OF COURSE such a book as this must have an envoi in which the author takes farewell of his work, and begs the public to accept it in a kindly spirit. It is simply a matter of literary good manners. I—Davies—would be glad to write it myself in the tone of gentle regret which is thought proper to an envoi, speaking of the happy relationship between its contents (portions of which have been known to the public since 1947) and the Reader, and bespeaking his goodwill for this new and (because of my labours as editor and explainer) greatly improved version. But ever at my back I hear, Sam’s noisy yammering, loud and clear.
“Author?” he shrieks. “Author! Are you attempting to palm yourself off as the author of this florilegium of my work? You have nipped and tucked and stuck in footnotes as if the Reader were imbecilic, but you have originated nothing. I am the author—the sole begetter—of this volume unless the word author has suddenly become synonymous with hack-editor. If there is any envoying to be done I shall do it myself. So, Davies, stand aside; and Reader, hang on to your hat!
“I say as Walt Whitman (not a bad fellow, though a noisy writer) said—
… this is no book,
Who touches this touches a man
—and that man is myself, Samuel Marchbanks. Of course Davies has done some editorial work, and very lucky he is (poor daub) to be associated with me. But let us have no misunderstanding about who is the real writer. Davies never had an original idea in his life that I did not hiss into his ear.”
Can I deny it? Not with a clear conscience. Marchbanks and I have struggled through a literary life like two men in a three-legged race. And as anyone who has ever run a three-legged race knows, the only way to manage is to keep thrusting the two linked legs forward, leaving the two single legs to catch up as best they may.
To put it more elegantly, one of us is the writer and the other is the Doppelgänger, and who is to say which is which? As Marchbanks put it when I met him for drinks at the Crank and Schizoid, we are The Canadian Brothers, and like those far-off Corsican Brothers we are seemingly individual but mystically united, forever.
So, hand in hand, me bowing gracefully with my free hand on my heart, and Marchbanks exhorting and haranguing to the last, we bid you, our Reader
FAREWELL