 1925, and
when I was a child I had sometimes accompanied
him to Dean's Day to hear Lionel lecture. But
I don't think I had ever seen Diana. I had spoken
to no one since arriving in Venice, and arranged
to leave the chapel at the same moment they did.
On the steps, standing in the glare of noon, I
asked if they were the Trillings. They looked
at me in astonishment. We spoke for a few moments
about the Carpaccios, and when there seemed little
else to says, they asked would I like to join
them for lunch. We had ham sandwiches and frosty
glasses of beer at a table under an awning. They
told me they had been at Oxford for the past year
and were on their way back to New York. I told
them I lived in their neighborhood, o Morningside
Drive. We spoke of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, of
the new wave of South American writers, of the
Ca'Rozzonico we had all happened on where Robert
Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Browning had lived.
Diana said she was looking for the Danieli Hotel
because she had stayed there when she had come
as a young woman to Venice with her father. She
couldn't remember where it was but would like
to find it. I told her I thought that when Proust
had visited Venice with his mother he, too, had
stayed at the Danieli. We spoke of whether we
should order more sandwiches. "But Li," Diana
said, "you haven't eaten half enough!" And when
we were gathering our things to leave, Diana,
who had been concerned to hear I was traveling
alone, told me that I must certainly stop by their
hotel when I felt like it-Wouldn't I do that?-and
if I needed anything I must not hesitate to ask.
I thanked them for lunch and we parted. I already
knew that I would not stop by their hotel; it
would be awkward suddenly appearing and finding
them resting or engaged with other people. But
I still had two more days in Venice and the next
morning turned a corner to find the Danieli Hotel
with its balconied windows looking out, past the
Giudecca and San Giorgio Maggiore, to the horizon
where the low dunes of the Lido floated in the
hazy light. That afternoon I took the boat out
to the Lido and walked up and own trying to find
the spot where Aschenbach had grown sick with
love. There was the far reach of the sea, the
beach with its bathing houses, but I could find
no hotel that fit the picture fixed in my imagination.
At last, climbing the steps of a shabby building
in need of paint, I glimpsed above its broad front
entrance a faded sign stamped with the words I
had been looking for: HOTEL DES BAINS. On my last afternoon in Venice, sitting in the
piazza on the steps of one of the three massive
flagpoles that rise in front of San Marco, I spotted
the Trillings sitting with friends at a table
in front of one of the cafes. But some shyness,
some fear of intruding, kept me from approaching.
The pigeons were swirling overhead, the violins
sobbing, the gold of San Marco was on fire. I
had already visited the baptistery of the basilica
where the sensation of uneven stones beneath his
feet, revived years later, had given the narrator
of Proust's novel his first intimations of the
recovery of lost time. The sun was warm o th stones
where I sat. I could see Diana and Lionel leaning
back in their chairs facing the great sinking
litter of San Marco, could see the giants on the
digital clock lifting their hammers to strike
the hour. In one of those moments when anguish
and joy seem indistinguishable, I saw that here
was a moment in time never to be recovered, that
it was all sliding away as we sat in stillness,
all vanishing with the shadow that imperceptibly,
moment by moment, was quenching the façade of
San Marco. The next morning, on the way to the vaporetto
that would take me to the station, I stopped in
a trattoria for coffee. I had passed enough days
wandering the city alone and was not sorry to
leave. Standing at the counter, I glimpsed Diana
and Lionel sitting in the back against a wall.
This was my farewell to Venice, and it might as
well be my farewell to them. But why, I asked
myself, hoisting my bag to my shoulder, is there
always this reticence, this shrinking away, before
drawing near another person? I greeted them, and
told Diana that I had found the Danieli. She had
as well, yes, yes, it was right here, looking
out over the sea, but of course it didn't look
as she had remembered. I said I was just on my
way to catch a train, was on my way out. "Call
me," Diana said. "Call me, when we're all back
in the city and we'll have tea."
