I went to Kenmore once, and I must admit she plays the game loathsomely well. But all this relentless celebrity-hunting and party-giving doesn't make a home—and I'm damned if I know what it DOES make. The people who don't like HER will tell you her methods have actually held him back. Still, I don't deny she's a good mate for a man of affairs. The real point is whether Rainier's life ought to be cluttered up with business and politics at all. I suppose it wasn't his fault his father left him a small industrial empire to look after—steelworks and newspapers and interlocking holding companies and what not—all more or less bankrupt, though people didn't know it at the time.
Even the seat in Parliament was a sort of family inheritance he had to take over. He only scraped in by twelve votes last time But since you mention the Hobbs woman, let me assure you she's a modernistic jewel compared with the old butler they keep at Stourton Sheldon, I think his name is. Freeman shrugged. What makes me really uncomfortable is the same feeling I have about Mrs. Rainier—that he's hiding something. His smile was of another kind and did not answer mine.
It's an amazing hiding-place for anything they've got to hide. Miss Hobbs left during the week that followed and I settled down to the task of becoming her successor. It was not quite as simple as she had led me to believe. Rainier's interests were manifold; besides holding directorships of important companies he was a member of many societies and organizations —all this, of course, on top of his political work. I had plenty to do, and he expected it done quickly and efficiently.
We had little chance to talk on other than business matters, and for the time he seemed to have dropped completely the preoccupation that had begun to interest me. One thing happened that I had not after Freeman's remarks anticipated: Mrs. Rainier invited me to another of her lunch parties. Belloc Lowndes, H.
Wells, and a pale young man whose name I have forgotten who wrote highbrow detective novels whose names I have also forgotten , and despite initial misgivings I found the whole affair quite pleasant. Once more there was the empty chair for Rainier, if he should turn up, but he failed to, and nobody seemed surprised.
Again also Mrs. Rainier asked me to stay a moment after the others had gone, but now the request was less remarkable, since I had work in the same house. We sauntered across the lawn to a door in the high surrounding wall; unlocking it, she watched my face as I showed surprise, for within was a second garden, not much bigger than a large room, but so enclosed by trees and carpeted with flowers that one could hardly have believed it to exist in the middle of a London borough. I murmured something polite that might equally have referred to her last remark or to the garden itself.
I don't think Charles did, either, but he was too kind to get rid of her. If she told you things against me, and I'm sure she did, just suspend judgment till you know me better. Something like that? It will be wonderful if you can really help Charles— apart from just office work. He needs the right sort of companionship sometimes—he has difficult moods, you know. Or perhaps you don't know —YET. Anyhow, the thing to do is not to take him too seriously when he has them. She suddenly smiled. Keep it for me. It used to be the place where the gardener threw all the rubbish.
I planned it myself—I do most of the work here still. Charles never looks in—hasn't time. Hasn't time for my lunches either —not that I mind that so much, but I do wish—sometimes— I'd find him sitting here—quietly—alone—like men you sometimes see outside their cottages in the country—at peace. He never is, you know. I felt she would like to tell me something if I already knew enough to make it advisable, but she wasn't certain I did know, so she hesitated. I asked her why she thought he was never at peace. She smiled, suddenly on the defensive, sure now that I didn't know as much as she had half suspected, and for that reason anxious not to give me any further opening.
I hadn't expected Stourton to be quite so overwhelming. We drove there a few weeks later in four Daimlers—"like a high-speed funeral," said Rainier, who was in a macabre mood altogether; three of them packed with luggage and servants from Kenmore, the first one containing ourselves and an elegant young man named Woburn, who was coming to catalogue the Stourton library. Most guests would arrive the following day—perhaps twenty-odd: politicians, peers, actors, novelists, crack tennis-players, celebrities of all kinds.
It was a warm morning and as we drove through Reading and Newbury the sun broke through the haze and kindled the full splendour of an English summer, with its ever-changing greens under a dappled sky. Presently we turned off the main road and curved for a mile between high hedges; then suddenly, in a distant fold of the downs, a vision in cream-coloured stone broke through heavy parkland trees.
