"Les jambes de femmes sont comme des compas qui arpentent le globe terrestre en tout sens, lui donnant son équilibre et son harmonie." Un de mes films préférés de Truffaut, dont je connais toute l'oeuvre, dont je suis amoureuse depuis ma rencontre avec lui, un été, à Paris. Cet été-là, qu'il est loin déjà, où j'ai découvert la quasi totalité de ses films... Moment charnière de mon existence. Je viens de revoir pour la sixième fois L'homme qui aimait les femmes, avec le même plaisir et la même émotion. Eadem sed aliter. Je psalmodie toujours les mêmes citations, ça me rassure et ça m'angoisse. Je vis sur le fil du rasoir mais j'aimer me couper à mes propres contradictions. Truffaut et sa manière particulière de raconter les histoires, la voix off qui rend à la fois présents et absents les personnages, qui donne de la distance pour mieux étreindre le spectateur. Le rapport entre la fiction et le réel, qui est un thème cher à Truffaut, et qui s'exprime ici par la mise en abyme du titre du film et du livre qu'écrit le héros, mais aussi par ce magnifique moment où Bertrand modifie sur la presse un mot de son roman. La petite fille de son souvenir ne portera plus, dans son roman, une robe rouge mais bleue. Ceci pour signifier sans le dire le pouvoir de recréation de l'imagination et de la fiction. Se souvenir n'est plus revivre, mais vivre autre chose au coeur du même, faire surgir une autre possibilité que le réalité avait mise de côté, d'où mon adage très schopenhauerien, eadem sed aliter. Ma scène adorée entre toutes est celle, bien sûr, où l'on découvre les raisons du comportement compulsif ou collectionneur de Bertrand : la rencontre avec LA femme perdue et toujours aimée qu'il recherche à travers toutes les autres. Métonymie quand tu nous tiens... Les moments qui relatent son enfance font douloureusement écho aux Quatre cents coups. Ne pas faire de bruit en tournant les pages d'un livre... La mère insoucieuse et jouisseuse. Putain plus que mère. Je me sens si proche de Truffaut dans ces moments-là... A noter la présence du chat qui se régale des restes d'un petit déjeuner en amoureux, que l'on retrouve dans la Nuit américaine par exemple. L'oeuvre de Truffaut est extrêmement cohérente dans chacun de ses détails. Un film en appelle toujours un autre et, ce, de manière flagrante. Je dirais même que son oeuvre est habitée, pour ne pas dire hantée, par la peur de l'infidélité à soi-même. D'où, paradoxalement, l'infidélité de presque tous les personnages de ses films. Y compris le héros de la Chambre verte (sublime !) d'après Henry James qui, dans sa volonté de pas trahir par l'oubli les disparus, finit néanmoins par succomber à Nathalie Baye, du moins dans son for intérieur. Seule la mort l'empêchera de consommer cette infidélité. Un été, un autre été, je suis retournée sur la tombe de François Truffaut, au cimetière du Montparnasse. Un unique oeillet rouge estampillait le "i" de son prénom. J'ai une photo qui fige cette délicatesse. Je la déposerai, ici, un jour.

Mue par une impulsion, par une fringale de livres insatiable, je me suis précipitée dans une librairie (une FNAC, mea culpa, donc pas vraiment une librairie digne de ce nom !) et j'ai acheté les trois suivants (Cf. photo jointe qu'il faut agrandir) !
J'ai choisi les deux autres par hasard, ou pas exactement si je me fie à l'hypothèse d'Enro !
La villa des mystères de Federico Andahazi porte un titre enjôleur, car je suis portée sur les énigmes. La quatrième de couverture m'allèche jusqu'à plus soif : on y parle de Frankenstein, de Byron et du couple Shelley. Rien que des mots-clefs pour mon cerveau !!! Le second, Le travail du furet de Jean-Pierre Andrevon m'a piégée par sa couverture qui m'évoque une ambiance de privé et de roman noir, ensuite la quatrième de couverture (qui est le dernier atout du livre inconnu) me captive. L'idée développée me plaît.
La tapette imaginaire est mise en place et elle vient de se refermer sur mes mains et j'emporte les livres que j'aime déjà. Serai-je ou non déçue ? L'avenir seul le dira.

