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- "Faulkner," but not that one: Izvestia publishes a fragment of Mary Shelley's penultimate novel
"Faulkner," but not that one: Izvestia publishes a fragment of Mary Shelley's penultimate novel
Mary Shelley, who became famous for "Frankenstein," considered her penultimate book, "Faulkner," to be her best novel. These works are separated by two decades, but there is a connection between them, although it seems that "Faulkner" is a quieter novel, a family affair, almost a love affair. But it is also a political and social statement, and the theme of power is among the main ones here. In Russia, the novel is being published in its entirety for the first time, published simultaneously in paper in Subscription Editions, and in the Yandex Books service in electronic and audio versions. The translator is Yulia Zmeeva, who has translated books by Elizabeth Gilbert, Rebecca Yarros, and Richard Osman. Izvestia publishes a fragment of the novel.
Mary Shelley. "Faulkner" (fragment)
What a strange, unpredictable and at the same time inexorable combination of circumstances has led him to the moment when he is forced to replace that irreplaceable one! She was dead—because of his damned machinations, she no longer belonged to the world of the living-but by what miracle, fleeing from memory and conscience, he decided to atone for his partly unintentional guilt with his own death and ended up not somewhere, but in Treby! Even more improbable seemed the motives that had brought him to the cemetery at dusk, made Mrs. Raby's grave the scene of a planned tragedy, and prompted the orphan, protecting the holy place from desecration, to stop his raised hand and thereby find a patron in it—it seemed as if the whole chain of events was held by one thin thread.
Anyone who has ever had a tragedy in their life, anyone who lived and hoped and whose past and future were destroyed by a single fatal catastrophe, would simultaneously be horrified and amazed at how imperceptibly thousands of long-past, seemingly insignificant and trivial events came together, which led to a sad end and served as an invisible a net that entangled a victim trapped in fate. And if the most terrible of these events had not happened, the process of destroying fate could still have been stopped, but no one shouted "Stop!" and did not predict what had not happened yet, because the future fully inherited the past sorrows.
Struck by the amazing coincidences that accompanied and guided his steps and seemed to be guided by an invisible but tangible force that weaves the reasons for our actions around us, Faulkner subordinated his previously unshakeable mind to this unknown will. Now it wasn't he who was leading, but he was being led, and that was fine with him; the rebellious spirit was surprised at the newfound peace; at the same time, Faulkner was pleased with himself, and the prospect of being useful to a helpless little creature standing next to him, weak in everything—who had no resources other than this irresistible right to his help—was She was so pleasant to him that he was surprised at his own feelings.
Before leaving, he visited the cemetery in Treby again with the orphan. She did not want to part with the graves and hardly agreed to leave her mother. But Mrs. Baker shamelessly used the privilege of adults to deceive the kids and lied out of the box: she promised that the girl would return to Treby soon, then she said that she was going to a rich house where her mother would meet her alive and well. But despite false hopes, on recent visits to her parents' graves, the girl cried inconsolably and sobbed; Faulkner tried to calm her down and said:
— We have to say goodbye to Mom and dad, my dear; the Lord took them away from you, now I will be your new dad.
Then the girl, who was pressing her face against his chest, raised her head and said in a childish voice, distorting the words:
— Will you be kind to the little one and love her like Dad?
"Yes, dear child, I promise to love you always; but will you love me and call me Papa?"
— Daddy, dear Daddy! She exclaimed and threw her arms around his neck. — My good new dad! And in his ear, she added gently but seriously, "But I won't have a new mom—I don't need another one, just mine."
—No, honey,— Faulkner replied with a sigh, "you'll never have a new mom; the one who could have been one is dead, and you're an orphan."
An hour later, they set off for London, but despite the relentless thoughts that tormented him, Faulkner was still distracted and involuntarily admired the disarming charm of his little ward, her charming innocence and beauty. We humans are so different from each other that it is sometimes difficult to explain why some of us succumb to strong impulses, while others are completely unaffected by them. To those who are not endowed with parental instinct, children appear to be animals, ugly and annoying; others see in them a charm that touches the deepest strings of the soul and awakens to life all the purest and most generous in our nature. Faulkner always loved children. In the Indian wilderness, where he had lived for many years, the sight of a young native woman with a baby often caused him tears of envy. The fair-skinned and fragile children of European women with rosy cheeks and golden hair awakened in him kindness to their parents, whom he would not otherwise have deigned to pay attention to; his heart, overcome by burning passions, calmed down at the sight of innocent childish tricks, and by virtue of natural energy, which he rarely managed to fully use, he gladly rushed to help those who got caught. in trouble. If even a chance glimpse of a helpless baby aroused a surge of sympathy in Faulkner, what can we say about such a lovely creature as Elizabeth Raby: when looking at her, this natural urge of the human soul was magnified a hundredfold. And no one could have remained indifferent at the sight of her; her silvery laugh penetrated the soul; her gaze, alternately serious and cheerful, was permeated with love; hugs and affectionate words, a soft squeeze of a tiny palm and warm pink lips — she was all beauty and innocence. And he, the unfortunate man, was fascinated and pitied her mother, who was forced to leave this fragrant flower, which was supposed to grow in paradise, cherished and sheltered on her mother's breast, but instead was left to all the winds.
