By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By Jennifer Krasinski
By Jennifer Krasinski
By James Hannaham
By Tom Sellar
Dickens had apparently planned to go even further. While regularly serving the Lord in the cathedral’s choir loft, Jasper is not only a clandestine kif junkie, but an idol-worshiper. Evidence in the text and elsewhere has led literary sleuths to conclude that Dickens intended his villain to be a Thug—a member of a violent extremist sect that made ritual sacrifices of travelers to Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction. Edwin, about to leave on a long journey connected with his inheritance, has been chosen to be his uncle’s sacrificial offering. (Dickens drew some of his details from a best-selling mockumentary novel of the era, Meadows Taylor’s Confessions of a Thug.)
In other words, Dickens was engaging in a British Imperial equivalent of contemporary Islamophobia (or, more precisely, Hinduphobia), with one key difference. In his schema, the threat is not alien but from inside; the fanatic killer’s soul resides within the exterior of a pious English churchman, a respected citizen of the stuffiest sort of respectable English town. And Jasper’s undoing, at the climax, was to come at the hands of two daring outsiders—people who apparently share his mixed ethnic heritage but not his moral schizophrenia: the siblings Neville and Helena Landless (Andy Karl and Jessie Mueller). Young and hot-tempered, survivors of step-fatherly abuse, the two kids from Ceylon (as it was then called) share an un-English outspokenness and impulsive tendencies, giving Dickens the chance to lay several false trails. (They don’t share, though, the cartoon-Orientalist behavior that the musical wishes on them, a misprision that Karl and Mueller alleviate by their graceful handling of the exaggeration involved.)
It seems to have been a firm part of Dickens’s plan that Neville was to die during the climactic effort to capture Jasper (who has tried to frame Neville for Edwin’s death), and that Helena was to solve the crime, possibly by hypnotizing Jasper into confessing. (Dickens, who believed he too had “mesmeric” powers, was fascinated by hypnotism; he made Jasper something of a mesmerist, who employs his “animal magnetism” to terrify Rosa, and cause Edwin’s quarrel with Neville.) As to whether Edwin actually ends up dead or not, Dickens may still have been undecided when he himself died: He planted hints that could lead to either conclusion. Rosa, apparently, was to marry a character who doesn’t even appear in the musical.
Edmund Wilson, in his seminal essay “Dickens: The Two Scrooges”—which for me makes a far more entertaining evening than the musical—suggests that much of the novel’s almost morbid emphasis on propriety and alienation might stem from what was going on in Dickens’s own life at the time. He had separated from his wife and was engaged in a prolonged, unhappy, clandestine affair with a young actress named Ellen Lawless Ternan. Englishmen in Victoria’s time didn’t get more famous than Dickens. In his mind, the respectable households that bought his books and subscribed to the magazines he edited, bringing him his enormous wealth, would have dropped him instantly if the affair had become public knowledge. Like Jasper, he was leading a double life; like Neville, he had rages he couldn’t wholly control.
Britain had trouble controlling its Empire, too, and this novel about the un-Christian behavior of Christians rests on a bed of the prosperity that comes from exploiting what today we call Third World countries. (Besides Ceylon and India, Edwin’s inherited property lies in Egypt.) The novel’s truly bizarre opening chapter puts the disparity into a surreal microcosm: It shows Jasper struggling awake from an opium dream that jumbles the image of the cathedral with flashing scimitars and a procession of white elephants; the next chapter shows him, still groggy, pulling on his white robe to join a procession of choristers at evensong.
His grogginess is noted, too: The cathedral’s Dean sends Crisparkle, a minor canon, to inquire if Jasper is all right. Before doing so, Crisparkle watches Jasper through the window of his sitting room to see if Edwin’s there to take care of him. A cathedral, like an empire, has to keep a watchful eye on its servants. The last thing either Dickens or Jasper desires is the superintending gaze of a watchful eye, however well-meant.
But probing this way into Dickens’s probable intentions, conscious or otherwise, only takes one further from the musical. Dickens may have hoped to show, at the end, an England shaken out of its morally smug stability, yet healthily reconfigured, with a newly heightened awareness of its imperial problems. The musical, in that sense, represents the antithesis of his idea. By enabling the audience to decide who committed the murder and who gets to pair off as a couple at the finish, it throws all hope of stability, or meaning, to the winds.
Holmes has displayed the adaptability of democracy in writing bits to fit every possible electoral permutation of the story. He gives one of his starring roles to the woman who supplies Jasper’s opium, a character so peripheral, in the novel’s completed fragment, that the text never even provides her with a name. Holmes calls her Princess Puffer (Chita Rivera), which in the novel is only a rude sobriquet bestowed on her by Deputy (Nicholas Barasch), an impertinent street scamp. At the press performance I attended, and no doubt at many others, the audience’s most eager wish was to see these two mated. Rivera, as game as a grand lady can be, pitched into the nonsense thoroughly, as everyone onstage does —some, like Chase, with an enthusiasm that urgently needs curbing. The surrender to nonsense and randomness, coming just after a real-life election in which sanity and stability seemed to prevail, was at once exhilarating and disheartening. People need foolery and distraction in their lives; Dickens knew that. But he also knew that darkness, some of it within himself, was forcing his comfortable imperial world towards a crisis. That’s equally true for us today, though you won’t find it onstage in Drood.