And so our friendship began. Rushing along the
street that September on my way to visit her for
the first time, I thought to remember the number
35 Claremont by adding two to my age: thirty-three.
I would leave her apartment knowing that Diana
had turned sixty-eight that summer, was Jewish,
and that she had a son named Jim who was in his
mid-twenties; she would know that I was Irish
Catholic and had three small daughters. We would
have agreed that parenthood bestowed a delight
so intense that people without children must be
protected from knowing what they were missing.
And I would have privately decided, an opinion
never to be reversed, that her outrageous sense
of the ludicrous made her one of the funniest
people I had ever met. But what was remarkable about that first visit
was the sense of wonder and relief I felt in being
able to talk to an older woman not my mother about
matters my husband and I and all our friends endlessly
discussed without much light. How was the subject
broached and b whom? How, on the basis of crossing
paths in the Scuola di San Giorgio degli Schiavoni,
did we find out way immediately on sitting down
together to a discussion of whether or not affairs
were possible in marriage? But she had married
in her early twenties as had I, and she told me
that she and her friends had tirelessly discussed
the possibilities just as we did not. She did
not give advice, did not say how she herself had
addressed these difficulties, but, as I nervously
gobbled cucumber sandwiches, led me to understand
that she believed people had the right to claim
some area of privacy around themselves, some measure
of freedom wherein the choices they made need
not be revealed to anyone at all. She said that
fidelity in marriage was not easily defined, that
she thought it a strenuous and lifelong enterprise,
but that she considered it dirty-minded--that
was the expression she used: it rests in my journal--to
make fidelity a matter of whether you slept with
someone other than your spouse. She said also
that she remembered a time not so very long before
the afternoon we were speaking when a group of
their friends, married couples of the same age,
had been talking about these things, and that
it had been the women who seemed most to have
regretted the opportunities left unexplored. She
was not telling me one thing or another, but she
was assuring me of the possibility of choice.
In fact, we returned to this subject over a period
of several visits spanning the next two years.
We talked, too, about our parents and brothers
and sisters, and when I voiced a fear that something
I was thinking about writing might prove upsetting
to someone in my family, she said she thought
it best to assume a generosity of response, that
was best for one's own sake and for everyone else's.
The subject was quickly dropped, but years later,
when we were both writing memoirs, we would return
to this subject with greater urgency. She talked,
too, about how in her thirties she had come to
writing; how, after an extended illness had led
her to abandon all hope of a singing career, she
had watched Lionel like a hawk to see what his
response would be the day she first proposed writing
reviews for The Nation. But he had encouraged
her work, she said, always. Coming down the hall
from the back of the apartment, he would courteously
greet us on his way out to teach a class, pausing
to arrange with her some small errand, a trip
to the post office, or a stop at the butcher's
to pick up the chicken breasts they would have
that night for dinner. Did he have enough money
with him? "But don't leave me penniless, Li!"
Diana in 1974 was at work on a review of Nigel
Nicolson's Portrait of a Marriage, and
she said that although she admired the devoted
friendship between Vita Sackville-West and Nicolson,
she thought their freedoms to live as they liked
had largely to do with their privileged position
in English society. Members of the middle or working
class, pursuing a life as sexually adventurous
as theirs, would have paid heavily, both socially
and economically. She spoke of the arduous labor
writing was for her. She had already asked me
if I didn't think Lionel's style sounded simple.
"But you can't imagine the …," she said, pausing.
"Pain?" I offered. "The pain," she repeated, "that
went into it." Perhaps it was on this occasion
that I complained about how slowly my dissertation
was taking shape because my difficulty prompted
a letter dated 27 February 1975.
I've been thinking of what you told me of your
slowness as a writer; as I said, we're similarly
afflicted in this household. I think the important
point about which you have to be ruthlessly
honest is the matter of progress: do you inch
along, do you carry the work forward
if only a small amount at a time? There is no
other criterion, it seems to me, for distinguishing
between a perhaps too great but nonetheless
valuable precision of style and the use of meticulousness
as an evasion, to be thought of as only
a problem, against which you must mobilize all
your energies of self-correction. Once you work
out the style for a piece of writing, appropriate
to the material and your image of yourself as
author, you should, in a morning of work, have
a page that's new-that's a practical minimum
at your age and stage, I think . Thus, if you
go back over four or five pages, you
should come out with five or six, perhaps not
every single day, but most days. Do you manage
that? If you do not, then just by force of will
you must move on despite this or that lax sentence
or this or that insufficient word.