Quatrième de couverture : Terre, début du XXIème siècle. Un signal musical d'origine inconnue a été capté par une station de scientifiques. Commanditée par les Jésuites, une mission dirigée par le jeune Emilio Sandoz, tout à la fois prêtre et linguiste de haut niveau, part dans l'espace à la recherche des extraterrestres. Tous se préparent à affronter la mort et la solitude, mais la catastrophe qui les attend va bien au-delà de ce qu'ils redoutaient. Rome, 2059. Enfin de retour sur Terre, Emilio Sandoz - unique survivant de l'expédition - est traduit devant un tribunal chargé de sonder son âme et de le punir pour les horribles crimes dont on l'accuse. Cet homme, transformé par son expérience, aurait-il été abandonné par Dieu ? Voici un livre qui m'a vraiment emballée. Peut-être plus par ses idées plus que par sa forme, j'ai été charmée. Car si l'histoire et l'intelligence insufflée par l'auteur à cette intrigue sont remarquables, le style, quant à lui, est honorable mais pas original. C'est une écriture posée, ce qui a aussi son charme. Sûrement qu'un style plus voyant eût été en défaveur de l'histoire. J'ai beaucoup aimé l'entralecement du présent et du passé, ce mouvement de bascule bien maîtrisé qui rythme le livre. Je pense qu'il faut également lire la suite - Children of God - dont je n'ose trop rien dire afin de ne pas déflorer l'intrigue. Malheureusement, elle n'a pas été traduite en Français, donc ce sera réservé à ceux qui se débrouillent en Anglais. Le Père Sandoz va retourner sur cette planète, à son corps défendant, alors que sa vie avait prise une tournure autre. A mes yeux, la véritable question est de savoir (et il n'y a pas de réponse dans ce tome) pourquoi Dieu a laissé faire "cela". En effet, il s'agit bien de la perte de foi d'un homme qui se sentait élu ou favori de Dieu et qui se retrouve devant quelque chose qu'il ne peut expliquer, justifier et transcender (ce qui s'est passé sur cette planète) et qui le ramène au néant et à l'absurde de son existence. J'ai beaucoup aimé ce livre car ce n'est pas de la S.F. avec les thèmes traditionnels. Il s'agit plutôt d'un questionnement métaphysique en filigrane. Ceci n'enlevant en rien ou ne gênant en rien la force d'un récit qui nous amène crescendo à une réponse insoutenable. Les personnages sont bien dessinés et leurs rapports psychologiques plutôt bien développés : on aime chaque d'eux et on les comprend, dans leurs différents parcours. Je trouve que l'aspect "scientifique" rend crédible le déroulement du drame, car il ancre profondément les personnages et installe le mystère. On quitte le livre à regret et il vous hante encore longtemps après.

http://users.aol.com/emarko/gorey.html

ou

http://g4.iburn.com/gashly/

Charles Palliser est l'auteur d'un chef-d'oeuvre qui m'a rendu folle : Le quinconce, Ed. Phébus. Cinq volumes, comme son nom l'indique, qui ne viendront pas nécessairement à bout de l'énigme - des énigmes - mise(s) en scène dans cette histoire. Palliser est un écrivain vicieux et doué. Impossible d'avoir une lecture passive en lisant ces livres. Plus intrigant que Wilkie Collins (que j'adore) et Agatha Christie (que j'adore) réunis, Palliser a écrit un livre parfait, car c'est un livre que la lecture ne peut épuiser (je disais cela de ce livre-ci également, mais différemment). Il faut le lire et le relire sans cesse. C'est un livre policier, si l'on veut. Mais c'est plus que ça. C'est un livre mystérieux et un mystère ne peut se dire... Chut ! L'histoire se passe pendant la période victorienne - ma préférée - et le héros est un jeune garçon à qui on cache ses origines. Sa mère tient un journal. Leur vie est en jeu. Est-il ou non l'héritier d'un immense domaine? Qui sont ses alliés? Qui sont ses ennemis? Quel est ce secret si horrible qu'on lui dissimule? Aucune de mes questions ne peut circonscrire la trame de l'histoire et ses enjeux. Il faut le lire et se faire une opinion. Le début est un peu lent, mais tout prend son sens très vite. Impossible d'arrêter la lecture. Vous êtes prévenus: si vous commencez à lire, vous serez pris au piège et un danger vous attend. Je ne vous dis pas lequel.

