Читать онлайн
"A novel about Violetta - 2"
Instead of a Preface
I, Alexandre Dumas, categorically reject the so-called "Romance of Violetta" attributed to me.
In my early youth I might have been proud that someone considered me so famous that he wrote under my name.
In my youth I would have felt indignant that this novel was attributed to my pen.
When I am mature, I would demand from the publisher all the profits he received from the publication of this book, and would leave with nothing the simpleton who decided to create under my name without my consent.
Now, in those years which I do not yet want to call old age, but which it is already awkward to call simply maturity, in other words, at that very age when I should already be wise, tolerant and even indulgent towards all human sins, and, I hope, at least partially I have become so, I cannot respond to this insolence with anything other than a condescending smile.
The laurels of Pietro Aretino no longer suit me. I do not pursue those authors, the heroes of one year, who flew to the top of fame like lightweight firecrackers and fell back down just as quickly, into oblivion, into nothingness, as these firecrackers fall into the mud. To try to compare with them in their resourcefulness, lust and attention to detail in describing the mystery that takes place between a loving man and a woman would be even more absurd than, for example, if I, with my age and build, decided to climb the ladder of an actress from a second-rate theater, who does not have excessive strictness of morals and replenishes her income from the profits of those not so rare meetings with not so rich men of not so advanced age.
I will not say that I did not know the caresses of women, among whom two or three, perhaps, were in love with me, but most of them were simply blinded by my fame as a dramatic writer, which I took advantage of, also not being so in love as to be overly concerned about how sincere their reciprocal feeling for me was.
However, the reciprocal feeling was probably quite in keeping with the word “reciprocal,” since neither they nor I lost our heads over the fascinating incident that took place between us – sometimes over the course of a week, sometimes longer, or even just for one time.
And where would I have a son who inherited my profession, and, as I heard, did not fully inherit my talent, which I always argue with very fiercely, but in my heart I still cannot help but agree with?
I will begin by saying that nothing like this has ever happened to me, and also that I would not describe something like this if it had really happened to me. I should also end with this.
But for the edification of those upstarts who, like a dwarf who stole a giant's hat, brazenly flaunt it, imagining themselves to be a new Hercules, I will allow myself to write a dozen or two lines on the subject of how I would present such a story if it occurred to me to write something like that.
So, let me begin.
.
ЛитСовет
Только что
