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Drood
Боже мой! — громко сказал я и рывком сел в темноте, исполненный поистине провидческой уверенности. — Чарльз Диккенс собирается убить Эдмонда Диккенсона.
Человек, превративший своих отца, мать, несчастную жену, бывших друзей и бывших возлюбленных в сырье для штамповки своих литературных персонажей.
Нисколько не сомневаюсь, он воображал себя Ричардом Уордором, несущим на руках своего соперника Фрэнка Олдерсли через арктические пустоши. Покуда Диккенс меня не ронял, мне было наплевать, каким там фантазиям он предается.
Как вы впоследствии увидите, я сам в свое время уклонился от супружеских уз и предпочел сожительствовать с одной женщиной, имея ребенка от другой, и многие современники, к великому моему удовольствию, называли меня мерзавцем и скотиной.
Томас де Куинси, автор «Исповеди англичанина, употреблявшего опиум» и друг обоих моих родителей, однажды написал: «Если человек, постоянно говорящий о быках, начнет употреблять опиум, скорее всего (если он не настолько туп, чтобы быть чуждым всяким грезам), он будет видеть в грезах быков».
And most of all… Reader… Dickens deserved to die and be damned because, despite all of his weaknesses and failings (both as a writer and as a man), Charles Dickens was the literary genius and I was not. This curse -- this constant knowledge, as painful and as irrevocable as Adam’s awful awakening after being seduced into eating from the apple from the Tree of Knowledge -- has been worse even than Drood. And nothing is worse than Drood.
When the last autumn of Dickens’s life was over, he continued to work through his final winter and into spring. This is how all of us writers give away the days and years and decades of our lives in exchange for stacks of paper with scratches and squiggles on them. And when Death calls, how many of us would trade all those pages, all that squandered lifetime-worth of painfully achieved scratches and squiggles, for just one more day, one more fully lived and experienced day? And what price would we writers pay for that one extra day spent with those we ignored while we were locked away scratching and squiggling in our arrogant years of solipsistic isolation?
Would we trade all those pages for a single hour? Or all of our books for one real minute?
I had been in this very club, a guest of Dickens, when the older writer and the Inimitable had reconciled after several years of cold silence. That breach had begun during the height of the madness surrounding Dickens’s separation from Catherine, when he was most vulnerable. Someone at the Garrick Club had mentioned that Dickens was having an affair with his sister-in-law, and Thackeray, evidently without thinking, had said something to the effect --"No, it is with an actress."
Word got back to Dickens, of course. It always did.
Then one evening, just as I was finishing an early dinner at my club, I looked up to see Inspector Charles Frederick Field striding across the dining room. Without asking permission, he pulled a chair up to my solitary table and sat down.
My first temptation was to say, "Only gentlemen are allowed in this club, I fear, Inspector" but seeing his visage creased by a very uncommon smile, I merely dabbed a napkin at my lips, raised an eyebrow in interrogation, and waited.
...speaking as a novelist myself, I know that members of our profession live in our imaginations as much or more as we inhabit what people call "the real world"...
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