Le Quinconce comprend :
L'Héritage de John Huffam
Les Faubourgs de l'enfer
Le Destin de Mary
La Clé introuvable
Le secret des cinq roses


Quatrième de couverture :
Ce roman en cinq épisodes qui fut l'un des succès des années 90 a marqué avec éclat le retour de l'imaginaire dans la fiction. Charles Palliser, un Américain devenu plus anglais que les Anglais, aura mis douze ans à bâtir son intrigue, en prenant ses références chez Dickens et surtout chez Wilkie Collins - mais en les pervertissant de façon assez diabolique : jamais peut-être dans l'histoire du roman on n'avait inventé des personnages de " méchants " d'une noirceur aussi terrifiante. Dans l'Angleterre du début du XIXe siècle, le petit John Huffam, élevé dans un village perdu, ne tarde pas à découvrir la cruauté qui fonde les castes sociales et qui déchire les êtres. A l'occasion d'une rencontre avec une gamine de son âge, il croit comprendre que sa mère, pauvre parmi les pauvres, est mystérieusement apparentée aux châtelains de l'endroit : un secret qu'il vaut mieux ne pas trop creuser si l'on veut avoir la paix. Ce secret, John consacrera sa vie à l'élucider.

Suite à un commentaire d'Enro au sujet de mes lectures (nous sommes en pleine intertextualité !), j'ai découvert l'intéressante hypothèse qu'il développe. Je lui ai répondu ceci :
Il n'y a pas de raison que ce processus s'arrête ici...

Liens utiles :
http://www.dccomics.com/features/endlessnights/index.html
http://www.dyve.net/sandman/


La série Sandman :