Anyway, I'm making this my rule, even at my
age and stage, and invite you to join with me.
"Mobilize all your energies of self-correction."
I knew the ring of a sentence like this one. But
I had heard it at school only in admonitory statements
in regard to the prescribed duties of young girls,
of married women in relation to their husbands
and children. I had not yet heard diction such
as this used in regard to responsibilities toward
oneself or one's chosen work. Nor had anyone ever
taken my writing quite so seriously.
Diana would tell me, not long before she died,
that she hadn't seen my face in years. I was startled
because it was easy to forget, watching her move
quickly across a room, that she could at last
see only the edges of things. But startled, too,
because I realized she had not seen my face grow
older as I had seen hers, that she perhaps imagined
mine to be the one that had hovered beside her
own years before while she filled my cup with
tea as quickly as I drained it, dropping a lump
of sugar into it with silver tongs, tearing open
a pink slip of saccharine for herself. Or, I wondered,
was it, in any case, continuity that we always
see in our friends, did the new lines in their
faces finally make very little difference? What
mattered was what I could see before me: the woman
who at ninety threw hr arm, just as she had always
done, across the back of the sofa, who sat at
ease with her legs apart or with an ankle resting
elegantly on a knee. Here she was, bending to
pick up the phone as she had during those years
when I eagerly listened to her strategies for
making sure of her working time. "Yes, yes, I'd
adore a visit. That would be wonderful. Next week
and the one following are impossible, but would
the week after that suit you? Are you quite sure
that would fit your schedule? Be really convenient?
Good, and in the meantime I'll forward immensely
to our visit." So that I had wondered if the person on the other
end of the line had hung up thinking that it was
he or she who had chosen a time one month hence
for the visit they hoped to arrange in the next
days.
During the fall of 1975 when Diana and Lionel
returned from their summer away, Lionel was not
well and went into Columbia Presbyterian Hospital
for tests. One day in September I was driving
Diana up Riverside Drive to visit him when she
told me that the day before a shadow had been
discovered on his pancreas, a tumor. I thought
of the Guermantes receiving Swann's news that
he would soon be dead: "Why, you'll outlive us
all," the Duke cries, and sends up for the red
shoes. In the silence that gathered in the closed
spaces of the car, I was made aware by the presence
at my side that for the moment there was nothing
to be said, and instead stared mutely through
the windshield at the rain-drenched road. Diana
went on to say that he had heard the diagnosis
and that she'd assumed he'd understood until she
heard him later on the phone telling someone that
this was all going to delay his teaching for a
couple of weeks. And then she continued that she knew something
had been wrong in July when he'd had a series
of terrible nightmares. That she blamed herself
for thinking so long that the disorder was psychological
and had tried to talk him out of his distress.
I had still found nothing to say when we pulled
up in front of the hospital, and she climbed out
of the car and disappeared through the revolving
doors.
In one of our visits soon after his death two
months later, on November 5, she said the genius
of marriage was that in a cold world there was
one other person for whom you counted first. When
night came, you at last went home to each other.
You might disagree, endure periods of disharmony,
but when one of you was in danger or very unhappy,
the other one rallied. "If Lionel were alive,
I know we'd fight sometimes, just as when he was
alive, it's not that I think things would be altered
to perfection. But he'd be here." We were
sitting in her immaculate little kitchen, eating
tuna fish sandwiches. For the moment, the formality
of the teas had been put aside. "The world may
be lamenting the death of the literary critic,"
she continued, "but I miss the man bringing home
the pork chops." Out of the corner of my eye, I had been watching
a cockroach make a slow path down the wall next
to the table here we sat. Just then he crawled
into sight. Diana looked blank for a moment, then
threw back her head, helplessly delighted with
the absurdity of it all. "What a life!" she hooted,
as if all our dilemmas had been solved.