Woburn, who had not seen it before, joined me in a little gasp of admiration. My brother Julian, who fancied himself as a phrase-maker, once called it 'a stucco prima donna making a stage entrance. Of course what you really pay for isn't the thing itself, but the illusion—the sense of ownership, the intangible Great I Am. I think it would sooner possess me, if I'd let it Hello, Sheldon. Sheldon was waiting on the top step to welcome us. Neither plump nor cadaverous, obsequious nor pompous, he shook the hand that Rainier offered him, bowed to Mrs. Rainier, and gave Woburn and myself a faintly appraising scrutiny until Rainier made the introductions.
Then he said: "Well, Mr.
Christine Y. Kim
Harrison, if this is your first visit to Stourton it probably won't be your last. Rainier keeps his secretaries a long time. Rainier's former position, but there was a general laugh, from which I gathered that Sheldon enjoyed privileges of this kind, perhaps on account of age. He was certainly a well-preserved antiquity, with an air of serene yet somehow guarded responsibility; in different clothes he might have looked a cabinet minister, in contradistinction to those cabinet ministers who, even in their own clothes, look like butlers.
By the time I had been shown to my room in the East Wing Stourton, like every grand house of its period, had to have wings the sun was almost down over the rim of the hills and the slow magic of a summer twilight was beginning to unfold; through my window the vista of formal gardens and distant skyline was entrancingly beautiful.
I was admiring it as Rainier entered with Woburn, whom he had been showing round the library. I put in these large windows myself, against all the advice of architects who said this sort of house shouldn't have them. Otherwise, except for a few extra bathrooms, I haven't touched the place. Behind the two of them stood Sheldon, announcing that our baths were ready; Rainier turned then and led us across the corridor into an extraordinary room of Moorish design embellished with fluted columns and Arabic gargoyles and a high domed ceiling.
He watched our faces and seemed to derive a certain satisfaction. He made the bulk of his fortune during the Edwardian era, when the social hallmark was to have a billiard-room, and during the last year of the war, when money was coming in so fast he didn't know what to do with it, he conceived the idea of an EXTRA billiard-room as a symbol of utter superfluity At least, that's the only theory I can imagine. I don't think a single game of billiards was ever played in it, and I turned it into a bathhouse without any feeling of impiety.
That gives you some idea of the times, even as late as But it wasn't really niggardliness. He gave a great deal during his lifetime to the more orthodox charities. What he mostly suffered from were a few strikingly wrong notions. One of them was doubtless that servants didn't need bathrooms. Another was that he was really an English gentleman.
And another was that the remaining saga of mankind would be largely a matter of tidying up the jungle and making the whole earth a well-administered English colony under a Liberal government. I think when the war ended he assumed that's what was going to be done to Germany. He had done little but smile until then, and I noticed Rainier give him a look of sharpened interest. Then we went into our respective cubicles, but the walls were only neck-high and conversation rose easily with the steam.
I could hear Rainier and Woburn veering on to a political argument, while in my own cubicle Sheldon, arranging towels, saw me notice the slightly brown colour of the water as it filled the tub. He was going out chuckling when I retorted, quite without secondary meaning: "I hope all the family secrets are as innocent.
The chuckle ended sharply as he turned on me a look that evidently reassured him, for his mouth slanted into a slow smile as he resumed his exit.
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Meanwhile Rainier had come back to the subject of Stourton, and I heard him saying to Woburn: "My father bought it after it had bankrupted the Westondales, and the Westondales inherited it from ancestors who had built it out of profits from the African slave trade. This made my father's purchase almost appropriate, since my great-great-grandfather made his pile out of the first steam-driven cotton mills in Lancashire. You may imagine Stourton, therefore, peopled with the ghosts of Negroes and little children. A short while later we dressed and dined in the vast room that would have seated fifty with ease, instead of our four selves.