THE SANDMAN VOL. 1: PRELUDES AND NOCTURNES Hardcover Written by Neil Gaiman; Art by Sam Kieth, Mike Dringenberg, and Malcolm Jones III
» THE SANDMAN VOL. 2: THE DOLL'S HOUSE Softcover Written by Neil Gaiman; Art by various; Painted Cover by Dave McKean
» THE SANDMAN VOL. 2: THE DOLL'S HOUSE Hardcover Written by Neil Gaiman; Art by various
» THE SANDMAN VOL. 3: DREAM COUNTRY Softcover Written by Neil Gaiman; Art by Kelley Jones, Charles Vess, Colleen Doran and Malcolm Jones, III; Painted Cover by Dave McKean
» THE SANDMAN VOL. 3: DREAM COUNTRY Hardcover Written by Neil Gaiman; Art by Kelley Jones, Charles Vess, Coleen Doran, and Malcolm Jones III
» THE SANDMAN VOL. 4: SEASON OF MISTS Softcover Written by Neil Gaiman; Art by Kelley Jones, Mike Dringenberg, Matt Wagner, and various; Cover by Dave McKean
» THE SANDMAN VOL. 4: SEASON OF MISTS Hardcover Written by Neil Gaiman; Art by Kelley Jones and others
» THE SANDMAN VOL. 5: A GAME OF YOU Softcover Written by Neil Gaiman; Art by Shawn McManus, Colleen Doran, Bryan Talbot, George Pratt, Stan Woch, and Dick Giordano; Cover by Dave McKean
» THE SANDMAN VOL. 5: A GAME OF YOU Hardcover Written by Neil Gaiman; Art by Shawn McManus, Colleen Doran and others
» THE SANDMAN VOL. 6: FABLES AND REFLECTIONS Softcover Written by Neil Gaiman; Art by P. Craig Russell, Bryan Talbot, Shawn McManus, Jill Thompson and others
» THE SANDMAN VOL. 6: FABLES AND REFLECTIONS Hardcover Written by Neil Gaiman; Art by P. Craig Russell, Bryan Talbot, Shawn McManus, Jill Thompson and others
» THE SANDMAN VOL. 7: BRIEF LIVES Softcover Written by Neil Gaiman; Art by Jill Thompson and Vince Locke; Painted Cover by Dave McKean
» THE SANDMAN VOL. 7: BRIEF LIVES Hardcover Written by Neil Gaiman; Art by Jill Thompson and Vince Locke
» THE SANDMAN VOL. 8: WORLDS' END Softcover Written by Neil Gaiman; Art by Michael Allred, Gary Amaro, Mark Buckingham, Dick Giordano, and various; Painted Cover by Dave McKean
» THE SANDMAN VOL. 8: WORLDS' END Hardcover Written by Neil Gaiman; Art by Michael Allred, Gary Amaro, Mark Buckingham, Dick Giordano, Tony Harris, Steve Leialoha, Vince Locke, Shea Anton Pensa, Alec Stevens, Bryan Talbot, John Watkiss, and Michael Zulli
» THE SANDMAN VOL. 9: THE KINDLY ONES Softcover Written by Neil Gaiman; Art by Mark Hempel, Teddy Kristiansen, and various; Painted Cover by Dave McKean
» THE SANDMAN VOL. 9: THE KINDLY ONES Hardcover Written by Neil Gaiman; Art by Marc Hempel, Richard Case, d'Israeli, Teddy Kristiansen, Glyn Dillon, Charles Vess, Dean Ormston, and Kevin Nowlan
» THE SANDMAN VOL. 10: THE WAKE Softcover Written by Neil Gaiman; Art by Michael Zulli; Cover by Dave McKean
» THE SANDMAN VOL. 10: THE WAKE Hardcover Written by Neil Gaiman; Art by Michael Zulli, Jon J. Muth, and Charles Vess