Faulkner's companion fascinated him more and more by the minute. Sometimes they got out of the carriage and went up the hill; taking the girl in his arms, he plucked flowers from the hedge for her, and sometimes she ran ahead and picked them herself, unsuccessfully trying to separate the stubborn branch of a climbing shrub and injuring her fingers with thorns; then he helped her and comforted her. Then they would return to the carriage, and she would climb onto his lap and stick flowers in his hair, "so that Daddy would be beautiful"; and since any little thing affects a mind whose sensitivity is heightened by suffering, he melted watching her break off the thorns of the rose rose before decorating his hairstyle with them. She used to weave flowers into her curls and laugh at her reflection in the glass of the carriage. And sometimes her mood would change, and she would start talking seriously about "mommy." She asked if her mother was upset that her baby had gone so far, or, remembering the fantasies that she shared with her after her father's death, she asked if her mother was flying with them through the air. As dusk fell, she looked out the window and listened. "I can't hear her; Mom doesn't talk to me anymore," she said. "She's probably too far away, on that tiny star, and that means she can see us." Are you there, Mommy?"
Beauty and artlessness are easier to depict on canvas than to describe in words. If we happened to see a charming orphan girl with a raised finger depicted in a painting (and such beautiful children were often depicted by Italian masters, and even our own Reynolds); if we happened to look into her serious eyes, questioningly and tenderly searching in the twilight for the ghostly figure of her mother, as if she were about to descend from the star where her nursery had placed her fantasy; if we had noticed her half-smile, contrasting with the seriousness of the child's furrowed brows, and an admiring crowd would have gathered around the painting. This pen will hardly be able to convey the lively grace of a little angel, but now Faulkner had it before his eyes and awakened in him first pity, then the deepest remorse; he hugged the baby to his chest and thought: "Ah, I could have been much nobler and happier! Traitorous Alithea! Why did you disappear and take these joys to the grave with you forever?"
A few minutes later, the girl fell asleep in his arms. She settled into his arms with the easy grace of a child; her face had calmed down in her sleep, but it still breathed tenderness. Faulkner turned his gaze to the starry sky. His heart was filled with impatience, and, like a map, his entire former life unfolded in front of him. All he wanted was serene happiness—the happiness of love. But his aspirations turned into snakes that destroyed other people and condemned his own soul to torment. He shuddered with remorse at the thought of the horrors that marked his life, but despite this, he felt a revolution taking place inside him. He no longer contemplated suicide. What had seemed like courage a short time ago now looked like cowardice. But since he chose life, where and how will he spend it? Remembering his lonely youth, he was horrified, and yet it seemed to him that he would never be able to bind himself with the bonds of love and friendship again.
He looked at the sleeping girl and wondered if she would be able to give him much-needed comfort. Shouldn't he adopt her and teach her to love, to learn to rely only on him and become a whole world for her, hoping that her tenderness and affection will fill his own life with charm — because without them, even trying to continue to exist is pointless?
He wondered what would happen to Elizabeth if he returned her to her father's family. He knew firsthand about the cold, ostentatious kindness of distant relatives; it filled him with horror. He had no doubt that Elizabeth's relatives were no different from his own and were arrogant and hard-hearted; this was evidenced by their attitude not only towards Mrs. Raby, but also towards their own son, who seemed to Faulkner to be a worthy man. If you give them an orphan, wealth and status will not replace love and kindness from the heart. Such a gentle, delicate and affectionate creature in such an environment will wither and die. With him, on the contrary, she will be happy, and he will devote himself completely to her and will satisfy all her desires and carefully cherish her gentle disposition; she will know neither reproach nor severity; in trouble, he will always open his arms to her, and his firm hand will support her in danger. Wasn't this the fate her own mother would have wished for her? Handing her over to a friend, she confirmed that she did not want her sweet girl to fall into the hands of her husband's relatives. Would he really be unable to replace the friend he had so cruelly deprived of, and whose death was entirely on his conscience?
People tend to believe that by getting rid of the cause of bad behavior, they get rid of sin, and then with a clear conscience they make the same mistake for another reason. So it is now: although his past misdeeds still tormented his aching conscience, Faulkner embarked on the same path that at first seemed innocent, but led to a tragic outcome: he thought first of all about his desires, and not about what needed to be done. He did not foresee the evil that his choice would bring, but the evil that could happen if he happened to abandon the project he liked so much seemed disproportionately great. He did not think about what troubles could await the orphan if their fates happened to intertwine, because after all, he was a criminal, albeit unintentionally, and perhaps in the future he would be called to account, or at least he would have to run and hide. He simply decided that Elizabeth would be happy under his care and protection, and that she would become a victim of cruel indifference under the supervision of her relatives. All these thoughts were spinning wildly in his head, and he didn't even notice that he was weaving them into a picture of the future that was as deceptive as it was attractive.
After a few days on the road, Faulkner and his young ward arrived in London, and there he suddenly began to doubt why he had gone there, because he had no plans for the future. He had no relatives or friends left in England whose fate he cared about; he was orphaned at an early age, and his caregivers did not care about him, or at least did not have time to show affection to him; even as a child, he knew and loved only one person intimately, and until recently he was fate was at the disposal of this woman, but now she is dead. He was sent to India almost as a boy; there he had to get out of poverty, struggle with loneliness and his own rebellious temper. An acute sense of justice was awakened in him early, which made him proud and withdrawn. Soon several of his relatives died suddenly, and the family fortune passed to him; he sold his shares in the East India Company and hurried home, thinking of only one thing; this one thought so captured his heart that he hardly thought about his loneliness, and if he did, he only rejoiced at it. Now, his self-confidence and irrepressible passions had led to the destruction of the most precious object of his aspirations; and yet he was glad that no one questioned him, no one was surprised at his determination, did not pester with advice and reproaches.
However, a plan was necessary. The very fact that there had been so many tragedies and regrets in his life dictated the need to be more prudent in the future. Perhaps his crime was already known or at least suspected. And if he didn't behave wisely, he would be exposed and punished, and since love and hate motivated him equally, he wasn't going to do his enemies a favor by giving them the opportunity to incriminate him.
Переведено сервисом «Яндекс Переводчик»