Rainier, I noticed, was particularly gracious to Woburn, whom she probably felt to be shy in surroundings of such unaccustomed grandeur. There was talk of how he would set about the library-cataloguing job; most of the books, it appeared, had been taken over from the Westondales along with the house. One day he read that some pine forests in Hampshire were supposed to be healthy to live amongst, so he promptly bought several hundred acres of them— on which part of Bournemouth now stands. Quite an interesting man, my father. He played the cornet, and he also cried over all Dickens's deathbed scenes —Little Nell and Paul Dombey, especially.
I'm not quite certain WHAT he was Somebody ought to write a really good biography of him some day. He did have one written just before he died, but it was a commissioned job and made him into a not very convincing plaster saint—and, of course, it would be easy to write the other sort, showing him as a sinister capitalistic villain But in between, somewhere, is probably the truth —if anyone thought it worth while to make the search.
Epistle of James
But let him finish the cataloguing first. Ever write anything, Woburn? Woburn nodded, and the somewhat mysterious reference was not explained. After coffee Mrs. Rainier said she was tired and would go to bed; Rainier mentioned letters he had to write; so there seemed nothing left for Woburn and me but to pass the evening together, somehow or other. Sheldon suggested the library, ushering us into the fine sombre room with a touch of evident pride, and obligingly switching on a radio in time for the news summary of a Hitler speech delivered in Berlin earlier that day.
We listened awhile, then Woburn snapped off the machine with a gesture— the meagre residuum of protest to which modern man has been reduced. Hitler's plans interfere with mine. Hippopotamus" and waits for the laugh. I was thinking of this, and also wondering how a youngster like Woburn at least ten years my junior had managed to establish this cataloguing racket amongst the rich and eminent, when he disarmingly told me all about it.
It was her idea I should do the Stourton job —that's why she sent him to see me. Of course I took him for just an ordinary visitor. He first of all asked at the counter if we had any illustrated books on English villages.
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It's the sort of vague request you fairly often get from people, so I picked a few books off the shelves and left him at a table with them. Presently he handed them back with a few words of thanks, and out of politeness I then asked if he'd found what he'd been looking for.
He said, well, no, not exactly—he'd just thought the pictures and photographs in some illustrated book might happen to include one of a place he'd once seen but had forgotten the name of.
They hadn't though, and it didn't matter. He seemed quite interested when I told him this and we talked on for a while—then finally he stared round rather vaguely and said, 'I'm supposed to see a man who works here called Woburn. He then said his wife had talked about me and thought I might do some cataloguing, and of course he had to say then who he was. I told him I'd be very glad, and he said that was fine, he'd let me know; then he shook hands hurriedly and left. After a few weeks I wrote to him, because I really wanted the job if I could get it—I was only earning three pounds a week.
Of course I'd found out all about him in the interval—about his Fleet Street interests—that's really why I sent him that short story I'd written, because I thought maybe he'd pass it on to one of his editors. The government officials wouldn't bother with him, because he couldn't fill out the proper forms, so he just had to go on wandering vaguely about trying to find the place. I haven't any real originality— only a technique. I suppose Rainier realized that. So I'd better stick to the catalogues.
You can't be sure they'd really WANT anyone to be impartial. That's why it's an affectation of Rainier's to run down his ancestors. A sort of inverted snobbery put on to impress people because the direct kind isn't fashionable anymore The way she can remember dozens of names when she introduces people But Woburn added: "Rather a mistake, though, in English life —never to make a mistake.
Like knowing too much—such as the names of all the states in America. Stamps one as a bit of an outsider. So are most of the people who come here. So are half the names in Debrett. Come to think about it, that's one healthy symptom of English so-called society—its inside is full of outsiders. Owning Stourton's almost a title in itself.
Before I could attempt an answer we both turned sharply to see Sheldon carrying in a tray with siphon, glasses, and whiskey decanter. We returned the salutation and then, as soon as the door closed, looked at each other rather uneasily. My mother had ONE servant, whom we called the skivvy.
