Upstairs,

By Paul Gray

THE REMAINS OF THE DAY by Kazuo Ishiguro; Knopf; 245 pages; $18.95

For many people, the idea of the great houses of Britain induces reveries of a civilized Eden. Never mind that most of these establishments are now defunct or shells of their former selves; the graceful existence they once accommodated, celebrated in novels and films, lives on. Morning strolls across rolling lawns, with tatters of mist clinging to the ancient oaks and hedgerows. Inside, an assembly of witty weekend guests. Tea at 4; whisky and soda at 6. A sumptuous meal, with candlelight glancing off starched white shirtfronts, bare shoulders and glittering jewelry. Port and cigars, conversation and billiards. And then to bed.

This fantasy, not to mention the reality it enhances, pays little heed to the army of underlings who made these idle splendors possible. In The Remains of the Day, Kazuo Ishiguro tries to right that imbalance: he reconstructs in fiction the world of a stately home in its heyday, between the two world wars, from the point of view of a butler.

Ishiguro's mastery of this subject and its proper tone are uncanny. Born in | Nagasaki in 1954, he was brought to England with his family six years later and educated there. His two earlier novels were set in Japan, but this one displays a sure grasp of another island culture -- England's -- that has been notoriously impervious to outsiders and immigrants. Furthermore, the young author writes with assurance about events that took place before he was born, and he does so in the utterly convincing voice of an aging Englishman.

Stevens has been the butler at Darlington Hall in Oxfordshire since 1922. It is now 1956, and his new employer, an American named Mr. Farraday, encourages the butler to take a brief vacation in the owner's vintage Ford. Stevens hesitantly agrees. Running Darlington Hall with a staff of four, which Mr. Farraday has requested, as opposed to the 17 assistants Stevens once supervised, has been hard on his nerves. A drive to the West Country might do him good. Besides, Stevens has received a letter from Miss Kenton, the housekeeper who resigned in 1936 to be married, revealing that she has left her husband. He will see her in Cornwall, encourage her to return to her old position and thus combine pleasure with business.

Ostensibly, Stevens sets out to write an account of his motor trip. But he tells a story that he only begins to understand when it and his journey are all but over. He cannot forget Lord Darlington, dead now three years, the gentleman whom he served for so long. He defends his late master against the initially unspecified "utter nonsense" that has been written and spoken about him since the end of World War II. And he fusses over the attributes that create a "great" butler, finally coming up with a definition that satisfies him: "And let me now posit this: 'dignity' has to do crucially with a butler's ability not to abandon the professional being he inhabits."

By this standard, Stevens has succeeded admirably. He looks back with pride to the "turning point" in his life, the 1923 conference arranged by Lord Darlington to persuade an array of international guests to ease or repeal the postwar penalties on Germany. While his father, an underbutler at Darlington Hall, lies in his room dying of a stroke, Stevens serves after-dinner drinks with tears streaming down his face. Told that his father's struggle is over, he responds, "Miss Kenton, please don't think me unduly improper in not ascending to see my father in his deceased condition just at this moment. You see, I know my father would have wished me to carry on just now."

His professional armor also protects him against Miss Kenton, who occasionally grows more familiar with him than propriety allows and who seems to tease him with accounts of her suitor in a nearby village. When she tells him she has accepted a proposal, he congratulates her and goes on about his work. This may have been the occasion, it now occurs to him, on which he heard her crying behind a closed door.

Eventually, even someone as composed as Stevens cannot fight off the burden of his memories. He has given his life to a man who was at best a well-meaning ninny and, at worst, during the '30s, a dupe of the Nazis. Stevens' devotion to an imposed role drove Miss Kenton into the arms of her second choice. He breaks into tears at the end: "I can't even say I made my own mistakes. Really -- one has to ask oneself -- what dignity is there in that?"

The answer is, oddly enough, plenty. The Remains of the Day may be an insidious indictment of the British class system. It is also a remarkably textured tribute to those -- upstairs, downstairs -- who brought the whole show off with such convincing, if illusory, panache.