Called Back. Martin Edwards
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Название: Called Back
Автор: Martin Edwards
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Зарубежные детективы
isbn: 9780008137120
isbn:
The book rapidly sold more than a quarter of a million copies, making a fortune for its publisher, J. W. Arrowsmith. A paper-covered edition costing one shilling became the most renowned of the so-called ‘shilling shockers’ popular at the time. The story was also widely translated. Together with Joseph Comyns Carr, a prominent drama critic, theatre manager and playwright, Conway adapted the book for the stage, and long runs in both London and the provinces followed. There was even a burlesque version called The Scalded Back! Towards the end of her life, Emily Dickinson enjoyed reading the novel, which she described as ‘a haunting story’; so taken was she with the phrase Called Back that it was added to her tombstone. The Times compared Stevenson’s Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde to Called Back, and while the reviewer admired Stevenson’s story, he expressed doubt as to whether it would enjoy as much popular success as Conway’s.
Conway threw himself into writing, with encouragement from Wilkie Collins himself, and his later books included two more ‘Christmas annuals’, notably the thriller Dark Days, which would also eventually feature in the Detective Story Club. His rise to fame had been meteoric, but sadly, it did not last. Having developed symptoms of TB, he travelled to the French Riviera to recuperate, but was diagnosed with typhoid fever, and died shortly afterwards at Monte Carlo, aged just 37. It is indicative of the literary status that he achieved in a short time that, after his death, Arrowsmiths asked an author as eminent as Wilkie Collins to write their next ‘Christmas annual’; this resulted in The Guilty River, but it sold far less well than Called Back.
Conway’s real name was Frederick John Fargus, and he was born in Bristol in 1848, the son of an auctioneer. Youthful enthusiasm for the novels of Captain Marryat inspired an ambition to become a sailor; his pseudonym came from HMS Conway, a frigate stationed in the river Mersey and used as a school ship for the training of aspiring naval officers, where he spent some of his formative years. An accident suffered on board the Conway damaged his hearing, and led Fargus to pursue a career in the family firm whilst trying to establish himself as an author. In 1879, he published a volume of poetry, and a collection of short stories appeared two years later. He showed signs of developing into an accomplished exponent of supernatural stories as well as thrillers, and after his death, Comyns Carr wrote to The Times extolling his gifts; in his view, Called Back barely hinted at Fargus’ literary potential.
Who knows? It is not impossible that, had he lived and written for another two or three decades, Fargus would have ranked alongside such immortals as Collins, Stevenson, M.R. James and Conan Doyle. As a result of his untimely death, his legacy was less striking. Nonetheless, Called Back deserves to be read again, not merely as a reminder of an unfulfilled talent, but in its own right, as lively entertainment from a bygone age.
MARTIN EDWARDS
February 2015
www.martinedwardsbooks.com
I HAVE a reason for writing this tale, or it would not become public property.
Once in a moment of confidence, I made a friend acquainted with some curious circumstances connected with one period of my life. I believe I asked him to hold his tongue about them—he says not. Anyway, he told another friend, with embellishments, I suspect; this friend told another, and so on and on. What the tale grew to at last I shall probably never learn; but since I was weak enough to trust my private affairs to another I have been looked upon by my neighbours as a man with a history—one who has a romance hidden away beneath an outwardly prosaic life.
For myself I should not trouble about this. I should laugh at the garbled versions of my story set floating about by my own indiscretion. It would matter little to me that one good friend has an idea that I was once a Communist and a member of the inner circle of a secret society—that another has heard that I have been tried on a capital charge—that another knows I was at one time a Roman Catholic, on whose behalf a special miracle was performed. If I were alone in the world and young, I dare say I should take no steps to still these idle rumours. Indeed, very young men feel flattered by being made objects of curiosity and speculation.
But I am not very young, nor am I alone. There is one who is dearer to me than life itself. One from whose heart, I am glad to say, every shadow left by the past is rapidly fading—one who only wishes to live her true sweet life without mystery or concealment—wishes to be thought neither better nor worse than she really is. It is she who shrinks from the strange and absurd reports which are flying about as to our antecedents she who is vexed by those leading questions sometimes asked by inquisitive friends; and it is for her sake that I look up old journals, call back old memories of joy and grief, and tell everyone, who cares to read, all he can possibly wish to know, and, it may be, more than he has a right to know, of our lives. This done, my lips are sealed forever on the subject. My tale is here—let the inquisitive take his answer from it, not from me.
Perhaps, after all, I write this for my own sake as well. I also hate mysteries. One mystery which I have never been able to determine may have given me a dislike to everything which will not admit of an easy explanation.
To begin, I must go back more years than I care to enumerate; although I could, if necessary, fix the day and the year. I was young, just past twenty-five. I was rich, having when I came of age succeeded to an income of about two thousand a year; an income which, being drawn from the funds, I was able to enjoy without responsibility or anxiety as to its stability and endurance. Although since my twenty-first birthday I had been my own master, I had no extravagant follies to weigh me down, no debts to hamper me. I was without bodily ache or pain; yet I turned again and again on my pillow and said that my life for the future was a curse to me.
Had Death just robbed me of one who was dear to me? No; the only ones I had ever loved, my father and mother, had died years ago. Were my ravings those peculiar to an unhappy lover? No; my eyes had not yet looked with passion into a woman’s eyes—and now would never do so. Neither Death nor Love made my lot seem the most miserable in the world.
I was young, rich, free as the wind to follow my own devices. I could leave England tomorrow and visit the most beautiful places on the earth: those places I had longed and determined to see. Now, I knew I should never see them, and I groaned in anguish at the thought.
My limbs were strong. I could bear fatigue and exposure. I could hold my own with the best walkers and the swiftest runners. The chase, the sport, the trial of endurance had never been too long or too arduous for me—I passed my left hand over my right arm and felt the muscles firm as of old. Yet I was as helpless as Samson in his captivity.
For, even as Samson, I was blind!
Blind! Who but the victim can even faintly comprehend the significance of that word? Who can read this and gauge the depth of my anguish as I turned and turned on my pillow and thought of the fifty СКАЧАТЬ