That sets us both pretty equal so far as Stourton's concerned. I mentioned the name of my school and agreed that it was generally considered fairly good. Anyhow, from a social angle, the main thing is the accent—which you and I both seem to have. Nobody's going to ask us where we picked it up. I was at a board school up to the age of twelve —then I won a scholarship to a suburban grammar school. I took a London degree last year, working in the evenings. I never try to conceal the truth. He began to mix them and presently, while working off a certain embarrassment, added: "How does that fellow Sheldon strike you?
I said I thought he was the kind of person one could avoid a decision about by calling him a character. It was past eleven before we yawned our way upstairs. When I reached my room I found it full of cool air and moonlight; in the vagrant play of moving curtain shadows I did not at first see Rainier sitting by the window in an armchair. He spoke as I approached: "Don't let me scare you—I'm only admiring your view. It's exactly the same as mine, so that isn't much of an excuse How did you and Woburn get along?
She wants to see him get on in the world—made me root him out of a municipal library to do this card- indexing job Yes, he might go far, as they say, if there's anywhere far to go these days. I like him too, for that matter. I like most boys of his age—and of your age. Wish I had an army of 'em. That may be because I didn't have a very satisfactory home life.
When I was a small boy my father was just something distant and booming and Olympian —a bit of a bully in the house, or at least a bit of a Bultitude if you remember your Vice-Versa —all of which made it fortunate for the family that he wasn't much in the home at all. My mother died when I was ten. She was a delicate, soft-voiced, kind-hearted, sunny-minded, but rather helpless woman—but then most women would have been helpless against my father.
HE loved her, I've no doubt, in his own possessive way. Perhaps a less loving and more thoughtful husband would have sent her to a warmer climate during the winters, but my father wasn't thoughtful—at best his thoughtlessness became comradely, as when he insisted on taking her for brisk walks over the hills on January days. It was a cherished saying of his that fresh air would blow the cobwebs out of your lungs. It also blew the life out of my mother's lungs, for it was after one of those terrible walks, during which she gasped and panted while my father shouted Whitmanesque encouragement, that she called in Sanderstead, our local doctor, who diagnosed t.
My father was appalled from that moment and spent a small fortune on all kinds of cures, but it was too late—she died within the year, and my father, I have since felt, promptly did something about her in his mind that corresponded to winding up or writing off or some other operation that happens even in the best financial circles. He suddenly stood up and moved to the open window, staring out as if facing something that challenged him. You can see the line of them against the sky. He answered slowly: "Yes, I suppose I did.
Freud would say so, anyhow.
The Imaginary Lives of James Poneke
But of course when I was a boy and even up to my undergraduate days people only admitted the politer emotions. He was silent for a moment; then I went on: "You once told me about a certain day, sometime after the war ended, when you found yourself on a park seat in Liverpool. I'm always garrulous after public speeches Well, if I told you, you know. That's how it was. He seemed relieved. Oh I can stand any amount of cross- examination there—I'm on safe ground from about noon on December 27, You don't know the family, either. The effort of setting it all out might even help you towards the other memory—if you're still anxious for it.
H'm, might be something in the idea. When do we start? He found himself lying on that park seat. He had opened his eyes to see clouds and drenched trees, and to feel the drops splashing on his face. After a while his position began to seem more and more odd, so he raised himself to a sitting angle, and was immediately aware of sodden clothes, stiff limbs, a terrific headache, and a man stooping over him. His first thought was that he must have been drunk the night before, but he soon rejected it, partly because he could not remember the night before at all, partly because he somehow did not think he was the sort of young man to have had that sort of night, but chiefly because of a growing interest in what the man stooping over him was saying.
It was a kind of muttered chorus—"That's right, mister—take it easy. Didn't 'ardly touch yer—it was the wet roadway, you sort o' slipped. Cheer up, mister, no bones broke—you'll be all right—wouldn't leave you 'ere, I wouldn't, if I didn't know you'd be all right Presently, suggested by the muttered chorus and supported by the fact that his clothes were not only sopping wet but also muddied and torn, another hypothesis occurred to him—that he had been run down by a car whose driver had brought him into the park and was now leaving him there.