Appreciations and Criticisms by G.K. Chesterton

Edwin Drood

CHAPTER XXII EDWIN DROOD 

Pickwick was a work partly designed by others, but ultimately filled up by Dickens. Edwin Drood, the last book, was a book designed by Dickens, but ultimately filled up by others. The Pickwick Papers showed how much Dickens could make out of other people's suggestions ; The Mystery of Edwin Drood shows how very little other people can make out of Dickens's suggestions. Dickens was meant by Heaven to be the great melodramatist; so that even his literary end was melodramatic. Something more seems hinted at in the cutting short of Edwin Drood by Dickens than the mere cutting short of a good novel by a great man. It seems rather like the last taunt of some elf, leaving the world, that it should be this story which is not ended, this story which is only a story. The only one of Dickens's novels which he did not finish was the only one that really needed finishing. He never had but one thoroughly good plot to tell; and that he has only told in heaven. This is what separates the case in question from any parallel cases of novelists cut off in the act of creation. That great novelist, for instance, with whom Dickens is constantly compared, died also in the middle of Denis Duval. But any one can see in Denis Duval the qualities of the later work of Thackeray; the increasing discursiveness, the increasing retrospective poetry, which had been in part the charm and in part the failure of Philip and The Virginians. But to Dickens it was permitted to die at a dramatic moment and to leave a dramatic mystery. Any Thackerayan could have completed the plot of Denis Duval; except indeed that a really sympathetic Thackerayan might have had some doubt as to whether there was any plot to complete. But Dickens, having had far too little plot in his stories previously, had far too much plot in the story he never told. Dickens dies in the act of telling, not his tenth novel, but his first news of murder. He drops down dead as he is in the act of denouncing the assassin. It is permitted to Dickens, in short, to come to a literary end as strange as his literary beginning. He began by completing the old romance of travel. He ended by inventing the new detective story. It is as a detective story first and last that we have to consider The Mystery of Edwin Drood. This does not mean, of course, that the details are not often admirable in their swift and penetrating humour; to say that of the book would be to say that Dickens did not write it. Nothing could be truer, for instance, than the manner in which the dazed and drunken dignity of Durdles illustrates a certain bitterness at the bottom of the bewilderment of the poor. Nothing could be better than the way in which the haughty and allusive conversation between Miss Twinkleton and the landlady illustrates the maddening preference of some females for skating upon thin social ice. There is an even better example than these of the original humorous insight of Dickens; and one not very often remarked, because of its brevity and its unimportance in the narrative. But Dickens never did anything better than the short account of Mr. Grewgious's dinner being brought from the tavern by two waiters: "a stationary waiter," and "a flying waiter." The "flying waiter" brought the food and the "stationary waiter" quarrelled with him; the "flying waiter" brought glasses and the "stationary waiter" looked through them. Finally, it will be remembered the "stationary waiter" left the room, casting a glance which indicated "let it be understood that all emoluments are mine, and that Nil is the reward of this slave." Still, Dickens wrote the book as a detective story; he wrote it as The Mystery of Edwin Drood. And alone, perhaps, among detective-story writers, he never lived to destroy his mystery. Here alone then among the Dickens novels it is necessary to speak of the plot and of the plot alone. And when we speak of the plot it becomes immediately necessary to speak of the two or three standing explanations which celebrated critics have given of the plot. The story, so far as it was written by Dickens, can be read here. It describes, as will be seen, the disappearance of the young architect Edwin Drood after a night of festivity which was supposed to celebrate his reconciliation with a temporary enemy, Neville Landless, and was held at the house of his uncle John Jasper. Dickens continued the tale long enough to explain or explode the first and most obvious of his riddles. Long before the existing part terminates it has become evident that Drood has been put away, not by his obvious opponent, Landless, but by his uncle who professes for him an almost painful affection. The fact that we all know this, however, ought not in fairness to blind us to the fact that, considered as the first fraud in a detective story, it has been, with great skill, at once suggested and concealed. Nothing, for instance, could be cleverer as a piece of artistic mystery than the fact that Jasper, the uncle, always kept his eyes fixed on Drood's face with a dark and watchful tenderness; the thing is so told that at first we really take it as only indicating something morbid in the affection; it is only afterwards that the frightful fancy breaks upon us that it is not morbid affection but morbid antagonism. This first mystery (which is no longer a mystery) of Jasper's guilt, is only worth remarking because it shows that Dickens meant and felt himself able to mask all his batteries with real artistic strategy and artistic caution. The manner of the unmasking of Jasper marks the manner and tone in which the whole tale was to be told. Here we have not got to do with Dickens simply giving himself away, as he gave himself away in Pickwick or The Christmas Carol. Not that one complains