The literary world is thrilling to
the latest discovery of a work by a major figure -- in this case, the American
poet Walt Whitman -- previously unknown (in the present case, published, but
not under the poet’s name):
Since the work in question -- mere
newspaper fare, and appearing as its lead article -- was “hiding in plain
sight”, one cannot say that the world of letters has been particularly enriched
by its (re)discovery -- or rather, re-ascription. It consists of diet advice and whatnot. Still, it is rejoicing to learn, once
again, that forgotten treasure may be found for the ferreting.
As our own, far more modest
contribution to Whitmaniana, we offer this seldom-seen photograph, not of the
poet, but of his elder brother Phineas:
Walt Whitman's smarter brother |
In actual, actuarial fact, Walt had
upwards of a dozen brothers, all of them smarter than himself, but none of them
poets; and since they all went
into banking, or barbering, or bagel-making, or bootblacking, their tales are
lost to literary history.
~
Quite on another plane from that of Whitman (who
struggled his entire life to
become a poet, without ever discovering the principle of the rhyme) is that of
the brilliant Dickens, whose final novel, The Mystery of Edwin Drood
(posthum. 1870), a masterpiece of
clockwork plotting and stylistic concision, was left tragically unfinished by
the author’s untimely, more than lamented death. No work in history has more sharply whetted the thirst of
cognoscenti, for more; in attics throughout England, dusty trunks have long
been feverishly ransacked, in hopes that some further chapter, or even the bare
outline of the plot (along with the key to the murder), might turn up. So far, all in vain.
Until now. Using methods which, both for reasons
of methodological proprietorship and of possible legal liability in case some
corners might have been cut (quite without my knowledge), we shall not
disclose, we at last have managed
to acquire -- against a sum which, again, I shall not reveal; consider it my
humble financial contribution to world scholarship -- an actual
fragment, on a torn bit of manuscript and in the author's own hand, of the final chapter of that work.
For its genuineness I have the
solemn testimony of my employee Mr Thomas Chatterton, Gentleman, Director of
Chemical Analysis for the WDJ
Department of Incunabula:
the fragment was printed on the very same rare make of paper that bore
that priceless manuscript “A Dinner at Veneerings”, which it was our good
fortune to expose to the marveling world, a photo-image of which manuscript may
be inspected here.
Here then, follows the fragment.
Vide infra; right … there.
not but that, had he
… Umm, that’s it.
That’s all he wrote. That’s
what you get. Something of an
anticlimax, perhaps, to such as are hard to please.
It might have been nice to have an actual verb, at least. Or a noun; or a name. Still, as the first authenticated posthumous addition to that classic of suspense and detection, our find must mark an epoch in Dickens scholarship.
We ourselves are far too rigorous
in our adherence to the methodological exigencies of diplomatic editions, to
venture a guess as to the context;
although, examing the fragile fragment with a magnifier, we do perceive,
off at the right edge, a curve which might
be a part of an o; in which case the passage may confidently be emended to “had he only” -- or, what is almost the same, “had he only known”. Or yet further, with more than moral certainty,
… not but that, had he only known what effect
these words would have upon his stunned interlocutor, he might have …
~
A night of intense reflection, not
unaccompanied by ardent spirits, has revealed to me the following astonishing completion:
… he might have plunged his hand into the
hidden inner pocket of his blouse of Indian silk, and extracted the
gem-encrusted dagger which he had secreted for so long against this very
possibility -- sinking the instrument repeatedly into the half-averted visage
of the crone --
“SO!
You thought you could do away with him, and frame me for the deed, and make
me to imagine that I had done it myself, while in an amnesiac haze the fruit of the treble-strength opium
which you, on that accursed night, administered with your traitor’s hand!”
Ex pede, Herculem! The mystery is solved at last !!
-- Mm; hmm. Of course, that is all a bit speculative.
.
~
~ Posthumous Endorsement ~
"If I were alive
today, and in the mood for a mystery,
this is what I'd be
reading: "
(My name is Charles “Chuck” Dickens,
and I approved this
message.)
~
~
~
[Lit. Crit. footnote (all satire
aside):
Such a dénoument would resemble that of Wilkie Collins’
pioneering whodunit, The Moonstone (1868), in which the protagonist,
having been slipped some laudanum, unconsciously commits an act which is key to
a crime, and which frames him for the crime itself. Dickens and Collins were longtime friends and emulous
colleagues; moreover, Dickens was
certainly well aware of The Moonstone, having been its actual
publisher!
I wrote all this simply as a hoot;
yet there are several indications within the published portion of the book,
which make such a hypothetical ending plausible. For:
(1) The crone who runs the opium den has been meddling with the dosages; Jasper remarks upon this.
(2) You would think that the crone would be favorably disposed
towards Jasper, since he’s a regular customer and pays his bills; yet she absolutely has it in for him,
with a deadly hatred, as we see towards the end of the published book when she
visits the cathedral and sees him sing.
(3) … TBC
]
]
I want to admit that I'm laughing my ass off reading this, but that's too crude a response to this high humor. Congratulations to all who toiled at these digs.
ReplyDeleteCap'n Mike
Ho there, Cap’n, good to hear from you!
DeleteHopefully you will manage to locate the missing gluteus and re-attach it!
v/r
First-Mate Davy