His brain refused an answer, and when pressed offered a jumble of memories connected only with war—shell-fire for headaches, a smashed leg for stiffness, no-man's-land for all the mud and rain in the world. He stood up, feeling dizzy, swayed and almost fell. The man had gone, was now nowhere to be seen. Then he noticed he had been lying down on sheets of newspaper. He stooped to peel one off the seat, hoping it might afford some clue, but the top of the page that would have contained a name and date was an unreadable mush, and the rest was rapidly softening under the heavy rain.
He peered at it, nevertheless, searching for some helpful word or phrase before the final disintegration. Most of the letterpress seemed to be news about floods and flood damage—rescues from swollen rivers, people stranded in upper floors, rowboats in streets, and so on. Then suddenly his eyes caught a paragraph headed "Rainier Still in Germany"—one of those mock-cheerful items that tired sub-editors put in to fill an odd corner—something about soaked holiday crowds taking comfort from the thought that somebody somewhere was faring even worse.
Now it is curious how one's own name, or the name of one's home, or a word like "cancer," will sometimes leap out of a page as if it were printed in red ink. It was like that for the young man as he staggered through the deserted park towards a gate he could see in the distance. It was a challenge, something he had to answer; and the answer came. Presently he passed through the park gate into a busy thoroughfare. A tram came along, mud-splashed to its upper windows and sluicing swathes of water from the rails to the gutters. It was difficult to see through the spray of mud and rain, but on the side of the tram as it passed by he could just read the inscription—"Liverpool City Corporation.
He walked along by the high railings till the park came to an end and shops began. Meanwhile he had been feeling in his pockets, finding money —coins and several treasury notes, amounting in all to over four pounds. Reaching a newsagent's shop he went inside and asked for a paper. A paper was handed over. Terribly slippery after all this rain Like me to give you a bit of a brush? Like me to get you a cab? He walked out, glancing at the paper as he did so. He saw that the date was December 27, Two hours later Charles Rainier was in a train to London.
He had had a hot bath and a meal; his clothes did not fit well, but were dry; and after a lightning headache-cure across a chemist's counter he felt somewhat drowsily relieved. Beside him were several more newspapers and magazines. Biggest of all surprises was to find that the war had been over for more than a year and had ended in complete victory for the Allies; this was surprising because his last recollected idea on the subject had been that the Allies were just as likely to lose.
But that dated back to a certain night in when he lay in a shell-hole near Arras, half delirious with the pain of a smashed leg, watching shell after shell dig other holes round about him, until finally one came that seemed to connect by a long dark throbbing corridor with his headache that morning. Charles arrived in London towards dusk, in time to catch the last train that would get him to Stourton that night. The train was late in reaching Fiveoaks, which is the station for Stourton, and three miles away from it, as anyone knows who has ever received a letter on Stourton notepaper.
From Fiveoaks he walked, because all the cabs were taken before he reached the station yard, and also because he hoped the cold air might clear that still-surviving headache. He was glad they were putting out the lamps as he gave up his ticket at the barrier, so that the collector did not recognize him. He realized that his return was bound to come as a shock, and he hardly knew what reason he could give anyone for his long and peculiar absence; he hardly knew yet what reason he could give himself.
He was puzzled, too, by an absence of joy in his heart at the prospect of home and familiar faces; more than by any excitement he was possessed by a deep and unutterable numbness of spirit, a numbness so far without pain yet full of the hint of pain withdrawn and waiting. Presently he turned off the main road. He remembered that turn, and the curve of the secondary road over the hill to the point where suddenly, in daylight, the visitor caught his first glimpse of the house.
Often, as a boy, he had met such visitors at Fiveoaks, hoping that when they reached that particular point of the drive they would not be so immersed in conversation as to miss the view. Now when he came to the view there was nothing to see, nothing to hear but an owl hooting, nothing to feel but the raw air blowing from the uplands. He was glad he had sent no wire to tell them of his arrival. He had refrained because he felt the shock might be greater that way than if he were to see Sheldon first, and also because he hardly knew how much or how little to say in a wire; but now he perceived another advantage in not having sent any message—it preserved for a few extra minutes the curious half-way comfortableness of being alive only in the first person singular.