of his giving himself away; there was no better gift. What was the mystery of Edwin Drood from Dickens's point of view we shall never know, except perhaps from Dickens in heaven, and then he will very likely have forgotten. But the mystery of Edwin Drood from our point of view, from that of his critics, and those who have with some courage (after his death) attempted to be his collaborators, is simply this. There is no doubt that Jasper either murdered Drood or supposed that he had murdered him. This certainty we have from the fact that it is the whole point of a scene between Jasper and Drood's lawyer Grewgious in which Jasper is struck down with remorse when he realises that Drood has been killed (from his point of view) needlessly and without profit. The only question is whether Jasper's remorse was as needless as his murder. In other words the only question is whether, while he certainly thought he had murdered Drood, he had really done it. It need hardly be said that such a doubt would not have been raised for nothing; gentlemen like Jasper do not as a rule waste good remorse except upon successful crime. The origin of the doubt about the real death of Drood is this. Towards the latter end of the existing chapters there appears very abruptly, and with a quite ostentatious air of mystery, a character called Datchery. He appears for the purpose of spying upon Jasper and getting up some case against him; at any rate, if he has not this purpose in the story he has no other earthly purpose in it. He is an old gentleman of juvenile energy, with a habit of carrying his hat in his hand even in the open air; which some have interpreted as meaning that he feels the unaccustomed weight of a wig. Now there are one or two people in the story who this person might possibly be. Notably there is one person in the story who seems as if he were meant to be something, but who hitherto has certainly been nothing; I mean Bazzard, Mr. Grewgious's clerk, a sulky fellow interested in theatricals, of whom an unnecessary fuss is made. There is also Mr. Grewgious himself, and there is also another suggestion, so much more startling that I shall have to deal with it later. For the moment, however, the point is this: That ingenious writer, Mr. Proctor, started the highly plausible theory that this Datchery was Drood himself, who had not really been killed. He adduced a most complex and complete scheme covering nearly all the details; but the strongest argument he had was rather one of general artistic effect. This argument has been quite perfectly summed up by Mr. Andrew Lang in one sentence: "If Edwin Drood is dead, there is not much mystery about him." This is quite true; Dickens, when writing in so deliberate, nay, dark and conspiratorial a manner, would surely have kept the death of Drood and the guilt of Jasper hidden a little longer if the only real mystery had been the guilt of Jasper and the death of Drood. It certainly seems artistically more likely that there was a further mystery of Edwin Drood; not the mystery that he was murdered, but the mystery that he was not murdered. It is true indeed that Mr. Cumming Walters has a theory of Datchery (to which I have already darkly alluded) a theory which is wild enough to be the centre not only of any novel but of any harlequinade. But the point is that even Mr. Cumming Walters's theory, though it makes the mystery more extraordinary, does not make it any more of a mystery of Edwin Drood. It should not have been called The Mystery of Drood, but The Mystery of Datchery. This is the strongest case for Proctor; if the story tells of Drood coming back as Datchery, the story does at any rate fulfil the title upon its title-page. The principal objection to Proctor's theory is that there seems no adequate reason why Jasper should not have murdered his nephew if he wanted to. And there seems even less reason why Drood, if unsuccessfully murdered, should not have raised the alarm. Happy young architects, when nearly strangled by elderly organists, do not generally stroll away and come back some time afterwards in a wig and with a false name. Superficially it would seem almost as odd to find the murderer investigating the origin of the murder, as to find the corpse investigating it. To this problem two of the ablest literary critics of our time, Mr. Andrew Lang and Mr. William Archer (both of them persuaded generally of the Proctor theory) have especially addressed themselves. Both have come to the same substantial conclusion; and I suspect that they are right. They hold that Jasper (whose mania for opium is much insisted on in the tale) had some sort of fit, or trance, or other physical seizure as he was committing the crime so that he left it unfinished; and they also hold that he had drugged Drood, so that Drood, when he recovered from the attack, was doubtful about who had been his assailant. This might really explain, if a little fancifully, his coming back to the town in the character of a detective. He might think it due to his uncle (whom he last remembered in a kind of murderous vision) to make an independent investigation as to whether he was really guilty or not. He might say, as Hamlet said of a vision equally terrifying, "I'll have grounds more relative than this." In fairness it must be said that there is something vaguely shaky about this theory; chiefly, I think, in this respect; that there is a sort of farcical cheerfulness about Datchery which does not seem altogether appropriate to a lad who ought to be in an agony of doubt as to whether his best friend was or was not his assassin. Still there are many such incongruities in Dickens; and the explanation of Mr. Archer and Mr. Lang is an explanation. I do not believe that any explanation as good can be given to account for the tale being called The