Colm Tóibín, The Master. ©2004

 This passage is adapted from Colm Tóibín, The Master.

©2004 by Colm Tóibín. The novel is based on the life of

writer Henry James (1843-1916).

On one of his strolls in Rye, Henry stopped at the

door of Mr. Milson, who after the first meeting

greeted him instantly as Mr. James, and knew him as

the American writer, having his walk in a Rye he was

slowly growing to admire and love. Upon his second

or third conversation with Mr. Milson, during his

time as a resident of Point Hill, he observed that he

longed for a permanent spot in the area, in the

countryside, or indeed in the town itself. Since

Mr. Milson enjoyed talking, and since he was not

interested in literary matters, and since he had not

been to America and knew no other Americans, and

since Henry’s knowledge of ironmongery was

rudimentary, the two men discussed houses, ones

which had been for rent in the past, others which had

been put on the market or sold or withdrawn, and

others, much coveted, which had never been bought

or sold or rented in living memory. Each time he

visited, once they had initiated their subject,

Mr. Milson showed him the card on which Henry’s.

London address was inscribed. He had not mislaid it,

he had not forgotten, he insisted, and then enticingly

would mention some great old house, perfect for a

bachelor’s needs, but sorrowfully would have to

admit that the house remained firmly in its owner’s

hands and seemed unlikely to leave them in the

foreseeable future.

Henry viewed his conversations with Mr. Milson

as a form of play, just as his conversations with

fishermen about the sea, or with farmers about the

harvest, were forms of polite relaxation, a way of

drinking in England, allowing its flavors to come to

him in phrases, turns of speech and local references.

Thus even when he opened the letter which arrived

at his London address, having noticed that the

handwriting on the envelope was not that of

someone accustomed to writing letters, and even

when he saw the name Milson as the sender, he was

still puzzled by its provenance. Only when he read

it a second time did he realize who it was from and

then, as though he had received a blow in the

stomach, he understood what the letter said. Lamb

House in Rye had fallen vacant, Milson told him,

and could be had. His first thought was that he would

lose it, the house at the quiet corner at the top of a

cobbled hill whose garden room Edward Warren

had drawn so lovingly, the establishment he had

glanced at so achingly and covetously on his many

tours of Rye, a house both modest and grand, both

central and secluded, the sort of house which seemed

to belong so comfortably and naturally to others and

to be inhabited so warmly and fruitfully by them.

He checked the postmark. He wondered if his

ironmonger was freely broadcasting the news of this

vacancy to all comers. This was, more than any other,

the house he loved and longed for. Nothing had ever

come easily, magically like this. He could do what he

liked, he could send a cable, he could take the next

train, but he remained sure that he would lose it.

There was no purchase, however, in thinking, or

regretting or worrying there was only one solution

and that was to rush to Rye, thus insuring that no

omission on his part could cause him not to become

the new inhabitant of Lamb House.

Before he left he wrote to Edward warren,

imploring him to come to Rye also as soon as he

could to inspect the inside of the house whose

exterior he had so admired. But he could not wait for

Warren and he certainly could not work, and on

the train he wondered if anyone watching him would

know how momentous this journey was for him,

how exciting and how potentially disappointing.

He knew that it was merely a house; others bought

and sold houses and moved their belongings with

ease and nonchalance. It struck him as he traveled

towards Rye that no one, save himself, understood

the meaning of this. For so many years now he had

had no country, no family, no establishment of his

own, merely a flat in London where he worked.

He did not have the necessary shell, and his

exposure over the years had left him nervous and

exhausted and fearful. It was as though he lived a life

which lacked a facade, a stretch of frontage to protect

him from the world. Lamb House would offer him

beautiful old windows from which to view the

outside; the outside, in turn, could peer in only at his

invitation.