Towards midnight he reached the wrought-iron gates of the main entrance; they were closed and locked, of course, but there was a glow in one of the adjacent windows, and as he approached the small square-built lodge a gap in a curtain revealed a lighted Christmas tree. Odd, because he remembered Parsloe as a tight-fisted bachelor unlikely to spend money on that sort of thing—unless, of course, he had married in the interval; but that was odder still to contemplate—Parsloe married! It was not Parsloe, however, who opened the door to his persistent ringing, but a half-dressed stranger—middle-aged, suspicious, challenging.
Eventually he added, rather weakly: "If Parsloe were here, he'd know me. You'd better be off, sir, dragging people out of bed at this hour. The "sir" was some progress anyway; a social acknowledgment that, drunk or sober, honest or fraudulent, at least one had the right accent. Charles was about to ask who Dr. Astley was when he thought better of it and replied hastily, perhaps too hastily: "Yes, that's who I am. But the lodge-keeper was still suspicious. Moving over to a telephone just inside the door, he wound up the instrument, listened, then began muttering something inaudible.
Afterwards he turned to beckon Charles inside. Sheldon says he'd like a word with you first, sir. Good old Sheldon—taking no chances. The voice at the other end was impersonally wary. Have you come alone? No need to say anything but: "Sheldon, it isn't Dr. Astley—whoever he is. THAT Charles.
Long pause. Then: "I'll—I'll come along—immediately —if—if you'll wait there—for me. Don't tell him anything—just say it's all right. He handed the receiver to the lodge-keeper, who took it, listened a moment, then hung up with more puzzlement than satisfaction. Sheldon says so. And please understand that I don't blame you in the least.
One can't be too careful. Somewhat mollified, the man brought forward a chair, then accepted a cigarette that Charles proffered. If you're a friend of the family, you'll know of course there's no parties this year on account of old Mr. Rainier being ill. Strange to be edging one's way into such realizations. The sick man was his father, and yet, somehow, the springs of his emotion were dried up, could offer nothing in response to the news but an intensification of that feeling of numbness.
He went on smoking thoughtfully. Really, when he came to think of it, Sheldon was the person he came nearest to any warm desire to see Marsh continued after a pause: "I could get you a nip of something, sir, if you wanted. It'll take Mr. Sheldon twenty minutes at least to come down —all the cars are locked up, and it's a good mile to walk. Marsh went to an adjoining room and came back with two stiff drinks. Charles walked over to a near-by mirror and stood for a moment examining himself. Yes—there was a queer look; one could call it pallor, for want of an exacter word.
Actually, he felt overwhelmingly tired, tired after the long and troubled journey, tired after that knock on the head in the early morning, tired after something else that was difficult— impossible—to analyse. He sipped the whiskey and relaxed as he felt it warming him. You told me of one of them just now, for instance—Parsloe dead. Anything else? Rainier pulled down the old billiard-room and built two new ones. There's just a table in it, in case anyone wants to play. And of course since Mr. Rainier took ill—".
And so on; so that when, eventually, the knock came at the door and Marsh opened it, recognition was silent, tight-lipped, almost wordless till they were alone together. Just "Hello, Sheldon"—and "Good evening! Leaving Marsh more puzzled than before, they turned into the darkness of the long curving drive. Out of earshot Charles stopped a moment, feeling for the other's hand and shaking it rather clumsily.
Matter of fact, it's too dark to see you, but I've a feeling you look exactly the same. Charles—but —I—I'd like to be the first to—to congratulate you! All I can tell you is that I was in Liverpool this morning—and don't ask why Liverpool, because I don't know any more than you. But I had some money as well as the devil of a headache from having been run down by a car, maybe Before that I can't remember a thing since —since all sorts of things I don't WANT to remember—the war —lying between the lines with shells bursting There's a sort of dark corridor between then and this morning—don't ask me about that, either.
What you and I've got to decide now is how to go about the job of reintroducing me, as it were Any ideas?
