and shotguns on the walls. But the interior meant less—though it was not always to be so—than the grounds, the lake, the woods. The place took on a magical quality for Lewis, who had toward it something of that feeling of the Grand Meaulnes for his lost domain. He used to long for his vacations and grow deeply depressed when they drew to an end. It was a glorious victory when he managed to persuade the grown-ups to let him stay on after his parents had gone back to Manchester.
Aunt Lilian had never had any children and she died in 1960, when she was only fifty-five. Uncle Hilbert took the loss of his wife very hard and the only company he seemed to want was Lewis’s. It was about this time that he started telling Lewis Wyvis Hall would be his one day.
He also informed Lewis’s parents, who got into the habit of saying things like “when all this is yours” and “when you come into your property.” Uncle Hilbert, however, was only just sixty, very hale and hearty, still very much in practice as a solicitor, and Lewis could not imagine stepping into his shoes, nor did he in those days think it very nice to anticipate such things. But he went down to Suffolk very often, much more often perhaps than he would have had Wyvis Hall been destined to pass back to the Berelands or on to one of those cousins in the United States.
His feeling for the place underwent many changes. In the nature of things, meadow, grove, and stream no longer appeared to him appareled in celestial light, the glory and the freshness of a dream. He was growing up. He began to see the grounds as a possession, the gardens as something to impress others, the orchard and walled fruit garden as places that would produce delicious food. Although he intended to live in the house for at least part of the time, he saw it, too, as salable and the value or price of it (however you liked to put it) going up every year. The pines in the wood where Uncle Hilbert’s hunt terrier Blaze was the last creature laid to rest he saw as a useful and lucrative crop. He noticed the pieces with which Wyvis Hall was furnished, took books out of the public library on antiques and porcelain and measured the remembered articles against illustrations, catching his breath sometimes at mounting values. Another thing he did was picture himself and his wife in the drawing room receiving dinner guests. The address on his writing paper would simply be: Wyvis Hall, Nunes-by-Ipswich, Suffolk. It was one of Lewis’s ambitions to have an address in which the name of the street might be left out without causing inconvenience to the post office. The house and grounds were marked on the ordnance survey map for that part of Suffolk, and Lewis, when he was feeling low, would get it out and look at it to cheer himself up.
By the 1960s he had married and had two children, a son and a daughter. When his son was born he thought it would be nice, a nice gesture, to name him after Hilbert.
“An old family name,” he told his wife, though this was not true at all, his uncle’s being thus christened having been an isolated instance of the use of Hilbert. There had been a fashion in the late nineteenth century for Germanic names, and his uncle, born in 1902, had caught the tail end of it.
“I don’t like that at all,” his wife had said. “People will think it’s really Gilbert or Albert. I don’t want him teased, poor baby.”
“He will be called by his surname at his public school,” said Lewis, who though poor had grand ideas as befitted the future owner of Wyvis Hall and its acres. So he won, or appeared to win, that battle and the child was christened Hilbert John Adam.
Lewis had written to Uncle Hilbert and told him of his intention to name his son after him, inviting him to be the child’s godfather. Declining on the grounds that he no longer had any religious faith, Uncle Hilbert sent a silver christening mug, large enough to hold a pint of beer. But the note that accompanied
Aunt Lilian had never had any children and she died in 1960, when she was only fifty-five. Uncle Hilbert took the loss of his wife very hard and the only company he seemed to want was Lewis’s. It was about this time that he started telling Lewis Wyvis Hall would be his one day.
He also informed Lewis’s parents, who got into the habit of saying things like “when all this is yours” and “when you come into your property.” Uncle Hilbert, however, was only just sixty, very hale and hearty, still very much in practice as a solicitor, and Lewis could not imagine stepping into his shoes, nor did he in those days think it very nice to anticipate such things. But he went down to Suffolk very often, much more often perhaps than he would have had Wyvis Hall been destined to pass back to the Berelands or on to one of those cousins in the United States.
His feeling for the place underwent many changes. In the nature of things, meadow, grove, and stream no longer appeared to him appareled in celestial light, the glory and the freshness of a dream. He was growing up. He began to see the grounds as a possession, the gardens as something to impress others, the orchard and walled fruit garden as places that would produce delicious food. Although he intended to live in the house for at least part of the time, he saw it, too, as salable and the value or price of it (however you liked to put it) going up every year. The pines in the wood where Uncle Hilbert’s hunt terrier Blaze was the last creature laid to rest he saw as a useful and lucrative crop. He noticed the pieces with which Wyvis Hall was furnished, took books out of the public library on antiques and porcelain and measured the remembered articles against illustrations, catching his breath sometimes at mounting values. Another thing he did was picture himself and his wife in the drawing room receiving dinner guests. The address on his writing paper would simply be: Wyvis Hall, Nunes-by-Ipswich, Suffolk. It was one of Lewis’s ambitions to have an address in which the name of the street might be left out without causing inconvenience to the post office. The house and grounds were marked on the ordnance survey map for that part of Suffolk, and Lewis, when he was feeling low, would get it out and look at it to cheer himself up.
By the 1960s he had married and had two children, a son and a daughter. When his son was born he thought it would be nice, a nice gesture, to name him after Hilbert.
“An old family name,” he told his wife, though this was not true at all, his uncle’s being thus christened having been an isolated instance of the use of Hilbert. There had been a fashion in the late nineteenth century for Germanic names, and his uncle, born in 1902, had caught the tail end of it.
“I don’t like that at all,” his wife had said. “People will think it’s really Gilbert or Albert. I don’t want him teased, poor baby.”
“He will be called by his surname at his public school,” said Lewis, who though poor had grand ideas as befitted the future owner of Wyvis Hall and its acres. So he won, or appeared to win, that battle and the child was christened Hilbert John Adam.
Lewis had written to Uncle Hilbert and told him of his intention to name his son after him, inviting him to be the child’s godfather. Declining on the grounds that he no longer had any religious faith, Uncle Hilbert sent a silver christening mug, large enough to hold a pint of beer. But the note that accompanied
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