In the years following Lionel's death, Diana
plunged into the editorial work of putting together
his uncollected writing, of seeing his collected
work brought out in a new edition, and into writing
a book of her own. I, having at last finished
my dissertation, began teaching full time. Our
afternoons together were less frequent. Sometimes
my husband and I would be invited for dinner or
for drinks, as in the days when Lionel was alive,
but Diana was afraid of heights and wasn't eager
to come to our fourth-floor apartment. One day
she called to say she wanted to make some tapes--informal
conversations--in which she talked about her life,
and asked if I would be wiling to help her do
this. We arranged a time, sat in our accustomed
places on the sofa, set the tape running, and
attempted our usual conversation. But it was all
flat and stilted, the rhythms were wrong, and
we gave up in defeat. Then one afternoon in the fall of 1986, when
we were again sitting at tea, she told me that
her eyesight had in the past few months badly
deteriorated. She talked about the ways her life
was consequently made more difficult. She needed
to bring in more money from her writing now in
order to pay the secretary she had recently hired
to take dictation. She could no longer see the
type-written page without the aid of a magnifying
glass. But her greatest regret, she said, was
that she would never again read Proust. I listened
amazed. It was ten years since I had completed
my dissertation, and over the last months I had
been visited by the thought more and more insistently
that it was time to return to Proust. I wanted
to read his novel under circumstances that would
have nothing to do with dissertations. My children
were grown, the disposal of my time more my own.
So it was quickly agreed. Once a week in the late
afternoon I would read aloud to us Remembrance
of Things Past, an undertaking we could not
have predicted would take us six years to complete.
Perhaps because Proust's novel begins with an
account of that floating state between dream and
waking, it soon occurred to me that reading aloud
to someone you love is a little like sitting with
them in the dark, talking. The words of the book,
the image that passes before your eyes, is the
dream from which you slowly awaken to find yourself
awash in scattered images from your past, odd
bits of ponderings for which there seem no words.
But if someone is there beside you, and if there
are rings of quiet surrounding anything that is
said, then these fragments may find their way
into speech. Your thoughts can roam freely, darting
backward and forward in time, the way they do
when you are alone. You are speaking to the dark.
Silences, as under a night sky, open to a place
beyond themselves.
The book, with Diana, was our dark place, the
fertile ground of memory and confidence. Had it
ever happened to either of us, as to the narrator
when he first encounters Gilberte at Tansoville,
that an exchange of eyes had been enough, that
it had seemed as if everything had been accomplished
in a gaze? Yes, once to her after her mother's
death on a boat going to Brazil, when she had
been traveling with her father. She had been singing
one night o an assembled group and a man had come
and stood in the door to listen. She would never
forget his face. I had passed someone on a street
in a village in southern France when I was twenty-six
and we had both stared in instant, blinding recognition.
And currently such as that with which Francoise
had tormented the pregnant kitchen maid, the spring
of the asparagus? Yes, we had each encountered
that in our childhoods, the sudden revelation
of gratuitous malice in an adult, and remembered
the thrill of fear it produced.
Or, when we reached Swann in Love, Diana
confessed she had never been subject to obsessive
love, the kind Swann felt for Odette, what she
supposed was called romantic love. It was not
part of her makeup and she never quite understood
what people meant when they talked about it. To
be imprisoned in this way! To be sapped of one's
will! It made her think of people she had known
in the grip of alcohol, or drugs. But there we
differed. Love of this kind was all too familiar
to me, and I suddenly understood that our conversations
about affairs so many years before must have had
a different meaning for each of us, not apparent
at the time.
There were moments, too, many of them, when we
sat in hushed and humbled silence. These occurred
early in our reading, but were repeated again
and again throughout the years. They were almost
always in response to a passage building rhythmically,
irresistibly, toward a moment of revelation-as,
for example, the famous passage in which the taste
of the Madeleine dipped in tea is said to evoke
a joy in the narrator that stirs him from lethargy
to the work of memory, the resurrection of the
whole of Combray, "towns and gardens alike." It
was then that we were together listening to the
voice beneath the voice on the page, the strains
of rapture that are the most intimate thing we
know about a writer, the secret urgings of spirit.
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