Epistle of James - Wikipedia
I'm afraid you'll find the house in a rather disturbed condition—". I realize I couldn't have turned up at a more awkward moment —in some ways. Much rather have come when it's quiet—nobody here—". Of course he'll have to know soon, like everybody else, but I was glad you postponed the—er—the sensation. TOO clearly, that is—everything a bit out of focus. It'll all come right, I daresay.
We've got this other problem to settle, and my suggestion is what we always used to say when we were kids— leave it to Sheldon. And in the meantime if you'll find me a bedroom that's a bit off the map I'll get a good night's sleep before making my bow at the breakfast table. I'm sorry. You'd better go easy when you tell him—the shock, I mean. I could give you a bed in my own apartments if that would suit. He slept a heavy troubled sleep, full of dreams he could not clarify, but which left him vaguely restless, unsatisfied. December sunlight waked him by pouring on to his bed; he stared round, wondering where he was, then remembering.
But he could not recognize the room—somewhere in the servants' wing, he supposed, and he confirmed this by leaning up to the window. The central block of Stourton faced him grandly across the courtyard —there was the terrace, the big curving windows of the dining-room, the East Wing with its corner turret. The spectacle found and fitted into a groove of his mind—somehow like seeing a well-known place and deciding it was reasonably like its picture postcards He was still musing when Sheldon came in with a tray. The family usually begin to come down about nine, but perhaps this morning—we stayed up rather late, you see Sit down and tell me all about it.
What time did YOU go to bed? She coproduced for Universal Studios the Fifty Shades movies, which made more than a billion dollars at the box office. E L James is blessed with two wonderful sons and lives with her husband, the novelist and screenwriter Niall Leonard, and their West Highland terriers in the leafy suburbs of West London. Website Facebook Twitter Instagram. Toggle navigation. Connect with E. Fifty Shades of Grey. E L James. The small press phenomenon dubbed "The Book" by readers across the U. Fifty Shades Darker.
Fifty Shades Freed. E L James revisits the world of Fifty Shades with a deeper and darker take on the love story that has enthralled millions of readers around the globe. Christian Grey exercises control in all things; his world is neat, disciplined, and utterly empty—until the day that Anastasia Steele falls into his office, in a tangle of shapely limbs and tumbling brown hair.
He tries to forget her, but instead is swept up in a storm of emotion he cannot comprehend and cannot resist. Facebook Instagram Twitter. Sign In Register Help Cart. Cart items. Toggle navigation. Chips, the novel was immensely popular, placing second on The New York Times list of bestselling novels for the year. The novel was successfully adapted into a film of the same name in under the direction of Mervyn LeRoy. Log-in or create an account first!
Boston: Little, Brown, Hilton, James. First Edition, first printing. CHIPS It was memorably filmed in , starring Ronald Colman and Greer Garson as two lovers thwarted by amnesia in the aftermath of the first World War, earning 7 Oscar Nominations including Best Picture. It was belatedly filmed in , winning 9 Oscar nominations. An ideal association copy. Inscribed By Author. First Edition. Hard Cover. Little Brown. Hardback first edition and first impression.
A good copy. Spine tips a little bumped, some offsetting to endpapers from envelope having been laid in. Jacket with a long tear to the top edge and chip to the lower edge, and chipping to the spine tips and corners.
Some offsetting to pastedowns. Signed by Author s. First printing. Inscribed and signed by the author on the FEP. A collectible copy seldom found signed.. Ltd, First UK Edition. First Impression. Octavo; light green cloth, with titles stamped in gilt on spine; dustjacket; pp,  ads. Some very subtle fading to cloth edges, with a touch of soil along upper edge of text and some minor offset to endpapers; Near Fine.
UK: Macmillan, A near VG copy in an original unclipped VG dustjacket. Small, neat name inscription to front end paper. General wear. Published during the war on economy paper - scarce thus. Random Harvest. Precedes British edition. With "compliments of Little, Brown" bookplate on front pastedown. Some foxing to page edges and endpapers.