Mystery of Edwin Drood, if the tale practically starts with his corpse. If Drood is really dead one cannot help feeling the story ought to end where it does end, not by accident but by design. The murder is explained. Jasper is ready to be hanged, and every one else in a decent novel ought to be ready to be married. If there was to be much more of anything, it must have been of anticlimax. Nevertheless there are degrees of anticlimax. Some of the more obvious explanations of Datchery are quite reasonable, but they are distinctly tame. For instance, Datchery may be Bazzard; but it is not very exciting if he is; for we know nothing about Bazzard and care less. Again, he might be Grewgious; but there is something pointless about one grotesque character dressing up as another grotesque character actually less amusing than himself. Now, Mr. Cumming Walters has at least had the distinction of inventing a theory which makes the story at least an interesting story, even if it is not exactly the story that is promised on the cover of the book. The obvious enemy of Drood, on whom suspicion first falls, the swarthy and sulky Landless, has a sister even swarthier and, except for her queenly dignity, even sulkier than he. This barbaric princess is evidently meant to be (in a sombre way) in love with Crisparkle, the clergyman and muscular Christian who represents the breezy element in the emotions of the tale. Mr. Cumming Walters seriously maintains that it is this barbaric princess who puts on a wig and dresses up as Mr. Datchery. He urges his case with much ingenuity of detail. Helena Landless certainly had a motive; to save her brother, who was accused falsely, by accusing Jasper justly. She certainly had some of the faculties; it is elaborately stated in the earlier part of her story that she was accustomed as a child to dress up in male costume and run into the wildest adventures. There may be something in Mr. Cumming Walters's argument that the very flippancy of Datchery is the self-conscious flippancy of a strong woman in such an odd situation; certainly there is the same flippancy in Portia and in Rosalind. Nevertheless, I think, there is one final objection to the theory; and that is simply this, that it is comic. It is generally wrong to represent a great master of the grotesque as being grotesque exactly where he does not intend to be. And I am persuaded that if Dickens had really meant Helena to turn into Datchery, he would have made her from the first in some way more light, eccentric, and laughable; he would have made her at least as light and laughable as Rosa. As it is, there is something strangely stiff and incredible about the idea of a lady so dark and dignified dressing up as a swaggering old gentleman in a blue coat and grey trousers. We might almost as easily imagine Edith Dombey dressing up as Major Bagstock. We might almost as easily imagine Rebecca in Ivanhoe dressing up as Isaac of York. Of course such a question can never really be settled precisely, because it is the question not merely of a mystery but of a puzzle. For here the detective novel differs from every other kind of novel. The ordinary novelist desires to keep his readers to the point; the detective novelist actually desires to keep his readers off the point. In the first case, every touch must help to tell the reader what he means; in the second case, most of the touches must conceal or even contradict what he means. You are supposed to see and appreciate the smallest gestures of a good actor; but you do not see all the gestures of a conjuror, if he is a good conjuror. Hence, into the critical estimate of such works as this, there is introduced a problem, an extra perplexity, which does not exist in other cases. I mean the problem of the things commonly called blinds. Some of the points which we pick out as suggestive may have been put in as deceptive. Thus the whole conflict between a critic with one theory, like Mr. Lang, and a critic with another theory, like Mr. Cumming Walters, becomes eternal and a trifle farcical. Mr. Walters says that all Mr. Lang's clues were blinds; Mr. Lang says that all Mr. Walters's clues were blinds. Mr. Walters can say that some passages seemed to show that Helena was Datchery; Mr. Lang can reply that those passages were only meant to deceive simple people like Mr. Walters into supposing that she was Datchery. Similarly Mr. Lang can say that the return of Drood is foreshadowed; and Mr. Walters can reply that it was foreshadowed because it was never meant to come off. There seems no end to this insane process; anything that Dickens wrote may or may not mean the opposite of what it says. Upon this principle I should be very ready for one to declare that all the suggested Datcherys were really blinds; merely because they can naturally be suggested. I would undertake to maintain that Mr. Datchery is really Miss Twinkleton, who has a mercenary interest in keeping Rosa Budd at her school. This suggestion does not seem to me to be really much more humorous than Mr. Cumming Walters's theory. Yet either may certainly be true. Dickens is dead, and a number of splendid scenes and startling adventures have died with him. Even if we get the right solution we shall not know that it is right. The tale might have been, and yet it has not been. And I think there is no thought so much calculated to make one doubt death itself, to feel that sublime doubt which has created all religion -- the doubt that found death incredible. Edwin Drood may or may not have really died; but surely Dickens did not really die. Surely our real detective liveth and shall appear in the latter days of the earth. For a finished tale may give a man immortality in the light and literary sense; but an unfinished tale suggests another immortality, more essential and more strange.